When I explore my buried Viking abilities, I realise there is a wild man in all of us. If only I had been competing without a dishwasher-related finger injury
The Whistle Punks urban axe throwing venue is not easily missed. You can hear terrifying thunks of wood from outside, while inside hatchets whoosh past at head height, followed by cheers. The atmosphere screams “fraternity hazing” and I’m scared to walk in. The friends I’ve brought with me experience the atmosphere differently, a few describing themselves as “pumped” and “beyond excited”, which makes me wonder if they have under-active amygdalas.
Basically it’s darts, with axes. Parallel lanes are enclosed in chain-link walls, with cartoon target boards at one end. A bullseye is worth five points; the concentric circles around it, fewer. Our instructor, Alice, teaches us single and double-handed throws. It’s a whole body movement, like headbutting, she says. I have never headbutted anyone; I am not a goat. I am surprised, though, by how little strength is required to generate a hefty WHUMP. When I go on to land a bullseye in training before anyone else does, an unexpected feeling of power blooms. I must triumph. Game on.
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