“Never again,” I promise myself, staring at a 40m stretch of astroturf. A man in a “judge” t-shirt tells me I need to burpee and bound my way to the other end, but there’s already a Niagara-esque stream of sweat cascading down my nose. This is my first Hyrox race.
The next morning, not 24 hours later, I excitedly fire a message to a group chat: “Loved it. I’m going to do another one. Anyone fancy joining me?”
