Cat Man

“You are a handsome man, you know that? How’d you get so handsome?”

I say those words, in that order, probably twice a day. Sometimes more. It’s not a daily affirmation spoken into a mirror. I haven’t taken a second job working on commission at Brooks Brother’s boys. I say these words because I own a cat. And I’m not sure if he knows how handsome he is. I’m even less sure how he got that way, hence the follow up question.

He never gives me an answer. He probably thinks the two question phrase means “I’m going to rub your cheeks then stare at you for 20 seconds”

I didn’t even want this cat. My girlfriend did. We first met him at the Petco on 96th street in the Upper West Side. The index card on his cage told us his name was Alex and he had amazing cheeks. It was half-right. His burly cheeks were impressive but his name wasn’t Alex. It couldn’t be. Alex is an awful cat name. So we changed it to Charlie because it sounds better and presents a wealth of opportunities for alliteration like Chubby Cheek Charles, the Chillin’ Champ.

So I didn’t want a cat but here I am a year later with strong opinions about declawing and the merit of wet versus dry food. My natural affinity for Charlie surprised even me. Turns out, I’m a cat man. I always was, but it laid dormant. For 26 years, my inner cat was somewhere in the back of my psyche napping in a cardboard box but it has awakened with its back arched high in a stretch. Now that I’m out of the cat closet, I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. Of course I get along with cats. I relate to them.

I can be quiet and hard to read too. I like opening up to people on my terms only. Otherwise let me stare out a window and contemplate. And my favorite type of friendship is one that can be maintained with a single, annual 2 hour conversation around the holidays or whenever I might see you. After that it’s back to radio silence because I’m busy. I’m so very busy enjoying my solitude.

My cat-like tendencies are evidenced most of all by my apathy towards getting one in the first place. All my adult life I’ve watched my peers acquire things I saw as unnecessary. Tattoos. Credit cards. Pets. What’s more cat-like than considering the idea of companionship and thinking, “I don’t get it. Why exactly do I need this?”

That’s why it works. I didn’t really need a pet, so I got one that kinda doesn’t need me either. I think he loves me, even though he doesn’t alway show it and I hope he thinks the same of me. But more than that, I hope he knows how handsome he is.

The Pointless Necessity of the Fidget Cube

People do their best thinking in the shower. To me this explains the lack of technological progress seen during the dark ages. Those people only washed themselves like once a year. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a single shower. Wash off 365 days worth of grime and experience an entire annual load of eureka moments? Tall order. At best it would’ve occurred to one of those filthy peasants, in a moment of shower-induced genius, that they should shower more often. Sort of the shower-thought equivalent of wishing for more wishes.

I definitely tend to find that inspiration strikes when I’m showering or driving. Maybe loofahs and steering wheels give us a direct line to our muses. Or more likely, the mind is at its most open and creative when occupied by a menial task. I have a really hard time doing deep thinking while sitting still. It feels like trying to sprint without moving my arms. This is problematic in a world where you’re expected to do creative work while sitting at a desk.

Enter the fidget cube.

I saw a few months ago that somebody made a kickstarter for this little thing with a bunch of smaller things on it that you can play with. That’s a vague description. Let me try again.

It’s a handheld plastic cube with features on each side that click, spin and toggle. Each one begs the question “What does this button do?”

The answer is the same for all of them: absolutely nothing. There is no light bulb that turns on when you click the buttons. No pac man that changes direction as you move the joystick. The cube simply occupies your fingers so your brain can tend to more important business. It’s like a bop-it that doesn’t keep score. You’re just bopping for bop’s sake.

I’ve had my fidget cube for a few days and it’s funny how, for something so thoroughly meaningless, I’ve already chosen favorite parts.

The smooth-gliding joystick deserves a shoutout.

The powerstrip-toggle-switchy thing offers a nice crisp “click” that I like.

But on one side, embedded in the cube, is its crown jewel; a metal bearing that glides like I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter™, in any direction. It can also be depressed to give a fat, chunky, satisfying “click”. This is definitely my favorite part.

