Category: Liftin’ Heavy Objects Over Ma Head

CrossFit! CrossFit! CrossFit!

More Power!

Last Tuesday, I looked on the CrossFit Durham website and found that the owner had scheduled a Painstorm. I’d list the elements here, but suffice to say it was Lift a Bunch of Shit Over Your Head Until You Can’t Anymore Then Do Fifteen Rounds of Some Other Crap Then Lift the Same Shit Over Your Head Again.

I decided to mow my lawn instead. Little did I know I’d have a Painstorm, mostly psychological, of my own.

See, for years, I owned

an electric mower, yes indeedy. (With a cord and everything. You learn to do a little dance with the cord. It's fancy.)

I had two of these mowers, actually. Kilt ’em. Kilt ’em both dead.

The reason I had gotten electric instead of gas-powered was I wanted to reduce my carbon footprint.

Lies.

In truth, I got electric because yanking on the cord of a mower that won’t start makes me want to put a foot through somebody’s ribcage.

But after I broke two electric mowers in five years, I decided I would really be ecologically conscious.

Lies again.

In truth, I was just being cheap. I bought

this yeoman's tool.

Every blade of grass gets cut using only human energy! Problem is, human energy is crap. I mean, it would cut, but not very much and certainly not anything high. I have a special mixture of grass and weeds in my yard that proved too much for the Silent Scott. I’d go over a tall weed—it would flatten out under the blade and pop right back up to full salute.

Every time he saw me out there grunting behind my “mower”, my 70-year-old neighbor insisted on lending me his self-propelled beast of a gas-powered machine. But I was terrified I’d hit a rock or a stump and mess up his blade, or worse.

So Tuesday, after work, I put on my Big Girl Panties, stopped by Home Depot, and picked up

my very first gas-powered mower.

The cheapest one they had, natch. It came mostly assembled. All I had to do was attach the handle and the rear wheels and add some oil. I’m handy. I had no problem with the mower.

I did, however, have a problem with

the stupid fucking gas can.

“Just turn, and click—you’re ready to go.”

Lies.

In truth, turn, and click, and nothing comes out. Turn the other way, and click, and still nothing. Turn really forcefully, and curse at it, and click, and nothing. I must’ve messed with that thing for half an hour. And it was starting to get dark. If there had been a ribcage around that didn’t belong to my dogs, my foot would’ve been through it. I finally poured the gas into a glass measuring cup and transferred it to the tank.

I mooshed the little rubber button to get the gas to flow in, held my breath, and yanked on the cord. Raaarrrrrrr! It started up on the first pull! But it was cutting REALLY SHORT. I realized I needed to change the level of the wheels. Because I’d bought the Piece of Shit model, there was no lever to change the height. I had to take off every last wheel and reattach them in a different hole. Argh.

First wheel, done. Second and third, done and done. Fourth…fourth…fourth. Won’t. Come. Off. I was using the only tool I had: plier/wire snip combo thingy. I knew my neighbor would have a wrench or something, but I was afraid it was too late to knock on his door.

Lies.

In truth, my pride was saying, “You don’t deserve those Big Girl Panties! Turn the fucking bolt!”

After 20 minutes, I told my pride to shove it and tromped over to my neighbor’s house. Sure, he had an adjustable wrench. Even better,

he had the most important tool humankind has ever created: the vice grip.

That bolt came loose like nothing.

I’d like to say that I adjusted the wheels and mowed and everything was wine and roses. Truth is, two of the wheels kept falling off as I mowed. I had to keep stopping to reattach them, and one of the washers got lost in the process. At this point, it was 8:45 or 9:00, dark. My neighbors probably thought I was on meth.

But that grass got mowed! Those weeds got chopped! And I missed remarkably few spots considering that it was dark as pitch when I finished.

So what did I learn and gain from my Painstorm?

Adaptabililty…gas can nozzle doesn’t work? Use something else.

Humility…I should’ve asked my neighbor about 30 minutes earlier for the wrench.

Economics…spend the extra twenty bucks to get the adjustable mower.

Physics…I need to buy a pair of vice grips.

Wisdom…that sage of sages, Tim Allen, was right: sometimes you need more power.

A Shot of Tequila and a High Five

I remember, after seeing the movie Amélie for the first time, having a conversation with someone, probably my mom, about how we should re-watch it every Sunday night before we had to go back to work on Monday. I know exactly jack shit about cinematography so I’m not sure how Jean-Pierre Jeunet rendered the colors that bright and the soundtrack that poignant and the characters that sublimely flawed and the story that enthralling and delightful. All I know is I walked out of the theater all teary and smiley, repeating “Bredoteau! Bretodeau!” in a distinctly Le Pewian accent to myself, wanting to go out and live life! Do good deeds! Find love!

