God Status: Reduced

Yesterday was Buff Billy Mays' birthday, and for that occasion he shaved his beard and he and Squirrel bought themselves a set of matching scooters and a stereo and speaker setup for the box.  That didn't mean shit to me, other than it made me reflect on poor decisions I made in my youth. My fashion sense was regrettable, my bold idea to get a job in the mountains after college instead of pursuing a defined career tract seems to have played out predictably.  However, my foremost inner dialogue was how much I regretted ever associating with that old friend of mine who introduced me to CrossFit, as the workout would pretty much consist of nothing but burpees and wall ball, capped off with a 400m run.  That, in and of itself, is not that forboding, but given the fact that I had been drastically overserved the night before the idea of flopping my face into the mat time after time had me considering going to take a puke before the workout to get it over with.

We warmed up with 3 sets of 250m rows and 20 air squats.  I'm not sure if it was last night's booze talking, or if I had just become complacent with easy workouts, but that warmup seemed a bit more arduous than those prior.  

I didn't have much time to contemplate that idea as BBF gathered us all around to show us the art of the burpee.  As there's not a lot of technique to be demonstrated, he showed us a couple and had us rattle of 20.  It had been awhile since I had done 20 consecutive burpees and it didn't not hurt.

He then showed us the wall ball, which is basically taking a squat with a medicine ball and throwing it into the air as you come up and try to hit a target at about 10-12 feet up a wall.  If you don't hit the target the rep doesn't count.  After awhile hitting that target proves to get pretty difficult.

Just like that, it was time to start the workout.  It consisted of 5 rounds of 7.  Seven wall balls, 7 burpees, and 7 squats with the medicine ball, followed by a 400m run out in the cold.

This was something I definitely looking to get over with quickly, so I rattled of the first two sets with a quickness.  I had to take a breather or two after that to gather enough strength to get the 20 lb. ball up to the target (and also to stifle the pukes during the burpees).  

After finishing off my 5th set I was struck by the unfamiliar feeling of not being the first to finish.  There is a broad who is apparently a cop, and in pretty good shape who got out the door just before me.  Shit, bitch can run like the wind too.  Though I was never really motivated to "beat" people (especially at the last box where I was consistently beaten by the fat, old and infirm) my recent history of domination had stroked my pride a little.

Had I not been wheezing the fat kid in P.E., I probably would have appreciated the irony of being in a foot pursuit with a cop where I was not the naked guy being pursued.  It's a good thing too, because she totally would have caught my sweet, naked ass.

Ultimately, I couldn't catch up over the 400m and finished two seconds behind her.  No longer with the Trolls be in awe of my physical fitness now that I've been dethroned.  I took a little bit of solace in the fact that I managed to not puke, but ultimately I was disappointed in my performance.

Speaking of performance, I suppose I should talk discernible results. I've been doing CrossFit and/or working out on my own as well as adhering to the paleo diet for about 75 days now.  I've never been one to weigh myself, but I know I weighed 215 at a doctor's appointment in October and I'm at about 195 now.  I have a higher energy level and I feel less like a lump of shit (progress!). I had to go buy myself some new pants today that better flatter my shapely ass.  I definitely feel as though I've made a positive lifestyle switch, and developed it into a habit.  I think I'm singlehandedly responsible for the slaughter of 20% more pigs, but I'm cool with that, as long as someone cures those damn pork sides.

My Embarrassing VD

Happy Fucking Valentines Day everyone.

It was an extra-special day today at CrossFit.  While there is typically an air of self-loathing in the building, tonight there was a tangible cloud of sadness and desperation.  Buff Billy Mays sensed this and didn't take the sensitive route.

"What, nobody has dates tonight?"

The trolls were obviously on edge already and that comment nearly threw them into tears.  It was not undelicious.  But then again, here I was spending Valentines Day with a bunch of strangers and really looking forward to the bacon and fancy wine (upgraded from box to twist-off bottle, bitch!) I had in store for myself afterwards.  Biographers are lining up to be the first to put to record my lifetime of awesomeness.

