Crossfit(ting in) for a Cure

Since returning from Guatemala, working out had consistently been a metaphor for both belonging and success.  During that time, I had paid to access four different facilities.  Gyms often claim to be communities.  Still, you have to want to be a part of it, and there isn't only one it.  The example above reveals the layers of 'we's and 'me's, 'you's, 'them's, and 'us's.  There is at least one why and maybe multiple hows for each that are not included in ‘checking in’ for class.  Why and how are connected and defined as reasons, or maybe goals.  Joining the community had always been caught somewhere in the middle of the 'right' reasons and 'my' reasons.  In the spring when a professional development opportunity asked me to share a change I had made, switching from my third to fourth gym was the example I chose.

I joined the fourth gym more slowly than the others.  I had paid for one day a week and then three.  Now my membership is listed as ‘unlimited’.  This gym houses a nonprofit that supports youth and families facing childhood cancer.  They hold two main events.  One is a workout-based fundraiser where each of three workouts is named after a child.  I remember the Crossfit for a Cure flyer last year.  Along with the workout, it announced food and games.  I had just started crossfit and was in my ‘once a week’ stage.  I was convinced I was too new.  There were too many unknowns and not enough relationships to encourage me to attempt a workout with a possible audience.  I could have still been part of the community by attending 'in support'.  This would have required walking around the booths.  This event embodied the decision I was facing about how much I wanted to belong and what that might mean.  Ultimately, it was a beautiful September afternoon, and I avoided sunshine, anxiety and questions of belonging. I stayed home. It wasn't a good fit.

One year later, I had pretty much bought into all the hype of this gym’s community.  There were multiple ways to set goals and support each other.  People were helpful and generally happy to walk through the door.  This gym used an app where we could see the upcoming workouts, sign up, reflect, complain, but mostly record our progress and celebrate each other's efforts.  

Every week there was a conversation that went something like this:

"What's next week look like?"

"There's (insert movement) ."

"That's fun." I paused and caught myself because the feeling that I used to categorize the gym 'happy' was likely a result of the fact that I was happy.  That was new. 

Based on that feeling, I even volunteered and attended a promotion event at the gym with local businesses.  The childhood cancer foundation had an informational table at the same event.  There I came face to face, for the second time, with Crossfit for a Cure. 

"Are you going to participate?" the foundation organizers, Isaac's parents, asked.  They were also gym members who consistently 'liked' my scores in the workout app.

I lingered too long at the table to escape this conversation.  I stared at the smiling faces through the picture frame and straightened the pens on the table.  "Hmm, I really don't know.  The workout looks like it's too much and I don't really like the idea of working out in public."

"You can scale it.  Do what you can do.  And, it's more like holiday workout."

A holiday workout.  Despite being some of the hardest workouts, I loved them.  Themed clothes.  Colored markers.  Often in partners.  Food.  They were social events.  I loved holiday workouts.  They were usually the hardest, because holiday workouts were honor workouts.  This meant they were designed to a mental challenge, perhaps even push reflection.  They were about the struggle.  Sharing the lift.  Doing something hard, knowing that others had done something hard.  We pushed each other forward.  Showing up was as much a celebration of effort as of being together.

The table received more visitors, and I slipped away.  I hadn’t said, “yes,” but I didn’t say, “no”.

A few weeks went by, and all the workouts were posted.  I learned that organizers had not included the public booths and games this year.  It was not pitched as a family event.  It was the workout only.  A few more days went by.  I breathed deeply.  There was an ‘off site’ option, which meant I could donate and not attend, much less complete, the workout.  It was a fundraiser after all.  The money mattered most; except everything I knew about this gym so far told me that wasn’t true.  I signed up for the hero workout, ‘Isaac’, at 10 a.m.

Numbers, dollars, reps, minutes, age, never mattered most here.  That was new for me.  I had been attempting to erase the concept of value not defined by growth, but by the numbers.   Worrying about the weight, my time or otherwise, made showing up only about me.  Crossfit wasn’t about ‘me’ alone and Crossfit for a Cure was most definitely a 'we', not a 'me' experience.

I arrived early enough to watch the second of the three workouts.  I had enjoyed sleeping in, but the movements and cardio of ‘Tiana’ were definitely more in my comfort zone than the one for which I had signed up.  I stretched and I contemplated which weight might be my weight.  Before a WOD, everyone walks to the white board to learn about the workout and how to approach it effectively.  Today there was an orientation about the child. 

Isacc’s mother began, “Isaac is 16 rounds because he had endured so much chemo.  In fact, he had gone through more than 16, but the workout was capped.  She continued, "42 double unders because he went through 42 treatments.  It's going to be hard and you're going to hate it in the middle.  And, these children went through worse."

800 meter run to cash in.  The first run in any workout was fast and carefree.  It was the best you would feel.  Someone's footsteps were behind and then beside me.  All I could think about was Isaac, and the last run he had that felt good.

Round one.  Round two.  Round six

"Just keep moving," I said silently to myself.

Round eight.  Round eleven.

"Come on," Words echoed my name.

Round thirteen.

"Pick the bar up,” my words encouraged the person in front of me.

Round fifteen.

"You got this," Words all around us.

800 meter run to cash out.

The final run was heavy, strained and slow.  I thought of Isaac again, and what the acknowledgement of the struggle being over could have been, both resignation and release.

I had built this workout up in my mind more than just another holiday workout and without considering all the ways that I had both grown and grown into this community.  It had been hard, but it had also been possible, one movement at a time.  I sat on the floor, changing my shoes and sipping on water.  I recorded my score with the weight I had chosen in the app.  85 lbs was not Rx, but I had done 112 repetitions.  I smiled because last year at this time, I was maybe completing 30 and in a partner workout that included rest.  Growth. Maybe we all could have done more, but we couldn't have done anything less.

I stayed to watch Isaac's father, who had engaged me at the promotional table.  He was in the final workout that started at 11.  I raised my fist to bump his and congratulate him.  I realized how much it mattered that I had participated, perhaps to him, but mostly to me.