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.