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Fitness Journey Continued
For those of you who don’t know, I’ve taken on a weekly writing gig at Today’s Parent. I’m going to keep this blog for edgier stuff, though. In the meantime, I will always a fresh post up each week at Today’s Parent -- so feel free to follow along there too.
I’m 28 days away from giving birth and I think I’ll need this outlet to drop some f bombs on my way back to abs and a non-pancake bum, so I hope you’ll stay tuned!
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The Fragile State
A muscle-rippled girl runs by me on the sidewalk, ponytail bouncing, green headband whizzing by in the October sun.
“You’re amazing,”she puffs in my vicinity,”Great job.”
I’m lumbering butternut-squash shaped down the street, concentrating on my breathing, squinting toward the 200 meter mark. My boobs feel like bowling balls, lead ones and my belly protrudes sharply forward. It’s odd shaped, I think, it reminds me of a V more than a half-circle. Running used to make me feel lean, powerful, but now I feel vaguely like a cartoon character. I can’t explain this. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that in all my years, I’ve never seen an obviously pregnant women running down the sidewalk, strangely mingled in amongst a group of shredded fitness beasts. It feels like there should be a punchline, or at least an obvious conclusion.
People work out to reduce stress, to gain lean muscle mass, to feel better about themselves, to obtain their best possible bodies. All the normal reasons have been stripped for me though. I don’t really have a defined conclusion. After each workout, my belly expands. Cellulite appears miraculously. A jowl is randomly added to my face. I lunge and squat and my butt flattens. The pregnant body doesn’t react to clean eating and earnest exercise like the regular body does. It is so vexing and crazy and, I keep telling myself, worth it in the end.
***
I feel many emotions when I’m working out these days: determination, wretchedness, humility, a bit of gritty pride — but amazing is never on that list. I understand why many women take a 10 month break from exercising while they’re pregnant. The media and doctors all insinuate that we should “take it easy” and enjoy this blessed time and dammit, there are some times that I wish that my husband weren’t a fitness beast and that I didn’t make this promise to myself and that I could just dip into a bowl of cookie dough and bitch to the Internet about my puffy feet. But most of the time, that’s not the case.
Most of the time, it’s important to me that I keep fine tuning my body despite the lack of physical evidence. Most of the time, I like to prove to myself that I’m not the delicate, fragile flower that most media would have me believe I am – my body, right now, arguably, is as powerful as it’s ever been. And all of the time, after a workout, I never regret having done it. I can’t do a lot of things right now: eat an oyster, enjoy a martini, bust out a handstand pushup. But I can keep listening to my body and trying my best everyday to keep it in the best possible condition: for my baby, who will hopefully want me in his life for a long time, and for my own sanity.
***
This picture of a fire-breathing Crossfit athlete appeared on the main site the other day. Though most of the comments were positive, there were several that questioned the intelligence of an expectant mother working out vigorously. Though no one has directly challenged me on my decision to Crossfit through my pregnancy, I have felt the raised eyebrows behind my back a few times in the last few months. I continue to believe that my body will tell me if at any point, I should slow down and start doing slow pool laps. It knows better than anyone, is what I think.
21 weeks pregnant, picture taken by our six year old who is eagerly awaiting his baby brother.
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Halfway Point
I can feel the kicks inside me now, little ginger ale flutters of random movement that happen mostly at night, or when I’m on my back. I picture white sparkles of light when the baby moves, tiny bubbles of fluid swishing past a tiny pink foot and an angel face and I place my hand on my belly. My belly button is already protruding outward, an angry little knome that rubs against my cotton shirts. I’ve popped out much earlier with this baby than I did with my first: over 6 years ago.
I’d forgotten almost everything about pregnancy and what it feels like. I remembered early on that I wasn’t good at it: that my hormones brought in floods of irrational tears and that my imagination lit on fire in an alarming way: screaming with images of abandonment and money problems, cancer cells and nuclear disasters, simultaneous. I remember feeling disconnected from my body: a body that had always been strong and capable and was suddenly neither. Despite my gratitude at this opportunity to bring new life into our lives, I was also a bit worried when Corey and I found out we were expecting, because I knew that, although I’m a pretty good Mom, I’m as heinously bad at being gracefully pregnant as I am at long division.
