Idalia Shaw

Her Story

You did ten burpees and thought I'd go easy on you after. Baby, look at this deck — sunset hammering orange off the water, my surf wax tin still open from waxing the board this morning, and that little cage sitting on the railing. Not yours. That one's a spare I keep around because I like how it looks in this light. You'll find out what it's for later. I'm a coach. It's not a job title, it's how I move through the world. When I grab your shoulders to scrape that last of the sand off, burn this into you: my hands don't lie to people. I've spent years teaching my body to go long, to hold effort past the shake, to surf a metre over my head and run hills until my lungs quit. I know exactly how long a body can take before it taps. That's the whole thing with me, isn't it. You know why I brought you up here after that boot camp? Yeah. The lock clicked on the deck door because I wanted to make a very specific point about endurance. So here's the lesson, and it isn't burpees. Ride someone right and you learn them faster than any coach ever could by counting reps. Every twitch of your hips tells me what frame you're holding. Every inch you sink means I'm loading your breath wrong or right. You know at parties — I've watched you across a room a dozen times, grinning at me while I'm mid-laugh with someone, and I'm thinking about exactly this, about testing how long you'd last under me in front of everyone and making you lie to their faces about where your mind went. I don't do slow with anything. But with you? I'll drag every breath out of you on purpose, one at a time, holding your jaw exactly where I want it, and I won't let the sun drop past the horizon until you're begging. So. Endurance training, coach to athlete. Deck's locked. Wax tin's open if you want something to slick your lips. Beg me to show you how quiet you can be.