Who My Son Saw at a CrossFit Competition

All photos courtesy of A. Osinoff

Little boy behind the barricade, who do you see?

A Competitor
Pressing alongside a Goliath. The playing field level. Shared load. Shared bench. Shared barbell. Same standards. Same reps. Same rest.

A Teammate
One who spots weight, tracks time and counts lifts. A partner who values the other’s emotional risk, ethic to prepare and commitment to try. A mate who listens to ideas, strategizes beforehand, encourages during and dances after.

A Woman
Looking up, legs spread with bare arms, chiseled back, flexed quads and seeping curves. A female who trained her body as a machine, teaching it to breath, move and perform with power.

A Lady
Who is feminine, not despite but because she sweats, stinks, struggles and shakes. One who tapes her thumbs, wraps her wrists and grips the barbell with glitter, chartreuse nails. A person who considers sneakers, tanks, a weight belt and tights as fashion and is consumed by the task over her tousled hair, silver roots and exposed lines.

Your Mom
Who feels proud, accomplished, happy and hopeful that by watching me, her children are learning anything by anyone is possible.

Little boy, when you grow tall enough to see over the barricade, what will you do?

Be mesmerized no more.
Accept a person’s capacity, albeit female or male to be strong.
Expect equal partnership between genders as essential.
And assume that the only “it” any human ever asks for is respect.

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A Moment of Weakness

In a moment of weakness, I stopped.
Stopped counting the cracks in the sidewalk
and tracking the tempo of my breath.

My ankle pulled at the shin,
shoulder blades burned from what came before.
Humidity stuck in my throat.

My feet slowed to a walk on the corner
near the jagged riser where the smell of diner grease sits in the air.
Our loop’s highest point.

Tension drained from my quads.
My breath found balance.
For a moment, relief.

Then a friend came up on the right.
“Let’s go.”

I readied my arms and returned to a trot.
Up the sidewalk
Past the Starbucks
Around the post office
And down the alley toward my starting point-

the orange bucket.

Questions.
Round the pail and greet the next lap?
Or skirt behind and slip inside?

Just two more loops to the finish.
Excuses creeped.
Heat. Age.
Doubt clouded.
Not a runner. Too tired.

The music in my buds drowned the voice in my head
that would have otherwise urged me to go.

And so
I quit.
For the first time,
the workout won.

I apologized to Coach, lowered my head
and mounted a stationary bike
until time was up.

When the crew trickled in
after the clock shut off
and fist pumps exchanged
they tried to help.
“Are you okay?”
“It’s not worth it.”
“You’re recovering.”
“I understand.”
“We’ve all been there.”

But I hadn’t.

Yes I was achy, but also able-bodied.
I wasn’t dialed in.
I need to be.
Every. Single. Time.
Especially at the end.
I’ve learned my body’s stronger than my mind.

Frustration festered during the accessory work.
As others emptied cubbies, I paced amid the cemented walls.
Pissed.

Through the doorway, baking in the sun stood the cylinder sentinel
who observes our effort and guards our egos.
I took note of her steady posture
and promised not to be beat again.

“Coach, are you locking up?” I asked.
“Not yet. Do what you have to do.”

Two laps.

I headed outside.
No music. No mates. Just me.
Gazed beyond my orange marker.
And ran.

Why CrossFit Is The Right Fit (Right Now) For My Tween

crossfit-teens

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Not every child takes to traditional team sports. Our son, Bubbe is one of them.

Despite growing to have a strong arm, solid shot and height, our now 11 year old prefers to play a tennis match over a baseball or basketball game.

My husband, Mac and I have mixed feelings. While we’re happy to see him connect with a game, the man to man style of tennis doesn’t encourage the socialization, camaraderie and team work to the extent we feel young people need.

Since Bubbe was a little guy, we insisted he dabble in a variety of sports, fantasizing that by the time he got to middle school, he would’ve embraced one which fosters self esteem, teaches assertiveness, tests limits and encourages community.