It turns out, though, that this pregnancy is very different than the one that came before it.
I’m not as scared this time: I know I can do this. I have a supportive and strong husband who tolerates random hysteria and frantic cleaning binges. I’ve already had a baby, my little boy who has lit up my life with laughter and inspiration for 6 years. I know all about the joy and privilege that awaits us at the end of this so there’s no guesswork: will this bloating and aching and farting and stretching and panicking really be worth it in the end? It helps, astronomically, to know that the answer is yes, definitely.
I have had close friends struggle to get pregnant, and I’m more aware of the magnitude of this gift of life inside me. And, so,I’m much less miserable in my body than I was with my first child.
I gained 74 pounds while pregnant with Nolan, mostly via cookie dough ice cream and a gloomy outlook. I felt sexless, bloated, miserable. I occasionally did half-assed runs around the neighbourhood, but then I’d come home and inhale two loaves of garlic bread and cheese, fueling the lumps on my ass and the helplessness I felt.
At my 19 week doctors appointment last week, my obstetrician informed me that I’ve gained 4 pounds with this baby so far. By the halfway point with Nolan, I’d gained nearly 30 pounds – quite a difference, especially considering how much older I am, how much further away from twenty nine.
Our baby is measuring perfectly. I’ve been eating cleanly, in the second trimester, and exercising 5 times a week. I’m taking it easier in my workouts: stopping to drink water frequently, taking deep breaths, coaching myself (and listening to my coaches!) to combat my natural tendency to push myself hard. A few weeks ago, I did Fight Gone Bad – a grueling metabolic workout that was a pre-pregnancy favorite. Knowing I would want to push myself too hard during the WOD, we established low numbers for me to do at every station so I could get in a good workout while ensuring proper air supply to my baby. My score, though far from a personal best, was still better than it was the first time I’d done Fight Gone Bad over a year ago — when I was in pretty decent shape and didn’t have a human being growing brains and fingernails inside me.
I’m a little sad that my ab muscles are totally gone. I went to workout the other day in a pair of short black lululemon shorts that I’ve had forever and I caught a glimpse of my landsliding butt in the mirror and made a panicked mental note: must not wear these shorts for duration of gestation. I have to give up on my skinny jeans and pencil skirts too: I’m continually underestimating the size of my ass these days and I might as well just pitch the tight and short stuff until next year. I am about to need a band again for pullups, the kip hurts my stomach. Burpees are getting sketchy. It’s humbling and a little frustrating, watching my speed and agility plummet.
But: my arms still have some definition. My lifts are still pretty strong. My body is, in tiny portions, still under my dictation. I’m maintaining my strength and keeping my cardio at decent levels. In the end, when I’m running uphill with our baby in a running stroller, I’m positive I’ll be happy I stayed away from the garlic cheese toast and resisted a 10 month sit-in on the sofa.
(20 weeks along)
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Body Listening,Carb Cutting and a Tiny Bit of Gratitude
It’s dusk earlier now, the night air is cooler, and there’s a tinge of promise in the air: productive days, ideas yet unformed, cracking down and getting to business. I’m on round 2 of the 8:00 workout of the day: a combination of running, thrusters and pullups: running down the sidewalk streets under the glow of streetlamps. The rest of the class, a fairly advanced group, is ahead of me, and I’m trying not to care.
Almost 18 weeks into my pregnancy, and my body has reshaped itself in a way that’s astonishing to me. My butt is sliding sideways like it’s on a mission, my stomach is protruding frontwards, my half-herniated bellybutton (which never quite healed from my first pregnancy) is poking out like a bitter little red-faced old man. My arms have lost a lot of their muscle definition, and my chest continues to morph into Dolly Parton at a semi-alarming rate. My previous ability to ignore pain and keep treading has dissipated, which is probably a protective mechanism for the baby.
I’m approaching the round house sign that sits right before the parking lot entrance to my gym, and my heart is on fire. My legs feel like petroleum jelly has been injected liberally all around my joints, and I can’t catch my breath. I have to break up my thrusters into groups of 4. Each pullup feels like I’m lifting up Donkey Kong over the bar with me.
I look at my coach, who’s been encouraging me along during the whole workout and I say:
“I have to stop after this round.”
He nods.
I feel like shit.