Last night, I decided to watch The Road.

So the opposite.

I mean: enthralling story, yes. But Jesus. I wanted to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head. Which I did. But before I did, I checked Facebook one more time and saw the news of Osama’s bin Laden’s death.

Some people were rejoicing (“Bin Laden is DEAD!!! Rot in hell you dirty piece of shit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”).  Some were sober (“No death is worth celebrating.”). Some questioned others’ Christianity (“Christians, we have been called to live a life that is pleasing to Jesus Christ. How does harboring so much hate glorify our Lord and Savior?”)

My first reaction was surprise—I never thought we’d get him—followed by relief, that this guy who orchestrated a movement that has killed thousands finally got his. And then I had a little Toby Keith moment, where I was like, “And at the hands of the Amurricans goddammit!” I shook that off but quickly realized this little operation would greatly increase Barack Obama’s chances of getting re-elected in 2012. So I posted something like: “Ten years. Obama ftw! Seriously, men and women of the U.S. Military and Commander-in-Chief Obama, I’m awed.”

Of course, what followed was quotes from MLK Jr.: “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

And videos from Ground Zero and DC, where people were straight up celebrating, and it reminded me of the footage from Muslim countries around the world, of crowds rejoicing as the Twin Towers collapsed. And I thought, “What are we doing?! We’re doing the same thing we found reprehensible!”

The horror of The Road, combined with the ambivalent feelings I had about the assassination, made for some pretty extraordinary bruxercising for me. I woke up this morning and felt like someone had punched me in the ear infection. That’s right. Like I had had an ear infection and then someone punched me in it. I ground my teeth so hard that my jaw’s still all tender on the left side.

I was grumpy all day. One of my students was doing everything in her power to be my Buddha, and my uterus started causing me my monthly strife. I ate too much. Carbopalooza. I got home to find Violet’s limp not any better than it was yesterday. The WOD kicked my ass. And not one of you, MY SO-CALLED FRIENDS, had told me that my nostril hair had gotten completely out of control.

Downtrodden.

But then my friend (the one I quoted at the beginning of this post) updated her status to: ok, y’all: i get and agree that the death of any human, yes even osama bin laden, is not to be taken lightly, and that his death marks the beginning of yet another period of uncertainty, but before we get all “spiritual” and “now, now kids…”, i think we as americans, and for fuck’s sake definitely our troops, deserve a shot of tequila and a high five. we can go back to being “the better person” tomorrow…

It wasn’t Amélie, but it sure made me feel better.

 

Why I Love CrossFit, Part 3

After the WOD, I sat in a pool of my own sweat on the rower, wheezing, when another CrossFitter came up and said, “Nice work.” I held out my closed hand, and we did a terrorist fist jab.

I hadn’t really done nice work. Not in the strictest sense. My push-ups were wormy, my kettle bell swings were grunty, and my rowing form would have made Paul hang his head in shame. Watching Ashley, or Anna, or Gabe, or Michael do the WOD—they do nice work. They don’t make it look easy (if the WOD looks easy, you’re doing it wrong); they make it look fierce, and beautiful.

But I did the WOD. I finished. And that, for some of us, is nice work.

The fact that people who lift heavier weights, who don’t use bands, who do things in half the time I do (as did one guy recently, running the 400 meters) stand there and cheer me on, makes me feel like I’m doing nice work.

Why I love CrossFit: People know you’re doing your damnedest and they acknowledge it.

Whip It

My friend Anna used to tell her students, “Nobody’s good at everything, but everybody‘s good at something.”

And that’s pretty true at CrossFit. Most people excel in one area. They might be good at other things, but they rock it out on one particular lift or skill. You have people like that guy I watched blow through push-ups and box jumps like it was a stroll through the park. There’s my sister-wife who can dead-lift ridiculous weights. Colin climbs on and over stuff like a monkey. Phil can snatch his own body-weight. Erin will run circles around you. So will Paul. (Actually, Paul can do most things. But he’s kind of a freak of nature.)

There’s really nothing that I excel at at CrossFit. People don’t point to me as an example of how to do anything in the gym.

In the gym.

Did you get that part?

Because last Wednesday, a bunch of us CrossFitters went rollerskating. Turns out, I’m kind of a bad-ass in the rink. I had no idea I could skate like that!

Could it be my secret fantasy is not a pipe dream, after all?

