Sugar Butterflies at CrossFit 10 Star

I don’t like Cindy. She can be a bitch! I don’t like Fran. Or Jackie. Or Murph. They don’t tell me the things I really want to know. My CrossFit ladies include Caileigh and Lisa. My heroes have names like Shane and Marcus. Don’t worry if you haven’t heard of them, if you’re not from my box you probably wouldn’t have.

And I’m happy to say that this past Saturday I added Storm and Ray Robertson to my benchmark list.

Would you like to see my pain face?

It took me 2 hours to get to CrossFit 10 Star, Ray’s box. I arrived; wearing what probably looked like my pre-WOD fear face, but which was actually my need-to-pee face. Not the look I was hoping for walking into a box full of new faces for the 1^st time.

But hey, that’s what happens when you drink your litre of workout water while you’re lost on the highway. Suddenly you find all kinds of new and hidden meanings in unwritten CrossFit rules, like: “get comfortable with being uncomfortable”.

Yes I’m late! Damn, I’m not!

I admit; as I pulled into the parking lot to see a row cones marking out shuttle runs; part of me was a little glad I was late. I’d been so preoccupied with my bladder I’d forgotten to remember how much I don’t enjoy CrossFit WODS. I’d also forgotten that when Ray decided to celebrate his birthday with a WOD he figured he could get more love into 48 minutest than, say, a respectable 6. 12 x 3 min AMRAPS with a minute between each set to glug some water and contemplate how much CrossFit sucks sometimes.

But as I sprinted to the bathroom, realising that I was not in fact late (“expect the unexpected”) I did remember. And I wanted to get it over and done with as quickly as possible. Which is why, when Storm split us into heats, I volunteered to go first. Because I’m brave that way; like the guys on the front-line in a military assault.

Just me and GI Jane

The other heat 1 volunteer, who for the duration of this blog shall be known as Kick-Ass, was an enthusiastic looking girl in a lot of pink. I like pink. I thought this was a good sign and maybe we were more or less on the same level. Turns out not so much. Turns out girls who wear light colours to CrossFit are the ones who know they won’t get blood all over themselves from falling off boxes or dropping kettlebells. So what actually transpired is that while I worked on turning every 3 min AMRAP into 3 X 30 second AMRAPS with a liberal sprinkling of rest time thrown in, Kick-Ass just kicked ass.

Fries with your Fran?

Then came the best part of the WOD: it ended. And the high 5s and hugging began. And soon, thank the Paleo gods, the box party became a Spur party and I was RXing a cream cappuccino. Sometime in the afternoon it all finally ended with visit to a sugar art shop. I stood there between the sparkle of edible “emeralds” and rainbows of sugar sparkles and felt a warm tingling in my fingers and heart.  

I know this warm, glowing feeling by now: it’s what the magic of CrossFit feels like.

Love you more than cupcakes

I always feel vaguely guilty admitting it, but I don’t enjoy CrossFit WODS very much. (Unlike Olympic Lifting where I’m happy to train for 2 hours and keep going until the coach throws me out.) Which is probably why I don’t do them very often. The WODS are just my entry ticket to the box; on account of the fact that simply loitering in the box will at some point be considered stalking.

But I love CrossFit! I love the people. I love the community. I love that I can walk into a box as a stranger and leave as family. That I went to Ray and Storm’s box and came home feeling like it was my box.

I probably have as much chance of RXing Fran as I do of doing her in Jimmy Choo stilettos, but that’s ok, I’m not here for Fran. Or Cindy. Or Jackie. I’m here for Lynda and Tanya and Mike and all the other people who give CrossFit its magic. And when it comes to squeezing all the love and wonder and miracles I can from this amazing community, I’m PBing every day.

 

 

Thanks for Saturday Ray and Storm. For the sweat and the hugs and the eggs and the sugar art flowers.

Teaching the Puppies to do Double Unders

On Sunday someone asked if I was my 28 year old friend’s mother. I suppose I could be. If I had her around the time I had my braces off. So this week I’m feeling … what’s the word … starts with an “o” …. At my age it’s so hard to remember things.

Fading like a … that thing with a stem and petals and nice smelling centre

So it’s been one of those weeks! When the woman in the mirror looks a lot older than the one who was there a few days ago. I can’t exactly say I have a double chin, but it’s definitely at least a chin and a half. Maybe even three-quarters. The “melons” are looking more like “pears”. And although I tell people I’m a natural brunette, that hasn’t been true for several years; snowy-grey not being a shade of brown on even the most adventurous colour chart.

Yes. This week I’m feeling faded and old.

