Tag: crossfit

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A Different Kind of Work Out

Ten oh five on a Saturday morning, and it looks like Dave isn’t going to show up. I’m standing in a parking lot with three other guys. A Crossfit gym, a “box” somewhere in Seattle. At least it’s trying to be a nice day. The rain is down to just a few drops and the sun occasional peeks from behind bored gray clouds.

We’re all pacing, geared up and ready to get in there and wreck our bodies. Me, I ran here from my house, just a mile or so away. On one of my first days at the gym, Dave said “we don’t do the same workout twice. That’s the problem with runners—always doing the same thing, over and over again, their bodies adapt.” I wish. I’d love to adapt enough to survive the half marathon I signed up for next month.

One of the guys says, “Had to wake him, last week. I showed up at nine, had to bang on the door.”

I furrow my brow. “Wait, does Dave live here?”

The guy nods, and the other two guys look up, paying attention. “Yeah. He moved out of his old place a few months ago.”

I think about why I’m here. I’m getting old, getting fat, need a shock to my system. The good life has made me comfortable, I could say, if I was given to that sort of musing. Maybe I should live in a gym too. Nothing to do all day but pick up heavy weights, cleaning up after every class. Arms like a gorilla. Calves like tree trunks.

One guy checks his watch a few times. I’m tempted to go up to the door, cup my hands against the glare and peer in. What am I going to see? A guy in sleeping bag, laid out next to a pile of dumb bells, his dog curled up at his feet?

Another guy says, “I saw him after the last class, yesterday. He was heading to a bar with my roommate.”

We all chuckle. As if that explains everything. I can’t imagine what a 6 foot, 250 pound guy with 5% body fat has to drink to get too drunk to be up by ten in the morning. He’s not paying for drinks with the money I’ve given him—I used a Groupon.

Ten past ten. Our pacing has slowed a little bit. By now we would have been through our warm-ups. Dave would have given the Crossfit vets their Workout-of-the-Day, and they’d be doing some preliminary exercises. Us newbies would be picking up an empty barbell and putting it back down again. Concentrating on form. Dave would be adjusting his glasses, telling his dog she’s a good girl for staying out of the way. I’d be thinking about that stupid half marathon, and how losing ten pounds would sure help a lot.

A car drives by the parking lot entrance, and we all turn to look. And then I realize I’m sort of hoping he doesn’t show. I want to work out, I want to feel the burn, I want to be a little bit proud of myself. I also want to, well, not.

“God damn it,” the guy, the one who said he’d woken Dave up last week, mutters to humself. Then he smiles “Well, I guess I can always come back at noon.” He turns and wanders towards his car.

The other guy, the one with the roommate says, “Alright fellas.” He looks at his watch, smiles, shakes his head, and walks off too.

Me and the only other one remaining stand there for a few seconds. A moral victory. When Dave’s timing us on burpees and Russian kettle-bells, he never shouts. His voice is loud above the heavy metal blasting from the speakers, but he’s not screaming. You got this, he says. 15 more seconds, he says. You can do this, reach in. Last Thursday, when he did that, even though I was whipped, I managed a few more reps. Felt it all day Friday, but it felt good too.

I want to wait this out, but I don’t. I want to be here when he shows up, forgive him for being, despite a 400 pound bench press, only human. But I want to go home, have a Saturday, do nothing. My wife’s working, won’t be home until 5, so I mean: really do nothing.

I take a deep breath, look the other fella in the eye. “Monday, I guess.” He just smiles, nods, turns and walks to his car.

I decide to compromise. I ran here, so I’ll run back home too. I’m hoping Dave doesn’t have a hang over. But just in case, I’ll commiserate. I stop at the 7-11 on my  way, grab a bag of onion potato chips and two Cokes. I plop in front of the TV, and before too long I’m sugar-and-grease queasy. A different kind of work out

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Suicide is Painless, My Ass

I made a mistake, and decided to join a Crossfit Gym. I believe “mistake” is the proper nomenclature, since people who are already fit don’t need to torture themselves further, and people who are not already fit would do better to take a cyanide pill.