Unfortunately this glorious bearing shares its side of the cube with 3 miserable little gears that you could spin. Yea, I guess you could spin them, in theory. Don’t waste your time with the gears. They’re silent, lame and feel rough against my finger skins. Especially with that sweet little bearing a couple millimeters away. In fact, I’ve toyed with a conspiracy that the gears were installed only to make the bearing look even better by comparison.

Overall, I'm a fan of the fidget cube and I’d recommend it for anybody wanting to take their thumb twiddling game up a notch. It’s for the antsy Antwan who’s ready to graduate from incessant pen clicking to something more refined, the jittery Jennifer who’s done losing friends to her incessant finger tapping.

I do have one overall critique for the makers of the Fidget Cube. If we are going to truly solve humanity’s biggest problems (Feed the world, renewable energy, another album from The Postal Service) they gotta make this puppy waterproof so we can take it in the shower. Can you imagine the innovations that would be dreamt up by a nude Elon Musk standing beneath a stream of warm water, fidget cube in each hand? The answer is no. You can't. None of us could.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Hey, everybody. I'm in my hometown of Raleigh, NC for Thanksgiving so I sat down in my Dad's home office to drink wine and opine about the holiday. Hope you enjoy it.

Happy Thanksgiving & Black Friday from Ryan Brown on Vimeo.

She asked and I said YES!!

Oh my God. I’m still a bit overwhelmed as I type this so bear with me. I'm beyond excited to share this news with you all. Julie finally asked me a question I’ve been waiting all my life to hear. She made an honest man out of me and asked if I would be her domestic partner.

Now, it wasn’t a total surprise. I thought she might ask me soon because of the way she’d been acting lately. It was little things she would mention in passing. Like “Do you have a valid passport?” or “I can’t remember when my health insurance enrollment window ends but I think it’s like…soon.”

The way she did it was so romantic. It had been a long day at work but instead of us starting to cook dinner she was getting frustrated trying to make sense of her employee benefits while I was sitting nearby scrolling through my twitter feed. Then it happened. I’ll never forget how she sighed and said “yea… I think we’ll have to become domestic partners for this to work.” I’d dreamt of this moment. I didn’t hesitate for a second. “YES!” I squealed, “Of course. Yes.” And then I retweeted Patton Oswalt.

The ceremony won't take place for awhile. My NC License is expired so we'll have to wait until I can renew it so I have a valid form of ID but I'm fine with a long engagement. We've got the rest of our lives to be bureaucratically entwined. I just want to enjoy every step of the journey.

I always thought there would be some fear or anxiety associated with taking on such a commitment but there isn’t. It just feels right. All the pieces are in place. We’re happy together, we’re both residents of New York and we’ve been living together on a continuous basis. It’s like a fairy tale.

New York Doesn't Care

I haven't written about New York in awhile. It's something I did a lot when I first moved here because I was just trying to make sense of it. I've been here just long enough now that the city has slowly become the backdrop for my experiences instead of being the experience itself. Sometimes for fun I'll try to think about how to sum up living in New York to someone unfamiliar with it. Like if I were talking to my former self, how would I describe what he was in for by moving here?

I think one way to understand the city is to realize it's attitude is one of apathy... or maybe it's stoicism. It's probably some mix of the two. It just doesn't care. The whole thing's covered in a thick, leathery hide. It's complex and layered but it takes awhile to see those deeper layers because the outer ones are so tough to ply.

This uncaring can make you feel small here. New York doesn't care if I'm funny because so are all the other comics, which can be disappointing. Other times the apathy is welcomed. Sometimes you want to feel small and you can count on New York to overlook you when you most want to be overlooked. It doesn't care if I'm vomiting on the sidewalk because I've been out all night drinking. It doesn't care how I'm dressed in public or if I use foul language. No matter how you're behaving there is someone crazier within a 20 foot radius to take the heat off you. That's all great. But in February it also can't be bothered with the fact that I've got to walk to work. It's 10 degrees, bitch. Deal with it.

