Accidental Awesomeness

I learned several important things tonight. One of the first things is that I can still be surprised by who participates in CrossFit. I walked in a little early tonight and there was a noob short-bus class going on. One of the participants was a sweet-looking plump lady who looked like the one nice lady at the DMV that takes FOREVER because she has the gall to smile and be nice to people. You're irritated once you get up to her, but can't bring yourself to be short because she's such a sweet lady that somehow manages to remain so despite witnessing the dregs of humanity on a daily basis. It was rather inspiring to see her getting up and active, despite a FUPA that had to be prohibitive.

The warmup today was a series of rows, air squats, jumpropes, situps, static inchworms (walking from a stand to a plank, doing a pushup, and walking your hands back to your feet). It was pretty comical watching the pregnant lady attempt these. I'm sure as hell not going to make fun as I use constipation as an excuse not to work out, pregnancy would be a 12 month hiatus for me after taking in account birthin' and whatnot.

During the warmup I learned that Angry Independent Bookstore Owner is a fan of Alice in Chains. I don't know if it's because of the irony of Man in a Box (a "box" is what CrossFit junkies call their gym), or because Hate To Feel is so apropos.  

The WOD for today was AMRAP for 20 minutes of:

• 5 pullups to chest
• 10 Wall ball throws (Rx 20 pounds)
• 15 kettlebell swings with an Rx of 55 pounds

I learned that I've been doing pullups correctly (therefore incorrectly).

AIBO made it a point to demonstrate "proper" pullup technique today, and she specified that you need to swing your legs back to get momentum and launch yourself over the bar.  I had always learned that the proper pullup technique is to keep your legs still and the movement is straight up, then down.  Well hell, no WONDER I've been such a puss.  Using this method I was able to double my output.  That's right, watch me rattle off FOUR pullups, bitches.

I learned that I'm a beast of a man and didn't even know it.

The Rx for the wall ball was pretty easy to follow.  Since there are no such things as 50 pound balls (that I know of), otherwise that evil lady would've had me throwing them around.  The kettlebell, however, is a different story.  I grabbed the lady-weight Rx size because I'm a huge puss.  After a couple cycles through I began to wonder what kind of beastly women patronized this place because it was heavy as hell.  Only then, of course, did I manage to double check the weight and I realized I was doing the manly Rx of 55 pounds the whole time.  ARTISANS WILL WRITE SONNETS ABOUT MY LEGENDARY VITALITY AND POWER!

Even struggling through my cheating pullups one at a time this workout wore me out.  Thankfully there was no finisher as AIBO was grooving to the melodic rock stylings of Alice in Chains and found it to be good stretching music.  During the stretch she told us to grab a partner who is roughly the same height.  Naturally, given the fact that I despise humanity no one jumped at the opportunity to partner with me.  The only two left unattached at the end were me and a 5-foot Korean girl.  The routine was to each grasp a PVC pipe and put our feet together with our butts on the floor so one can pull and stretch the other.  Because I'm a full foot taller than her it was more like her pulling me into unnatural positions.  We then were to stand up back to back with the pipe over our head, and lean forward stretching the others back.  This is where I learned what a broken-ass back feels like, as that little minx must've channeled her Kung-Fu instincts just ducked forward and snapped my lower back.  I let out a girly whimper and flopped off to the side, having been fully tossed like a bitch by a 5 foot Korean chick.

As I was nursing my broken back I learned another interesting thing: That FakeRack has a man.

She came into the gym for the following session leading some dough-eyed fool through the gym and showing him of her favorite exercises.  The fella looked like a good enough guy, I wanted to tell him that this broad was a sadistic succubus that feasts on men's tears of agony, but he seemed content to grin stupidly and watch in ignorance as she demonstrated his imminent means of torture.

Her guile is wasted on me though.  Not only am I onto her tricks, but tonight I'm using my last of my 12 sessions.  I like the workouts, and think I have a little less of a gut, but $130 a month to get your ass kicked seems a bit steep.  I'll see what I can do on my own, but who knows?  I might be stupid enough to come back.

 

Tasty, Tasty Tabatas

Driving to class today in the bitter, bitter cold I was pretty much dreading getting my feeble body abused again.  As I was approaching the gym, however, some Journey came on the radio and I proceeded to rock out with authority and was instantly motivated.  I began to wonder at what point would I have enough clout to influence the music selection during CrossFit?  Surely they wouldn't listen to my no-pullup-doing ass at this point, but if I could rock out, say--25 pullups would I be allowed to throw some Separate Ways on?  How many would it take for some Phil Collins?  I don't know one individual who wouldn't CRUSH THE SHIT out of their squat box jumps with some Easy Lover going on in the background. Speaking of CrossFit music I've noticed that the selection is heavily rap-centric.  I'm fine with this, as it's mostly old-school, but I've noticed they always play the censored MTV version.  Lots of B.I.G and Dr. Dre.  However, they'll play the hell out of Rage Against the Machine's Bomtrack, which features a good 3 minutes of simply repeating "fuck you, I won't do what you tell me".  Not only does that seem to be inviting mutiny but it seems unfair to Biggie.  I was always more of a Tupac guy, but I got to say Biggie's getting the shaft on this one.

