Photo by Josh Hoke
Most people had finished the workout minutes ago.
It was one of the last classes on a Friday night. Some athletes were still plastered to the gym floor, chests heaving as they stared up at the rafters. Others milled about, wiping down bars. I was the only one watching Sam* as she clung to the rig. The only one who seemed to notice something fucking incredible was happening.
Sam and I had been gym buddies — and friends in general — for at least a handful of years by that point. We shared a lot of common goals and struggles: Poor body image. A distorted relationship with food. A history of up-and-down weight loss and gain, and sheer incredulity at the way others flew around on the rig. Muscle-ups, pull-ups, toes-to-bars — those kinds of things just weren’t in the cards for us.
Still, Sam was always just so — even-keeled. Grounded. She put her head down, worked hard, and rarely complained. While I unloaded my latest drama and angst at the gym every night between sets, she just did the work.
So it was almost alarming to see her walk in one night with shoulders slumped, a thick aura of despair all around her.
You see, her boyfriend had just broken up with her with little rhyme or reason. We gathered around her, our friends and I. We said all the right things. She stared at the floor. I cracked a few jokes during the strength session, mostly to fight my own feeling of powerlessness. I’d never seen Sam cry.
Photo courtesy of Gregg Wilson
The metcon that night was for time: 5 rounds of 30 double-unders and 15 sit-ups followed by 8 heavy overhead squats and 35 toes-to-bars.
By that point in time, Sam had lost about 50 lb., and ever the worker, she’d often stay 10 to 15 minutes after class to practice those elusive gymnastics movements. At some point, she’d finally gotten her toes to the bar, but only capriciously. She’d never done it in a workout.
I remember nothing about my own performance that Friday night.
What I do remember is sitting on the floor next to my barbell, mouth agape as I watched my friend kick the shit out of the rig — once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Sam PR’d her toes-to-bars 35 consecutive times that night, after years of telling herself she couldn’t do it — and hours after being told by someone she cared about that she was no longer wanted.
Still, no one seemed to take note as Sam banked her 35th rep and the coach stopped the clock. But when we hugged afterward, I felt power rippling through her.
Toes-to-bars are about more than ab strength, and CrossFit is about more than fitness.
What couldn’t you do yesterday that you can do now? And what does that mean for every other self-limiting belief you still hold?
Photo courtesy of Robert Sheedy
* “Sam” has requested to remain anonymous.
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