But I did it, perhaps due to some sort of mid-life crisis thing. I’m 43. I don’t know if I’m old enough to have a mid-life crisis yet, but then, I was always an over achiever. I don’t much care for sports cars, I find people younger than my wife dull to speak to and the only ones who are better looking are artifacts of expert Photoshopping skills. Therefore I’m left, in this crisis, with reshaping my body. Hey, Play-Do’s easy to shape, and my body looks like it fell out of a Play-Do can, so this is the right thing to do, right?

So I did what any red-blooded American man with a beer belly and 2004 Kia Spectra would do: I got a Groupon. 15 classes for 40 dollars. What a bargain, right? That’s, what, less than 3 dollars per class? No. It’s 20 dollars per class because even though I am going to go back, it’s only so I can revenge-die on my instructor.

I admit I had some masochistic fantasies before I showed up. I imagined a 28 year-old blonde named Cynthia Killstrong in tight yoga pants and wrist-wraps shouting at me and a dozen other flabbies:

PICK UP THAT BARBELL!

PUT IT BACK DOWN!

PICK UP THAT BARBELL I SAID!

I SAID PUT IT BACK DOWN!

WHY IS THAT BARBELL ON THE FLOOR?

I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO PUT IT BACK DOWN!

I’m sure you can see the appeal, but it wasn’t like that at all.

First of all, there was a dog, a cute little thing, hanging out in the doorway, basking in the sun, Only later did I realize what that look on her face was saying, “Too bad you’ve got opposable thumbs. Those medicine balls aren’t going to pick up themselves. Sucker”

And the guy who runs the place, Dave, seemed like a decent guy. He took my Groupon without a second glance, handed me an iPad and had me sign a waiver. I’m not sure, but I think the fine print said something about Dave no being responsible for exploding lung syndrome, sudden heart failure, or spontaneous combustion.

But my point is, walking in, that was easy. And the people there were nice. And encouraging. You know what I’m saying? I was all so very seductive, which is the very definition of evil.

Actually, I think I can sum the whole experience up like this: the gym is in the gutted remains of an old DMV building. I am not making that up. I used to go there when I was feeling good about myself and needed to be brought back down to earth, as well as new tags for my Kia. Now it’s just a hollow shell. But still filled with pain.

We did some warm-up things, the usual low-impact exercises, like walking back and forth while kicking our legs above our heads. Apparently, what we were warming up was the nerve endings in our spines, to make us feel the pain better. We did some “grapevines,” which I did in an aerobics class once, so that triggered some nice, comforting PTSD. Then we grabbed barbells, balanced them on our shoulders, and did some squats.

Listen to me very closely: all those pictures you see of people doing squats with actual weights on their barbells? Photoshop. Has to be.

After our “warm-up,” Dave explained the Crossfit philosophy. We were going to do some exercises, and then weren’t going to do them again for months. We didn’t want our bodies to get used to any one set of movements, you see. By continuing to shock our systems every time we came to the gym, we were guaranteed to be in the maximum amount of pain every single day.

And then we did the “workout of the day,” which that day was “Wallballs and Burpees.” I know what you’re thinking—wasn’t that the name of a discontinued kids TV program from the 70s? No. Actually, it’s the name of the two devil-beasts Satan keeps next to him at all times. I think.

Burpees: crouch down, throw your legs back, do a push up, bring your legs back in, jump up in the air clap your hands. Sounds easy, right? I would laugh right now if I wasn’t hopped up on so many painkillers that the FBI has started a file on me just in case it has something to do with local Meth sales. I’m not sure what the hand clap is for. A sharp sound to reassure others you’re not dead, yet, maybe.

Wallballs: take a medicine ball (medicine in the sense that theses balls will cure you of that certain ailment called “not feeling extremely awful”) throw it up about eight feet against a wall, catch and drop down into a crouch, stand up and throw again. (I was careful of my wording there. I did not say “throw UP again” cause that’s a given.)

21 of each, then 15, then 9. It took me 8 minutes and 22 seconds. This is good, because now I know how it takes to die of combined heart lung and soul failure.

But here’s the worst part. There I am, trying to pull my intestines back into my mouth from where they had tried to escape my body. My skin all blotchy red from simultaneous oxygen deprivation and overload. My vision down to pinpricks. And then Dave walked over to me, with his dog by his side. And he gave me a fist bump. And he said nice job. And he said, “See you on Monday?”

And I said yes.