It was the usual cast of characters today with some notable additions.  There was one portly fellow who is a spitting image of Paul Giamatti, and another middle-aged guy who looked like the guy who ate Paul Giamatti.

 

This guy was dressed to the nines.  High performance gear head to toe (which, interestingly enough, seems to come in size XXXL). I'm not knocking the guy for trying to get in shape, I just think when you're clearly on the bottom rung of fitness it's best to blend in the background, not stand out.  We puss-bros have to stand together in anonymity.

The word of the day was Tabata.  It sounds like a delicious entree, or a worthless fringe outfielder that I carried on my fantasy baseball team all season waiting for him to break out and prove my brilliance, but apparently neither is the case.  It's the practice of doing sets of intense reps, then a short rest, and then back to the reps.  In this case, we were doing sets for 20 seconds with a rest of 10.  We did 8 sets of the following:

-Rows
-Pushups
-Situps
-Air Squats
-Pullups

We were told to keep a tally of how many reps we did in each set and total them up.  Naturally, my reps for the pullups were laughable.  Even using the bitch strap on one leg and full-on using a box to lift with my other leg I couldn't do more than 3 legitimate (well, chin over the bar) pullups.  The rest I just floundered about and made noises to indicate that I was working at it.  I didn't even want to know how The Guy Who Ate Paul Giamatti was doing. For all I know, he was rocking those things out like nobody's business. I didn't look, to protect myself from embarrassment, but the guy was making noises like a mammoth in labor.  I could hardly hear Zach DeLaRocha telling the establishment that he refuses to do what they tell him.

All around that was a pretty quick WOD.  The finisher consisted of Tabata sets of planking, v-crunches, bicycle crunches, and spiderman planks (I don't even want to explain that).

I did pretty well on those, but was sure as hell ready to be done when HeMan announced the end.  I jumped up and hauled my mat to the pile and threw it in.  I was a little perplexed why no one else did.  I know we had some stretching to do, but we don't need the mat for that.  We did a few of the usual stretches, and when we were done I bolted for my sweatshirt, pulled it on and was ready to jet out the door, but damn people were in my way.  Apparently, it's a common courtesy to spray your mat with disinfectant  and wipe it down.  I was kind of under the impression that my sweat was a gift to the next user, but evidently that's not the case.  It was too late to find my mat now and I was feeling like a real dickhole, so instead of my usual custom of elbowing my way through the doors I held it open for a lady.  I'm a motherfucking gentleman, fools.

Prediction: Pain

Last night's class would prove to be exemplary of my progress.  Not in fitness, or strength, but in the ability to prepare myself for the inevitable degradation of my manhood.

I walked into the class and what immediately stood out to me was the fact there was a pregnant chick.  A really pregnant chick.  And an old dude who was as old as that broad was pregnant.  By far the oldest dude I'd seen. Two weeks ago I would have taken this as a sign that my (much faded) athletic glory of old and reasonable physical prowess would be amplified with the presence of these people.

I am not so foolish these days. All this meant was that my humiliation will be that much more substantial.

This feeling was confirmed when I looked to the board for the WOD (workout of the day) and saw only the words "grab a jumprope".

Shit. My nemesis.

HeMan was not fucking around tonight.  He had us immediately jogging around the gym warming up.  It was a full class, so running was crowded.  Like the Boston Marathon, except with old and pregnant people.

Working my stride and stretching my legs I was just getting into the rhythm when I was distracted by the thought of bloodying my arms in futile attempts to accomplish double-unders (how the hell one consistently damages the same part of his arm with a simple jumprope is a mystery to me) when my foot caught the edge of a mat and I rolled my lady-sized ankle at a right angle and screamed in pain.

Now the advantage of having lady-ankles is that this sort of thing happens often, and that in just a matter of minutes you're good as new.  However, I felt about as cool as a handjob on a honeymoon as I limped around trying to walk it off--injured in the warm-up jog.

Not wanting to be shamed before I can even get to the most shameful part of the class I toughed it out and hobbled along with the rest of the class.