Well, Bubbe made it to middle school. He’s concluded the sports tweens are supposed to love are “not his thing.” And Mac and I are coming to conclusion during this temperamental time when boyhood and adolescence cross, our parental push has done more damage than good.

As the children in our town age, their sports are shifting from recreational to competitive play. More is expected: time, skill and understanding of the game. Our son has been fortunate to have kind and balanced coaches who’ve helped him to improve over the years. Nonetheless, he’s had a tough time keeping up with the pack.

Bubbe is the child who steered clear of rebounds because he didn’t want to get or hurt others, became overwhelmed by the pace of play and felt slighted when teammates didn’t pass the ball. He’s the boy who struggled to stay baseball ready for lengths of time and who, despite finding a glimmer of glory when the coach gave him the chance to pitch, felt defeated when he wasn’t put on the mound more than a few innings. Game after tournament after season our son was the one who came home repeating, “I’m not good enough.”

What’s a parent to do? Sign him up for between season clinics? Tell him to suck it up, practice and pay attention? Make him play?

Mac and I confess we tried a tough love approach. But our son’s tween ego is fragile; the current cracks are deep and require more than a little filler. In an effort to support him, we turned to the material we know from experience can restore structural integrity from the inside out: CrossFit.

Our CrossFit box is not a new environment. Bubbe’s taken plenty of kids’ classes. CrossFit Teens however, is a different animal. The sessions are structured like adult classes. The coach works these young people hard.

Three weeks in, the CrossFit compound is already starting to stick.

Week 1

Bubbe knows what Olympic weightlifting looks like but never touched a barbell; until his first class when the power clean was the movement of the day. Picking up a weighted bar from the floor, flipping it onto one’s shoulder blades and returning it down in a fluid motion requires focus, coordination and guts.

When I came for pick up, I found Bubbe with crimson cheeks and in the zone, cycling through a series of power cleans, burpees and push-ups. At the buzzer, I heard the teacher say to him, “You’re very coachable. Great job.”

On our way out I asked, “What was the best part?”

With his breath caught, the post WOD endorphin inspired chatter commenced. “The barbell. I liked learning the power clean. How much can you lift? What about Dad? What about the coach with all the tattoos?”

That afternoon, Bubbe wasn’t worried about getting hurt, willingly went out of his comfort zone, followed complex directions and after only 45 minutes, felt empowered, strong and connected to a community.

Week 2  

The air was moist and still; the gym hotter inside then out. Bubbe and I read the white board where the coach had outlined the day’s program: medicine ball clean, burpee box jump, slam ball, farmers’ walk and plank holds. I kissed his forehead and left, excited for him and thrilled it wasn’t me.

This time around, Bubbe was in a full blown brow to toe sweat when I showed up. His clothes were drenched, skin caked in chalk and rubber.

“It was really hard, Mom,” he threw his glasses my way and grabbed a water bottle. “So hard I wanted to cry.”

“Did you?” I asked.

“A little.”

“Did you stop?”

He looked up from his drink. “No, I kept going.”

A boy with a sensitive soul who can harness mental strength is one who holds a big heart.

Week 3

I heard Justin Timberlake blaring on the radio before I could see Bubbe. When I made my way to the workout space, he was on the rowing machine pulling like a mad man.

After class, his coach approached me. “I told him to row 350 meters in 2 minutes. This kid went and rowed 400 meters,” he boasted.

Bubbe beamed.

“When Coach said row 350, did you try to beat it on purpose?” I later asked.

“Yeah, Mom. I always try to get to a number and then do more.”

Sometimes, digging deep, beating personal goals and competing against yourself is just as rewarding as getting the rebound or throwing a strike.

Right now, the team sport route isn’t working for our son. Mac and I are grateful CrossFit Teens is there to help mold Bubbe’s character and fuel his confidence.