Young of heart and fleet of skipping foot

Except when I’m skipping! It’s impossible to feel old when you skip. Well, unless you forgot to put on a sports bra and one of the pears is flung from its packet. When I skip I feel like a kid again. And when that skipping turns into double unders I feel like Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons.

Double-unders were thoughtfully added to CrossFit by Coach Glassman for women such as me. Women who fall and drop and cry their way through WODs feeling far more Cross than Fit. After a year and a half I still can’t do pull ups. I still come last in runs. I still feel kettlebells would work better if they had little bells tied on with ribbons like my one at home. But I can smash out 30 double unders in a row on a good day! (In fact they make me feel so young I slipped the word “smashed” in there as if I was a 21 year old box bunny.)

I can pick up boys … if they lay like planks

I can also deadlift 110kg. The fact that most of the small melon-chested girls I know can’t, makes it seem like 220 kg. With everything else slip-sliding down the gentle slope of the years, I’m stronger now than I’ve ever been. And I expect I’ll be saying that next month. And the month after. Especially now that I’m focussing on my Olympic weightlifting.

Lifting makes me feel young! Somehow having that heavy weight overhead makes me feel light inside. Maybe it has something to do with discovering new ways to use my body. You know: sit, crawl, walk, lift. Or maybe it’s about challenging my preconceptions and doing this thing I always thought only young people could do.

Or maybe it’s just because when you enjoy something so much that you lose yourself in it, then your soul sings and your heart ends up bopping to the beat like a delirious teenager.

Pouncing on life like a puppy

Of course, I’ve considered that the cure for this week’s feelings of aging inadequacy is to simply stop playing with the puppies. Start running (or walking, or maybe just sitting and playing scrabble) with the old dogs. But then I had to admit that when they’re not making me feel old, the puppies keep me feeling young.

So maybe the secret to eternal youth isn’t avoiding anything that highlights my age, but seeking out those things that fill me with all the giddy feel-good energy I took for granted when I was young and a natural brunette.

And maybe I need to hang my skipping rope in the bedroom. So that every time I wonder idly if I could make charcoal rubbings of my wrinkles, I can spend a few minutes skipping in the passage. And maybe then I’ll skip until I feel I feel frisky enough to pounce. Because I’m still young enough to run with the puppies, chase butterflies, and get my clumsy muddy paws all over life!

13.4: I’m Gonna Lick You Like a Lollipop!

When you’re lifting overhead, every extra 1kg weighs about the same as a bear … juggling Atlas stones … on the back of an elephant.

So this morning when the 13.4 Open WOD was unleashed like a virus it spread fear and panic of epidemic proportions.

45 Kilograms is heavy! Luckily so am I, so I might make the lifts. But if I do then I’ll need to haul my very ample ass up to the rig for toes-to-bar. It’s going to be an interesting and expletive filled 7 minutes.  

I was feeling nervous about it this morning. And when I get nervous the little voice in my head bitches like a snotty teenager. So it’s surprising that I heard Antoinette over all that mental-door slamming and foot-stamping when she said: “Forget about the weight.”

Damn these thoughts are heavy

She’s right of course! It’s what Andrew, our Olympic lifting coach, is always saying. That you’ve got to focus on what you need to do to get the bar up and not psych yourself out focussing on how much weight is on that bar.

But it’s one of those ironies of CrossFit isn’t it? When you load the bar, the part of your brain that can count shuts down. Presumably because it’s rerouting energy to the part that deals with gross motor coordination and not losing a finger to a stack of bumper plates. (Which means you think that loading two 10kgs on a 15kg bar gives you 25kgs.) But when the bar is in your hands you’re suddenly hyper sensitive. Suddenly you’re calculating extra grams of chalk dust and lint and the exact measure by which it’s going to throw off your lift with the accuracy of a cyborg.

That weight is often much, much heavier in your mind than it is in reality. And the longer you stare at it, the more times you add up those bumpers in your mind, the heavier it gets.

So yeah, that’s what you need to do: remember everything you’ve learned about lifting and forget about the weight for a while.

I love the bar lots like Jelly Tots

Ok so what if that doesn’t help? What if no amount of thinking or crying or swearing is going to get that bar up? Here’s my plan …

Do you remember being a kid and having a toffee apple or candy cane or giant lollipop that lasted for days? Do you remember licking it until the sweetness coated your brain, then hiding it in the fridge for later? Well that’s how I’m going to take on 13.4. I’m going to get through it bit by bit.

I don’t know what that “bit” will involve. Maybe I’ll be slamming out toes-to-bar with such grace I'll run away to join the Cirque de Soleil. Or maybe it will involve 7 minutes of enthusiastically transferring chalk from the bucket to the bar.