HeMan described our second warm-up as "workout number 1".  I hated the sound of that almost as much as I hated the jumprope in my hands.  The workout was thus:

100 jumpropes
10 air jump squats
100 jump ropes
20 pushups
100 jumpropes
30 situps
100 jumpropes
15 burpees

During this time HeMan had the nerve to encourage us to "try one foot", "try to get as many double unders as you can".  Fucker I'm working on single-unders without injuring myself (again).  Meanwhile gramps is jumproping like a motherfucker.  Switching feet and crossing ropes.  I'm totally going to key his Buick and take his handicap spot next time.

By the time I was finished that this was described as "workout number 1", because if it was just the warm-up I just blew my wad before the WOD (I think that's a William Faulkner quote).  Unfortunately the WOD was much, much worse.  It consisted of one minute at each of these stations with 20 seconds of rest in between:

Overhead squats
Lunging squats while holding 25 pounds above your head
Kettleball swings
Pull-ups (aka rest time)
2 medicine ball slams followed by 2 pushups
Burpees with a lateral bar jump (meaning the sadistic fuckers put up a bar that you had to jump over sideways after each burpee)
2 squats with a medicine ball and then throw it as high as you can against the wall
Motherfucking box jumps
Ab mat situps

This was unfathomable brutality for a lazy man.  I thought for sure I'd be spending the next week in traction watching Bond movies.  Like the idiot I am, I laid down on my back in victorious fashion for finishing the brutality.

But HeMan wasn't done with us.  My victory flop was interrupted by the announcement that we were to do it again, this time for 45 second intervals with a 15 second rest.

I was appalled.

How could such things be expected of me?  I can't even do multiple pull-ups?

My silent protests went unheeded, and he started the clock for round two. Even though it was 15 fewer seconds, it was an infinite expansion in pain.  I was wheezing like the fat kid in P.E. and feeling oh-so sorry for myself.  By the time round two was over I hated HeMan with the heat of a thousand suns.

Make that 100 thousand, because that evil bastard made us do it again.  I'm not sure he caught my scowl as my face was distorted in anguish.  In protest, I didn't even pretend to pretend to do the pull-ups.  I just dangled there.  Take THAT bit of rebellion, you heartless dickhole.

At the end of round three I was prepared to leap on HeMan like a rabid badger if he tried to make me do one more thing.  Fortunately for him (me) he called an end to the torture.  I expected there to be an active labor taking place and/or the paramedics tending to Gramps' broken hip, but sure enough those two were smiling and laughing as though they didn't just experience a full-body pummeling. 

I spent the post-workout stretch groaning and contemplating HeMan's demise (SOMEbody might get some pizzas he didn't order.  I'm not very good at vengeance).  If I had the capacity for thoughts beyond my own misery I would have wondered what the hell I was doing to myself.  Luckily I didn't, as I have 5 sessions left and a pregnant chick to outperform.

Whiskey Tango

Due to work and parenting responsibilities, I haven’t been able to make it to a class lately, and probably won’t until Tuesday.  That being the case, I didn’t want to derail any momentum that I had going, so I decided to sneak in a quick workout at my apartment complex “gym”.

I use the word “gym” loosely, as it consists only of a late 80’s model treadmill, a weight machine that had to have been smuggled in from Communist Russia, and a seated exercise bike.

More interesting than the equipment, however, is the clientele.  My complex is a haven for sad divorcees and white trash (and these two factions are by no means mutually exclusive), so the exercise room is always rife with overwhelming self-pity and unjustifiable self-celebration. 

I hadn’t been there in awhile, but I recognized the two people who shared the room with me.  They guy that was there always looks like he’s working off generous helpings of Wild Turkey and loneliness from the night before, and the lady looks as though she had to have a very serious deliberation with herself as to whether or not stealing a smoke while on the seated exercise bike would really be that counterproductive.

In either case, I found the equipment at hand unsuitable for my fitness needs.  Where’s the jumprope?  Where are my 10 pounders?  I felt oddly unsatisfied; and moreover I felt pretty fucking superior using these feeble tools of self-improvement.

This experience was a nice, if deluding, change from the CrossFit Humiliation routine I’ve fallen into.  However, unlike CrossFit it felt no more rewarding than if I had just downed a Diet Coke with my Frisco Burger.  At this point my best case scenario is that the little time I spent throwing weights around and pimpin’ on the treadmill will keep me from having to start my body over on Tuesday and go through the whole initial trauma again.

What am I thinking? Of course that’s going to happen, because CrossFit was designed to break my body and my soul.

The One Where I'm Left Beaten and Bloodied by a Children's Toy

We had a new trainer tonight.  She looked kind of like an angry independent bookstore owner and, like many angry independent bookstore owners, that broad is MEAN.

Our first order of business was to run around the gym doing butt-kicks and then rotating air squats.  When she told us that we'd be running a 200 meter outside in the 30 degree weather I was a bit surprised, but I kept my mouth shut.  Good thing too, because some dude voiced a complaint and she immediately snapped that he'd have to do it twice and assured him she's not joking.

