Dear CrossFit, Will I Ever Learn?

I’m on the road (again).  Regular readers know that bad things happen when I visit Globos on the road.  But there wasn’t a box anywhere near the hotel, or anywhere remotely close by (which was kind of surprising).  I know better than to do “CrossFit” exercises at Globo, but no matter how far I dumb it down, someone has to butt in.  There I was simply holding a goblet squat when a guy even fatter than me kind-heartedly told me I was going to hurt my knees by going in to a squat.  Strike one.  I let it go.  Smiled, nodded, got up out of my squat.  I started doing some easy KB swings with the dumbell I’d been using for the squat.  Kind hearted corpulent (who still hadn’t exercised in any way I could discern) explained to me how I was going to hurt my back by swing that weight.  Strike two.  I let it go.  Push-ups?  “They’ll hurt your shoulders.”  A foul straight back, still strike two.  Plank?  “You won’t get any workout from doing that.”  Another foul ball, still 0-2.  “Maybe you ought to walk on the treadmill?” he said.  In my mind I said “if I walk a mile on the treadmill will you go away?”  Outwardly, I half-smiled, nodded, and headed towards the treadmills, where I dutifully walked a mile.  Know-it-all globo-fat-guy didn’t disappear.  He came closer.  He reached in to press the speed button to make it go faster, then reached across and increased the incline.  Friends and family have seen the look that came to my face.  It scares children, curdles milk, and makes rabid feral dogs look for easier prey.  Not my globo-tormentor.  I pressed the stop button.  I counted backwards from 10, then again from 20.  I stepped off the treadmill, headed towards the locker room, ready to collect my sweats and cross the streat back to my hotel where, hopefully, the doorman or someone would stop this nightmare.  Into the dressing room I go.  Tormentor-nightmare follows.

“I know who you are,” he said.

I glared out from under my furry eyebrows.

“The exercising in The Flats was completely unbelievable.  No-one would do that.”

The lightning that shot out of my eyes singed my eyebrows, the thunder that erupted from my throat shook dust down from the flourescent lights.  Tim and Jeff know what happens next.  Regular readers know what happens next.

“What was unbelievable about it?” I asked.

Even-fatter-than-me-guy explained that exercises had to be done one at a time, in isolation, and that doing double unders and burpees together, or air squats and burpees together, or boxups and pullups together, are baaaaaaaaaaaad.  That they can’t and shouldn’t be done together.

“If I do ten air squats, then ten burpees, then ten box ups, then ten pullups together will you leave me alone?” I asked.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.  Don’t you have an artificial hip?”  (So he really did know who I was).

“If I do ten air squats, then ten burpees, then ten boxups, then ten pullups in less than five minutes will you donate $100 to mother’s opposed to bullying?” I asked.  “Or to Paws Fur Thought?”

“Yes.  But I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Thanks,” I said. 

I did the air squats, then the burpees, then the boxups, then the pullups.

“I’m not paying.  Those aren’t pullups,” he said.  (I kipped, got them unbroken).

I left the gym.  Walked back to my hotel, and asked the doorman whether anyone was following me.

“No sir,” he said.

“Thank you,” I answered.  “Could you please send someone across the street to the gym to collect my sweats?  I forgot them.”

“Yes sir,” he said.

I had spent almost all my self-control simply walking away from the evil evil man who criticized me, my exercise, and my book.  I had almost no self-control left.  Yet there was more work to be done.  I walked past the bar, where the beers and Pinot Grigio called me, their stupifying comforts just a nod to the bartender away.  I walked past the snack shop, where chocolate pleaded and begged, it’s sugar-high and sleepy crash as close as a nod to the pretty little foreign girl behind the candy counter.  I walked to the elevators, and rode up to my floor, and now I sit in my room, trying to unclench my jaw, trying to understand why people can’t just let me do burpees or goblet squats.  Why can’t they just leave me be.  So with all my self-control gone I sit here desparately trying to ignore the screaming wails of the Hagen Daz that reach through the walls frm the freezer in the concierge room.

Note to “my people”: don’t ever book me into a hotel where there isn’t a box within 800 yards again.  If you do, it’ll be your last act for me.  I’m never going to globo on the road again.  Ever.  From now on it’ll be burpees and planks in the hotel room, or walking around the block, or swimming in the pool.  But no more road-globo, ever, like never (to quote Taylor Swift).

I wonder what tomorrow’s WOD will be…