Oh, Tuesday morning, I like you. It’s cloudy, which means it might rain, which means I might not have to water the garden. Jason had a job interview that went really, really well (he has a job he likes well enough, but he’s looking to advance his career and he’s kind of gone as far as he can go where he is now). Tegan and Pickle are coexisting in relative peace, even though Tegan is a little wound up and excitable. We’re good on groceries so I don’t have to leave the house until Crossfit tonight. I’m having a lot of fun planning next year’s garden (it’s gonna be a big one!). And I have hundreds and hundreds of pages of caveman stories to read this afternoon. So… yeah. It’s a good day.
Last night’s WOD was Kelly. Ugggghhhh… screw you, Kelly.
- 400m run
- 30 box jumps
- 30 wall balls
- 5 RFT
Coach told us before we started that she wanted us jumping if at all possible. “You can step if you have to… you know I hate stepping, but do it if you have to.” I don’t know why she hates stepping. I mean, I had been jumping on a 14″ box for quite a while. The 6″ move to the next box size is huge. Jumping on a 20″ box, once you’ve gotten the feel of a 14″ one, feels like you’re jumping onto the Empire State Building. I know it’s completely, 100% in my head, but I can’t just magically feel the difference and be able to start jumping on a 20″ box right away. At least with steps, I can get some memory in my muscles without the risk of going tits over teakettle. I’m still getting on top of the box, right? And pairing that with running and wall balls? Why don’t you just hamstring me while you’re at it?
So I compromised. Each round, I broke up the box jump into two sets of ten steps/five jumps. I’ve jumped on a 20″ box a few times without killing myself or anyone else, so I knew it could be done. And it wasn’t too bad! I was squeaking my shoes a few times in the last couple rounds because I was juuuuust barely jumping high enough, but at no point did I come close to wetting myself out of fear, so I call it a success.
I also, at the beginning, very seriously considered scaling by either cutting reps or rounds. Even the fast times on the whiteboard were on the dark side of 25 minutes, and the majority seemed to be at or around 30 minutes. But when it came down to the “3… 2… 1… GO!” I just went.
I did all the reps. I did all the rounds. I no-repped the shit out of my wall balls, but that’s nothing new, and I counted them anyway. I caught at least three of them with my face. I even got picky about which ball I’d use (the orange ten-pounder is slippery and too round!). But I didn’t have to take a ton of rest breaks, and not once after we started did I consider phoning it in or quitting. I was committed.
And I was not the last one to finish. In fact, that feels so good, I will say it again, louder. I was not. The last one. To finish. I got into a race with Chris at the end (never mind that she was doing it fully Rx’d), and that head-to-head race in the final round of wall balls lit a fire under my ass. I am absolutely not a competitive person. The only contest in which I’d really put up a fight is a bacon-eating contest. But I really, really wanted to get done before she did, because too many times I’ve still been working my ass off while everyone else is breaking down barbells and wiping sweat off the slam balls.
I hurled my last wall ball with a mighty roar (I think I really yelled “FUUUUUCK” without the consonants), whipped my head around, and saw the clock tick over 35:00 even. So I am calling my official time 34:59. And I got a big, fat PR to put on the board!
Today is our coach’s 42nd birthday. He’s out of town for work this week, but his wife is the other main coach, and she will probably have some kind of 42 chipper for us. I’m not exactly quaking with fear, but I can’t say I’m not a little bit nervous.