SEPTEMBER 2013
WHEN PIGGY MET MURPH CrossFit for the Esteem-Challenged Self
BY MARK ANDREWS My mother affectionately called me
Beau. To my Sicilian Grandmother, I was Marcus Aurelius, the great Roman Emperor. My dad called me Marko, cheering loudly from the stands during Friday night football games. But to the boys from my childhood neighborhood, I was Piggy. I wasn’t unpopular. Didn’t get picked
on. It was just a nickname that spilled out over bowls of chocolate ice cream on a hot summer day. And it stuck. Other boys had nicknames that
I secretly
envied. Termite was an older kid with a mouthful of braces and powder blue eyes. Simon was my best friend, Greg’s older brother. He got his nickname because of the coke bottle black framed glasses he wore to correct his vision. For some kids, we just used shortened versions of their last names, like ‘Czle’ (pronounced SLEE) or ‘Quillo’ (KEE-O). I wonder if my life would have taken different
a path had my nickname
been something cool? Something that didn’t describe the way I saw myself. I didn’t necessarily want to be The Lone Ranger. But, Tonto would have been
nice. Heck, anything other than Piggy. Having said that, I would be less-than- honest to diminish the value I’ve found in attaching significance to names and the experiences from which they were born in my conscience. Just last weekend, my mother was
talking to her grandchildren about me— recalling stories of my youth. She said to my oldest son, Owen, “Your daddy was fearless.” I sat across the table listening to her tell stories of me and the thought banging around in my head was, “Nothing could be further from the truth.” The first time I walked into a CrossFit
gym (called a ‘box’), I was most definitely afraid. I’d looked up the local affiliate online, punched the address into my GPS and driven by—twice. Finally, I’d summoned the courage to actually get out of my truck and make the long walk across the parking lot. Once inside, it was like stepping into
another world. Through the fluorescent haze I could see people sprawled out on the floor stretching. Others were chatting casually, perched upon wooden
18
boxes with numbers spray-painted on the sides. Plated weights stacked in rows along the limestone-and-cinderblock shell of the place. Barbells hanging from machine screws fastened into the walls. Gigantic steel scaffold with pull-up rigs and barbell racks rising up from the floor. A massive PA system thundered in the corner, feeding the space with vibrant bass and screeching guitar riffs. On a whiteboard, someone had scribbled
in
“MURPH.” Underneath the name a series of numbers:
large block letters 100/200/300. I
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wanted to run from this place. I was about to do just that when a large digital time clock hanging from the rafters beeped loudly, counting down from ten. Nine . . . eight . . .
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Most of the next hour is a blur to me
now. Lost in my sweat and suffering and uncertainty. Actually 56 minutes, 13 seconds to be exact.
I completed
“Murph,” my very first Workout Of the Day (WOD, in CrossFit-speak). And, in the process became a CrossFitter. Murph is one of a collection of Hero
WODs performed by CrossFitters to honor military men and women—those who gave their lives in service. Each workout is in memoriam of an individual and their ultimate sacrifice. The actual workout goes like this: First, you run a mile. Then you complete 100 pull-ups, 200 pushups, and 300 air squats. The repetitions are broken into small sets to make the work manageable—I did sets of 5 pull-ups, 10 pushups, and 15 air squats. Finally, you run another mile to complete the workout. In the farthest corner of the CrossFit
box, I worked through Murph alongside a hulk-of-a-man.
His massive arms
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