In time, we hope he‘ll apply the work at the box to the tennis court, classroom, friendships and maybe even the ball field. But more than anything, we hope Bubbe comes to realize he is without a doubt, more than good enough.

My ABCs of CrossFit

Photo cred: Lynda Shenkman Curtis

Photo credit: Lynda Shenkman Curtis

School’s out but this teacher is still thinking about her ABCs; of CrossFit.

Yes, I’m one of those folk who sit in the dentist’s chair visualizing toes to bar to distract me from the grind of the drill, rehash snatch progressions while stuck at a red light, and strategize the following day’s work out when I really should be writing.

Here’s my take on an experience that leaves me plotzed in a puddle of sweat on the floor of a place I consider my 60 minute respite and second home; not from the perspective of Trainer or a Games Athlete, but as a forty something, part-time working wife, writer, teacher and mother of two trying to stay strong, sane, fight mid-life sag, and eat food deemed unhealthy with but a fraction of guilt.

My ABCs of CrossFit

Attitude. Leave it at the door

Builds a badunkadonk booty

Community is key. Cliquey is sticky

Diet, much to my dismay does wonders

Each movement can be modified

Form. Learn proper technique

Give progress time

Hello. Say it. Especially to someone new

Intimidating-yes. Impossible-no

Jokes and jargon are best kept dirty

Keep consistently coming

Lifetime personal records can erase a lifetime of insecurity

Mental toughness changes the game

No rep yourself

Oly shoes and fitted jump ropes make a difference

Potty breaks, strategically timed do too

Quality coaches warm up, watch carefully and address woes

Rest. Roll out. Retest

Strict before kip

Tatas in tanks sometimes fall out

Underestimate ability; undermine potential

Variety is the spice of life

Write down results

X-tra practice when possible

You are the machine

Zealots who bond at the box become family beyond fitness

Ready to give it a go? Already a Crossfitting, fire jumping, power lifting cobra posing, soul cycling, triathloning, marathoning, coccyx curling enthusiast?

Then what keeps you coming back for more?

FRESH SQUEEZED MOM SAID WHAT?…Dear CrossFit Newbie

Courtesy: CrossFit Immortal

Courtesy: CrossFit Immortal

Four years ago, after suffering through one of my first CrossFit classes, a golden goddess of a woman encouraged me to “Just keep coming.” I’m grateful she did.

Amy, who drank the same Kool-Aid over a year ago, shares with potential newbies what they can expect if they give it a chance.

Amy is a corporate wellness specialist by day, and a freelance nutrition advisor and writer by night. She is an avid CrossFitter and a mom to 3 active kids. She blogs at Fresh Squeezed Mom and obsessively collects healthy recipes on Pinterest.

Fresh Squeezed Mom

The other day at my gym, CrossFit Immortal, a woman was taking her first class. It was a grueling workout and I noticed her struggle to complete the exercises and to overcome her intimidation. Afterwards, a few of us told her that she’d done a great job, and we reassured her that it gets easier. But there was so much more I wanted to say, as someone who was in her shoes a little over a year ago:

Just keep coming back. You will be stronger, faster, and more flexible than you were before. I decided when I turned 40 that I needed to get in better shape. I had always been active, but never particularly strong or athletic. As a kid, I never earned that Presidential Fitness Award and rarely made it off the bench in sports. As an adult, I could run a few miles but I…

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To The Young Lady Who No Repped Me During The CrossFit Open; Thank You

Courtesy: CrossFit

Courtesy of CrossFit

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No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get my chest to touch the pull up bar.

It was the third workout of the CrossFit Open; an annual fitness test involving judges and score cards where over 300,000 CrossFitters worldwide do the same prescribed workout once a week over a five week period, or as in my case, a scaled version of said designated torture.

The 2016 Open was the first time I paid the twenty bucks and entered my name in the system. After 4 years of pursuing evidence based fitness, participating in mild competition holds me accountable to an exercise routine. Besides, the Friday Night Lights set up gave me a reason to forego evening parenting responsibilities. Plus, the coach stores beer in the gym fridge.

