Tell Fran to keep her dirty hands off me

Blending
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."

Yet.

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