I want to be able to go home and write that you can still kick ass while pregnant, that you’re not a delicate flower and that gestating does not mean that you have to relegate yourself to pussy specialty pregnant lady yoga and modest bobbing-in-water workouts. But right now, I’m so out-of-breath and frustrated with the new limitations of my body, that I feel defeated. I’m a delicate flower after all, despite my best efforts.
“You did great!” says our Coach.
I just shake my head. I didn’t do great, certainly not by my pre-pregnancy standards. But I did stop working out when my body told me too, when I realized I’d reached my limit. And I guess that’s really what is most important for me right now, and more importantly, for our baby.
***
On a brighter note: Corey and I have decided to unofficially take part in the Paleo challenge at our gym. We won the Challenge last year, when we created this blog to record our recipes. This time, we’re doing it to put a lid on my insane carb inhalation issues (I don’t want to gain 70 pounds in this pregnancy like I did with Nolan) and to fine-tune Corey’s power for upcoming competitions. We’re on Day 2 of 30, and I am already remembering why we stuck with this diet for so long last time: it works. My lethargy is lifting, my body feels better, my brain is clearer. Plus, there are now all kinds of Paleo blogs and recipes on the web, it’s become a lot more mainstream and easier to follow.
Here’s what we made today:
Roasted red pepper + shallot frittata with pepper and fresh basil
Spicy spaghetti with mushrooms, plum tomatoes, peppers and onions on spaghetti squash. Delicious.
I also just made some carrot coconut pecan muffins for the morning and am looking forward to mad inhalation. The best part of pregnancy thus far: the intensity of the flavors of food. Amazing.
17.5 weeks pregnant with the second child I didn’t think I’d ever have, a product of the husband I love fiercely (the one I never thought existed) In the end, incredibly, it’s worth all the butt-sliding and body morphing and feelings of helplessness. This, too, is so amazing.
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On Bellies, Burpies, and Running with Breasts
My belly hits the floor of the gym when I do burpees now, an odd and slightly sickening feeling: paper thin cloth on gritty black rubber – back up again, red faced, graceless. Every jump over the bar feels like I’m heaving a giant, vomiting cow up with me, there’s so much more girth involved in my body now. How do women with breasts run? Why do they not rant and bitterly complain about the mad injustice of it all? Because that’s what I want to do. If I (normally) had a giant bosom, I’d doff my running shoes in lieu of an ice cream sandwich on a shady patio because sweet pete, there is nothing more uncomfortable and alarming than mounds of extra skin approaching your face as you heave out another painful step on the pavement. By any stretch, my pregnancy boobs really aren’t that big. But to me, accustomed to a chest around the size of two kumquats, they’re unwieldy.
I’m 16 weeks pregnant and remembering all the stuff I’d forgotten about my pregnancy more than 7 years ago. How the butt starts to spread, slyly, so you don’t notice at first, until every pair of undies dive-bombs uncomfortably for an inappropriate crevice the moment you put them on. How the arms start to expand, how one morning, you step into the bathroom and jump back in fright, noticing what appear to be jowls on your face? Pregnancy induced puffy flabs of awful? Indeed.
My pants are all tight but in my dresses, I look like I’ve eaten too much pizza. People tell me I don’t look pregnant. What they don’t tell me is that I just look a bit fatter. I am craving white bread and oatmeal and noodles with parmesan to the extent hat I have fantastic, consuming dreams about carbs. Willpower is for the unpregnant, and anything I knew about discipline has been eaten by the alien in my body.
Pregnancy is not pretty, you guys. The end result is miraculous, stunning, completely worth it. But I think the whole hippy “pregnancy is beautiful” thing is a little bit like a giant El Camino full of steaming bullshit.
***
I knew, with my lifestyle and focus on fitness, that I might find it hard to let go of my body and embrace a round belly. But I kind of didn’t take into account how fast my fitness levels would plummet.
Everything is so much harder: lifting, squatting, pull-upping, and especially running. I fight to take it slow during Crossfit workouts, but I’m so accustomed to going balls out, it’s sometimes difficult. I have a hard time staring at the ceiling and pulling from my water bottle while my fellow athletes and friends all breeze by me, lift heavier, go higher. It’s hard to suppress my natural competitive streak even though I know I must.
