Chris Marvin had a secret morning ritual that he practiced in college. Sunlight creeping through drawn shades, he’d roll out of bed around 7 a.m. with a pounding head. After making sure his door was locked, he’d rummage through drawers and the depths of his mini fridge. Then, on a white marble desk that would have been pristine if not for the Thrasher and Mayhem stickers, he’d line up everything he needed to get through the day.
First, he’d pop a caffeine pill to feel alive; then he’d chase it with a couple of painkillers — a preemptive strike against the grind of training two hours a day, seven days a week. (“There is no rest muscle,” he’d tell himself.) A hit from his bong would help calm his racing heart. Instead of water, he’d pour a glass of whiskey to wash down his pre-workout supplements. Then he’d…
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