Either way, at the end of it I’ll have 13.4 licked! Like a lollipop! And you know what? Courage tastes just as sweet as success.

Hitting 13.2 Laying Down with Johnny Depp

It’s Saturday morning and I’m having a little “me” time under the bar. Which is to say: it’s rolling over me, moving from my knees up to my neck at a leisurely pace, while I’m lying under it paralysed with laughter.

Yes, this is what I look like snatching 35 kilograms for the first time. Or more aptly not snatching 35 kilograms for the 1^st time.

As you might imagine, I’m laying here with a fair measure of pride. Did the coach not specifically say the bar needed to move in a straight line while my body moved around it? Well here I am doing that magnificently!

I proved equally adept at moving around the bar a little earlier this morning. At that point the barbell made a break for it mid-clean with my fists frozen around it in panic, dragging me forward; face down, across the floor. Perhaps the coach should have specified vertical line! Never mind, close enough.

The world looks different from under the bar

So I’m taking a few moments to myself down here. I’m imagining I hear a roar of encouragement from the Games’ stadium rather than the roar of laughter from the Saturday Oly class. And I’m thinking back to the 13.2 Open WOD of the night before.

I was moving around the bar with spectacular flexibility then. Twisting, jumping and diving out of the way as it leapt from my shaking overhead extension.

I’d been listening eagerly all day Friday to everyone’s plan for the WOD. Most involved push pressing the shoulder-to-overhead bit, motoring through the deadlifts and stepping the box jumps. Mine involved not drawing blood with the bar or the box.

Hitting the WOD I realised my plan was somewhat lacking in steps around the same time as I smashed the bar up into my chin. For the third time. Around me people were push pressing the bar with as much effort as it takes to yawn and stretch and then letting it float back down to their shoulders. Then there was me, swearing and split jerking the bar (which shall be known as The Undertaker for the duration of this blog). This was followed by more swearing as The Undertaker executed a swift chop drop to my collar bones before I wrestled him up again.

I was not a thing of beauty

The thing I liked most about the WOD was of course - as is usually the case for me - the time cap. It proved once again that all tough things must come to an end and that it’s possible for my brain to keep working even when my lungs have stopped.

Maybe it also proved that I was capable of doing more than I thought I was. But more than that, it proved, as it always does, that I’m capable of trying harder than I thought I was.

Get under the bar with me

As I’m laying here under the bar (this one isn’t The Undertaker, this one is Johnny Depp) I’m thinking how heavy that bar was for me! I’m also thinking about the girls who it was just too heavy for. The girls who got 1 or 2 reps or who never got it up at all. I’m thinking that whatever we scored we all have 1 thing in common: we spent 10 solid minutes trying.

And I’m thinking: fuck the reps. The reps tell you nothing about how hard you tried. Or how much heart you had. Or how much pain you worked through or how much humiliation you felt or how much self-doubt you overcame or maybe succumbed to.

Your score tells you nothing! Your presence on the score-board says everything.

I’m thinking: whether we did 300 or 93 or 3 or 0, every one of us dominated that bar!

Pick up the bar and begin again

So this morning it’s me and the bar again. And after all the rolling under and over and out of its way I’m PBing on my snatch and snatch balance and I think maybe on my confidence.

Thinking of it from vantage point under the bar, maybe that’s what I love most about the Open. If you look at it from the right angle, every workout is designed to make you see how strong you really are in the ways that really count.

It’s also what I love about CrossFit in general. The constant re-realisation that tears dry, bruises heal and the bar gets lighter every day. Especially when you’re laying underneath it - knowing that if you can’t snatch it at least you can roll with it - laughing till you cry.

 

Damn Fran! Where is the Love?

I suppose we all have a love-hate relationship with CrossFit that runs (or hill sprints) something like this:
 

18h00 – In my car on the way to CrossFit. Feeling like a champion because I’m out here battling traffic instead of home vegging on the couch. I’ve got Eminem playing via YouTube. Theoretically he’s singing “you’ve got to lose yourself in the music, the moment …” but on my Blackberry’s damaged speaker it sounds suspiciously like “I love you, you love me.”  

(Ever heard about those experiments the CIA supposedly did with LSD and mind control in the 60s? Well in the 90s they finally got it right in a way that didn’t predispose people to jumping off buildings or dancing naked in parks. Ask any parent and they’ll confirm that once you’ve heard the purple dinosaur’s theme song it becomes the default track playing in your head at all times.)

I love CrossFit. CrossFit loves me.

