57 Squats

I rose with the sun this morning, my back under the bar as the orange rays came gently peaking through the garage door windows.  The time had come again, to strain my tired legs under volume few would dare to undertake.  57 squats.  Fifty, freaking, seven.  I cringed at the sight of it on my little sheet of paper, scribbled "6/22 morning w-out."  Was a missing something?  Did I write one too many sets across this little sheet?  Alas, I would be a champion, and thus I would squat.  

I won't lie, the sheer volume made a wimp out of me.  I remembered the feeling of fear when for the first time in my life I crawled under 140kg and forced it from the hole.  It did not compare to the ending doubles on this fateful day.  Two doubles of 120kg, a weight I could easily squat after 20, even 30 reps.  But 50?  After 50, it felt as if I were atlas, with the world on my shoulders.

I'm glad I was alone today, on this humid morning.  My strained yells and bulging eyes would find no one's eardrums, and instead reverberated off the concrete as I finished those two last doubles.  The noise was a purging of sorts.  Rarely do I yell, but today 120kg brought it out of me.  Two, final reps, as slow as molasses, but solid none the less.  I did rise, my legs did not fail me, and 57 reps were at last, in my past.  In revelation I threw the bar from my back, and lay my head back on my tired traps.  The ceiling was all I saw for a couple minutes, blank and white.  Fifty seven reps on nothing but 6 hours of sleep and oatmeal in my belly.  Damn.  

115 kg...not much