The Whiteboard at your local box is....

.....CrossFit's version of the water cooler.

And you are a gossiping, wage-slaving Peter Gibbons trying to figure out how to get out of working on a Sunday.

Admit it.

You're gossiping like crazy.  You're talking shit.  You're looking at those numbers, the numbers of the defenseless, the numbers of those who have been there hours before and long since left for the day.

"225# c&j?  no way."

"5:43??  More like 8:43!"

"Since when does she/he squat that much?"

Everyone is susceptible and no one is above it.  Questioning, analysis and fundamental math skills are functions of living.  We live to question, to view, to analyze, to add, and to subtract.

Humans are also giant shit-heads (some of the time) who live and breathe and die by the sword of gossip.  That is to say, we talk to much about each other: the good, the bad, the ugly, the unmentionable.  It's a process of reassurance and ego-building.  Talking about others reaffirms ourselves, our choices, our actions, and our beliefs.  It's the 'ugly duckling' of around the waist bird floaties designed to keep us above water.  Without it, many of us would drown.

And Now, Back to the Lying Board!!!

It should come as no surprise that some of us will slip-up, falter, waver, cower, tremble under the pressure that is the white board.  To some, the ritualistic process is simple: remember, write.  Working with students who have special needs, I have seen and can imagine situations in which the process of writing down scores, particularly embarrassing scores or below-par scores, would be the cause of a bit of stress and discomfort.  In order to quell this uncertainty and, most importantly, vulnerability, people can (and will) do whatever it takes to snuff out that terrible, awkward, sinking feeling.

We are pride-driven beings.  We use instagram!  We like to, want to (need to?) take pictures of ourselves lifting a weight for the first time, of the beer we drink, of the food we just made, of the sunset that we (and everyone else) just saw outside.  We brag about our personal records.  We're taught and trained and told to focus on these abstract, yet tangible, concepts of achievement and success.  These are not necessarily bad things and I, for the record, can't wait to get my iPhone 5 fully-loaded with instagram because, dude, people need to see what Palos Verdes looks like at sunset.

Even so, in the grand scheme of all that is and was and will be, we often forget to ask: Does it really matter how much weight was on that bar? Does it matter where I finished in my last 'cross race?  Do these things define me as a human?

For some of us it does, which brings us back to the white board.  For you cyclists, think Strava.

The white board, by definition, starts blank.  It brings us all together on a clear and even slate to post achievement.  Your result, your achievement, is on display to the entire world (what? you don't think of your gym as the center of the universe?), and there's nowhere you can hide....

...lest, you fudge.

Fudge Isn't Just for Holidays

The thought creeps into your mind like a late night ice cream binge.  Tired, worked over, beaten down, you grab the marker and scan for your name.

"Please, oh sweet Jesus of the Heavens and Stars, please tell me they forgot to put my name on the board.  Damn, that would be sweet.  Oh, there's my name. Hmmmm.  I'm normally squatting 205, but today was only 165.  That's, like, totally a 190 average."

I Feel Dirty and, I Think They Know

A white lie, a minor sin, to be sure.  Keep in mind, these are crossfit problems (if you forgot, I shall remind you NOW).  Your crossfit problems are not real problems.  Starvation is a real problem.  Poverty, war, racism are real problems.  Getting beat on Thursday night's wod is not a problem, it's called a hobby.

After writing a tale of deceit in pounds and minutes and seconds, you feel whitewashed.  You feel dirty.  So dirty.  Why?  Because, asshole, others know what you did.  They do.  They saw your double-pump with the marker.  They saw you writing that 5 deliberately, slowly, until the lines magically connected and it became an 8.  Your muscles, as toned as they are, flexed the slightest bit when you wrote :25 instead of :35.  You gave it all away, and now everyone knows.  You are screwed.  People will definitely judge you from here on out.  People will call you a cheater, people will count your reps while you WOD without telling you, then wait to see what you actually write on the board.  That's probably what you're thinking.

