Reflection on the Strongman Competition

by Rachel

“You are going to kick ass on Saturday.  And you are a kick ass writer, so I fully expect a blog about it.”

That’s what she said to me.  She loves me, and so I know she believes these things to be true.

Sometimes writing a blog is like second nature to me.  All day I dream of writing.  Bits and pieces, thoughts and fragments, emotions and perceptions flood my mind and weave webs of a story- my story- while I try to get in a day’s work.  Or workout.

I didn’t plan to compete.  In fact, up until less than a week before I had plans to go trespassing/take some photos with some friends.  I hate to bail, but something (and by something, I mean Jay) was telling me I needed to do this.

I signed up thinking, live up to your nickname.  No!  Not Gigi.  Not Raquel.  Not even Rockstar.  Unfuckwithable.  Get out there and be that.

Easier said than done.  As high as I get off of working out, I still am a shy girl at the thought of people watching me.  Judging me.

“It’s crossfit, Rachel.  No one is going to want you to fail.”

Right.  I’ll keep telling myself that.

The morning of, I made myself a delicious breakfast- quinoa with peaches, an assortment of berries, and almonds.  It is one of my favorite breakfasts.  I could hardly eat it.  My stomach was in knots as I sat, ichatting with a friend who played DMX to get me psyched.  I still could hardly eat, so I went upstairs, got dressed, and had a little dance party in my room.  If you’ve WODded with me, you know how I feel about dance parties.  J

Layered up, because the gym is freezing, pulled out the Honey Badger bra because I knew I would need it, packed some clothes to change into for afterwards and headed on out the door, half excited, half terrified.

The ride over was full of incredibly loud music to get me pumped.  It helped.  By the time I got there, my mindset was coming into the right spot, and by the time I walked in the door, well, it just keeps getting better.

The first event went so quickly.  The music went on, the competitors lined up, Keho divided us by weight class, and 3…2…1….

I wish I could describe the energy.  The feeling I have about watching people push.  In this instance, we were all lifting heavy- this was a competition.  But in reality, it doesn’t matter to me.  I want to see what you’re made of.  If it’s 10lbs, or 210lbs, I want to see you work till you scream, or cry, or collapse, or fail.  I want to see you put your heart out there- be brave enough for the world to see every bit of your being- even the parts that fail.

It makes me come alive.  When you fight for that lift, I am fighting for that lift with you.  Every ounce of mental stamina that I have is pushing that weight upward.  I am willing you to drop under that bar.  I am pleading with physics to let you get 5 more pounds over head.  Because I want to see you come alive.

And woman after woman, I watched my competition come alive.  I’ve never competed in a sport before.  I don’t know how it works.  Should I have been watching the girls in my weight class and thinking, for every rep she misses, I am one place closer to finishing at the top?  I don’t know if that’s how people tend to feel.  I’ve never been “good” at competition.  My best explanation is that as an avid scrabble player, I will hand over the “u” if you are stuck with a “q” and I know you can’t make a word.  I hate for anyone to lose.  Truly, I do.  And this was no exception.  My success isn’t made any better through your failure.  These women were amazing and I felt my heart glowing with pride to be part of something this beautiful.

I am up for my first event and Kim counts me down.  3, 2, 1…..The first press went up easier than I thought.  Excellent.  The axel was easier to grip than I expected.  Excellent.  That log was. . . interesting, but up it went.  Excellent.  Now over the last log and press it out.  I hear Jay behind me yelling, “Get one more rep”, I see Jason in front of me counting my reps, but I can’t even hear him.  I hear the sound of athletes- fellow competitors, bystanders, friends and family, cheering me on.  I fight for the last rep and drop the log on the floor.

This. Is. What. Living. Feels. Like.

I could walk you through the competition- event by event.  I could tell who lifted sick amounts, how many tires I flipped, how many G2Os I got through, how many deadlifts, when did I fail on my clean and jerk.  But if you want to know that, you can look at the website.  Read the WODs, look at the pictures.  You’ll get it.  You know what 3 rounds of 15 snatches and 15 burpees in 6 minutes looks like.  It looks hard and fast and messy.  And it was.

I think more important than the actual events, are the feelings that I experienced.

Over and over and over again, I was amazed by my fellow athletes, and they were amazed by me.

I’ve not been to a “regular” gym much.  As most of you know, I tend to find environments full of athletes to be pretty intimidating.  But I hear that certain gyms have rules about no grunting, no shouting, no bailing on our weight.  This puzzles me.  And saddens me.

At 5:45 in the morning, or at 7:00 at night or, apparently, in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, there are few things that make the will of the human spirit more evident to me than people who are willing to put it all out there.  We make these godawful faces- even as our coaches are right there with cameras.  We grunt.  We scream.  We throw weights down.  Sometimes we even cry.  Because it’s not about looking pretty.  It’s not about going to lie in a tanning bed to accentuate our perfectly sculpted abs.

Are some of us perfectly sculpted?  Umm, hello?  Did you see those girls?  Yikes!  And I hear Lebby has an 8 pack (shocker that I’ve never noticed, huh?).  Yes, of course.  Some of the people I’ve met at xfit are among the most beautiful people I’ve ever met- physically and emotionally.  But despite the booty shorts and the knee high socks- it’s not about appearance.  It’s about heart.

I try to explain my cult to my friends.  Some of them get it.  Most of them get it.  Some of them don’t.

Sometimes I wish that I didn’t fall in love so easily.  I am constantly contemplating new career choices because there are so many things in my life about which I feel passionate enough that I would want to do it for a living.  Ballet was my love.  Then climbing.  Boxing. Hiking.  Kayaking. Lifting.  Running. Cycling.  Because it’s not about the actual action itself- it’s that feeling of being alive.  It’s the recognition that I am so in love with life that it almost hurts.

I come alive when I am surrounded by love.  By passion.  By heart.  By hardwork.  By a willingness to push past any standards of reason.  Essentially, I come alive when I am surrounded by people who want to come alive.  And recognize that while being alive involves smiles, and laughter, and relaxation, it also involves discomfort, pain, failure, imperfection, and a willingness to embrace all of this.  A willingness to be perfectly human.

If you’ve ever done OHS with me before, you’ve heard me say it’s my favorite movement because I love getting heavy weight overhead and keeping it there.  It makes me feel less like a woman, and more like a human.

On Saturday I left that gym feeling alive.  And in love.  And completely, perfectly, 100% human.

Congrats to all who participated and thanks to all who supported.  Celebrate life- today and every day.