Why I will always be an average CrossFitter (and that's OK)

In 2011, I learned about the CrossFit Open after doing CrossFit in a very unfocused way for a few years. The first workout of double-unders and snatches at 75 lbs. I could have struggled through, but after that one, all of the weights listed seemed like a pipe dream. Loadings that are now commonplace, like overhead squats at 120 lbs. were not in my world of possibility back then.

Knowing you can't accomplish the minimum amount to enter a competition, let alone be competitive in it is a dose of reality we tend to avoid. I always think back to one of the first running races I signed up for, and one of my non-runner friends asked - "are you going to win?!" It seems like a reasonable question, I mean why enter something if you don't think you can win? I laughed at the idea of entering to win and moved on. Entering activities that you know you will win is like repeating the second grade over and over because you were good at it. Sure you will be the best, but that doesn't mean you're getting better.

Entering activities that you know you will win is like repeating the second grade over and over because you were good at it. Sure you will be the best, but that doesn't mean you're getting better.

Bet here we are, it's my fourth year of entering the CrossFit Open and each year it becomes more and more difficult to even win within my own gym (I did not), let alone the entire CrossFit community. This post is not about me giving up, or being realistic with my abilities. It's about priorities.

Every year in CrossFit, I learn a little bit more. I learn bad habits I've developed or additional exercises I should adopt. I learn what amount of volume my body can handle or when too many rest days become a pattern and not a decision. As a trainer, it's becoming even more apparent that the amount of time I have to devote to CrossFit could be used to help many get to a certain level of proficiency or I could use that amount of time to focus on myself being able to get a few more reps each year. 

I am the 50th percentile... I can have confidence that my "average" score will be something to strive for in the eyes of new members, and a pacing benchmark for experienced members.

I've decided that my scores are a piece of data and nothing more. It's a good indication of my areas of weakness, and (sometimes) my areas of strength. The best thing the Open has done for me though is reinforce that I am the 50th percentile. In a school setting, that would mean I get a C. In grad school, that's failing out. But for me, in CrossFit it's a green light. Because what does the 50th percentile mean? It means as someone who helps to decide the workouts at our gym, when I complete a series of workouts, I can have confidence that my "average" score will be something to strive for in the eyes of new members, and a pacing benchmark for experienced members. It will give an idea if a workout is too long or too short, too heavy or too light. Eventually, with hard work, I've been able to complete those first workouts from Open 2011. And if I can do it, I know that some people will get those abilities faster, some slower. But everyone can get there, because if an average guy can get there, anyone can get there. To me, that is a beautiful thing.

Now does that mean I don't want to get better? Hell no. No one wants to end a workout on the floor in a puddle of sweat only to look and see that 60,000 people did better than them. But it means that as I improve every year, so does the rest of the growing CrossFit community. Staying in a consistent percentile each year is as much of a challenge as climbing a few spots. In 2013, I didn't get a muscle-up in the Open. In 2015, I got a muscle-up along with the 10,000 other people who had the same score as me in that workout of 2013. I improved, but so did many others, and that's OK. There are moves and techniques that I will work on in an effort to be a better trainer. If that makes me a better athlete (and it should), then that's a bonus. 

My priorities right now are being fit enough to not worry about day-to-day trials like sprinting up an escalator to catch a train, helping friends move and not being laid out the next day, or knowing that if I try a new sport like rock climbing or more competitive cycling, I do not have to start from scratch. Fit enough so that my only worry in preparing for a 3-day hike is how the altitude will affect me, not whether my legs will be sore. But mostly I want to be fit enough to make other people curious enough how they can begin their own health journey and maybe inspire them along the way.

Average? Why thank you.