BBM was clearly in a hurry to get somewhere.  That OxyClean isn't going to sell itself.  So he passed us on to a new trainer who looked eerily like a dude I went to high school with.  That would be unremarkable if that dude wasn't known to be a psycho and last year strangled his girlfriend to death.  

After a warmup of 400m rowing and 20 pushups Psycho Strangler reviewed stuff that we had done two classes ago.  Namely presses and push presses.  Then he threw the wrinkle of the jerk in there.  This confused the fuck out of the trolls.  In their defense, it is kind of difficult pretending that a PVC puss pipe is heavy enough to necessitate squatting under as you jerk to get it up.  (Jerk?  Get it up?  I know there's a lonely-guy Valentines Day joke in there).

After that he demonstrated the feet-to-bar, and knees-to-elbows.  Which consists of dangling by the bar and doing just that.  It's relatively straightforward stuff, but for some reason it needed extra explanation tonight. 

Finally, as though the name of the movement wasn't self-explanatory, the group got it straight and we moved into our workout.  The workout today was to row 250m, do 5 knees-to-elbows, and 10 jerk pushes using just the bar.

Maybe I had put my badass pants on or something, but for some reason I felt like abusing myself a little more than was prescribed.  I asked Psycho Strangler if it was OK if I threw some weight on the bar.  Since this dude weighed about a buck 20 and was clearly in awe of my chiseled physique, he said I could put 10 pounders on the bar.  Fuck that dude, let him try to strangle me.  I put 25's on.

I had to wait for a couple of the trolls to wheeze through their 250m, then I got on and rocked the fuck out of it.  5 KTE's?  Hell with that, I'm doing 10.  Then I beasted that 90 pounds over my head Mr. T style and got back at the rowing machine before the most ghastly of the trolls finished her first 250.

Seriously, put me in the octagon with circa 1979 Chuck Norris and Kimbo Slice together, I'm ready.

Rounds two and three of this routine did put a slight strain on my beastliness, but the most frustrating thing was waiting on the trolls to finish with the rowing machine. I ended up finishing in just under 8 minutes.  I definitely regretted my over-exuberance there for awhile. Once it was time for the finisher though, which was only a 200m run and 20 air squats.  I really didn't feel like overachieving this one, so I did was I was told and finished up.

I stuck around for the stretching this time, but I'll be damned if I didn't have by bacon and classy wine on my mind.  I felt I earned it.  Why not romance myself a little bit on this special night?  Turns out, by disappointment in the rigors of the workout was not my only disappointment of the night.  

Pork sides.  What the fuck are pork sides?  It looked like bacon.  It was packaged like bacon.  It was just extra cheap.  It was so bland I had to google it.  Pork sides are uncured bacon.  What kind of ungodly deception is this?  I feel so dirty and used.  What's next?  Am I to be told that my $8 bottle of wine is not classy?  This world no longer makes sense to me.

The Stuff of Legends

I’ve never really experienced celebrity status.  Nor is it something I strive for.  Nonetheless I’ve unwittingly become “known” within my Short Bus Noob class.  That is to say, people know my name and I have no clue as to theirs.  In last Thursday’s class the workout, such as it was, was a declining scale of reps (10, 9, 8, etc.) of dead lifts and push presses.  Not a bad workout, if we were using real weight.  The Rx for the dead lifts was 1.5 poods (you’d better believe the Trolls giggled their way through that explanation) for the dudes and 1 pood for the chicks.  That translates into roughly 54 lbs. and 36 lbs. respectively.  Meanwhile the push presses were to be performed merely with the PVC puss pipes. 

Buff Billy Mays must have seen how I considered that to be contrary to my principles as walking, strutting example of physical perfection and nodded to me “you can use the bar”.