18h05 – Leap out of the car and fling phone of my lap and across car park. Wonder if the speaker will start working now. Wearing my “I’d rather wear Chalk than Lipstick” vest and have my new  skipping rope looped over my shoulder like Wonder Woman’s lasso. Looking super prepared. Feel like a super hero. CrossFit definitely loves me!

18h10 – Walk into the box. A whiff of sweat, and Barney is replaced by bar staff singing the theme song from Cheers. I’m waving and hugging people to a warm voice in my head crooning that this is the place where “everybody knows your name and they’re always glad you came.” Love these CrossFit people!

18h25 – Warmup underway. What the fuck? Burpees before the WOD even starts? Well I’m just not doing them! Ok I’m doing them but under duress.  And I’m walking them. And I’m doing 8 instead of 10. Frikking hate burpees!

18h30 – Strength component is deadlifts. I swear the motes of chalk drifting above my bar are glitter and I’m sure I hear a unicorn neighing sweetly somewhere behind me.  I love deadlifts! Even more than unicorns.

18h50 – And we WOD! Deadlifts; wallballs and skipping. Yes! Going to pump out those reps. And then do it again … faster. Awesome copy line. I’m super creative. Someone should make that a slogan. Or a T-shirt. Or at least a brand name. Put it on a skipping rope. Feel deliriously happy at the thought of my brilliance. Damn I love CrossFit!

19h00 – Someone killed Barney and replaced the Cheers music with Pantera’s “FUCKING HOSTILE” underscored with nails on a blackboard. My brain is screaming at my body to stop and my body is passing the blame for this self-imposed torture back to my brain. While they’re arguing it out I’m frantically wondering if I could saw off a lesser-used body part with my Again Faster skipping rope (damn they stole my idea) thereby, at the very least, earning myself time in the blood bin. Hate CrossFit!

19h01 – Remembered that the CrossFit name for “blood bin” is “box”.  I think I’m dying. I think my lungs are filled with blood. And the bar has gone all Godfather on my ass and is trying to kneecap me. I can’t breathe. Wonder if anyone will notice if I have a heart attack. Maybe they’ll all cheer for me because it means they get to stop while we wait for the ambulance. Fucking hate CrossFit!

19h10 – You’re making me run to cool me down? For real? Barney got to you didn’t he? I hate, hate, hate fucking hate CrossFit and as soon as I get feeling back in my legs I’m leaving and never coming back.

19h20 – On the road home. The sun is lolling peacefully in a purple and pink meadow of delight. My windows are down and the breeze is gently kissing the sweat off my cheeks and shoulders as the happy sounds of John Denver bubble up around me. Life is sweet. *blissful sigh* I love CrossFit.

I hate you so much right now 

Yes, that’s how it usually goes. But some time last year that all changed for me. Suddenly it was all: Hate CrossFit! Fucking hate CrossFit! CrossFit sucks. Hey CrossFit … yo Mamma’s a Zumba instructress.

This thing that made me feel so good was making me feel so bad. Bad about myself. Bringing Paleo into our already tumultuous relationship only made it worse. Suddenly CrossFit was somehow present in my life all the time, looking over my shoulder. The inevitable disapproval sapped the joy out of my weekend pizza binge. Cupcakes became a forbidden fruit. Too many things had “look but don’t touch” stamped on them.

Inside the box things were even worse. A badly executed snatch balance took out my knee. A vicious box with a grudge took out a chunk of my shin. Weak squats and an inability to invert without crying took out the last of my courage and desire to train.

I don’t know exactly what changed or why. But suddenly there was more pressure than enjoyment. I looked around at the other CorssFitters and I started seeing a little too much judgement for each other and a little too little love. Maybe this is just part of the process of any relationship; when blind passion gives way slowly to the reality that the love of your life is far from perfect and actually full of flaws. And that it isn’t all moonshine and barbells.

It’s not you it’s me

And so I decided that CrossFit and I needed a little break. I needed space. I needed to indulge in other passions with other people. For a while I forgot all about CrossFit and spent a some one-on-one time with Olympic Lifting. Oh the fun we’ve had exploring all the things that bring us closer together: shrugs and jumping and squatting. What can I say? I didn’t go looking for it. It just happened; I lost my heart to Olympic Lifting.

Baby come back 

That’s how it’s been for me this year. Then this week I went back to CrossFit. Just for a quick tumble (or skip) you understand. And suddenly there I was, squatting and throwing and hoping I didn’t throw up and everything felt so much better than before. They say the body remembers; well mine didn’t remember it all feeling this good. 

So there I was! Getting hugs from the “old” people and nervous greetings from newbies and playful quips from Marcus about how he’d show me his thruster if I’d show him my snatch. And suddenIy that familiar glow was back and I realised that it had happened: I’d fallen hopelessly in love all over again.

