There is something to be said about the kind of person who competes merely for glory, and that something is “bad ass”. There were no points or promise of a hefty purse, just mad street cred for the victor. Our friends at MotoFish opened a coffee bar in our Chrome Seattle HUB and we welcomed them into our hearts with a night of friendly competition; a night of Sprint Wrestle.
Not only is Sprint Wrestle a test of the arms and the legs, but a test one’s spirit. To exert oneself to the point that there is nothing left and then willingly volunteering to do it again; this is what separates the true Sprint Wrestle champions from the tired masses.
The formula was simple, 200m Goldsprints straight into arm wrestling. Everything was scored on a point system meaning you could be the fastest at sprints all the live long day, that doesn’t mean your tiny cyclist arms aren’t going to get crushed once you dismounted the bike and harefoot it to the table built to American Armsport Association specs. That’s right, ARMSPORT. It’s a thing, look it up.
Look at these two. They’re the first riders up and totally unaware of the pain cave they are about to enter. So innocent, so full of life.
The races went like this:
Two riders on Raleigh Rush Hours, duking it out to prove who can best utilize their fast twitch muscle fibers, like these guys right here.
From there they headed to the table and then…
…they Over the Top‘d it all over the place.
Meanwhile, MotoFish Coffee kept the stimulants flowing with some sweet bean juice.
Only to fuel the Sprint Wrestle fire.
You’re probably thinking to yourself, “Self, this looks like it’s a testosterone driven sausage fest where dudes are bro-ing out over feats of strength.” Well, guess what? You couldn’t be more wrong. Yeah, how does THAT feel? Not really good, does it? Next time try not to judge so much.Sisters are doin’ it for themselves.
Time flies when you’re trying to destroy your opponent and it seemed just as soon as it started, it was over. Just moments earlier, people were riding to the point of nauseousness and trying to rip each other’s arms out of their respective sockets, but all good things must come to an end. When the PBR kegs were empty it was time to call it a night. When this lady went home she was able to fall asleep knowing she is a champion.
You ever wonder why no one ever tells you these are the good ole days when you’re actually in them? The night of Sprint Wrestle no one had to tell us, we just knew.