New York gives zero shits about you getting anywhere on time. Train delays are a bulletproof excuse for tardiness, instantly forgivable because we've all been blindsided by MTA fuckery before. This is good and bad. Obviously it's bad because you end up late for things you'd rather be on time for but the upside is you always have an excuse. I don't abuse it though. I'd say 9 out of 10 of my alleged train delays are legitimate.

Feeling small on my roof.

I wish more than almost anything New York would care that I want separate checks at a restaurant so that each person can pay for exactly what they bought, as is done by EVERY OTHER BUSINESS EVER. But it doesn't.

I've learned not to take any of this personally. The city practices negligence but never malice. When misfortune happens the question isn't "Why me?" The question becomes "Why not me?" Why shouldn't I have been the one whose eye got hit with gross water leaking from the ceiling of the Times Square subway station? Why shouldn't I be the one to show up at Chipotle just as they ran out of guacamole?

But this harsh indifference makes it all the more meaningful when finally for a brief second, you don't get New York to care but, as a sort of consolation prize, you hold it's attention for a moment and get some acknowledgement. Maybe it's a new joke that gets a laugh from a crowd of 7 tired people late night at the Comic Strip. Often it's a good time hanging out with a cool group of people you'd never meet anywhere else, people who DO care contrary to the city's culture. It could just be a stranger telling you how fly your shoes are. It's these times, when you make New York City halfheartedly grin, that you start to live for because that tiny grin means so much coming from a city that normally gives so little.

Craigslist Ad: M4F(anbase)

It's no secret that Craigslist is a great place to find almost anything you're looking for. From a used washer+dryer to a mint condition sex worker, it's all out there just waiting to get snatched up for the right price.

In the landscape of the modern entertainment industry, there's one crucial element that guarantees success for a comedian. That element is a strong following. If you can roll into Anytown, USA and guarantee a venue that you can put butts in seats then you've got a viable career as a touring comedian. So I've been looking for a fan base. No brick & mortar stores in my area seem to carry them and even Amazon.com didn't have any offerings. So I decided to see if the list of Craig can help me out and I posted this wanted ad:

(See the actual craigslist post here, until it's deleted in 7 days)

View fullsize

So cross your fingers, readers. With any luck there's gonna be a whole lot more of you very soon!

What I'm NOT Being for Halloween

I know Halloween is getting close when my girlfriend asks me what my costume will be this year. She doesn't ask because she wants to know. She asks as a way of reminding me I better start thinking of a costume. If you ask me, coming up with a halloween costume is worse than shopping for Christmas gifts. At Christmas you can always fall back on a gift card but what's the gift card of halloween costumes? 

We were thinking of dressing up as Bert and Ernie this year. That didn't sound too difficult. I went to the internet for inspiration. After typing "Bert and Ernie costume" into google, I saw a few results that looked like Bert and Ernie but I saw a lot more that looked so horrifying I'm obliged to share them with you now. So here we go.

Let's start with this. Holy shit. I don't know what's more unsettling. Bert's lifeless eyes or Ernie's inexplicable sheen. As we go through these you'll see that a lot of people thought face paint would be a good way to pull this off. They were all wrong.

Here we have giant mascot head bert and ernie. Ernie's head has been dented, presumably at the hands of Bert during a domestic dispute. Bert's got that sinister look on his face because he thinks nobody knows.

Another face paint atrocity. WHY IS ERNIE ALWAYS SO WET?

What I always loved about Bert and Ernie is that they always kept in such good shape. These costumes really do justice to Bert's arm and delt development as well as Ernie's very athletic thighs.

Face paint again. Or what I think is face paint. For once Ernie's face doesn't look sopping wet so he may have just rolled it in some cheeto dust. There are 4 eyes in this photo and none of them are looking in the same direction. I'm also unsure why Ernie has Richard Simmons hair.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

The Second Coming of Crunch

If you've been around my blog awhile you may remember that back in November I published a post outlining the disgusting betrayal known as Ben and Jerry's Coffee Toffee Bar Crunch. Here's the gist: B&J stopped using heath-brand toffee, and switched to their own brand of toffee which happens to taste like if you chewed on a tylenol, thereby ruining a classic flavor. At the time I was writing that post, I was hurt and angry. But many moons later I have arrived at the final stage of grieving, acceptance. I had fully internalized the fact that I would never again enjoy the complementary flavors of coffee and toffee together in a cold, dairy-based dessert.