Just for the record, I’m still involved in Olympic Lifting. I’m a free spirit and CrossFit seems to espouse this kind of polygamy. I have a lot of love to give and lots of space for fresh calouses.

I guess it’s true; absence makes the heart grow fonder and the skinned shins better.

I love CrossFit. And CrossFit loves me. Except of course between 6.15 and 7.15 pm weekdays and first thing on a Saturday morning. Then we totally frikking hate each other!

We Go Together like Rips and Friar’s

I don’t do CrossFit for the WODs. Hard to believe I know. But it’s true. I don’t do it for the thrill of flinging myself upside down only to realise that puke comes out easier that way. I don’t do it for the tingling exhilaration that comes from recapturing my kettlebell mid-flight on its way to bowling the coach down like a skittle. And I definitely don’t do it so I can brag about how I’ve given blood this week … and probably some skin too.

I do CrossFit for the people.

Alone like a broken bar

“When you ask people about love they tell you about heartbreak. When you ask them about belonging, they’ll tell you their most excruciating experiences of being excluded. When I ask people about connection the stories they tell me are about disconnection.” I read this achingly brilliant bit of wisdom by Brene Brown in bed yesterday.

(I apologise for not being able to put the little accent sign above the second “e” indicating it’s pronounced “ay”, but my knowledge of word only stretches as far as punctuation I can use for smileys. Plus, it annoys me when a letter acts like spoiled single child, wearing the linguistic equivalent of a plastic tiara and refusing to make pretty sounds by playing with the other children.)

So back to Brene-pronounced-Brenay. She’s right isn’t she? Not only about us feeling sense of disconnection. But that we believe we’re unique in this regard. That we’re alone in feeling that we’ve never quite belonged. Isolated in our conviction that somehow the world doesn’t quite see us for who we really are.

Yet here we are, all of us, telling ourselves there must be something bigger to be a part of, if only we could find it. All of us feeling all the while that if life really is a cabaret we’ll always be the shmucks outside parking the cars.

 

If I follow you to your box will you keep me?

It’s true I think of most of us that we spend a large part of our lives, whether we’re conscious of it or not, looking for that place where we belong. For people we connect with.

And then we find CrossFit!

But according to Brene the finding is just the first step. “For connection to happen we need to let ourselves be seen, really seen … vulnerably seen.” Yes I realise she means emotionally. I didn’t get through a language degree without being able to find 3 levels of meaning in a simple “Please Call Me”. But I think that when it comes to CrossFit it’s about more than that.  

I style my hair with chalk

You know those pictures in National Geographic showing flood, famine and quake survivors looking like supermodels? Well we look nothing like that. I’ve seen many pics of myself training and I look pretty much the same as I have since becoming a mom: larger than I seem in the mirror, eyes glazed with too little sleep and even less sanity.

 Most of us do. Except the girls from CrossFit Platinum. At the end of their workouts they look like they’ve been kissing Rich Froning in the rain, not splashing in other people’s sweat. But that’s because Julian splices his athletes’ genes with the DNA of wild mustangs. It’s true. If you don’t believe me you haven’t seen Beatrix run.

So this is how CrossFit allows us to be seen as we really are: terrified, elated, exhausted, sweat soaked, crying, panting, puking. And more than that, seen as we are when we’re pushing harder than we knew we could. Lifting heavier than we thought we were capable of.  Seen as the amazing, capable beings we sometimes forget that we are.

 Help! I got pinned doing a back squat

But while we revel in our strength here we also submit to our vulnerabilities. In the box we learn it’s ok to ask for help. To say we can’t do something. To say we’re not perfect. That we’re not strong enough to do this alone. Really all the things we’d never say out there where to show vulnerability is to show weakness and to show weakness is to expose your jugular to a vicious world. And unfortunately, in the real world men in body glitter aren’t queuing up trade you eternal life for a chance to rip into your veins.

Smash it to Linkin Park

Yes, I’ve smashed out thrusters to “I’ve become so numb” hoping that at some point it might actually happen and anaesthetise my chest cavity as my lungs try to make a break for it through my ribs. But apparently, if Brene is right (and I think she is) “You cannot selectively numb emotions. In our moments of most intense joy, we are often at our most vulnerable.”

 And that sums it up for me I think. Here in my box my emotions run riot. Sometimes I leave shattered by the intensity with which they strike. Here I find my agony and my ecstasy. Here I find a family. And they see me as I really am. But more importantly, they help me see myself as I really am.

And here with them, I sometimes feel vulnerable … but I never, ever feel alone.