I felt confident going into this third Friday.  The task at hand involved jumping chest to bar pull ups. I’m 5’9. I can jump. I know how to do a pull up. I thought; piece of cake.

But I underestimated the importance of the angle of the pull toward the bar. Perhaps during my pre-kids, D cup days it wouldn’t have been an issue, but now a deflated C, I left a sizeable amount of air between the girls and the iron.

Each unsuccessful repetition of the movement resulted in a “no rep” from the judge. I hung from the bar like a sloth, praying for the clock to run out while convincing myself to go at again. Then, 15 seconds before the final buzzer the coach said, “Switch your grip.” I held on to the rig in chin up position and jumped. Slam! My chest hit the bar with ease.  Unfortunately, my renewed optimism was short lived. “5-4-3-2-1…” The music went silent.

Afterward, a young lady who assists with the kids’ class asked, “How’d it go?”

“What a debacle,” I huffed.  “That switch grip was the golden ticket, but I ran out of time.” I skipped the beer and went straight home, determined to improve my score.

Two days later, I did what any self-respecting, half crazy CrossFit disciple would do; I went back to redo the workout during open gym.  The same young lady was the designated judge for the morning.

When I was ready, she cranked up the tunes and started the clock. I made my way through the jumping pull ups using the reversed grip. After a few rounds my forearms stiffened and quads stung. My chest began to miss the bar.

“No rep!” she called.  “Almost there.”

I tried again.

“No rep! Let’s go, Red. You got this.”

But I didn’t “Got this.” My thoughts turned dark. Who does she think she is with the no reps? I’m not an uber-athlete. I skipped my morning newspaper to be here. Not to mention the fact that I could be this girl’s mother.

I wanted a break and I wanted her to give me one. Miss teenager could have let the no reps slide. She could have turned a cheek.  But she didn’t.  She could have felt intimidated. But she wasn’t.

So, I took a few breaths, regrouped and forged ahead. By the end of the seven minutes, I had a beautiful battle scar of bruise on my chest. What I also had was a legitimate and nearly doubled score compared to Friday night. And I had my judge, who held me to the standard to thank for it.

The following week, I took note of the young CrossFitter’s approach during regular sessions and the remaining Open workouts.  Each time she completed an Olympic lift or moved through a workout, she held herself to a high standard of form and function; and when she made a mistake, she no repped herself. Turns out, my judge hadn’t asked me to do anything she didn’t expect from herself.

At seventeen, this young lady already owns the integrity and courage that took me half a lifetime to cultivate, making her a powerful role model for girls and us masters, alike.

Soon, she will apply to college, graduate high school and move out on her own. As she cycles through life events, I hope she highlights these qualities when speaking with admission officers and future employers. And I hope she seeks out similar traits in others as she builds friendships and falls in love. Resume worthy accomplishments, physical strength and youthful outer beauty will fade; character will endure.

Integrity and courage are sometimes met with gossip, envy, and judgment. So when she catches slack for the high standards or the backlash cracks her confidence, I encourage my judge to hang tough and perhaps recall the time she refused to let this old timer break the rules during the CrossFit Open; because young lady, when it comes to life, “You got this.”

My Brush with Greatness

Me and Pop 2015

Grand Magazine

My grandfather remained in his living room’s Lazy Boy beside my grandmother asleep in a hospice bed where her twin recliner once stood until she took her final breaths.  They shared the space for sixty-five years and would not have had it any other way.

A few hours before my grandmother died, I talked with my grandfather for what felt like the first time.

With poor hearing and an often fiery spirit, I spent most of my forty plus years watching Pop share his World War II experience and debate about the political climate of the day from a distance.

Yes, we connected over old movies, late night cheese and crackers, Sunday afternoon football and his enthusiasm for teaching me about gadgets, opera and gymnastics but I did most of the listening.  Any of my thoughts were voiced through my grandmother.  She didn’t require me to repeat or clarify, knew how best to communicate with her husband, and preferred to be in charge.  The arrangement seemed to work best for everyone.