But, I’m determined to keep going till I can’t anymore. I want to bounce back quickly after my baby is born so I don’t get tired running after her (or him) I want to continue on my fitness quest as a Mom of two. And when I’m done this whole gestating thing, I want to roar back into the gym better and stronger than I was before I became pregnant.
So I’ll keep plodding, and hitting the floor with my belly, and hoping you don’t mind a gripe or two here along the way.
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A Bad Fran Time and a New Pregnancy
Fran is, arguably, the most beshitted of all Crossfit workouts. From an outsider’s perspective, she appears relatively benign: 21, 15, 9 reps of thrusters (65 pounds for women, 95 pounds for men) and pullups, done as quickly as you can do them. Pullups can be done with a kip, to help hoist you over the bar, and thrusters are simply a matter of moving a bar with weights from the floor up to the space above your head. The whole mess should take you well under 10 minutes. It’s sort of…doable looking, right? You could do that. Anyone can kinda do that.
Except. No way.
Until you’ve attempted to knock off Fran yourself, you can’t have a true inkling of how positively wrenching this workout is. I’ve been Crossfitting now for exactly 1.5 years, and this was my third time doing Fran. My pullups had improved dramatically since my last run-in with Fran and thrusters, with their heavy reliance on leg strength, were a relatively easy movement for me.
It was the beginning of June, just a few weeks after Regionals, and I’d been training hard. I remember that workout clearly: the chalk on my hands, looking down at my red shorts on the pull-up bar, the feeling of fire in my throat and the sweat coursing down my temples, creating hot pools inside my ears. I remember my alarm at a brain pulsing, mind-bending fatigue and also I recall thinking: maybe this is what they mean when they say Fran gets harder as you get stronger. Maybe that’s why I felt so weighty, so burdened. Maybe that’s why my lungs were screaming so much harder than they usually did in workouts.
But I looked up at the clock after completing the thrusters, finishing my last pullup. The pullup bar had blistered my hands, my sports bra was soaking wet with effort and shrapnel from my soul. I’d given it my everything. And yet my time was two minutes slower than my previous best time.
One of the most rewarding things about Crossfit is a marked improvement in an athlete’s times for benchmark workouts like Fran. That improvement is one of the most important, addictive components of the sport. There was no reason for me to have slowed so dramatically, especially with my improved pullups.
I splayed on the floor, rested my head by my kneecap, my hair still dripping, confused. And then my heart skipped a beat and I looked over at my husband, talking animatedly by the kettlebells. I think I may have known then.
***
We talked about the possibility of a baby, the pros and cons, the happiness in our lives and the fact that human eggs have shelf lives. I thought about a comment on this blog from months ago that suggested I wouldn’t be able to conceive if I ever wanted to, because of my lack of body fat. I watched Corey with my son, flipping and laughing uproariously on the trampoline and watched a life movie in my head: Corey holding our baby, his baby for the first time, a father by genetics now, as well as by heart.
“If you want to have a baby,”I told him, a few months after we were married, “We need to do it now. I cannot be a 40 year old with an infant. It’s now or never.”
“OK ,” he said.
“Like, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“To warn you,” I loomed over him and stared him down,”I am going off the pill right now.”
“OK,” he said.
“OK! No more pills!”
But I think I put some weight into that whole body fat comment. And I liked my muscles and newfound strength and our life of flexibility and sleepy mornings with my easy almost-6 year old. I think I thought, since I am in my mid thirties my eggs must be cantankerous at best and I was thinking I may get pregnant in a year or so, if it happened at all.
So when it happened instantly, and the stripes on the test read “pregnant”, I had to run out to buy 4 more to be sure. And then I burst into tears. I’m so ridiculously lucky. We get to add more love to this already overflowing family.
***
I’ve been silent in this space for months because I didn’t know what to say without telling you about my pregnancy. I was still Crossfitting, but my times are slower. I can’t lift max weights, I feel ambivalent about hanstand pushups. My doctor tells me to gently walk around the neighbourhood and bob benignly in pools and I tried to explain to her at one point that I really like to clean and jerk heavy weights and occasionally throw weighted balls up to the ceiling, sometimes 150 times in a row. That conversation was one sided, and I began to fear her shocked stare.
“Walk gently,” she said.