But, there has been a development. Some of you might be familiar with a gelato company called Talenti. Their products are usually right next to Ben & Jerry's in any given grocery store freezer section. A good friend of mine swears by their banana chocolate swirl flavor. He's such a die hard fan that I tried a pint for myself and I'll be damned if it isn't the best banana ice cream I've ever had. Chunky Monkey is Banana Chocolate Swirl's stunt double. If something bad was going to happen to banana chocolate swirl, you'd say "No, do it to chunky monkey. The swirl is important!" Some say that it's not fair to make this comparison because B&J makes "ice cream" but Talenti makes "gelato". These people obviously don't know about gelato's deepest, darkest secret. Are you ready for it?

Gelato...is ice cream. It really truly is. Ice Cream is the narrator. Gelato is Tyler Durden. Remember that girl Kate, from high school? The party girl who hooked up with a bunch of dudes and went to college and suddenly became "Kaitlin" who's super into Jesus and now has a faint English accent? That's what gelato did! Gelato is ice cream desperately trying to reinvent itself. Sometimes people see gelato and they go "ICE CREAM!" and gelato fucking hates that.

Now that we've established they're the same damn thing, lets get to the meat of this post. Talenti released a flavor about a month ago simply called "Coffee Toffee". I had a chance to devour a pint in one sitting a couple weeks ago and I am pleased to report that Coffee Heath Bar Crunch is more or less back! It's not EXACTLY the same. The toffee pieces are smaller and there's a little less of them but the overall flavor profile is very similar. Similar enough for me.

What's more is that this isn't the only instance of Talenti picking up Ben & Jerry's slack. They have another flavor called Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip that is a dead ringer for the B&J limited edition Magic Brownies flavor. The brownie chunks are replaced by chocolate chips but all the flavors are there! It's like there's a person at Talenti just waiting for B&J to pull a flavor off the shelves so they can provide their own version. Their slogan should be "If those morons in Vermont are too dumb to carry this awesome flavor, then we will".

So, if you've been missing CHBC like I have, go out and get yourself some Talenti Coffee Toffee. It will probably cost you a few bucks more than the old Ben & Jerry's version but I think it's well worth it for the resurrection of a flavor we all thought was gone forever. 

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

NYC Horror Story: Near Crack Experience

Since moving to NYC last year, I've become aware of new horrors I never even thought about in Raleigh because they're fairly specific to New York life. I'm talking about terrifying "what if?" scenarios that are within the scope of reality. Things that could happen to any of us living in this city, though we pray they don't.

Businessmen blindly trusting the building maintenance habits of a strangers.

"What if I step on a metal cellar door or sewer grate and it gives way under my weight and I plummet into the depths below?"

"What if I drop my cellphone down into the subway tracks?"

"What if my rent goes up?"

Well, ladies and gentlemen on Monday morning of this week, one of these aforementioned ill fates became mine. I was at 72nd street transferring trains. I had a 9 am meeting to get to. I wasn't running late, or early. I was right on schedule, but couldn't afford any delays. As I waited for the train I skimmed my email to make sure I was up to speed on everything going on in the office that day. Then, without warning, my grip strength failed me. The same hands that can hold onto heavy deadlifts as they're pulled from the floor apparently struggle with single handed email checking.  My iPhone 5C went tumbling forward out of my hand. It hit the platform but it didn't stop there. My phone is no quitter so it kept on going, bouncing off the platform and dropping another 4 feet,  landing right in the middle of the subway tracks. It didn't stick the landing with grace. In fact, it just plopped face down, the least dignified orientation for anything or anyone to be laying in the subway tracks.

I didn't say anything. I didn't immediately do anything. I just sighed. Of course I dropped my phone on to the subway tracks. Why wouldn't this terrible one-in-a-million thing happen? It's totally consistent with the mounting pile of evidence that this life doesn't give a shit about me or what I have planned. Life is an unstable, erratic relative. After awhile, being phased by it's bullshit in any way is a fault of your own. The only reasonable reaction is to sigh, roll your eyes and go "Ok. What do we do now?"