But in reality, people don't (read: shouldn't) care about what you say you did.  People are going about their own business and are, in all likelihood, not comparing themselves to you.  They are trying to be better than who they were yesterday.  Your lack of awareness as to what is truly important in life is a dead giveaway to the depth of your personality and ambition.  

The 400 meter run isn't quite so long.  The ability to disappear into the darkness of night offers a pleasant safety net only to be snatched away as you return to the parking lot.  As light cascades over your body, leaving a multi-directional silhouette on the ground, you sprint in the last 25 meters so everyone thinks you're going full gas.  For shame.  When you short yourself reps, not to scale or save yourself from injury, but to save time, you bring yourself further away from truth, self-awareness, and (as horrible as I feel typing this) inner-peace.

Deal with your failures.  Don't make a parade out of it.  Work it out in your head, on your own time.   You don't have to have an inspirational quote, meme, or song to go with every single mistake you make, inspiring yourself to do better.  

But if you did, take one from Gandhi:

"Satisfaction lies in the effort, 

not in the attainment, 

full effort is full victory.”

Judging, Tandem-Judging, Getting Yelled At, First World Problems

"No Rep.  No Rep.  That's NOT A REP!!!"

Dan Wu has the microphone and moves around the pit like a freight train.  Deliberate, precise, talking all the while.  You cannot get in this man's way.  You can't.  He'd steamroll you with a barrage of obscenity and knowledge if you tried.  His passion is contagious.  Ryan and Marc are there too, though, given their different jobs, appearing cooler by comparison.  Ryan is near the timing station sporting an ice-cold glare,  scanning the pit while keeping Dan informed of time.  Marc is around, nearly bouncing around, helping with the judging.  All three multitasking.  All three intense.

Confuckingtagious.

The kettlebell swings are easy to watch.  Sky-high, bell straight.  Do a bunch.  You keep track of these things as a judge and when it's starts to get shady, a simple "keep it vertical" helps remind the athlete that they're creeping towards a "no-rep."

Knees not locked on the shoulder to overhead?  No rep.
Toes not all the way to the bar?  No rep.
Ironic crossfit t-shirt talking about a snatch that isn't very funny?  No rep and a kick to the shin.

Most athletes are compliant.  They know we're not getting paid to judge, though I suspect some of them forget they're not paid to compete.  99.9% of all spectators do not have shit for brains.  And even though it's annoying to have people screaming directly into your ear as they cheer, and it's extremely annoying to hear them count out completed movements (while messing up my count), I can understand the drama and passion that drives this sport.  Like a bell-lap sprint, you are either in the moment or you're straight out the back wondering what could've been.  There is something contagious about doing this stuff in a race against yourself, other athletes, and the clock.

Creeping Normalcy

Creeping Normalcy is a cool term.  I originally learned about this in my 11th grade U.S. History class.  We were talking about society and how it reacts to problems and changes.  The essence of creeping normalcy is that, as slow changes occur in our surrounding environment, we begin to adjust.  As our senses adjust, these changes ultimately become the 'new' normal.

You would expect that a sudden surge of murder-rates, a sudden loss of jobs, or a serious and unexpected drought would be met with swift action from society itself.

If each year, however, there is slightly less water than the year before, or temperatures rise by a narrow margin or, perhaps, we add only 10 more parking lots throughout the city, it might be harder to notice the change.  Then, one day, you have a parking lot in your backyard and a dry faucet.

(Come on meatheads!!!  You know what I mean.  If you put the frog in boiling water, it jumps out.  If you put the frog in lukewarm water and turn it up one degree every few minutes....)

Crossfit Normalcy

After staring at different athletes' kettelbell swings for repetitions on end, they all started to look the same, and the slight fluctuations in verticality became harder to notice rep after rep.  Keep in mind, I've only been doing crossfit for 3 months.  It's hard enough to perform, much less judge.  If one repetition was obviously a fail, I could call it easily.  It was only after many repetitions that I noticed my guy was lulling me into normalcy; he was shorting pretty bad.

Your FACE is a no-rep!