But I can’t go from hardcore met-cons to gentle bobbing and so I’m coming up with my own plan to listen to my body and understanding its limits and its potentials.
There are very few resources on the Internet for active women who want to stay in great shape while pregnant. I have found a few, and I’m looking for more that talk about real, fun exercise and not gentle yoga and kegel exercises.
I intend to add my voice to the fit pregnancy discussion, because I want to Crossfit at least 5 days a week throughout this journey. I know my abs are toast (for now!) , but I want to keep my arm muscles, and I want to jump right back in after baby is born. I want to keep my strength and cardio up for labour and delivery, and for chasing down a toddler.
Now that the secret’s out of the bag, I want to share my pregnant fitness journey. I’m almost 14 weeks along and feeling pretty good. I hope you’ll come along for this ride – I think it’s going to be a doozy, in the best possible way.
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Sweat Tinged Hair, Business Trips
There are tips all over the Internet on working out during business trips. You can bring your skipping rope, wedged under your navy blue all-business pumps, and double-under madly on your hotel room patio after a day of stressful meetings. You can do burpees at the back of the plane, or map a trail outside your Holiday Inn and hope you don’t run into anything dodgy.
I always have best intentions when I embark on my business trips: I pack my lulu crops, my sports bra, a tank top and my shoes. I usually remember an unmatched pair of socks.
And then I jerk asleep on the plane, drool on the lapel of the horrified man next to me, and need to mainline coffee to make it through the day of meetings. There are blistered heels to deal with, the tragic aftermath of brisk walks to agencies up impossibly steep San Francisco hills with carry-on dragging behind me.
When I unpack my bag late at night and peel the comforter off the bleach-infused hotel bed, the last thing I want to do is squats in front of the TV. I want to flop on my bed, open a window, hope that I will squeeze in a few hours sleep before my 5am wakeup call.
***
I was in San Diego last week for a week-long business trip for my company’s annual Conference. A week is a long time , and this week was going to be morning-to-night jam packed with meetings and obligations, and I knew I had to get at least a bit of exercise in or I would be an incredible basketcase. With regularity, exercise often morphs from duty to necessity, and it’s become a mandatory form of stress relief for me.
I didn’t want to run into areas I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to heave equipment at the sterile hotel gym and so I emailed the nearest Crossfit gym and asked them what their drop-in fee was.
The reply was swift, the fee decent ($ 50.00 for a week’s worth of classes) — and the walk from my hotel pretty short. Though it can be intimidating to show up at a gym where you know no one, Crossfitters are notoriously friendly, and Invictus was no exception: the coach introduced me to the group, and I ended up working bench press and strict pullups with two very talented athletes.
I came back a few days later and did a burner of a workout with a bunch of people I’d never met. Almost all of them took the time to grin at me in acknowledgment, or say something encouraging. It was a tough, gritty workout and if I’d been doing it alone in my hotel room or half-assed in the hotel gym, I would have most definitely quit.
In order to do drop in Crossfit classes in other cities in North America, you must have completed the Foundations course that teaches basic Crossfit movements — and then you need to sign a waiver. And then you’re good to go: to drop in to almost any Crossfit in the world while on your business trips. Many of them have cool t-shirts and flexible hours. Almost all of them have cool people and a guaranteed gut-knocking workout of the day.
My next business trip is to Minnesota, and I’m already scoping out the boxes.
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Radio Silence
I have been blogging since 2003, when most digital media agencies still had to be hand-held through an explanation of a journal on the Internet, when Twitter was still just an eye twinkle.
For most of that time, I’ve been very consistent in my writing, managing several posts a week.
I’m failing lately with that, and I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m content in my life, or because I am valuing privacy more as I get older, or if I just don’t have as much to say. Corey and I had our wedding reception last weekend, and I could use preparation and harriedness as an excuse, or I could just admit the fact that I’m not sure whether maybe I’m finally done expelling stuff on the Internet.
I’ve just received a few emails asking about where I am. I’m still entirely dedicated to the application component of FlexFWD, and I am hoping to be struck with a bolt of inspiration and be back here really soon.
Thanks for hanging tight. Keep doing wallballs and sprinting down sidewalks, OK?