Why I Love CrossFit, Part 2

Like 95% of females in this country, I have spent a really stupid number of hours of my life fretting about what number would show up when I stepped on a scale. But about eight years ago, when I decided to seek treatment for my food addiction, I started by buying two books, one called Overcoming Overeating and the other, When Women Stop Hating Their Bodies. In them, the authors said, Do NOT weigh yourself; throw out your scale. And I did. I didn’t weight myself for years. When I went to the doctor’s office, I would close my eyes and tell the nurse not to say my weight out loud. I still don’t weigh myself. I don’t own a scale. I only know approximately how much I weigh.

Here’s the thing, I like measurable results. I like to see data about how I’ve improved. Or not. I think it can be really motivational. But only when there’s no mental illness involved in your outcomes.

Because, for a compulsive overeater/food addict/emotional eater/what-have-you, the absolute worst thing you can do is focus on your weight. If you’re trying to heal yourself from obsessive thoughts about food, weighing yourself adds a whole new level of crazy. I know this first-hand. When I used to go on diets, I would think about nothing but food, I would gorge myself on food I hated because it was low in Points, and I would scheme how to trick the scale—“Maybe if I take off my earrings before I weigh in, I’ll hit my weight goal.”

Now I have a new weight goal. It’s called a PR, and I won’t ever see it by stepping on a scale. A PR is a personal record. As in, you pick up more weight than you ever have before.

You may remember my first attempts at the clean & jerk back in late August. I was lifting about 25 lbs. Well, by December 29, I hit a one-rep max of 73 lbs. I hadn’t tried for a new 1RM since. This week’s Open WOD called for clean & jerks…at 110 lbs. for females. Ha! I knew I wouldn’t be able to C&J 110 lbs., but I figured it was a good time to find my new 1RM. If I hit 88 pounds, I was fixing to be really happy.

I worked up to 73, doing three reps at a time. Cake.

I decided to do one rep at each increment from there on out.

78. Easy.

83. No problem.

88. Fine.

93. Fail.

Coaching from Rich…93. Yep.

95.5. With more coaching from Rich, done.

98. Rich, coaching, got it.

100.5. Fail. Rest. Rich, coaching. Cleaned, and motherfucking jerked.

I tried 103, but I was shot. I did not care. 100.5 pounds! Now I can’t wait to get back in there and lift 103 pounds over my head.

Why I love CrossFit (with a hat tip to friend and awesome athlete, Nelly, and I quote): My “weight goal” is now something that I want to LIFT, as opposed to something I want to BE.

Why I Love CrossFit, Part 1

As a kid, a lot of things made me proud of myself. A 102 on a spelling test (I had to get the two Bonus Words to be satisfied), getting the violin solo in orchestra, a blue ribbon at Field Day, making it into the Pioneer Playmakers drama troupe.

But during the course of my adult life, there haven’t been a whole lot of times when I felt like patting myself on the back.

I didn’t feel particularly proud of myself when I got my Master’s. My roommates had to be like, “Uh, Amy, are you going to invite us to your graduation?” I said, “You want to go? Wait, do you think my parents would want to go?”

I bought a house, but I wasn’t brimming with pride on closing day. I just signed a bunch of paper and pay my mortgage on time every month. Woo-frickin-hoo.

I teach children every damn day of the week, but I don’t walk out of my school, going, “I make a difference.” Most days, I’m just glad I haven’t doled out any corporal punishment.

But then I go to CrossFit Durham.

Today the WOD was: alternating 20/18/16/14/12/10/8/6/4/2 burpees and 2/4/6/8/10/12/14/16/18/20 double-unders

My time: 20:52 Rx*

I finished last.

Again.

And most definitely, a spectator would have said less, “What an athlete!” and more, “Wow. That’s…she’s really…trying hard, isn’t she?”

But you know what? I hate burpees, I hate double-unders, and I did ’em anyway. Afterward, I had to lie on the floor, whimpering, and hit my inhaler twice, but I finished.

Why I love CrossFit: I come in dead last and still feel proud of myself. Every time.

*Rx, y’all. I can count on two fingers how many times I’ve done a WOD as prescribed. Today was #2. (My middle finger, as it were. Which I dedicate to burpees everywhere.) Yes, I had to do a single bounce in between each double-under, but I didn’t count attempts, which is considered totally legit to do. No, if a rep was going to count, I was going to jump over that rope.

And jump I did. And burpee I did.

Open WOD #2

On Saturday, whether you were registered for the CrossFit Games or not, you did Open WOD #2, which was:

15-minute AMRAP (as many rounds as possible) of:

  • 9 dead-lifts (155 lbs. for men, 100 for women)
  • 12 hand-release push-ups (hand release at the bottom, to make sure your chest hits the floor, I guess)
  • 15 box jumps (24 in. for men, 20 for women)

I dead-lifted the 100 lbs. That part was easy. I’m built like a beast of burden, so lifts that are all legs, back, and haunches—no big whoop.