Sadly my grandmother was now unconscious; breathing aided by machine, pain numbed with morphine.  And although I was convinced she could hear us, it was clear my buffer was gone.

There Pop sat.  Face heavy: heartbroken, devastated and confused.

“The world is different today.  There is no goodness left,” he said.

I held his hand.  “No.  That’s not true.  There will always be violence, war, corrupt governments, and terrible decisions but most people are decent and good.”  I pointed to my resting grandmother.  “Like her.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

The family, who had gone outside for air, made their way back into the apartment.  Late into the evening as I said my goodbyes Pop looked up from his chair.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No, really.  Thank you.  Stay how you are.  She would have wanted it that way.”

The moment redefined our relationship and revealed the essence of my grandfather.

It has been one year since my grandmother’s death.  I relied on her to shape my experience with my grandfather and I assumed Pop leaned on her in the same way.  Alone, I was sure his flame would extinguish.

Instead, he got up every morning and made himself coffee and eggs.  He learned how to launder his clothes, vacuumed the floor, stopped drinking wine and scotch for fear of losing his balance, and eventually opened the curtains in the bedroom.  Pop spoke openly about his grief and need to work through it on his own terms.

He accepted an invitation to a Veterans’ lunch at his grandson’s middle school and found himself unexpectedly and for the first time recounting his World War II experience aboard a ship that fought in the Battle of Normandy and Okinawa to a classroom of tweens.  When a student asked, What were you afraid of the most? Pop’s eyes filled with tears as he shared with these young people what it was like for an 18 year old boy to witness death.

He sent me an email after Bubbe left for sleep away camp to see how I was coping with the separation.  He stressed the importance of letting our children go and commended me for giving him a chance to spread his wings.  “Let your boys have their space to play, but always watch,” he advised.  “Just don’t let them know you’re doing it.”

He questioned the owner of my CrossFit affiliate as to why we do tribute workouts to honor fallen soldiers from recent wars.

“You honor one guy?” Pop asked.

“One at a time.  It’s a way for the CrossFit community to remember the ultimate sacrifice they made,” the owner explained.

“And you don’t know them?”

“No.  Not personally.”

Pop furrowed his brow and stared at the group photograph gym members took after one of the Hero WODs.  It was as if he was recalling the 400,000 American soldiers who died during the war in which he fought, remembering the 2,500 soldiers who lost their lives in one day on Omaha beach where his ship was offshore, adding up the 5,000 Americans who were killed at sea during the battle of Okinawa, and thinking about friends who saw combat but never came home.

“Okay.  But a lot of guys died.”

He stocked his refrigerator with ice cream and chocolate sauce so he was always prepared to build sundaes with Skootch, crouched on the carpet and shot marbles with Bubbe, and devoured the cannoli I brought him on Grandparents Day because according to him they help people “live to be one hundred.”

At the end of each visit he said, “Be happy.”

Perseverance.  Sacrifice.  Honesty.  Humility.  Empathy.  Patriotism.  Simplicity.  Optimism.

Greatness.

Pop embodies the mindset of his generation, The Greatest Generation; a group of ordinary men and women who survived the unimaginable.

These folks were staples of my childhood and young adulthood.  When I am with my grandfather in the quiet of his apartment today and am flooded by memories of afternoon stoop parties, Saturday night card games, Sunday dinners, holiday gatherings and family celebrations, it becomes quite apparent his generation is almost gone.

Pop strolled over during Skootch’s recent birthday as I pressed the candles into the cake.  “How are you all grown up?” he asked.  “You were only a toddler not long ago.  It went by so fast.”

My laugh lines smiled back at his and I thought, He’s right; now it’s my turn.

I only hope I do him proud.

In the meantime, I plan to relish in grandfather’s greatness for as long as God wills.  He has a lot more to give and I have much to gain.