From that point we were perfectly aware who was in charge.

After a few very silent warmup laps with various stretching we were ready to get to our WOD (that's Workout of the Day to the uninitiated.  I like throwing fitness-nerd vernacular in there every now and again.  Makes me feel accepted).

Or were we?

I had scoped the board when we came in, and it consisted of low repetitions of exercises I had never heard of, interspersed with rounds of 100 jumpropes.  The focus was apparently the snatch (giggity) as the clever title of tonight's workout was "Snatch". As I found out that was the SECOND warmup.   I could tell other people were surprised too, but damned if they were going to make a peep.  The second warmup was 3 rounds of  thus (and I guarantee I'm going to screw some names up badly):

5 overhead press
5 behind the back squats
5 things where you squat and press at the same time
100 jump ropes
5 hang shoulder shrugs
5 hang pull ups
5 hang power snatch
100 jump ropes

We were given the choice to do this with either just the bar or a PVC pipe.  I think we know what choice I made.

However, by the second set I actually felt that I might be pussing out TOO hard.  This is a novel feeling for me, and I wasn't quite sure how to process it.  Just as I was working this perplexity a familiar tune came over the speakers

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

Hail be to DMX, for he hath spoken.  I tossed aside my puss pipe and grabbed the bar with a triumphant roar.  Finishing the rest of the workout warmup I was feeling decent about myself.  It was at this point Angry Book Store Lady put up the actual WOD.  We were to do 5 hang full snatches (totally not the term, basically taking the bar from your waist to over your head) and 50 double-unders until the 15 minute time frame is over.  Double-unders are when you pass the rope twice under you in one jump.  It sounds easy.  Fuck you for thinking that.

The Rx (that NerdFitness talk for prescribed weight. Or, as I like to call it, random digits that I completely ignore) for this was 95 pounds for dudes and 65 pounds for chicks.  It was a full class, so I had to run over a few ladies to get my 10 pounders before they were gone.  If a pregnant old lady had been in my path, she would have gotten the forearm-shiver.  I'm sorry you only weigh 60 pounds, lady, but I have a grossly ill-conceived image to uphold.

After leaving a trail of broken bodies in my wake, I set up my weights and was ready to begin.  Angry Book Store Lady started the clock and we begun.  I hoisted my weight pretty easily for the first 5 and went after the double-unders.

FUCK double-unders.

I was flailing away, whipping myself with the rope, trying get two turns underneath me and about flopping into the brick wall.  I looked up and 3 minutes had passed and I had managed only about a dozen legitimate double-unders and a healthy series of whip-marks on my arm.

My earlier triumphant roar was replaced with very audible cursing.  I gave up after countless failed attempts and went back after the hang clean snatches-or whatever.

For once, my insistence on being a puss worked against me, as I finished my 5 reps and I was again face to face with my nemesis: that god-damned children's toy.  I literally felt like I was half of a Siamese twin attempting this stuff.  I'm sure I looked about as coordinated.  I didn't even pretend to count.  I just whipped that rope around in futile attempts to get a rhythm until I either got too frustrated, my arms got too tired, or I caught someone glancing at my ineptitude.  Then it was back to the bar.

The workout actually went pretty quickly, as I spent a good majority of it swearing at an inanimate object.  Angry Book Store Lady announced that we didn't have time for a finisher, which helped squelch the rage within me, but she sure did take her sweet-ass time on our post workout stretches.  Angry, hot, and nearly bleeding I bolted out of the gym before she could finish explaining how she is going to kick our ass tomorrow.  She couldn't do a better job than that god damned jump rope.

It occurred to me that being halfway through my 12 session trial I should probably be measuring some kind of results beyond whether the weight I'm using is girly, or EXTRA-girly.  So, for the first time I can remember, I stepped on a scale outside of a doctor's office.  Apparently I weigh 205 pounds.  At six-feet tall that makes my Body Mass Index (which everyone knows is bullshit) at 27.8.  Squarely overweight by the bullshit standards.  I'm not sure what kind of results to expect over the next 6 sessions, or the hypothetical sessions beyond, but I DO feel better.  This is possibly because I'm no longer agonizingly sore every minute of every day as I was the first week.  However, I'm also beginning to feel that mythical feeling you hear turbo fitness geeks describe where they think about becoming better at exercising and actually crave working out.  I'm not about to go confirming the existence of the phenomenon, all I'm saying is that I'm beginning to see exercise less as an insufferable pain in the ass, and more of a sufferable pain in the ass.  Progress?