The Best Pina Colada in the World

So that finally brings us to the last stage of the trip, the Oasis Playaca (name altered slightly). All-inclusive food and drink, right on the beach, access to a casino, water sports, tennis, mini golf, poolside lounges, beach volleyball. This is paradise, right? Well if a picture tells a thousand words, then sitting in a lobby for fifteen minutes at any hotel probably tells a million. The lobby is the place where the hotel gets a chance to give its first impression. You see fresh-baked cookies at the counter? The hotel's going for the fauxmy vibe (faux-homey: aka trying to make you feel at home, despite the forced uniformity). You see gold-plated everything and not a price in sight? The hotel's going for classy. At the Welton in Santo Domingo, we saw lots of glass, lots of shine, lots of smiles, and happy, contented, professional-looking guests and staff. At Playaca, sitting in the lobby for fifteen minutes would probably make your blood pressure rise ten points. You saw shuffling carb-loaded guests reeling from the night before (all-inclusive, remember?). You saw guests impatiently waiting for that one last margarita before the trip home. You saw the impossibly hectic checkout process, and guests waving hands, exasperated that their door still doesn't lock after 3 days at the hotel. You saw security guards. And I'm pretty sure that the rule is the more security guards you see in a place, the less safe you should feel. They're there for a reason right?

So the Playaca is definitely a change of pace from the previous 4 nights at the Welton. But you figure, it's only the lobby, right? At least there's the beach? Well, there was the beach. You walk outside, and the water is just like the pictures. Clear, blue, pristine, insert trite tropical adjective here. But it was just small. Like the full set of the monopoly properties hadn't been bought yet. The Playaca was a good time, though. Being able to sit outside all day without a plan and without worrying about the cares of the world... literally, if you had a bathing suit and your room key, you were set for the day. Meals were a few steps away, the cabanas provided some shade if you needed it. And if you got bored, you could while away some hours in the casino. Not a bad place to spend a day or two. Three days... well, let's just say we weren't too sad to say goodbye. 

So on the first day, we walk around the town outside of the fenced-off "resort." I'm going to assume that resort in spanish means camp, because that was a closer description. We walk out of camp and into town, immediately greated by some bright, but simple Haitian art, bottles of the local alcohol-mama juana, and all the tourist doodads you can think of. Post cards, keychains, t-shirts, and... coffee! Well, actually I didn't see any coffee. So Larmo and I wander further into town. (Larmo is a good guy who I travelled with--a friend of a friend of the groom's but we've hung out a few times. Our other campanion was Sia--both Larmo and Sia are Philipino and a riot to hang out with. Larmo is gay, and as stupidly stereotypical as it sounds, listening to Larmo and Sia go back and forth was like a mix of Telemundo, Will and Grace, and a little stubborn new englandness thrown in). So yeah, we wander further into town, and find a liquor store. Between us Larmo and I speak about 3 words of Spanish, so any transaction is a small victory. We manage to point and gesture our way through buying three bottles of rum and the local beer, Presidente. Proud of our accomplishment for getting a good price and feeling slightly less gringo, we make it back to the hotel. Mission accomplished.

The next day, I'm feeling cocky. I've had my caipirina and other random cocktail for the day, and am hopped up on free french fries and bad burgers. So me and Larmo trek into town again and again stop at the liquor store for another rum souvenir stop. Check. So now it's coffee time. We walk toward the store where the sales lady the previous day was nice and friendly and explained to us exactly how to make mama juana and sold us some very trendy Presidente (the local beer) shirts that were sure to proclaim our world-traveler status back home. Before making it there, we wander through a group of locals. We hear, "Hey man, it's me from the hotel." Sweet, we've run into one of the many camp counselors... er, hotel staff... from up the street. Must be a good sign. "What's up man?" I say, in my cool American accent. 

"You remember me from the hotel?"
"Yeah, sure." There were far too many counselors to actually remember. 
"You guys want de tour on a bike? My friend here give you de best deal on the island."

And this is where the conversation should have stopped. But with my newfound traveler's wannabe-local confidence, I continue, figuring, hey here's a nice guy. He can help me buy some coffee.

"No man, no tour. Yo queiro paquette de cafe. I want some coffee packets. Not a cup of coffee." If my Spanish sounds like French, that's because French is the only Spanish I know.
"No probleh man. We get you some coffee. Here, come in this cigar shop, he get you some coffee."

Ah, but I'm too wise for that. I'm not going to fall for the "my friend will give you a good deal line." So we enter the store (another chance to leave missed), and look around at cigars, which, to my discerning eye, look like cigars.