Shane is Made of Steel and Sex Appeal

My friend Shane wants to know if it’s weird that he checks my blog first thing in the morning. I tell him that most guys check my pay-per-view website but that I’m happy someone respects me for my mind. What I don’t tell him is that my new blog isn’t up yet because I’ve been doing what writers do best when we’re on deadline: make coffee, water the plants, clean the pool, play with the pugs, memorise interesting obscure facts for my next dinner party. (Did you know a snail can sleep for 3 years?) 

 

Shane says he’s going to kick my ass!

This is what happens when you bring your CrossFit friends home with you; they bring their CrossFit attitude with them!

Laptop squats

Shane and I do CrossFit together. Sort of. Only I’ve been doing mine behind a laptop and working on word order and imagery in between lifting my son to martial arts and spotting him through homework.

And Shane has been doing more recovering than CrossFitting. When he bench pressed that truck I said Shane, real men don’t train on their backs. But did he listen? No. That’s the problem with these ex Strong Man men; stick a man under an Atlas stone and he thinks he’s a god.

But I digress. It’s the sex appeal that does that. Back to CrossFit friends.

Pass the foam roller

There was a time in my life when I could plan a dinner party without wondering if I should separate the vegans from the Paleo people because you know that at some point someone's going to go all caveman about the need to consumer a mammoth's worth of protein each day. A time when my dinner guests asked for more wine instead of a foam roller. When people occasionally passed out on the floor instead of doing burpees on it. When conversations about poetry and philosophy and music didn’t end up with advice on doing pullups.

There as even a time when my guests didn’t start jokes with “so there I was at the squat rack at Virgin Active,” only to burst out laughing because that was also part of the punch line. (If you didn’t get the joke then you might actually be one of the people using the Virgin squat rack for shoulder shrugs or your sweat towel.)

But those days vanished around the same time I started carrying a small can of chalk in my handbag and employing “boot strap” mobility in public toilets.

I love you Mother******

Yes, those were the days before I had CrossFit friends! And CrossFit friendships grow quickly! You somehow bond with your box-mates a lot quicker than social norms dictate. (In non-CrossFit circles I believe they call it "stalking".)

I think it has a lot to do with the fact that they see you with your mask off. You know; the one with the polite smile that helps you make polite conversation without swear words. Here at CrossFit you check that mask at the door and all the joy or terror or desperation or exhaustion is there for everyone to see, highlighted by the occasional string of expletives or possibly even tears.

 

My CrossFit friends have seen me at my best. Some of the were there when I did my first 95kg deadlift and felt like I could pick up the world! They’ve seen me at my worst. They’ve witnessed a little wooden box make me cry. This of course wouldn’t have been as embarrassing if I was actually on the box at the time and not staring it down in blind panic. They make me feel like it’s ok not to hide all the things I carry around it the day, because hey, you can’t hold onto that stuff with a barbell in your hands anyway.  

PB your life

These are also the people who’ve pushed me further beyond the borders of strength and pain and exhaustion than I knew I could be pushed. Even when it’s meant letting me think the bar was loaded at 80kg when they’d actually slapped on 95kg. It’s a tactic Lynda and Caileigh employ with stealth and one which consistently gets me PBs. (I miss you girls!)  

Maybe this is what sets my CrossFit friends apart: they don’t stop pushing me when we leave the box. Sure they’ll tell me when I’m too hard on myself, but more importantly than that, they’ll tell me when I’m going too easy on myself.  

These are the people who push me to PB my life!

 Where did Shane go?

So of course I’m not surprised when I get a message from Shane on a Sunday night asking: “what are you writing?” Or a FaceBook message first thing in the morning reminding me how long it’s been since I hit a good wordcount for the day. He’s just doing what CrossFitters do, cheering for me to do more, be better!

I need this! I think everyone needs this. People who see our strengths even when we can’t. Who aren’t afraid to tell us to try harder, because they know we can. And in my case, friends who push me to do the thing I love the most – to write.

I told Shane I’d like to do a serious article with him some time; I think he’s got a lot to say that people would like to hear. He didn’t exactly decline, but he did come back to chirp that if I was to write something about him it should be this: Shane is made of steel and sex appeal. So there I did.

And I damn well better get a wall post today telling me it’s been 0 days since my last blog. And possibly that Jo is made of dreams and gossamer.   

Coffee R10, Hugs for Free at CrossFit Bryanston

OMG! I’m not even out of the parking lot at CrossFit Bryanston and the coach is already shouting at me! I’m standing in the pouring rain, flustered from being lost in peak hour traffic for an hour, trying to jam my cellphone in my handbag while a river of jo’burg’s sludgy rains soaks my inov-8s. I’m trying to maintain a sense of humour by contemplating whether I should have packed my ark when a voice from above yells at me to hurry up. I find myself slightly relieved – as I always am – to find that the voice isn’t in my head; it’s David Ayres.

