Today’s workout at CrossFit Springfield consisted of a position called The Plank. It’s a basic push-up position, except your elbows are on the ground, and the goal is to maintain a rigid pose or something. Not too hard in theory, it is stupid-crazy to maintain for more than about 10 seconds. Eventually your knees sag, your ass begins to raise up in protest and you find yourself within tongues distance from the floor, stupidly debating ideas like what the floor might actually taste like. From what I understand, this exercise is supposed to work your abs. My fat gut begs to differ.
I thought I was really hitting it well. It felt like I was ramrod straight, what with all the burning and stuff I was feeling and the sore elbows. (Man…..out of context that last statement is really, really, well, you know….but it’s not, so stop thinking it.) Meanwhile, as I was hanging out in the plank position for a virtual lifetime, I hear screeched from one corner of the gym “ULI! DROP THAT BUTT! NOW! NOW!” That tone and timbre could only be produced by one person I know: ThunderChicken.
Yeah, we’re back to meeting up at his 5am classes. He’s positively thrilled that I am gracing his training once again, since I bring the kind of workout ethic that he likes to highlight as “What Not To Do”. The other morning, I actually finished the warmup run first. FIRST. In no way does that mean anything, since I usually finish the actual workouts last, but I’m in dire need to shed something like 37 pounds in the next three weeks (got that 10k and a hockey tournament). His response to my run? “What are YOU doing coming in first?” That’s the sort of motivational speech I like in a trainer. If I hadn’t been experiencing a mild cardiac episode, I mighta punched him, thereby breaking my knuckles across his jaw. That’s the kind of chemistry you just can’t fake.
So he keeps howling that I need to drop my ass. He’s letting all kinds of shit slide with other people, the other 31 sufferers all coming up with ways to endure the pain. I’m cheating like mad, and he’s busting my chops with each infraction. The penalty for dropping a knee is a round of burpees, yet another sadistic exercise. I keep earning rounds and rounds of them, oblivious to his harassment.
Finally, he can’t take it. His screaming is going unheard. His pleas, unanswered. He grabs some weight plates and puts them on my backside area in an attempt to get me saggin’. I was having none of it. I fought the workout; I lost. And then it hit me as I fell to the floor yet again: the man is obsessed. Is it my copious capability to sweat? My ability to have my stomach drag the floor in a full push-up position? Was it the sweet odor of failure I was emitting with each collapse? My God, the man’s become a stalker. I should by all rights be creeped out, but honestly I’m a little flattered.
Deny it all he wants, he’s got man-crush issues. I can’t say I blame him. The only way I’m gonna break him of that is to punch him right in the face. And as soon as my knuckles are tough enough? I just may try it. But I better keep training in the running department, because I’m gonna need to be fast.