Damn right.  About time someone recognized me for the freakish stud that I am.  I felt like John Carter in that ungodly, horrible movie, “John Carter”.  If you’ve seen that movie, you’re stupid.  Basically this guy John Carter finds himself in Mars where all of the sudden he can run and jump like a motherfucker.  That’s me in this short bus noob class.  Not only did I use the bar (all 45 pounds of it, bitch), but I upgraded to 2 poods as well.  I’ll be damned if I’m going to be seen deadlifting anything less than multiple poods.

That was pretty much it for the Thursday class. We timed ourselves doing this graduated scale of reps (3:53 for this freak of awesomeness), stretched and went about our business.  While we were stretching I kept hearing my name.  I paid no attention, of course, as who could know my name?  Turns out they were talking about about me and my all-around badassedry.  I guess people read other people’s names when they write their times on the board.  Anyway, they were asking me how my times compared with that of the record holders of all the workouts that are posted around the gym.  THAT sets a dangerous precedent.  Now I’ve never done a PR for the Diane or any other lady-named workout, but I’ve seen the times, calculated the weight used and the amount of time I would estimate it would take me, and whereas the leaders’ scores are posed in seconds, mine would have to be calculated in days.  Even without weights I doubt I could double these guys’ times.  Thanks for bringing me back down to earth, bitches. 

---

I was not enthused about the Saturday class.  I was crazy hungover and in no mood to deal with equally hungover trolls.  Things took a turn for the kickass pretty shortly though, as no sooner did I drop the g off in the porn room than a new, pretty hot chick came up and asked me if I was the instructor.  If I was any sort of suave I would’ve immediately said yes and went right into instructing her about the downward dog.  As it was, the utter shock on my face of being asked such an absurd question was clearly evident, as she immediately fixed her eyes upon our new instructor Tiny Jay Cutler.  He’s about 5’ 4”, built of the brick shithouse mold and has the new-fangled flop haircut that all the young dorks are sporting these days.  I was looking forward to silently mocking him, but sadly he turned out to be a pretty good dude.  Anyway, Slim Sexy introduced herself to me (what is it with these people and knowing names?) and I could tell she wanted to do me.  Either that, or she was trying to collect herself after mistaking a jumprope-challenged tool for a person who is qualified to give people any sort of fitness advice.  She kind of separated into the crowd and I went into my stretching routine for everyone’s visual enjoyment.

TJC had us go for a quick 200 meter run.  Oddly enough the parking lot is just as treacherous in the day.  Also, Slim Sexy has nice form.

Once we got back we reviewed the exercises we had learned on Thursday and went over what our workout would be today.  He showed us the rowing machine, which for some reason didn’t seem as painful the last time I did it.  Perhaps it was because I was oozing Target boxed wine from my pores, but doing a 500m warmup nearly killed me. 

From there, Tiny Jay Cutler showed us how to do Thrusters.  Which I imagine would suck pretty badly if we were using anything other than the puss pipes (or the bar for self-described badasses like this guy).  Basically you’re taking a front squat and then lifting the bar over your head.

TJC did a pretty good job of demonstrating the technique, I think.  Afterwards he instructed us to partner up for the workout.  You’d better believe I sauntered over to Slim Sexy and gave her the “you know you want this” look.  I suppose there are advantages to knowing people’s names.

Our workout was to row 200m and then do 10 thrusters.  Not rotating, mind you.  One person sat there while the other rowed and then got up to do their thrusters.  We were to do three rounds of this. I was somewhat appalled by this wasting of time, but after the first round I was thankful for my break as I could feel the adverse affect cheap wine has on your athletic performance before I got past 100m.

Dammit, I thought the 2011 vintage of Target’s winery was supposed to be a good one.

Both being in reasonable shape we finished the workout faster than most and had time to make small talk.  Apparently she is not satisfied with the classes at 24 hour Fitness and was looking to be challenged.

