Back in My Day, We Hopped Fences to Throw

I used to joke that the best physical attribute a potential hammer thrower can have is the ability to hop fences. That statement was just a shorthand way of saying that hammer throwers need determination. While there are dozens of shot put rings in most cities, there often aren’t many places to throw the hammer and what is available is typically less than ideal.

Take, for example, my hometown of Seattle. The entire county has a population of nearly 2 million, but is only home to one true hammer throw facility. And, even that ring has me launching a lot of throws into a bushy hillside since the left sector only measures 65-meters. I encountered a similar situation when I was living in places like Washington, DC and Vienna, Austria. While I studied abroad in Vienna as an undergrad, I fell into the daily routine of riding the train to the suburbs, transferring to a bus, walking half a mile (all while carrying my hammer) and then hopping a fence to throw. Last week, I visited lovely Mt. Shasta, California for Christmas and my only available option for throwing had a 65-meter sector and required me to wait while I thawed an inch-thick layer of ice. Back in Seattle I have now discovered a few other places where I can sneak in to throw, but that means I am often jumping fences to do so. As a hammer thrower, there isn’t time to complain because there are no other options. You just have to make it work.

An easy to scale fence, rated just one star in my book.

Jumping fences is a skill I learned early. After deciding to transfer from Cal State-Northridge late in my freshman year, I quickly learned to scale tall fences in seconds. The coach there at the time told me I couldn’t use the school’s facilities to train, meaning I had to find times to train when he wasn’t around. What began as an annoyance, quickly developed into a point of pride. I would often stand there at the crack of dawn, gleefully waiting for the California sun to rise over the hills so that I could have enough light to throw before my early classes. One time I even experimented with night throwing by attaching glow sticks to my hammer. That didn’t go as smoothly as planned. The night ended early with glow goo splattered all over the field. Rather than being frustrated, I smiled. I knew that if I was willing to work this hard to find time to train, things were going to work out. And they have. With the exception of a torn shirt and a bruised rib, I would not have made as much progress without jumping fences.

I also don’t look back on these memories as hardships. When I’m old, these memories won’t fall into the “back in my day we walked uphill both ways in snow to school” category. This is because I doubt the next generation will have things any easier. The few spots of open land in the area that could be used for the hammer will likely be turned into condos or mixed-use developments. Instead, the memories will develop into war stories that I can recount with pride.