Victory

Some new faces in CrossFit yesterday.  Along with the Demon FakeRack there were three dudes and about 9 ladies or varying CrossFit experience.  Two of the dudes I recognized, but the third was obviously a noob.  He looked like a hipster and kept his sliver dress watch on.  Stupid noobs always think they're so cool.

I got there kind of early so I could stretch my sore groin.  It's funny how I say that about every place I go.  Of course FakeRack was even earlier and launched right into her jumprope routine.  I faced a away from her to stretch.  I know your tricks, Demon Lady.

The warmup consisted of a jog around the gym, interspersed with some stretching routines like lunges, pivot squats, and frankenstines (kind of like goose stepping).  I was a little more winded than I should have been, but I chalked that up to having a salad for lunch instead of my usual plate of fries.

The exercise, entitled Tuesday Trouble, was explained as a "quick one".  I liked the sound of that.  It was sets of 21 - 15 - 9 of sumo deadlift pulls (wide stance and close grip and pulling the bar from the ground to your chest) and overhead squats.  After showing us the technique, HeMan instructed us to grab a bar and some weights.

"65 pounds for the girls, 95 pounds for the guys".

Good one, HeMan, I've fallen for that one before too.  I grabbed my 45 pound bar and my familiar 10 pounders.  You're not going to use my pride against me this time.

The Noob was smarter than I was as a first-timer.  He followed my lead and grabbed some 10 pounders as well.  I took my place toward the corner and, of course, FakeRack wanders my way as well.  Lucky for me, Noob inserts himself between us, asks me an inane question about the rep counts, and takes a lascivious glance at FakeRack and turns to me giving me one of those "eh? Check out that ass, dude" looks.  I just nodded.  Poor little bastard has no idea the humiliation in store for him.

HeMan starts yapping about something or other and I get the impression that he told us to start.  So I'm powering through my first 21 sumo deadlift pulls with so much focus that I didn't realize no one else was.  I place the bar down, as is my custom, and look around and HeMan is getting ready to start the clock.

Well fuck.  I'll be damned if I'm going to do it again.  I'm going to have to take my time though, as I don't want to be first to finish and then be assigned a time-killing exercise for over-performers.  Nooooooo problem there.

The clock starts and I go right to my overhead squat set.  While I'm rocking that out I think I hear HeMan say something about "checking on the guys with 10 pounders".

Shit.  I'm going to get busted underselling my manliness.

Nothing happens for awhile as I continue my workout.  For once I keep an accurate count and hold myself accountable to the goal prescribed (well, other than the weight).  As I look over between sets I realize that Noob has been told to take his weights off and work with just the bar, while FakeRack on the other side of him is chalking up her hands and powering through her sets with little difficulty.  The fact that I'm witnessing someone else get emasculated publicly is very pleasing to me.  Just to emphasize this point I finish my last set of overhead squats and throw my weights down with a satisfied, manly grunt.  I suppress the urge to launch into my flexing routine, as in the back of my head I'm aware that my own public emasculation is probably far from over.  I could see the shame on his face, and I know that feel.

The consequence for such a short workout was a list of finisher options that were more involved than the usual "feebly flap around trying to do a billion sit ups while FakeRack embarrasses you by doing them with ease" routine.  The options were:

1500 meters on the rowing machine
100 medicine ball throws
50 ring dips
200 double unders
20 muscle ups

Having been told by Shellone that muscle ups are merely pulling yourself up on a parallel bar like you're getting out of a pool I immediately decide that's my choice.  Like an idiot, I ask HeMan to confirm that's how it's done.  Oh no, muscle ups involve getting on the rings and performing some act of spectacular balance and strength.  He added, with more than a hint of condescension "it's pretty advanced".

Ring dips it is.

Those little dudes in the Olympics make these things look sooooo easy.  Unfortunately for me, I have tiny little girly wrists and the upper body strength of a 12 year old.  I have neither the balance nor the strength to do more than one ring dip at a time.  HeMan sends me to the stationary bars to make it easier.  THERE'S that familiar humiliation.

Even on the "easier" bars I can only do 2 or three dips at a time.  Somewhat defeated, I take my time and slowly make my way toward 50.

The stationary bars are two, twelve-foot bars that are parallel to one another.  I worked on one end and an old dude struggled just as mightily on the other.  Suddenly, as though to add to my despair, FakeRack decides to mount up in between us and embarrass us simultaneously.

Why does she taunt me so?  She's facing away from me, and I try not to look.  I really do.  Foul temptress.

What's this?  She can't do it?  She attempts a few times but really only gets one dip in.  Her tears of failure taste so very sweet to me.  Overcome with joy, I offer her one of those girly straps to help her.  She declines with a pretentious air.

Not so cool now, are you Little Miss Sit up Machine?