My mouth began to open but DanWu (it's all one word now) came right in between Bessie (my rad tandem-judge) and myself to lay down the law.  It was unfortunate for the athlete, who was caught completely off-guard due to my missed call, but I was grateful for the swift, "deal with that shit, bro" action of our head official.  This particular athlete was also very respectful in dealing with the judgment, though obviously confused.  It became easier as the day went on to identify errors and act with confidence after that moment.

"That's not a rep, not even close!"

And when I looked over my shoulder to ask for DanWu's advice, he was already on the other side of the pit dishing out no-reps to all who dared short a standard.

I Will Seriously Not Care About Your Crossfit Problems
Hey asshole friend of that one person, your friend's ONE no rep is not my problem.  Not only is it not my problem, but it's also not your problem.  You are, for all intents and purposes, the top 10% in this nation who has enough disposable income to pay $120-$250 a month to experience crossfit.  You should be (though you, your coach, and the two other lonely people next to your coach are probably not) grateful to be partaking in such an activity...for fun, no less.  Positive interactions with other competitors and the volunteers is extremely productive and meaningful.  Me no-repping "your boy" once is absolutely meaningLESS.  Neither of you are professional, nor are you PRO (a cool cycling term I hope to bring to the CF world).  Tell your friends to stop yelling about the no-rep and move on.  Life is beautiful.

Getting No-Rep'd at the Beach Cities Battle: First-World Problem

Tandem-Judging
Given the informal nature of this event, though fierce and competitive, it seemed only natural to invite Bessie (or did she invite me?) to create an offshoot of judgment organization and structure henceforth known as "tandem-judging."

I feel like this could catch on really well at next year's Games, particularly if the heat was as oppressive as it was this past Saturday in Torrance. If one person is judging, it frees the other to acquire ice cold FRS in a can.  Mmmmmmm.  FRS in a can.

How Else Would You Want to Learn?
I suppose there really is no better way to learn a new sport than by judging it.  I had intended to volunteer for registration before getting out on the bike in Malibu.  When I was asked to help judge, I went for it.  Nerve-wracking as it was, it proved to be an interesting way to understand the point of having an athletic standard (standards: something I'm all too familiar with in the teaching world).  My experience as a teacher and a soccer referee made it easier for me to feel comfortable enforcing rules, and having Dan, Marc and Ryan there as backup eased the tension.

The whole bunch was great.  The athletes were impressive, but they always say that success come from the top, and the leadership and organization of an event like this shows what like-minded individuals can do with limited resources and positive attitudes.  All great stuff.

Cool event bro....no rep.

These Fucking CrossFitters....

Profanity???  Fo reeeeaalllsss???

No but seriously.  These fucking people.

I moved to Lomita and, naturally, felt the need to fill my schedule up with more stuff.  It's as if I wasn't already going to be busy enough come the first day of school on August 13th.  And now: some demographics.

Lomita, for reference, has roughly 20,000 people.  My former town of Alpine has roughly 16k.  The difference here being that Lomita is not isolated, as is Alpine.  Don't say I never taught you anything.  If you're from San Diego, stop asking me about Lomita.  I just told you.  Don't interrupt me anymore.  I kill you.

So I'm in the South Bay, and it's a bit rough.  I have no friends to speak of in Los Angeles, no acquaintances around.  A few friends in Long Beach, but they're busy getting ready for a wedding.  So as to avoid the bitter mood swings of a 5-year-relationship-gone-poof, I saddled up on the C'dale and hit the roads of the South Bay.

My explorations post-Palos Verdes took me down Hawthorne Avenue.  After fifteen near-sideswipes I pulled into a small strip mall containing what looked to be a mattress store, a Sees candy storefront, and something about Code 3. It was a bright as hell, hi-viz yellow sign advertising a crossfit gym.

I returned on another day in the Danger Ranger.  Naturally, I decided to go into the mattress store.  Who likes sleeping on a couch anyway???  This guy!!! (For the record, I spent 42 days sleeping on a couch.  Ya.  Classy)

I walk on out like a boss having purchased a brand new Serta mattress.  Firm, supportive, soft, sensual (that's Serta, ladies). "Oh hey! there's still a crossfit gym next door."

