Burpees at Globo on the Left Coast
There are mirrors at globo here on the left coast. Which is a good thing, because there are lots of really beautiful people: model beautiful, movie-star beautiful, with show muscles that just don’t quit. All those mirrors offer the stars, and others, endless opportunities to gawk at these sculpted specimens.
I haven’t been to globo in over a year, and I’ve never been to a globo like this. I used to think that globo was it. I used to think I was working out. We all know how wrong I was. I didn’t want to go to globo, but there just wasn’t time to go to the beach for burpees on the beach, or to get to a box for burpees in the box. But there was a globo right where I was staying, and I only had an hour, so it was time for burpees at Globo. When you only have a few minutes, burpees and air squats and holding some planks will do the trick. Anyway, I entered the globo, where things quickly went south.
To protect the innocent, I will change the names of the offensive parties to Bambi, Ken, and Rex. Bambi was the “host personal trainer” that had been arranged for me. She was obviously concerned that I was a coronary risk b/c when I arrived she suggested that a half hour of walking on the treadmill at 2.0 mph followed by some curls would be a great workout “based on your body type.” I indulged Bambi and did ten minutes on the treadmill to warm up, but then I let her know I wanted to do some burpees and air squats and head back to the hotel. “What’s a burpee?” Bambi asked. After I explained it, she tried to encourage me to stick with the treadmill and the curls. I considered trying to explain “functional movement” but decided that since I only had an hour, that might not be a wise decision. Bambi is a prototype for a certain type of hair-color joke.
Because of the abundance and variety (does that qualify as a ‘plethora’) of machines it took a few minutes to find a suitable place for the burpees. Luckily there was a “cardio studio” that wasn’t in use and I was able to persuade Bambi to let me use it. The cardio studio had floor to cieling mirrors on two sides, and floor to cieling glass on another side. I did 50 burpees in 7 minutes, during which time I managed to spray sweat (and a little slobber) in several directions. Bambi kept backing further and further away while she kept count. Did I mention that there are mirrors in globo? Lots of mirrors. Note to self: It’s not pretty watching the de-evolution of the species during 50 burpees. It made me recall Carl’s 600+ burpees last summer. Darwin really should have warned us about de-evolution. Anyway, while I was sitting down with sweat running off my nose and chin, and while Bambi was mentally reviewing CPR, or at least trying to remember the number for 9-1-1, Ken and Rex felt compelled to come in and counsel me about the evils of burpees.
Who walks up to a sweaty fat guy and tells him he shouldn’t be doing burpees? Who does that? WHO? It was okay though, sorta, b/c Ken was beautiful, and Rex was, well, nearly god-like, at least from the front. I have since learned that Ken is in fact a former model and that Rex is a soap star. Anyway, with my CrossFit calibrated eye I surreptitiously checked out their posterior chains and found them seriously wanting. Apparently the camera only ever shoots from the front.
I politely thanked Ken and Rex, and Bambi, for their concern, and almost got off the hook and out of the situation. But, as those of you who know me best, it wasn’t over, because Rex just couldn’t let it go. After one or two more comments, which included something about people “my size” and “my age” exercising too strenuously and disrupting the serious people who were trying to work out, I casually asked Ken and Rex what their max clean and jerk was. Ken shrieked, actually shrieked. “Clean & Jerk? Are you kidding? You’d get hurt doing that.”
You know where this is headed. I know you know where this is headed. I asked Ken and Rex how many thrusters they could do. Bambi nearly spit out her gum and Rex looked ready to fight. Ken blushed then defused the sudden tension by letting me know that no-one was better at thrusters than Rex. I demonstrated the movement to make sure that Ken knew what I meant. He didn’t, neither did Rex. “What about pullups? Can you do pullups?” I asked. Bambi informed me that there wasn’t a pullup bar in the globo. This was my second chance to get out of it, to just let it go, to go back to the hotel and get ready for the next appointment. But Rex wouldn’t let it go.
“Why do you want to know? Do you think you could beat me at pullups or something? Or at anything?” The dismissive tone was exactly right for pressing the button. You know that button, the one that when you look back on your life you wish you had more control of? The button that switches you from regular guy to “that guy?” Right now Tim and Jeff are wincing because they know what happens next. “Yes Rex, I think I could beat you at clean and jerk, or snatching, or deadlifting, or squatting, or probably any movement that actually mattered.” I stared into his exceptionally spell-binding, movie-star beautiful eyes while channelling my inner circa-1980 Clint Eastwood. Ken drew in his breath (apparently Rex doesn’t get talked to like that very much, and never gets challenged at globo).
“Wanna bet?” Rex said. How many stories, scrapes, and scuffles have started with “wanna bet?” So we bet. Not a lot, because I didn’t have much on me. After too much haggling and too much demonstrating and agreeing on exercises and standards, we decided on three rounds of 10x ground to overehead with a 65# dumbell and 10x goblet squats with the 65# dumbell. That’s just 60 movements. I figured 5 seconds per movement for me, and predicted I would take six minutes to finish, knowing I can’t move for five minutes unbroken. Rex predicted he would finish in three minutes, “or at least twice as fast as “fat-ass”. At some point during the negotiations I became “fat ass”. I’m not particularly good at squatting, and everyone knows I get tired doing wall ball shots and GTOs. Still, I was trusting my posterior chain, (which had, in my opinion, been mischaracterized as ‘fat ass’) and our psychotic coach’s programming to carry me through this. By the time we were ready to go, perhaps 25 people had gathered to watch. Rex made one of them put down her cell phone because he didn’t want to be videod in the gym.
“I’ve never seen anyone actually die,” one onlooker said. I’m pretty sure she was referring to my apparently imminent demise. A nearly apopleptic Bambi managed a meek “on your mark, get set, go!” (which will never replace 3-2-1 go) and we were off.
It took me seven minutes. Practically everyone at CTown would have beat me, by a lot. But here, on the left coast, in front of these beautiful beautiful people, actually surrounded by these beautiful people in all the globo mirrors, I won. Why? Because Rex quit. He just quit. No amount of cajoling or encouragement from Ken could get him to start. He quit after the fifth goblet squat, on the first round, after just 15 movements. Luckily there were enough people watching that he couldn’t see his glorious head hung in shame in all the mirrors. Luckily there were enough machines that one was close enough for him to lean against while he gasped. Luckily Ken was there to comfort to Rex, and then to help him to his feet. When I was finished, I offered my sweaty hand to help him up, but he wouldn’t take it. I told him he didn’t have to pay on the bet, but then I told him he ought to reconsider before offering advice to someone who can do fifty burpees. I tried to channel my inner Clint again.
Bambi walked me to the door. “Where’d you learn to do that?” she asked. I wasn’t sure whether she meant my Clint Eastwood imitation (which is lame) or GTOs and goblet squats. “In a garage,” I answered. “Can you really do a pullup?” she asked. I nodded my head yes. “Will you sign this book for me?” she asked. I did. A drop of sweat ran off my nose and splashed on the autograph. “That’s alright,” she said. Yes it was. It was alright by me.
I wonder what tomorrow’s WOD will be…