Who moved my cupcake?

A Dave by any name would be just as sweet but to me he’ll always be Dave Stri-ped. That’s because the first few times I saw him he was never without a pair of striped socks. And of course his OUTSIDE voice (as Barney would call it – as opposed to his inside voice.) And so in one of those moments just after the barbell hit my chin so hard I went blank for a few second while my brain rebooted, I thought to myself that while the rest of us are bipeds, Dave with his stripes is a stri-ped. It  just seemed like he needed a bigger, bolder name  than "Dave" because everything about him seems supersized. Especially his hugs! Of which he owes me many and is now working off on a credit system in exchange for crushing the cupcakes I was about to surrender to after months of paleo pastry depravation.

 

But I digress from the purpose of this which was to tell you about my visit to CrossFit Bryanston. Probably because Dave is such a bad influence!

Just me and my PVC

 So here I am at CF Bryanston which is thoughtfully situated in the same centre as KFC and a Luv Land Adult Shop. What a happy coincidence for all us energetic CrossFitters that only one of those is paleo-friendly!

By the time I get upstairs people have already paired up with PVC pipes. Some are even warming up with them. Most are clinging to them like security blankets. I’m one of the most. I’m also magnificently resisting the urge to poke people with mine for the simple pleasure of watching them jump. You find strange ways to occupy yourself when you’re nervous. And I’m only here for the free hugs anyway.

And then, score my first hug! Thank you Albert van Zyl.

 Hanging loose

 So let me tell you about the first time I met Albert. He was hanging out watching the final Open WOD at CrossFit Platinum and he was chatting animatedly to a total stranger. As luck would gave it that stranger was me. I was exceptionally polite to him because I was training with his aunt. Turns out I shouldn’t have bothered because I actually wasn’t and in fact I don’t even know anyone in his family. (I’ll say it again: too much chalkdust to the brain!)

 The 2^nd time I met him was at a rowing seminar. While everyone else did insane things in between bouts of rowing – like for example, rest -  Albert played on the pullup bars. I remember thinking that if there as an ADHD Barbie, Albert would have been her Perpetual Motion Ken. Now that I think about it, every time I’ve seen Albert in a box somewhere he’s been swinging on, over or through something with the exuberance of a kid on a jungle gym.

 So you can understand why I was so excited at the chance to train with both Ken and Stri-ped?

 Why did I wear my good shoes?

 Yes a class with Dave and Albert! Only wait, no, apparently the coach is this guy who just arrived. Josh. Josh looks sweet. But then, so do puffer fish. He’s going on about not writing the reps for the WOD on the board but rather shouting them out as we go along. Outside the thunder crashes and the lightning flashes ominously and in here the theme song from Jaws is playing in my head.  

 I ask Gail how long the WOD will last because I’m hearing instructions about overhead squats and sprawl burpees but without reassuring words like “time cap”. When she stops laughing she says “until you puke on your shoes.” I was starting to get the feeling I should have stayed lost in the Jo’burg traffic.

 Getting all misty eyed

What follows is insane! At some point I give up trying to clean the mist off my glasses and satisfy myself with a blurred view of the world and the understanding that I don’t need to see the bar to lift the bar. It’s probably better this way anyway because now I won’t have to go through the agony of trying to figure out if I’m doing burpees in someone else’s puddle of sweat or my own.

I’m thinking I should have hung onto my PVC pipe because if I poke Josh hard enough maybe he’ll throw me out of the class. Luckily I don’t have to resort to violence because just like that I’ve done my last 20 Goblet Squats. I’d given up the bar for the bell a few rounds back at around the same time as the bare barbell started weighing roughly the same as a circus elephant and was somehow moving around up there with the same grace and enthusiasm. If you’ve been there you’re know: the pain of collapsing forward and smashing a barbell into your ankles with enough force to splice metal into bone is nothing compared to  the humiliation of telling people that yes, the bar you dropped wasn’t even loaded.

So I’m happy. I have the feeling that if I could see through my glasses I’d see light at the end of the tunnel. But no! Turns out there is another whole other part of the WOD that includes scurrying around like a crab trying to swat people’s hands. Bonus! At least the floor will be close enough to me not to draw blood if I collapse.

Hardcore but with hugs

So I can now tick “CrossFit Bryanston” off my to-do list. I ended up scoring too many hugs from too many people to name. Sweaty people! In fact I think my shirt actually dried off a little in the drizzle as I walked to the car.

