Blending two sports is often times a dumb idea. Blending two sports only works for Mr. Phelps, and even then, that second sport is smoking weed. (He still smokes pot. You know it. I know it.) Blending three sports is downright silly. Need I remind us all about this thing called triathlon??? In our fragment of the universe, this thing exists. Even so, this blog is not run by a triathlon hater, per se. I merely sit, stare, and scratch my head. T-1 is absolutely hilarious.
In the Olympics there is such a thing as the "Modern Pentathlon." In this 5-event cluster of madness, athletes will compete in fencing, swim 200 meters, run 3 kilometers, "show jump" on a cute horsie, and....
....shoot a laser pistol.
But I digress.
This crossfit/cycling hybrid works, but it doesn't. Let me break it down for you:
Do I look better? Yes. Am I stronger? Yes. Do girls think I'm cute? Duhhhhhh! Do I hurt worse than ever before? Hell yes. Do I still have tan lines? Of course.
So when I get an email bright and early Tuesday morning that I'll get to ride for Bob's Red Mill's newly formed grassroots/devo team, it took all of ten seconds to jump into the chamois and hit the road. I pounded intervals up and down PV drive, dreaming of cat 3 cyclocross glory, epic run-ups, beer hand-ups, and podium finishes. It was a beautifully painful training session with plenty of suffering.
|Gonna Look So Hot Wearing This|
I returned to my couch promptly, threw on some olympic coverage and passed out proper. Tonight's workout? Fran.
The Art of Underestimating
Okay, so if you're stupid (and I might very well qualify as such), you look at this workout and say something along the lines of:
"well, it's only two movements. 21 reps will be fine but kinda suck. the 15 will really suck but it's shorter than 21. and by the time I get to 9, I'll be super numb from pain and therefore, 9 will be super duper, though it might take some time. cool."
If you are, at this point, shaking your head in disappointment at my hasty analysis of such a wod, you can now take a moment to say, "this fucking guy."
So this fucking guy shows up to the box in all sorts of good spirit. A double espresso sitting warmly in my belly and the sudden inclination to get in a really official, healthy warm-up. Rich Froning style. He's hot.
Get, get yo' Fran on (and grind)
And it gets really real on the 11th of 21 thrusters when I realize that I am still a scrawny cyclist and there is no way I can get this 95lb (# for you hardcore cf'rs) barbell to go over my head for a 12th time in a row. I have to drop it.
Think, Matt, Think.
Subtraction: 21-11 = 10. Division: 10/4.....nope. 10/ 3.....shit. 10/2 = 5. 2x5 = 10. Okay that checks out. Two sets of 5. Inhale. Up!!!!
It is well known around the 7:15pm class that I can now do something that resembles a kipping pull-up. Not well, of course, but I do them. Those weren't a monster problem, despite taking time.
But the thrusters. The thrusters were a lot like my first weeks of high school. Brent was in my face, constantly reminding me of my big ears and skinny arms. It hadn't occurred to me, all of 14 years old, that I had skinny arms. Or big ears. Or a crooked nose. I just went to school. It had, however, occurred to Brent. Glaringly, in fact. And every day during Hell Week for frosh football, that's what I heard.
"Fuck that guy. Oh well, he's probably fat now. Actually, I'm pretty sure he is. And maybe a drunk too. And poor. Or not. I don't know. Wait, why am I thinking about this??"
9 Thrusters. Math time. 9/3 = 3. Sweet. Up, 1. Up, 2. Slam. Damnit. 9-2 = 7. I hate prime numbers.
And when the agony finished, 2 minutes and 12 seconds over the time cap, I did what anyone would do: I stumbled behind the Wod Gear wall and fell into a heap. No one could see me grab my chest. No one could hear me pant like a heaving baby.
It was like a really tough breakup, and Fran had gotten the upper hand. She dropped the bomb. "You're not strong enough."