[gathering] cardiovascular conditioning
For all intents and purposes, Bucky Barnes was a high school dropout; he left to train with the British S.A.S. when he was all of fourteen. This isn't to say he's an idiot; on the contrary, he can speak a handful of languages, fluently, he's a gifted mechanic, a spy, a tactician, an assassin. He's intuitive in ways that can't be taught, a natural fighter with an awareness of his body (and what it can do) that's enviable, but school never really fit into his life.
Even so, Bucky is a man who likes to make himself useful. Most of his skills, however, are useless in an environment such as Tabula Rasa's, much as he's been trying to keep them up to par. He runs, and he trains; hell, he even got a pretty nice weightlifting machine dumped on his doorstep the other day, something he's been making damn good use of. His muscles ache like they haven't in months, but it's a good hurt, a good pain. It's the sort of thing that reminds him who he really is at the end of the day, a reminder of his life beyond the confines of this universe. But leading a ragtag group of people through ninety minutes of hell two times a week serves as a different sort of reminder, a mental one more so than physical. That much, though, he doesn't dwell on; this isn't supposed to be about feelings, after all.
While he's far from the tallest guy on the beach that morning, he cuts an impressive figure nevertheless, dressed in a sleeveless black wetsuit, his hair freshly cut short to military standard. If he's going to be playing the part of a teacher, he'll be playing it well. That said, no one with a pair of functioning eyes could mistake him for anything less than what he is: deadly. It's written plain as day in his posture, the way he moves, and holds himself. He surveys the group assembled in front of him with a critical eye, quietly assessing each and every member.
"My name is James Barnes," he says in a loud, clear voice. "This is Cardiovascular Conditioning. If you're looking for sunbathing or sandcastle making or whatever the hell it is you people do around here, you're in the wrong place." He waits for a beat, honestly expecting a couple of quick exits, but when no one leaves, he carries on. "Alright. Most of you are familiar faces. That's great. I'm not really one to make long speeches about myself, so we're gonna get right into it.
"The goal of this class is to jump start you lazy bums out of the sedentary lifestyle this island tends to breed. I am not gonna hold your hand; you are presumably all here out of your own volition. You are expected to show up at this spot every Tuesday and Friday at 1100 hours on the nose, rain or shine, 'til the end of the semester. If you are late, be aware that for every minute you waste of mine, I will waste thirty of yours -- and my schedule's wide open, guys, so do not think I'm bluffing.
"Since we only have an hour and a half together in one go, I recommend warming up beforehand, 'cause you're not gonna get the time from me. You'll notice there are buoys floating in the water. Yes, they are just coconuts kept in place with twine and a rock, but we're making do with what we've got. Every class, you will be expected to swim the course marked off by the buoys for thirty minutes. The course is 200 meters long; if you do not improve on your number of laps every week, rest assured that you'll be given extra incentive to do so in the form of push ups after class.
"When those thirty minutes are up, you will drag your sorry asses outta the water, and run lines for the remaining sixty. What are lines? Simple. Starting from that rock over there--" He points to a large boulder about twenty yards from where they're all standing. "--you will run to the first of several lines drawn in the sand, touch it with your hand, complete ten jumping jacks -- star jumps, if you prefer -- and run back to the rock. Then you will run to the next line, further down the beach, and repeat the process 'til either class is over or you keel over -- whichever one comes first.
"Some folks call these suicide lines. If you happen to agree with 'em, I'd suggest keeping your traps shut. I can always make it harder."
This last point is directed almost solely to Jason, though Bucky doesn't keep his gaze trained on the kid very long. In fact, after a pause that's so short he might've been stopping only to breathe, Bucky claps his hands together in a sudden, almost violent motion, and a shit-eating grin threatens to split his face in half. "Now what the hell are you sacks of potatoes waiting for? Let's move, move, move!"
Set between 11:00-12:30 on the beach. Students are especially encouraged to tag in, but it is a gathering post set in a public area, so it's technically open to everyone, though obviously only the students will be expected to participate in the class. That said, please see this post in slated before tagging in.
Even so, Bucky is a man who likes to make himself useful. Most of his skills, however, are useless in an environment such as Tabula Rasa's, much as he's been trying to keep them up to par. He runs, and he trains; hell, he even got a pretty nice weightlifting machine dumped on his doorstep the other day, something he's been making damn good use of. His muscles ache like they haven't in months, but it's a good hurt, a good pain. It's the sort of thing that reminds him who he really is at the end of the day, a reminder of his life beyond the confines of this universe. But leading a ragtag group of people through ninety minutes of hell two times a week serves as a different sort of reminder, a mental one more so than physical. That much, though, he doesn't dwell on; this isn't supposed to be about feelings, after all.
While he's far from the tallest guy on the beach that morning, he cuts an impressive figure nevertheless, dressed in a sleeveless black wetsuit, his hair freshly cut short to military standard. If he's going to be playing the part of a teacher, he'll be playing it well. That said, no one with a pair of functioning eyes could mistake him for anything less than what he is: deadly. It's written plain as day in his posture, the way he moves, and holds himself. He surveys the group assembled in front of him with a critical eye, quietly assessing each and every member.
"My name is James Barnes," he says in a loud, clear voice. "This is Cardiovascular Conditioning. If you're looking for sunbathing or sandcastle making or whatever the hell it is you people do around here, you're in the wrong place." He waits for a beat, honestly expecting a couple of quick exits, but when no one leaves, he carries on. "Alright. Most of you are familiar faces. That's great. I'm not really one to make long speeches about myself, so we're gonna get right into it.
"The goal of this class is to jump start you lazy bums out of the sedentary lifestyle this island tends to breed. I am not gonna hold your hand; you are presumably all here out of your own volition. You are expected to show up at this spot every Tuesday and Friday at 1100 hours on the nose, rain or shine, 'til the end of the semester. If you are late, be aware that for every minute you waste of mine, I will waste thirty of yours -- and my schedule's wide open, guys, so do not think I'm bluffing.
"Since we only have an hour and a half together in one go, I recommend warming up beforehand, 'cause you're not gonna get the time from me. You'll notice there are buoys floating in the water. Yes, they are just coconuts kept in place with twine and a rock, but we're making do with what we've got. Every class, you will be expected to swim the course marked off by the buoys for thirty minutes. The course is 200 meters long; if you do not improve on your number of laps every week, rest assured that you'll be given extra incentive to do so in the form of push ups after class.
"When those thirty minutes are up, you will drag your sorry asses outta the water, and run lines for the remaining sixty. What are lines? Simple. Starting from that rock over there--" He points to a large boulder about twenty yards from where they're all standing. "--you will run to the first of several lines drawn in the sand, touch it with your hand, complete ten jumping jacks -- star jumps, if you prefer -- and run back to the rock. Then you will run to the next line, further down the beach, and repeat the process 'til either class is over or you keel over -- whichever one comes first.
"Some folks call these suicide lines. If you happen to agree with 'em, I'd suggest keeping your traps shut. I can always make it harder."
This last point is directed almost solely to Jason, though Bucky doesn't keep his gaze trained on the kid very long. In fact, after a pause that's so short he might've been stopping only to breathe, Bucky claps his hands together in a sudden, almost violent motion, and a shit-eating grin threatens to split his face in half. "Now what the hell are you sacks of potatoes waiting for? Let's move, move, move!"
Set between 11:00-12:30 on the beach. Students are especially encouraged to tag in, but it is a gathering post set in a public area, so it's technically open to everyone, though obviously only the students will be expected to participate in the class. That said, please see this post in slated before tagging in.