"Nice, but donde the coffee? Ou est la cafe? Give coffee me." I exclaim coherently in my most authentic Spanish. 
"Oh, nah probleh. We get coffee. Come, I show you my bar. Best bar on the island. I work de hotel at night but now, now I run bar."

Now we're talking, I think. I'm gonna get the good stuff. At this point, Larmo, being the conscience I should have listened to says, "We should just go." Ah... but what does Larmo know? I'm a seasoned local now. Didn't he just hear my Spanish?

"OK, we'll see your bar, but seulement coffee. Paquette du cafe... er... yeah."
"Oh, nah probleh. My fren, he get coffee. Sit, have a drink. It's on me."
"Well, if it's on you..."
Larmo stands off to the side, giving his best body language signal of, "Are you retarded? Let's go." But clearly I don't get the translation. So we sit.

"What you want? We have the best pina coladas in the world here."
"Hmm... best in the monde... we'll take one each." What a sucker! He's going to give us the best pina colada in the world just for buying some coffee from him?! I should be nice and small chat him up.

"You been to the Estados Unidos? Etats-Unis?"
"Nah, not yet. I haf family in Nueva York. Big family... all over."

At this point, his friend comes back with 5 bags of coffee. It looks vaguely familiar. And now, the moment of truth.

"Cuanto cuesto? Combien? How much?" Fluency with every interaction! They probably think I live around the corner.
"550 Dominican for the 4 bags."

Oooo, we get the authentic stuff, and it's not too expensive. Just under $20 american for four bags to split between me and Larmo. We exchange money and finish off the best pina coladas in the world. Honestly, it was pretty good. 

"Gracias." Man, just call me Enrique. I'm tearin this language up.

We get up to leave, and the Dominicans are muttering. The friend comes back with a piece of paper. Larmo eyes it warily.

"800 for each pina colada, 200 for the beer for your friend (the counselor from the hotel), tax, tip... that makes $2000 Dominican."

Larmo gives me the "Are you retarded look" again. This time the body language translator kicks in. Retarded. Check. $2000 Dominican is roughly $50. Sitting by a pool surrounded by beautiful girls, with a DJ bumping, and an ocean view... maybe I'd pay $25 for a drink. But sitting on the patio of a shack with rusting umbrellas and stale oyster stank in the air doesn't make me scream $25... what a deal! Maybe I wasn't the local I thought I was.

"Uhh..."

I feel around in my pocket, thankful that I had the foresight to take some cash out of my wallet. The one actual travel lesson I've learned is never to have to take your wallet out when you're in a bargaining situation, because they can definitely see you're lying if you flip through a stack of bills.

"Yo tengita... yo tenga... yo tengoa (the lesser-known tense)... I only have $500 Dominican (~$9)."
"Don't know what to say, man. You gotta pay."
"But hombre said the drinks were on him."
"That guy? He doesn't even work here."
"But I thought this was his bar..."

It's at this point I realize I don't think I've ever seen our friend, the camp counselor in at the hotel. My days as a local are clearly over. I scrape together a few more American dollars and get out of there paying "only" $1000 Dominican. Or about $22.

We get back to the hotel, and I realize why the coffee bags look vaguely familiar. The same bag is sitting in the gift shop (with a little less grime on it). How much? I wonder. About $100 Dominican less than what we paid in town. Per bag.

"At least we got the best pina colada in the world, right?" Larmo laughs hysterically. 

Damn straight. If anyone ever asks, that was the best pina colada in the world. Beach aside, at this point I was ready to get me away from that Oasis. So ends the trip to the Dominican of Enrique, world traveler.

So You Want to Be a Mudder

"What was that?" squawked the walkie talkie.

"No, he's conscious, but we should probably get some oxygen down there." The first aid attendee responded and then turned to me, "How's it going?"

"I just need a bandage for my knee, don't want to bleed on everything else," I respond, looking down at my red and expanding knee.  The slip-and-slide obstacle I just pulled myself off wasn't the yellow plastic and manicured lawn version seen in commercials.  It was black tarp and frigid water laid on top of what had felt to be a rock garden.  "My cut doesn't sound as bad as whatever that conversation was about," I add, wondering what obstacle could result in someone requiring oxygen.