But I’m not gonna lie, after the first handful, I was all wormy on those push-ups.

The box jumps—you know, I wanted to do the WOD as prescribed, and I’ve jumped a twenty-five-inch box before even. But box jumps are actually pretty dangerous. If you’re doing 15 every round, and you’re tired, and you catch a toe on the edge, it could mean a whole lot of orthodontic work. I’m 35 and single. I figured a full set of dentures probably wouldn’t increase my odds.

So I jumped a 17″ box.

I ended up with six rounds, plus six dead-lifts. The bad-asses were getting eight and nine rounds (Rx, of course).

But there’s this one dude. He’s not a big dude. He’s a relatively small dude, in fact. Probably weighs 140 pounds. Dude did ELEVEN rounds and change.

I was counting and recording his rounds for him, and I really had to concentrate because I found myself just wanting to watch him move. He was all efficiency and strength and power and quickness.

I was totally inspired.

Break Free from the Chains

I keep meeting like-minded folk at the gym. By that, I mean skilled shit-talkers. You’ve already met Paul. Also, there’s Phil, and his lovely wife Erin. I could go on. The shit-talkers are various and sundry.

Today, we were doing the WOD in heats. I had already gone, as had the woman who sat beside me, both of us panting on the floor and cheering on the other athletes.

Now, remember Brutus? Despite the fact that there’s an ever-present stream of booming bass and/or loud guitars thundering through the speaker, Brutus is always wearing his iPod. I turned to the woman next to me.

Me: Do you ever wonder what Brutus is listening to?

Her: I kinda feel like it’s a motivational speaker.

Me: That’s what I thought!

Her: Maybe it’s his own voice. “Come on, Brutus! You can do it!”

Me: “Hands on the bar, you pussy!”

We watched him do some double-unders and 75-lb power snatches.

Me: Either that, or Wilson Phillips’ “Hold On for One More Day”.

Her: On repeat.

The Blue (D)evil

Much to my dismay, Dook University won the ACC championship this weekend. Their win was demoralizing on several levels. First of all, those bastards totally owned my Tar Heels.

I mean, handed their ass to them.

Second, and arguably more painful, the Blue Devil victory meant we had to do “The Blue Devil” at CrossFit today:

The double-under plays hard-to-get, and then she’s the ficklest of mistresses. It took me a month to be able to do one. Pretty quickly, I started getting two in a row. About six weeks ago, I did eleven. Eleven. And then, like Keyser Söze, poof! they were gone. Now I’m back to one or two, and when you miss a double-under, the jump rope is going so fast that you whip some pretty remarkable welts on your hands, arms, legs, even face. Adding injury to insult, as it were.

Anyway, 125 double-unders would’ve taken me somewhere between 47 minutes and two hours (and required a first aid kit). Coach Dave didn’t have that kind of time. He said the WOD should be under 25 minutes, so I took the substitution: 375 singles.

The air squats were OK. My right knee has been feeling a little tender, but I busted through sets of more than fifteen. (Paul, did you do those 100 unbroken? I know you did, you Lucky-brand-jean-wearing honey badger.)

For the kettlebell swings, I went 25 pounds, ten less than prescribed. Then I flopped through four ugly-ass burpees at a time. If you ever want to find out if I’m withholding state secrets, make me do burpees. Or eat mayonnaise. I’ll cave immediately. Make me eat mayonnaise and do burpees, and I’ll sign an oath that I killed Kennedy. Even though I wasn’t born.

Rx on the thrusters was 75 pounds. Ha! Seventy-five pounds. I slapped tens and fives on a 15-lb bar, convinced I’d have to strip off the fives to get through the set. And after the fourth rep, I did drop the bar. But then, I don’t know, some sort of weird feeling came over me. I think it’s what other people call “resolve” or “perseverance” or some horseshit like that. I was like, “I’m going to do every last thruster with those 45 fucking pounds.”

My resolve started to crumble on the next rep. I could get through only three thrusters at a time, and that was with every ounce of will that I had. Twenty-five seemed ludicrous. My body started to quake.

With everybody cheering and telling me to get my hands back on the bar, my muscles screaming for rest, I grunted through the last six in a row.

Time: 25:19

Normally, I’ll write a little reflection on the WOD in my notebook. Something like, Pull-ups: switched from blue and red bands to green band on third round. Or Weight seemed too easy on the front squat at first, but it turned out to be about right.

Today, I wrote one word:

Cried.