Good luck with that in this noob class.

Meanwhile a sassy little emo chick joined the conversation and expressed how she had tried the Groupon at the other box (where I had previously gone) and couldn’t handle the fast ramp up.  She liked this better as they eased her into it.

“Like an old man easing into a warm bath”.  I said.  The Seinfeld reference was lost on them, and probably came across a little creepy.  Luckily, my creepiness was interrupted by g yelling across the room:

“Daddy, I have to go potty real bad! I’m holding my penis".

Well shit just got real here, if it’s at the penis-holding level.  I grabbed his hand and led him through the sweaty trolls to the bathroom.  Turns out the penis-holding was a farce and he just wanted to get out of the porn room.  Duped again.

Sympathizing with his impatience I skipped the stretching and got him out of there.  In retrospect, this was a big mistake.  While it made it possible for us to get to the monster truck rally on time, I’ve had a severe hitch in my giddyup since.  I’ll probably be recovered just in time to get back at it tomorrow night, where I’m told we’re going to step it up a notch.  Who knows what that means.  Jumping jacks maybe?

Papa's Got a Brand New Box

I'm back, bitches.  That is to say I found an establishment that will humiliate me and my masculinity for a reasonable price.  But after a month off I negotiated an acceptable price (*cough* GROUPON).  The problem here is that this joint only offers it's short-bus noob classes to Groupon folks at certain times during the week.  In this case, every Tuesday and Thursday at 7:30pm and Saturday at 9am.  That puts a severe cramp on my Responsible Dad schedule where I have my 4 year old Super Dude (I call him many things, among which Lower Case g) every Tuesday and every other Saturday.

So I called the box to express my dismay at being bamboozled by their deceitful Groupon when the dude told me that they have a Kids Room in which g-Nasty could hang out.  Delighted by this news, I neglected to ask further, probably important questions before scheduling my emasculation for that Tuesday.

g-Funk and I showed up at the joint early on Tuesday, anticipating the contingency of bolting if their "Kids Room" consisted of a glorified closet with an old dude wearing slippers "watching" the kids.  These motherfuckers are unaware that I check that sex offender registry. Suckers.

Registry checked out clean, but I was nevertheless dubious entering the joint and being greeted by a buff version of Billy Mays.  He showed me the Kids Room with more than a little chagrin on his face.  I'm not going to lie, it totally looked like a. . . .I mean. .. .it looked like what I would imagine a porno casting couch room would look like.  Old, skanky U-shaped couch and a non-functional tube TV.  Fortunately, however, it had a big-ass bin full of toys.  Oblivious to the concept of germs, g-Squared dove headfirst into that fucker.  With his feet up in the air and head in the bin I considered him to be sufficiently satisfied and went about checking out the box (and the folks therein).

The amount of old chicks in that joint were so numerous that it made me overlook the hot chick in the middle.  We're talking Golden Girls old here.  Blanche was rocking box jumps while Rose worked the jump rope.  My Rue McClanahan fantasies as a little guy seem all that much grosser now that I've seen her in spandex.

Naturally, as people started filtering into the joint I sized them up accordingly.  We had the obligatory old folks, the pretty fit, but scary-looking broad, and the plump trolls that would NOT quit giggling like 14 year-olds.  I've made this mistake before, but I totally was Lee-Fucking Haney of this group.

As the clock rolled down to game time I stripped off my sweatshirt and unleashed my guns.  More importantly, I showcased my dope-ass shirt that my buddy (that sadistic fucker that introduced me to CrossFit in the first place) gave me.  I think it gives adequate representation of my jumproping skills

Buff Billy Mays didn't let it go unnoticed.

"Is that a guy jumproping?"  He astutely asked.

"Yup", I articulated back.

"Sweet".

Fucking right.  Sweet.

Eventually it was time to get down to business.  BBM brought us into a circle where we would go over what was going to happen today.  He briefly explained the theory behind CrossFit, but not really.  Not enough, at least, to keep the Trolls from giggling.