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Dry Mouth, Blood, and Community
I am standing in front of a rower and a makeshift wall, wearing a shirt emblazoned with my initials. My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth and the coconut water I had for breakfast is threatening to make an exit, but I don’t know where from. That terrifies me. If I puke, pee, or crap on the rower, my team won’t be stoked.
“Why the fuck do I do this?” I think,”Why the fuck?” It’s not like there’s money on the line, or any kind of material reward. Fear and dread are coursing through my body in in a sickening rush.
In front of me stand my 3 teammates: Rainman, Mighty Mouse, and Big Deal. They are pacing silently too, as visibly nervous as I am, as we await the “3,2,1, GO!” Competing teams in matching t-shirts flick their legs around me, giant muscles are flexed, shoulders make cracking noises. I ponder an exit, wonder if I will have friends or a husband left if I simply bolt for the open door that leads into the rain and race into a Fresh Slice, devour a pizza.
Big Deal tugs at his shirt, pulls it over his head. Nakedness in Crossfit is a strange but mandatory phenomenon. I pull for my own shirt. My preference for upper body nakedness during workouts actually aligns with sensitivity of a belly button hernia that I developed the day my son was born. No one really needs to know this detail. Upper body nakedness is accepted here, along with failure and fear. The only thing that’s not accepted is a lack of trying at all.
I try to take a deep breath but the air gets stuck on my tongue. I feel like I have swallowed a jar of peanut butter and a bucket of white flour.
“3,2,1, GO!”
There are a smattering of cheerleaders in the stands, and I think they are cheering, but my mind is a big, blazing fire of nothingness. I’m cheering on Matt, Corey’s BFF, and then I’m yelling at the dimunutive, dangerously potent Mighty Mouse, and then it’s Big Deal’s back muscles on the rower, and none of them can move on to handstand pushups until I’m done my own row.
The first 200 meters feels OK, as it usually does at the gym, but at about 300 meters in, my heart starts failing. I see stars and taste bloody pennies and then I contemplate a big swirling blank and I briefly have a metaphysical moment where I think : I do this because thinking about nothing is good and therapeutic. Right? And then I immediately cut myself off: I do this because I am a fucking nutcase. Our judge raises his hand, signaling the fact that I have less than 100 meters left.
I fall of the rower , done my 750 meters in a blaze of ungracefulness and then Rainman positions himself against the makeshift wall, busting out a mad amount of handstand pushups. I stand and watch, knowing I only have to do one eccentric movement, because I can’t heave my 159 pound body up with my hands. No one should be able to do that. And yet. Everyone around me is lined up against their own walls, demonstrating the impossible. Little teeny Mighty Mouse fires off 8 handstand pushups in a row like she is possessed.
Big Deal shows why he’s very important with a stellar handstand showing and then it’s my turn to do my feeble eccentric effort.
“Good!” the judge says. He has facial hair and kind eyes and I want to rub his head and make him some cupcakes, he’s so nice.
We’re back on the rower, Rainman and Mighty Mouse and the Big Deal and then me. That second 750 meter row feels like head spikes, penalty, tears and victory rolled up into one sweet,heaving mess. I contemplate, around 500 meters, the pros and the sweetness of just stopping, of claiming defeat and weakness and I wonder what it would be like to have my teammates hate me for disqualifying all of them with my Quit. Would it be worth the humiliation to give up? I want to say yes, a resounding yes, but our judge is encouraging me, keep going, you got this, and I want to thank his Mom for birthing him even more than I want to puke. My heart is flaming and my guts are sitting somewhere outside my eyeballs and, then. I am done. My second 750 meters complete.
I tumble off the rower, heaving in pain. Things are hazy, but I realize suddenly that we’ve finished first in our heat. The media people are coming over to me with a microphone and a big-ass camera.
They ask me something about how I felt during the row and I can’t answer because my gums are stuck with crazy glue to the inside of my lips. I mutter something unintelligible, about how I’d rather be encased in a body stocking in a Kentucky ditch rather than ever have to get on a rower again, and then I look up for my husband in the stands. I see him, and the crowd, and the people who have poured their guts on the floor for this. For the sole purpose of giving it their all.
My butt is broken. My ears are shattered. I want to cry but my tear ducts have been sucked into my soul. My teammates are heaving on the floor, and milling, in various states of disarray.