I wish I could finish my dips while looking into her eyes with a grin of superiority, but she saunters off to the rowing machine.

I finish my workout with a smile.  I am a man.  I am victorious.

Mixing it up

They mixed it up a bit at CrossFit today.  This morning's session was Bootcamp instead of CrossFit.  I was put slightly on guard given the description of Bootcamp on the website:

"This program will maximize every work out. It is designed as an intense full body workout that is guaranteed to burn more calories and fat in a single workout than anything you have ever tried before."

"...than anything I have ever tried before".  Well I had tried to do 40 fucktrillion pullups and failed miserably, so how ELSE are they planning to humiliate me?

This morning's group was a pleasant mix of plump ladies and fat old dudes like myself.  The instructor, a female, looked as though she could straight Over The Top my ass Stallone-style (It's like a switch).  Our warmpup consisted of 50 rope jumps (jumpropes? I'm not sure the the proper noun form of this exercise), walking pushups for about 20 feet, 30 seconds of reverse planking, 5 muscle ups (using a bar to pull yourself to the waist, kind of like getting out of a pool), 5 ring-rows (using rings to pull yourself up.  Think reverse-pushup), and 50 feet of walking lunges.

I worked through the warmup pretty darn easily.  I DID happen to notice that I got through it with less difficulty than most people, but I wasn't ready to declare myself the Pope of Bootcamp Town quite yet, given that they hadn't posted the workout yet.

When She-Stallone (Shellone?) did post the workout I thought I might have to break out the Rosetta Stone to translate it.  Basically, the workout consisted of 4 couplet workouts.  We were told to do 10 reps of the first, then move to the second and do 10 of that. Once that cycle is complete, we start over and do 9 and 9 and descend as such.  We were to do this for 5 minutes.  The clever lady even posted "5 minutes of Heaven" as the name of the workout.  Our idea of heaven varies vastly, as I saw nothing indicating there would be bacon, burritos, or BJ's involved.  The couplets were as follows:

Handstand pullups
Box-jump burpies (burpies, where you have to jump up on a box)

Famer carrys (just walking with big-ass kettlebells for 50 feet
Air squats

Pullups (fuck the hell shit puke out of pullups)
Double skips (jumping rope and getting two rounds under per jump)

Tractor wheel flips
Situps

Because everyone couldn't start with the same couplet, we were given our choice.  Like the crafty motherfucker I am I elected to go with the easiest one first, as I was pretty apprehensive about those handstand pullups.  My group consisted of two old dudes, so I was pleased with my choice.

The farmer carry's were almost as easy as it sounds.  After about 3 minutes or so I was starting to get nervous as to whether I'd be able to pull off my fake pullups with such tired arms.  Air squats were just that.  The only thing difficult about those is trying not to look like an old lady in front of a TV fitness show.
I wasn't even fucking around at the pullups.  I went right for the lady strap, hooked myself in and gave it my best effort for the first three.  After that if the top of my head came in the general vicinity of the bar I counted it a rep.  That's what I get for trying.  My arms were so dead I fumbled through my double skips like a drunken half-wit. I let everyone know that I thought the ropes were too short and not suitable for my tall frame. I'm a genius.

The tractor wheel flips were pretty damned easy.  Possibly because it's ingrained in my Iowan DNA to be able to throw a tractor wheel around, but between that and the situps it felt like a rest.
Then came the handstand pushups.  What the fuck is the point of these anyway?  No, I can't balance against a wall and do pushups whilst upside down. Yes, I did it the girls way but using a step instead, you want to fight about it?  The box jump burpies, combined with attempting pushups upside down brought me right to the brink of puking.  I couldn't let that happen in front of these old, fat dudes. If anything if I were going to puke it should have been during the class with the fit chicks, THAT'S more of an appropriate fate for me.

Having finished the "5 Minutes of Heaven" cycle, I figured we were done for the day, so I plopped my ass on a box and rested.  As it turns out, Shellone had different plans.  She instructed us to partner up.
Haha, good try, Shellone.  I've fallen for this one before.  Walking right past the hot, in shape chicks I found me the biggest fat-ass dude I could find.  The portly bastard was friendly enough and kind of looked like a fat, brunette version of the Greatest American Hero.



Friendly fella introduced himself, but I was too busy trying to stifle the pukes to listen, and he volunteered to go first for our Finisher, which consisted of 10, 20-second situp sessions throwing a medicine ball to our partner who is standing on a box as we reach the top of the situp.  Throwing a big, heavy ball at a fat dude struggling through pushups was about as good of a rest between my own sets as I could ask for. 

