Day 3

CrossFit today was immediately described by HeMan as "a monster workout".

That was severely disheartening given my inability to walk without a cripple-gimp limp and overall lack of physical fitness.  My relief of seeing fewer super-fit women that were previously the source of my humiliation was short-lived, as they were replaced with a multitude of incredibly ripped dudes.  Well, them plus Hottie FakeRack. Damn her and her freakish sit-up stamina.

Oddly enough, given that it's early December in Missouri, this was the first session where it was too cold to go outside.  Consequently, our warm up was jumping rope instead of running.  Now I was careful not to get too cocky too early, given my previous experience, but if I know one thing, it's that I can skip me some motherfucking rope.

I started off with the windmill-thingy that I see boxers do in movies.  I felt that was pretty impressive.  I got a good clip going and was feeling good.  Some of that good feeling probably had something to do with the fact that FakeRack was jumping in front of me which made for a pleasant viewing experience.

The assignment was to skip for 2 minutes, which didn't sound extraordinarily hard.  About 30 seconds in I got the impression that perhaps it might be a touch more difficult than I imagined, but I was still powering through my Apollo Creed impersonation.  I got into such a zone I got the urge to rattle of some rhymes like those skippers do in those urban clubs.  I probably would have, if I had the lyrical ability, knowledge of such rhymes, or a huge set of balls.  The only rhyme (such as it is) that came to my head was DMX:

"Y'all goin' make me lose my mind. Up in here.  Up in here...."

At about the 90 second mark my arms started to get a little dead, and I missed a couple skips.  After a couple failed attempts at my windmill startup (patent pending).  I tried the regular, third grade method of starting.  Failed that too.  I was looking like a real champ flailing around with a jump rope--something 4 year olds can do without much difficulty.  I shrugged it off and mentally prepped myself for our "monster workout".

"Y'all goin' make me act a fool.  Up in here.  Up in here...."

On tap today was 10 (10!) set of 5 full cleans (lifting the bar from the floor to over your head), 5 overhead squats (keeping the bar over your head and squatting), 5 pullups, and 50 feet of lunges with weights over our heads.  Now, again I've made no claims of being a mathematician, but I quickly calculated this formula in my head:

Number of proposed pullups: 50
Subtracted by the number of pullups I have the ability to perform: 1
Leaves roughly 40 fucktrillion impossible pullups.

HeMan gave us a quick demo on how to do the squats and told us to grab a bar and some weights.  Now I'm no longer a rookie, and I'm not about to make the mistake again of letting an Olympic power lifter decide what weight I should use.  I grabbed a bar and went immediately for the lightest weights I could find--in this case 10 pounders.  I fixed them to my bar without even looking at what other people were putting on.  Pride be damned.

Perhaps a bit of pride is a good thing.

When I did bother to look around I saw that all the dudes were sporting 45 pounders, and even the chicks had 25 pounders (damn you FakeRack I HATE YOU SO MUCH).

Fuck it.  My masculinity died last Tuesday anyway.

HeMan signaled the start of the workout and I went to work hauling that massive 65 pounds over my head.

I found it alarmingly easy, and I won't lie I felt pretty fucking beastly.  I got through my power cleans, and my squats and walked with trepidation toward the pullup bar.  Nonplussed by the fact that some of these dudes are flying through their 5 pullups faster than I can pull a can of Spam down from the grocery shelf, I jump up and give it a noble effort.

1

1.5

Fuck it, 5

I remember vaguely HeMan saying something about if you can't do a pullup you should use the support straps.  Hell with that, FakeRack didn't take all my pride from me, and look at her--using the support straps like a sucker.  She ought to man up and just give it a half-assed effort like me. Idiot.

The lunges were a lot harder than I expected.  First of all, HeMan gave us the option of 25 or 45 pounds.  Dammit, why can't I take my 10 pounder?  I think it's unfair that I'm expected to hold more weights above my head when I'm already barely able to hold my arms above my shoulders, much less pull my fat ass over a bar.

So the lunges were not the relief I was looking for.  I walk oh-so-slowly back to my bar to resume set two.

Again, my bantamweight power cleans aren't a real challenge, but the squatting is starting to get me a little off balance. By set four I've given up even pretending to do a pullup.

Those support strap pullups look so fucking easy.  Cheaters.

As per my M.O., I'm taking my sweet-ass time throughout the whole workout.  Aside from the pullups, however, I'm keeping an accurate count of my reps and sets.  In fact, I'm feeling pretty decent about myself until set 7.  That's when FakeRack gleefully announces that she's finished.

Ohhhh, I hate you so good.

Of course I know what's going to happen next.  That bitch is going to start another set just to make me look ridiculous.

Sure enough. . .

Even with skipping 98.5% of. my pullups I'm still one of the few people who have not finished 10 sets by the time HeMan calls time.  I'm beyond caring at this point.  Sure, some of the dudes may have gotten tired of waiting and begun their post-workout workout, but fuck those guys.  My mom thinks I'm cool.