"God damn accountants" I thought.  Thinking for sure they had to be a group of number nerds that never saw social interaction beyond the monthly Applebees lunch date.

The "workout" so it was called, consisted of a 200 meter run warmup.  They took us out back where we ran through the dark-ass parking lot to an invisible curb and back.  There is no way I'm not spraining my girly-ass ankle on that run eventually.

When we got back BBM and some squirly-looking dude that I can't think of a name for demonstrated the proper techniques of the three exercises we were to do,  They were ring rows (the girly kind where you plant your feet on the floor and pull yourself up), air squats, and pushups.  They insisted on a different kind of pushup where you kept your elbows close to your chest and pushed up using more tricep than anything, then lifting your hands when your chest was on the ground demonstrating that you're all the way down. "Show me" pushups, they called them.  We're in Missouri.  The "Show Me" state.  Clever bastards.

After the demonstration we were given the workout, which consisted of a 200 meter run then 21-15-9 of pussy ring rows, Show Me pushups, and air squats, followed by another 200 meter run.  Easy as hell, but we were being timed on the workout as a benchmark for the same test 4 weeks later.  Apparently the best time was 3 minutes and 30 seconds.  They instructed up to line up outside while they counted down.  Oh how the Trolls like to make lame jokes about that.  They called themselves the Accounting Crew.  I knew it!  Nobody is more annoying than accountants, and NObody could think of a lamer name for themselves.  Accountants are the worst.  Those and people.  People suck.

The count reached zero and it was time to roll.  Now I can run like a deer, so long as I don't sprain my girly-ass hooves, which was quite probable over this terrain.  I managed to navigate the treacherous asphalt with no difficulty and got to my station to rock my workout.

I was flying through this shit.  Being the immaculate specimen of masculinity that I am I was barely breaking a sweat.  Sure g would pop his head out occasionally and insist that I admire this toy armadillo he found.

"Spectaicular, Buddy".  I'd say without missing a beat.

I was tempted to admire the Iron Man transformer that he found, but I have to keep focused.

With the swiftness of an Olympic ninja I rolled through the "workout" and went back outside for my final 200.  While not being overly cold out, I was gasping a bit, and damned if my lungs didn't hurt like an asthmatic bitch by the end of it.

Naturally, I finished Lee Haney-style, well ahead of anyone else.  5:10 was my time, which I presume was a calculation error for 3:10 since I'm about 2 weeks of training away from winning the CrossFit games.  I finished with enough time to play with that sweet-ass Iron Man thing with g.  I also got a chance to talk to BBM and Squirrel about their approach to ramping up into CrossFit, which I found interesting.

Unlike the last joint, where I took 1 ramp-up class and went right into a futile attempt at doing pullups and handstand pushups, these guys designed their short-bus classes to be a progressive introduction into these exercises.  While I both resented in the ease of the initial workout and basked in my ability to rock the fuck out of it, these guys' approach to introducing Crossfit to noobs was admirable..  That's probably why Blanche and Rose were able to persevere.  They were gradually introduced to these exercises over a course of 4 weeks as opposed to instructed to jump on a bar and pull their fat asses up.  While I'm confident I could do more pullups than them, I kind of like the way the simple noob exercises are designed to build up into the less-simple ones.  For instance, the tricep-centric pushups will build toward overhead lifts.  It makes sense, even if it is a money-milking technique.  

The finisher was tabata air squats.  Two rounds of 20 second air squats.  I could do that in my sleep if I weren't too busy with dozens of hot sluts at a time.  After that the third-string flunkie lady helped us stretch, which I basically skipped because A) I'm awesome and B) the Lower Case g was getting a little impatient with me ignoring the spectacle of the toy pile that he made.

I go back on Thursday.  Sans kid.  We'll see if these clowns can keep up with the future Mr. Universe.