After that was done Shellone did some short stretches with us and we were dismissed.  I tried bolting out of there, but I noticed the douche with the individual toe shoes was picking up stuff, which I guess is a common courtesy.  I'll accept the humiliation of being mocked by a hottie with huge fake tits, and being unable to do my pullup sets without a girlie-strap, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let this ass clown out-class me.  I hauled all the ketllebells back to their spot (which was not as easy as I thought).  I made sure to glare at DoucheShoe while doing this to let him know that there was a NEW classy cowboy in town, fucker.
I've gone to a four CrossFit classes and spent the last week sticking to a (mostly) paleo diet. I don't think it's too much of a stretch to declare my body the finest in the world at this point. All I'm saying is that Channing Tatum is fortunate that the Sexiest Man Alive voting took place earlier this year, because his ass would've been a distant second if I had decided to do this in September.

In reality, of course, I don't look or feel different. Well, aside from being incredibly sore all the time and almost always hungry. I think what is important is what I DON'T feel, and that is like a worthless piece of shit. Don't have as much money as I'd like? No problem, I'm not a complete piece of shit because I'm treating my body like a temple. Not making as much money as I’d like? Well at least I’m not a sedentary piece of shit. Had my fly down most of the day in front of a hot chick?  No problem.  One, I think she might appreciate my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle underwear, and two, if she doesn’t who cares?  I’m taking a productive approach to my fitness, bitch.

Furthermore, working my ass off every other day or so has made it easier for me to apply myself to more productive in other facets of my life.  It now seems like a waste of time to sit around and do nothing, how am I improving myself?  Along the same lines, sticking to a diet consisting of meat and vegetables is not the challenge I expected it to be either, because I don’t want to counteract all of the work I’ve done.  It doesn’t even seem like a sacrifice to not dive into the jar of M&M’s my co-worker keeps at her desk just for me.  I liken when I became a father.  All of the things that I had previously thought were important to me (free time, getting drunk, seeing obscure movies, and going out) all of the sudden had some perspective cast on them and were given up without a regret or second thought in favor of something more rewarding and awe-inspiring.  I went to a dive bar today to watch football and I ordered a chicken breast with a side salad instead of fries.  Two weeks ago I would have put the likelihood of that happening as ranging between hitting the Powerball and shitting platinum eggs.  I suppose this is what the self-help books would call inertia of good habits, or some other quasi-motivating tripe.  All I know is that I’m not feeling worthless, and that’s an upgrade.

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.

It Begins, With Predictable Results

So I was inspired by my friend Jordan and his ridiculous tattoo to go try out this CrossFit thing.  I found a GroupOn for $39 that gave me 12 sessions.  Seeing as how I’m a definitive model for the pinnacle of manhood, I figured I could conquer it with the relative ease that I conquered that chick at the bacon-eating contest (I refuse to accept the official results that claim otherwise).

Not being a total fool, I elected to begin with the “ramp-up” session for noobs.  I showed up at 11 am on Saturday, pleased to find myself surrounded by plump, confused-looking chicks and the obligatory douche with those stupid shoes with the individual toes.  I was the Lee Fucking Haney of this group.  My confidence grew when I discovered that our instructor was a bit on the festively plump side herself.

We started off with a quick jog of 400 meters.

“Bitch you best recognize I can run like the wind blows”.

I showed those bitches my stride and my rockin’ glutes as dashed past them, humming a little Survivor for their pleasure.

“Winner takes it all.  Loser takes the fall… . “

After that we did some old-lady stretches and Chubbers was showing us the proper squat techniques.  Clearly she doesn’t realize she’s looking at the squat-fucking-master.  I’ve squatted all over this earth and left receipts in the road to prove it. 

We used PVC pipes instead of real weights because this is the Short Bus class.  I dipped low, showcasing my perfect form.  Letting the ladies breathe in my intoxicating pheromones.  I wouldn’t be surprised if one or two of them were inadvertently impregnated by this experience.

She then showed us the snatch.  She reminded us to focus on the snatch.  Stressed the importance of the snatch. That woman would NOT quit saying “snatch”.  So naturally I could not quit giggling.

After spending most of the class taking instructions it was time for the workout, which consisted of 7 minutes cycling between 5 squats (with weights this time) 5 burpies and running 100 meters.  I showed those fools how shit gets DONE up in Northwest Iowa (circa 1995).

After powering through that we were gathered for our cooldown, which consisted mostly of situps, We stretched, and then we were done.  I was kind of sore the next day but nothing I couldn’t handle.  Of course I may have taken some liberties when relaying the story of my initial experience to those who asked.  I may as well have been Lance Armstrong (as he was perceived 5 years ago) in terms of my fitness level to these people.

Mind you Monday I was completely unable to navigate stairs without whimpering like a little bitchpillow, but all-and-all I felt better today.  The folks at the gym recommended I take 3 or 4 of these remedial retard classes before I go into the full-on CrossFit.  Bitch, I’m a bus.  I signed up for the 4:45pm Varsity level class today and was ready to remotely impregnate a few more ladies with my demonstrations of physical prowess.

