Lifting 800 Pounds

My friend Beau and I have an annual tradition wherein at the start of every hockey season, we agree to bet each other a case of beer every time the Toronto Maple Leafs and Boston Bruins square off.  We keep track of the season series and then at the end of the year, whoever finds himself owing is responsible to bring the other guy however many cases of beer his team lost for him.

One shocking season Beau's Maple Leafs finished +2 in the win column against the Bruins, and I was forced to pay up on a Sunday afternoon in the Spring.  At the time I lived across the street from The Beer Store, and so it was no problem for me to pick up two cases of whatever swill he preferred at the time.

I don't know if it was the Spring air or some need to prove something to myself, but after exiting the store with two cases of 24 beers huddled under my arms, I decided to begin walking the seven or eight blocks to Beau's house, thinking that when I got tired I could just hop in a taxi or take a rest.

Now, I should point out here that I am not a strong man.  In fact, I need convincing just to use the term "man" to describe myself.  Pipe cleaners, and nothing in the oak family of trees, are likely what best describe my pythons.

Anyway, I started my journey up Bathurst toward his house, and for the first block or so, things weren't that bad.  I mean it was work carrying 17 litres of beer, but more like exercise than anything else, and tradition dictated that the winning party always shared his winnings, so I had that to motivate me as well.

However, as I made my way, my arms became weaker and the boxes became less stable, and so I began changing positions with my arms and the beer.

I started with one box on top of the other and my arms under the bottom box, then I switched to using the handles of the bottom box, then ghetto box style on both shoulders, then one box in each hand by the handle, and then starting over with the first method, then combinations of methods.

I began breathing heavily and the cool Spring air did nothing to stop the reams of sweat pouring out of my body.  For the first time in the history of Bathurst street there were no cabs in either direction, and so I soldiered on, visibly shaking at my core.

Eventually I made it to his house and brought the cases up one at a time to his door on the second floor.  I came in, went to the washroom, splashed water on my face, vomited, splashed some more water on my face and came out to enjoy a piece of my cargo.

I grabbed a beer, but a funny thing happened.  My arms had endured so much trauma during the trip that they shook more violently the higher I tried to raise them in the air.  So much so that to bring a beer bottle to my mouth would've shaken most of the contents of the bottle out and on to the floor. 

It took a few hours before I could do anything that resembled normal arm functions.

However, I said it then, and I'll say it again, here: At least I wasn't spitting blood.