"Yeah, it's actually been a pretty light day for injuries," the medic replied cheerily, pulling out a gauze bandage and a roll of medical tape.

I was already grateful my pride didn't get in the way of me asking for a bandage. Crawling around in mud with a gash on your knee was sounding less and less fun.

"Thanks so much," I said, grateful for some added padding and a clean view of the damage, once the blood was wiped away.  With the entire roll of tape now transferred to my knee, I saw that my group was already in the next obstacle.  This one was a series of hay bails in a pool of murky water.  The goal was to jump in the water and climb over the hay.  Not too bad, but any interaction with water during a mid-50s day in the fall wasn't exactly the ideal. With my fresh bandage, I jumped into the murky brown water and began to climb over the hay with the grace of an injured manatee.

All of these obstacles were part of the Tough Mudder, claiming to be "not your average lame-ass mud run or spirit-crushing ‘endurance’ road race. Our 10-12 mile obstacle courses are designed by British Special Forces to test all around strength, stamina, mental grit, and camaraderie. Forget finish times. Simply completing a Tough Mudder is a badge of honor." Apparently lots of people pay to participate in these things, and I had been coaxed by my gym mates to sign up back in August.  

The race started with the registration area at the ski lodge where the event was taking place.  And what registration wouldn't be complete without a mohawk station, a temporary tattoo station, and a keg toss station? We arrived to find people spray painting their hair, stretching, and generally just barking and shouting to psyche themselves up for the race.  My approach was to look around pensively and wonder, "what the heck is wrong with all these people?" Road races--5ks, 10ks, half marathons--are their own sort of strange.  People sign up to run at ungodly early times on a Saturday or Sunday, with no hopes of winning the race.  But at least they stay clean.  Here at the tough mudder, people make a whole weekend event of the race, sleeping over at the ski lodge (thankfully there was no snow on the ground) and proving their primal-ness by running the race in a costume, or if that is too much effort, in as little clothing as possible.

I was expecting a 10-mile run with a bunch of obstacles in the way.  The "race" turned out to be more of a 10 mile hike up and down ski slopes with obstacles that were closer to nuisances along the way.  Yet... it was pretty awesome to go across a 30ft span of monkey bars set up over water, and to run up a 15 foot hay bail and propel yourself over it.  I think those had to be my favorite parts.  

Then there was "Chernobyl," literally a (supposedly clean) dumpster full of green ice water (yes, there were chunks of ice, frequently refreshed by the forklift close by) that you had to jump in and submerge yourself under a board and then climb out.  This "obstacle" was toward the beginning of the race and was pretty much designed just to make the rest of the course miserable.  It worked.  

But in a weird way, this part of the race was one of the most exhilarating. You jump into the ice bath, not knowing what to expect, and then all you get is your body screaming at you, "get out you fool, get out!" I jumped in with a water bottle in my hand and don't even remember letting go of it.  All I could think about was "out." And once you got out, every nerve in your body is on alert.  I seriously have never felt so awake in my entire life.  And even if just for that feeling, the course was probably worth it.  Although I could probably create a dumpster ice bath for less than the course fee...

Anyway, the rest of the race felt kind of gimmicky.  There was a short barbed-wire crawl, a balance beam over water, a log carry up a hill, two sets of walls to climb over, hay bails to vault over, and super-steep ski runs to trudge up.  Combined with the fact that the race came at the end of finals/midterms week, with every step I just wanted to be back in bed.  It was a fun experience, I just had different expectations going in.  I was expecting more crazy physical feats that put your thoughts on hold and less time staring at the backs of someone's calves in front of you, wondering "who thought of charging money for this? they must be sick. or the best salesman ever..."

But yes, I am now a "mudder," proved by my bright orange head band hanging from my cubicle wall at work.  I think the whole experience was summed up at the end, when we all got our "free" beer.  All I could think was, "man, I am freezing.  I need to drink this beer fast so I can stop holding this cold cup." There are many more intelligent ways to enjoy a beer. Walking 10 miles in wet clothes and waiting in line for obstacles is one way to get a beer, but certainly not the smartest.

Roar!