So I went into the Sees candy shop.

And here's the beautiful thing about truffles: they really get your brain moving. Dark Chocolate Chip, Cafe Au Lait, Milk Chocolate, Dark Chocolate.

I got a handful of truffles, bagged them and stepped out.  With a smile on my face and chocolate in my mouth, I skipped around the corner and saw a bunch of grunting, sweaty people that looked really fucking good.  Like, "we lift lots of shit and have fun doing it" good.

Pop a truffle, "Hmmmm, I'm pretty fucking skinny still." Truffle "This cycling shit is cool, but I'm REALLY fucking skinny."  And that's how it happend.

Starting crossfit has brought me right back to my first group ride experience on the SDBC A ride.  On the climb up to Stud Loop, explosion in the legs like I've never felt.  Never.  Limp.  Lifeless. I thought, "Damn, a couple more weeks of this and I'm going to be FLYING."  Yahuh.

And, as if to remind me of my ironic existence on this planet, my first workout at CrossFit Code 3 was much the same.  It went like this:  "Do a bunch of push ups and sit ups and other shit, but do it for time.  You know, go fast."

Push ups?  I know I'm a cyclist, but ya sure, whatever, bring it.

And then my arms locked up.  I've never fell flat on my face before that first day. It's kind of like when one of your sarcastic, punk ass high school students calls you out in front of the class,

"Hey Mr. Smith, solve this problem that you're completely unprepared to solve while I make snide remarks to my friends."

Slam.

My first trip to the Fiesta Island World Championships https://www.facebook.com/pages/Fiesta-Island-World-Championships/103294853037699 was a pseudo-religious experience, coupled with suffering and busted egos.  I had never gone that fast on a bike before.  After 10 minutes I realized we were averaging 28 mph.  Are you shitting me?  You can actually do that on a bike?  At 10:01 my heart exploded, my lungs came out of my mouth, and 50 other riders literally pedaled away from me, as if I dropped and anchor in the road.

Dude.  Fiesta is like, soooooo fast.  Who can find me?

And just the same, my first real WOD involving pull ups.  Oooooomf. 

Does this thing go any higher? 

"Come on Self, you can do at least one before you jump on the bands.  Quick, no one is looking.  Show yourself what's up."

And, like someone being strangled to death, I flailed and flailed.  A few desperate kicks sealed the deal. The three coaches walked back into the corner of the gym where I was in eyesight.  I released my death grip from the bar with a quickness and landed back on my feet.  I was defeated, and mildly embarrassed; staring at my arms and chest in confusion, as if a visual pep-talk was all that was needed.

3 months later and I'm doing pull ups like I've never done, Olympic lifts (albeit, like a goon), some running (why run if you're not playing soccer?), and other weird workouts I most certainly would have never done on my own.  Best money I've ever spent.

Douche Bag Cyclist: "Ya, whatever dude.  Does it make you better at cycling? I saw you got dropped at Fiesta last time you were in San Diego.  Pffft"

Fuck no, it's not supposed to.  And shut your mouth.  I had to close those gaps 5 times before I popped!  However, over the past 3 months I can honestly say that I'm not worse for wear.

I haven't put in one week over 7 hours since April.  I race the Telo Street practice crit every tuesday night.  I can sit in, but always explode if I go off the front.  Over the past 3 months I've kept a close eye on my power, and I'm still able to push out 367 - 375 watts during a 5 minute test.  Not my max, nothing to really write home about, but it speaks to the power of at least being FIT.  At least doing SOMETHING.

The fact that we're constantly squatting at the box doesn't hurt (I'm told it's the one functional workout that will sorta-kinda translate to cycling in some capacity, if not a small one).

Look at those tiny arms!  Look at that baby chest!  Gone, I say!

So basically the test is this: up my cycling to 7-10 hours a week of INTENSITY and maintain 4 - 6 hours a week of crossfit.  This will work well with my teaching schedule in the fall.  Will it lead to some podiums?  We'll see.

Fucking CrossFitters