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!