I feel a surge on unexplicable bliss. I’m ready for Workout 2. Bring it.
***
I don’t exactly know why this weekend was one of the highlights of my time on this planet. Though I realize there are more pressing issues in this world than who can thrust the most amount of weight over his head, there is something profound and soul-defining about displaying your raw, physical vulnerability to a group of people who understand the pain of it all, and are willing to lose their voiceboxes to encourage you along the way. I can’t describe the cameraderie of this weekend’s CrossFit Games, other than to say that it is life changing.
I watched in the stands as a tiny girl deadlifted more than twice her bodyweight, spurred by the cries of an encouraging crowd. I watched as Corey gave his soul to a round of 100 overhead squats. I screamed as expectations were shattered and women replaced cattiness with hugs and encouragement. I heard stories about volunteers who stayed up all night to get everything perfectly ready, and I watched dozens of people, judges, athletes and organizers, laying everything they had on the line, expecting nothing in return. I teared up about 500 times.
I am not a Koolaid drinker, I’m certainly not a blind follower, but CrossFit has something special going on here. I can’t adequately explain it.
Two of the members of the winning team for the weekend, CrossFit Taranis. Their gym is like a giant, muscle-abundant family, the kind that you’d have over for Thanksgiving dinner with no worry about what Aunt Mabel might say over dessert.
Angie Pye, y’all, This woman has 2 kids and a mega watt attitude and she finished first overall this weekend. Watch for her at the worldwide CrossFit Games this summer in LA. My money is on her.
A plethora of buff, determined women, racing.
Everytime Corey got on the floor to do a workout. my heart leapt out beside him and puked up pride. I was so fiercely in awe of him, all weekend long. He finished 30th in Western Canada, and first in gumption and heart.
Big Deal, 13 and Rainman, moved around the stadium to encourage Corey to chalk up, keep going, remain focused. This was yet another thing that made me teary.
2nd workout. Deadlifts at 185 pounds, times ten zillion, and then a whackload of high box jumps. I wanted to cry. The only thing that got me through these was this:
Members of our own gyn who had made the hour long drive to cheer, volunteer, and offer friendship.
And finally, this:
My fellow Lithiuanian teammate and Team Captain extraordinaire who encouraged me persistently and patiently to participate in the Games in the first place. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, even though that’s what I said, about 25 times before I finally said yes. Rainman, I owe you huge for that. Again.
***
Community, you guys. Encouragement and power via the people who believe in you, those who know you can keep on going when you are certain you cannot.
We forget this as we get older, the necessity to cheer each other on, to dig deep and believe in our own raw power and in the abilities of those we surround ourselves with. People, encouragement, and camaraderie are the deciding factors between doubt and hope, and failure and defeat in everything we do. This is what the weekend taught me.
It was an important, pivotal lesson.
I can’t wait to get on that rower again next year. I hope you might join me.
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Quiet
It’s been quiet around here. I’ve been in Atlanta, at my company’s Food Conference, where I was surrounded in sweet potato cheesecake and fried catfish and baked potato salad. I’ve also been enduring a month-long plague of some kind, and weeks of pouring rain. I’ve been thinking a lot about babies and fitness and how to chart the next few years, will fitness be my passion or was it my project for 2010?
I’ve also been quietly stressing about this weekend’s Regional Crossfit Competition, conveniently located in my city. I didn’t qualify for the individual competition, but I was the highest placing woman in my gym and so I’ll be representing my team this weekend at the Regionals. I have a shirt that says KD on the back, and so I guess there’s no backing out. I’ll be handstand push-upping, rowing, deadlifting and box-jumping. Photo evidence forthcoming.
In addition, check it:
We split the price of a trampoline with my brother and his girlfriend. We’ve only had it for 3 days, but I can already tell it’s going to be an invaluable contribution to our fitness levels and a peace of mind. Goal for the end of the summer is a mad backflip. Along with mopping, blazing career paths and getting stains out of kindergartner pants, all houseladies should totally know how to do a trampoline backflip.
Recent Posts
- Fitness Journey Continued
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- On Bellies, Burpies, and Running with Breasts
- A Bad Fran Time and a New Pregnancy
- Sweat Tinged Hair, Business Trips
- Radio Silence
- Dry Mouth, Blood, and Community
- Quiet
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