 The vibe was phenomenal. The people were amazing. The WOD was ... frikking ... awesome! (I'm running out of adjectives here.) Their Cobra Kai T-shirts are kick ass. (I promise to wax on, wax off my car 100 times tonight as penance for betraying Mr Miyagi.) And I won’t even hold the sad lack of cupcakes against them.

And as I left I cast a glance over at Luv Land and wonderered if they’re telling customers who ask about S&M that they should rather enquire next door at CrossFit Bryanston. They really should. .

Watch Me Snatch This Fountain Pen

It occurs to me that I’d be better at CrossFit if I spent more time doing it and less time writing about it.

 
It’s been a year since I signed up and I still can’t do a pullup. I still can’t hold a handstand. (At least not without crying.) I can’t even name all the people who placed in the top 3 at the 2012 Games. Although truth be told that might be because I can’t find a good reason to check out any of the Games’ athletes other than Kris Clever.

So here I sit looking at my Clever pics - wondering if the whole heart-skipping-a-beat thing can be considered cardio - with a body that’s still nestled in the soft and squishy side of things.

It’s true. I gave CrossFit 12 months of my life and in return it gave me not a six pack but a clothing account. My old pants don’t fit over my new apple shaped butt!

Writers are basically strippers

Of course that’s not all CrossFit gave me. Yes all those hours gave me good biceps, better health and the ability to clean my overloaded  Woolies shopping basket onto the counter. But it also gave me something else; it gave me something to write about.

So here’s the thing with writers; when we’re paid to write we know we’re good. My commissioned writing is my pole-dancing work. If I do it well clients will keep coming back and they’ll keep tucking money in my polka dot Iron Fist panties. (What? You’d like to try doing a 20 hour article in a g-string?) The paid work is the product of our most fantastic minds. When it comes to our private work, the work that comes from our hearts, the words we bleed out from the soft hidden folds of souls, that work we get very nervous about. Showing it to people (showing this to you) is like standing naked in front of the world. Which is why, until last year, my personal work had stayed just that – personal.

Go ahead, laugh at me. Please!

But then I got to CrossFit and suddenly I was with a group of people who saw me at my rawest and most exposed every other day from 5.30 to 6.30. What can I say? You don’t think straight when you’re sweating from your eyeballs and inhaling chalkdust like cocaine. So one night in a manic post-WOD state I did something I never thought possible: I got blogging.

Not only that; I got funny. Or I hoped I was. My idea of a good joke is that mushrooms make you laugh because they’re fungis. (Yes I’m aware of the single/plural error but that’s as good as it gets for me.)

 I wrote. I posted. I shared. I waited. And OMG! The CrossFit Platinum girls laughed! They replied. They posted. They shared.

I’ve won awards for my writing. I’ve supported myself with my writing. I’ve published locally and abroad. But I’ve never done anything that made me as proud as those first few CrossFit blogs.

 Pass the chalk please

From there everything exploded like a kicked chalk bucket. My coach Julian passed my name to the Imtiaz, the Media Director for our region and I went from blogging about CrossFit to writing for CrossFit HQ. I’ve had the privilege of interviewing every one of our South African 2012 individual and group Games athletes. (Thank you Rika for playing so hard to get that I was considering trapping you in a toilet cubicle at the airport just to get my interview before New Year. No not really. Ok maybe.)

And here I am, a year later, still typing away furiously at 4 in the morning while other people are putting on their inov-8s and heading to the box.

Ok so maybe I’m more of a CrossFit writer than a CrossFit athlete. I probably work up callouses on my fingertips faster than my hands. On the up side, hours of finger work mean I’ve got the grip strength to squeeze blood from a barbell. (See, that right there was poetic licence. We all know barbells can’t bleed. Unlike CrossFitters. Who have an endless supply of blood. And tears. And skin.)

 CrossFit gave me more of me

Do I feel vaguely cheated that after a year I don’t look like that Fouche girl? You know the one who sometimes poses with Kristan Clever? Am I disappointed that I still can’t snatch my body weight? Or even half my body weight? Or actually even 1/3 of my body weight? Maybe a little. But not all that much.

 Because CrossFit has given me so much more than I could even have conceived going in. I think that’s true for most of us. It gave me a new way to explore the most magical part of myself; my creativity. It gave me the courage to try writing things that made people laugh instead of things that make them cry, something I always believed was beyond me. And my community gave me the support to keep doing it.

 Maybe next year this time I’ll be doing butterfly pullups like Spieler. Or box jumping small buildings in a single bound. Maybe. It doesn’t seem all that important. Because I’ve realised that there’s something I love a lot more than doing CrossFit and that’s writing about CrossFit. And I already feel like I’m solid gold at that.