





The superfit walk among us. They saunter or strut, depending on whether they’re showcasing their magnificent agility or their oxlike strength. They ignore the chatter in the health media over treadmill technique and pedometer steps. They scoff even at seemingly rigorous practices like Mysore Ashtanga yoga and marathon training. They are America’s self-styled fitness elite, adherents of a punishing online exercise regime called CrossFit, which orders its followers to cultivate a distinctly martial — not to say paranoid — ideal of “physical preparedness.”
CrossFitters offer themselves as evidence that people are capable of more than merely giving up sugar for Splenda and taking the stairs occasionally; according to the CrossFit creed, they can and should also be prepared to fell trees, tame bulls and carry families of four on their backs. Olympians, soldiers, police officers, firefighters and devoted fitness amateurs convene on the site, reveling in max squats and circus-strongman stunts, which they repeat as many as 100 times per workout. This is exercise not for vanity or for longevity but for an imagined moment of heroism that may never come.
The enemies in the eyes of the CrossFit crowd are “Stairmaster chumps” (who log long, drowsy hours on the machines but huff and puff on actual stairs) and myopic “specialists” — athletes or exercisers who neglect versatility in order to refine one or two skills. The CrossFitters’ critique has chastened at least one specialist. An essay by a triathlete named Tom Demerly titled “How Fit Are We?” appeared on a biking blog, conceding that if triathletes “found ourselves in a jam that required overall physical fitness to survive, we’d probably be in trouble.” Further admitting that he could barely do a single pull-up, Demerly went on to praise the fitness of a CrossFit type he had met named Joe Sparks, who “gave a demonstration using a 50-pound kettlebell making it look like he was maneuvering a tennis ball.”
"Nicole"
Complete as many rounds in 20 minutes as you can of:
Run 400 meters
Max rep Pull-ups without coming off the bar.
Your score is the total number of pull ups you complete.
Forzen John scopes out the scene as Anne does the heavy lifting...
Laura leans into it as she pulls the 70 lb sled uphill...
A look at the AMRAP 20 Barbell Complex...
Written by Patrick Cummings of AgainFaster.com
I was sitting beneath the judge’s tent at the Northeast Qualifiers, in a beach chair real low to the pavement. A hundred yards away, barbells and bumper plates crashed to the ground. I could hear the pull-up bars shake under the momentum of kips. Rafael lowered himself into the seat next to me.
I don’t remember how we got to talking about it, but eventually he mentioned his father. He said there was no way his father could get in and out of a chair like the ones we were in. He said, “I love my father, but I don’t want to end up like him.”
If he isn’t already, Rafael is close to turning forty, though you’d never guess it. He’s a fighter, a trainer, an athlete, and a constant stream of encouragement. You’re always just a little bit better when Raf is nearby, and as we sat there, the irony of what we were talking about didn’t escape me.
It was a weekend to celebrate athleticism, to marvel at the virility, viability and ferociousness of youth, and we were talking about what it was like to grow old. All around us wandered the chiseled bodies of young gods and goddesses, but Rafael and I were talking about nursing homes. We were talking about our fathers.
My father isn’t in bad shape. He’s in his fifties and stays active. My mother sees to it that he eats relatively well, and when he’s not battling some knee or shoulder problem, he gets to the gym a couple times a week. I’ve tried to introduce him to CrossFit, but he’s a man of routine. Twenty minutes on the stationary bike, some seated shoulder presses and leg extensions and he’s happy. Every now and again, he’ll call me and tell me he got on the Concept2 at the Y, just like I showed him.
So maybe I shouldn’t be worried, but I am. I’ve watched his mother start showing signs of Alzheimer’s. At dinner with her, I’ve watched him put on a smile as she tells us the same story she told us ten minutes prior, and I can’t help but wonder if that smile will be mine some day. I want him to stop eating pasta and bread, but I’m fighting against years of homemade Italian cooking and I don’t know how hard to push. I don’t know how to tell him it’s because I don’t want him to end up like her.
Rafael and I are sitting in beach chairs real low to the pavement and he says, “I love my father, but I don’t want to end up like him,” and I start to wonder if my old man could get in and out of the chair. I don’t know the answer.
It’s so easy to get lost in the vanity of now. In the mirror’s reflection. It’s so easy to focus on the Fran time and the max deadlift and the consecutive pull-ups. What’s harder to remember is that we aren’t doing this for today.
It’s nice to look good with your clothes off, but it’s nicer to know that for the rest of your life you’ll be able to take those clothes off without the assistance of a certified health care provider. That you’ll be able to get across the street without the assistance of a traffic cop.
The choices we make in youth give color to our future selves.
What we’re doing, it isn’t about today.


