One year of WHOOP…
I’ve begun to divide my life into two parts, those which occurred before affixing a WHOOP to my wrist in early 2021 and the halcyon days ever since.
Luckily for the reader, and for posterity, I recorded the journey on this website.
As this is the last story of its sort for BeachGrit, it may be well for for the reader, now, to walk straight to the living room, sit down on that old leather sofa with the depressions on the seat made by various buttocks over the years, put on his, her, their spectacles, light a cigarette and enjoy the many milestones.
First, ‘The blissful joys of hypoxia and the realisation that twinks raised on surf can roll with bears, “If I could survive the sea, there was no human that I could not deal with because no man can bring the same level of panic and discomfort as the ocean.” I learn that surfing is a better workout than jiutjisu.
Confession: “I was grotesquely complicity in the demonisation of the vulnerable adult learner surfer but through daily suffocation and strangulation learned to find common ground, even empathy for VALS.” WHOOP records my panic during combat sports; I connect with panicked beginner surfers.
“A plastic wrist-band convinced me to temper combat sport training with surfing, respect sleep and achieve sexual transcendence!” Re: sexing, a side bonus of wearing a fitness tracker has been the incentive to punch up the numbers during long afternoons awash in libidinal heat, imagining a sword between the hips, undulating like an eel etc.
“Ex-world #11 surfer Luke Stedman and the fitness band that allows him to track the health of his post-op daddy, the legend behind Shane Surfboards and inventor of the Ugg Boot!” WHOOP has health monitoring device for ailing old people!
“Medical emergency averted after surf journalist uses fitness trap to monitor vital signs of suspected overdose!” Now, here, let’s point out that WHOOP makes no claim to being a medical device but in the heat of a suspected OD after a partying kid hits the synthetics more than he should, drinks more than he can, hallucinates, panics, heart is bouncing out of his chest, I use the WHOOP to monitor his vital signs until his parents arrive.
“Fitness tracker intervenes in surfer’s existential crisis thus averting a new instalment of Quit-Lit!” How WHOOP made me want to surf, however grim the conditions, however dense the crowd. A wordless drill sergeant, a heartless bastard who didn’t care for my apathy.
“How I used a surf and combat sport combo to almost hit maximum human strain and melt off a stunning five thousand calories!” Pushed to theoretical breaking point of human endurance and loving it! Yes.
How monitoring recovery data leads to hitherto unforeseen leaps in surfing performance, “Conventional wisdom is that I should allow myself recovery time. I say fuck that, gotta get as good as I can before I leave this life like I began it, diapered and screaming!” WHOOP teaches the miracle of rest and recovery.
How “Rough Boy” John John Florence used data-driven recovery to prevail over catastrophic, potentially career-ending injuries. Good enough for the two-pronged champ, good enough for you, I etc.
“Plastic fitness tracker frees surf journalist from idealogical prison of hard work and into a guilt-free and dreamy languor resulting in injury-free surfing” Follow WHOOP’s advice, less injuries! VAL sourness from tongue gone, too!
Surf journalist reminded, again, of rejuvenative nature of hebetude, daily napping and the divine joy of being a “sloppy beast”. WHOOP says okay to have down days.