I was pleased to find that when I arrived the class consisted of 2 dudes and 13 chicks that were crazy in shape.  Like lining up at a Golden Corral buffet.  I gave my stretching routine to establish myself as the dominant dude in the vicinity.  I contemplated tearing my sleeves off, but the sun was not out, therefore by rule the guns should not be out.

The instructor tonight, I was to find out later, is an olympic qualifying power lifter.  We ran a warmup 400, did some stretching, and he directed us to the PVC pipes again for more squat training. 

“THIS is how Jordan earned that stupid boat tattoo?” I thought to myself, thinking that maybe I ought to one-up him with a tattoo of Sir Francis Drake’s entire armada once I cruise through a few of these sessions and my body is transformed to Greek God status.

He showed us a clean squat (they’re rarely clean, in my experience) where you lift the bar from the ground, up to your chest, then squat under it as you lift.  Pretty simple.  He showed us what’s up and told us to get 155 pounds.  Fuck me and my math I couldn’t figure out 155 pounds.  He saw me struggling to calculate the figures and directed to the bar he had set up with a look of skepticism not un-dickish.  Now I’m still not claiming to be Stephen Hawking, but there were two 15-pounders on a 45 pound bar.  That didn’t add up for me.  Thank Tebow he identified my pussitude, I would later reflect.

Our exercise today was 7 lift-squats or whatever you call them and 14 kettleball lifts (above the head) and repeat that 5 times.  We didn’t have these fancy “kettleballs” in the weightroom where I come from so I have no idea what the fuck I’m dealing with.  I see the old dude next to me grabs a 40 pounder.  He weighs about a buck-fifty, so I figure I can out-beast his ass and I grab one as well.  He-Man demonstrates the kettle lifts, and starts the clock.  The first 4 squats went well.  That was about all that went well.

I had to rest between every squat after that, and when it came time for the kettleball I could barely lift that thing over my head.  Meanwhile Gramps is throwing it around like it’s his newborn great-grandkid.  I finally get my 14 done, and am beginning to surrender to the fact that I might not be the Beastmaster of this establishment.  Meekly, I steal away to trade my 40 pound kettleball in for a 20 pounder and go back to my squats.

The gym is small, and pretty packed, so I’m working on my shit face-to-face with one of the fit girls.  She’s powering through those squats like an East German Olympian, meanwhile I’m sweating like the Pope at a boy scout camp.

I’m having real trouble here, and my shame is compounded as I realize that I’ve only finished 4 sets and some of the hot chicks are putting their weights away.

Fuck.

I can’t go any faster.  I may have been guilty of a calculation error or two in my favor and I MAY have skipped an entire set.  That didn’t stop me from being absolutely dead last to finish.  He Man had to have the chicks go run another 400 just so they wouldn’t have to stand around and wait for my wimpy ass.

After that humiliation it was time for the “Finisher”, for which we were instructed to grab a partner.  Hoping to regain some of my swagger I grab the hottest chick with the hugest, fakest rack and claim her to be mine.

I am so dumb.

Our assignment was to do 150 situps between us.  One does a set of 25 while the other “planks” on their elbows on a medicine ball.  Hotness goes first with the situps and rocks those with no sweat.  The planking is a little uncomfortable for me, but sitting still is right in my wheelhouse, so I conquer it with confidence.  I even rock my first set of 25 situps out with relative ease.

Good glory to Tebow if I could not even begin to support myself for the second set of “planking”.  Stupid, no-good Hotness is firing off condescending remarks of “encouragement” WHILE rocking her situps as I wallow about like a drunken walrus.

Of course, the point is to guilt the person to not slack on their situps because their partner is suffering through the plank during this time.  That broad was a planking MACHINE through my second set of situps as I clicked them off at a 1 per 10 second ratio. That’ll teach you to encourage ME.

Yes, I snuck a peek down her sports bra when she wasn’t looking. Those things were glorious.  Even at the height of suffering I refuse to abandon my smoooove.

I more-or-less rolled through my second set of situps, barely attempted my next planking round and spent most of it on my knees.

As was the case before, The time allotment expired before I could finish my final set of situps (damn it all!) and we went to stretching.  Or, in my case, crying in the fetal position.  I skulked out the back in shame as class was dismissed and limped to my car to pick up my son.  Of course the first thing that kid wants is for me to pick him up, which I am now completely unable to do thanks to Jordan and his stupid-ass exercise routine.  Next time you get a wise idea, how about you tell someone that DOESN’T subsist on bacon and Spam.  Bastard. Now I HAVE to go back.