I was far less affected than the people around me who witnessed it. I dropped an iPhone on to the tracks but they reacted like I had dropped an infant on to the tracks who was holding six iPhones. "Oooohhhh, nooo" the crowd of strangers cooed with empathy. 

I'm not Kevin. Kevin sucks.

So now I had a decision to make. I KNEW I could jump down onto the tracks, grab my phone and get back up onto the platform quickly and safely. But the message they play over the station speakers every 10 minutes echoed in my mind.

"If you drop something LEAVE IT! Tell an MTA employee..."

So, to avoid legal trouble I went through the proper channels, walked up to the station attendant's booth and explained the situation. She said it would take an hour for somebody to come retrieve my phone. There goes my meeting. Of course it would take an hour. MTA trains rarely arrive as punctually as you'd like. Why would MTA humans be any different?

Wet, greasy and filled with trash.

I will confess that I have good luck when it comes to bad luck. My phone DID land in a place where it wasn't in danger of being crushed by passing trains. It also could have been in a far more disgusting section of subway track. It was only greasy and dusty, as opposed to wet, greasy and filled with trash. But I knew odds were the screen would be cracked to pieces. I mean, it lost about 7-8 feet of elevation falling from my hand down to the tracks. I held out some hope that it might be usable but I wasn't optimistic.

I stood there as express trains played iPhone peekaboo with me, coming in and out of the station. With each train that passed I wished more and more that I had just jumped down there and gotten it myself.

Finally an orange-vested MTA employee showed up. I greeted him with "That's my phone". "You really got it out there" he said while furrowing his brown and extending his grabber stick to it's maximum length. He laid prone at the edge of the platform like a chubby urban sniper, fished it out and set it on the platform. It was time for the moment of truth. I walked up to the phone, pinched it with two fingers on what appeared to be the cleanest parts of the case. I flipped it over and looked at the screen. It looked back at me, as crack-free as a rehab center. I knew it was in good working order because the screen was illuminated by a notification from my calendar. It said I had a meeting in 5 minutes, which I did end up missing entirely but my phone had survived the unthinkable and lived to text another day.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

New Gig

In the past couple months some events have transpired leading to a really big change in my life.

In February of this year. I was coaching an early Wednesday morning shift at CrossFit 212. Attending the 7:30 am class that day was one of our members who holds an esteemed position in the creative department at an ad agency. We've always had a friendly, casual rapport and he's known since we met that I do stand up. Also, while I'm not sure he's an avid fan, I know he's read some of my blog. After class, he approached me and said, "Do you ever do any writing on the side? Like freelance work?"

His question reeked of opportunity. I perked up as much as I could at 8:30 am running on 5 hours sleep.

"Um, not really but I'm definitely interested and open to it!" I replied.
He proceeded to tell me about a project his team was working on. He said if I wanted to put a couple scripts together and send them his way, he'd be happy to take a look at them. Maybe they'd use them. Maybe they wouldn't. Maybe I'd even get paid. Imagine that. Paid to write words.

So I went to work on those scripts and sent them over. He thought they were funny. He and his cohorts liked them enough that they decided to bring me in as a freelance copywriter. That meant I would come into the office periodically to lend a helping hand to whatever projects needed one. I was beyond thrilled. But I only worked for two days that week. That concluded my employment with them as a freelance copywriter.

Because at the end of that week I received an email from my manager with an interesting question. He asked how I felt about a full-time job.

Hmmm...how did I feel? How did I feel about a full time job; a salaried position as a writer, where I would be appreciated for the fertility of my imagination? An occupation where I could sit and drink coffee and put language on to a page for hours? While it probably doesn't bode well for someone being considered for such a position, I couldn't find the words. Fists were pumped. Hips were thrusted. "Fuck" and "shit" were exclaimed, each followed by their own "yea". After that initial celebration, I emailed back a more measured response like "I'm interested. I'd like to hear more about it."

We had a meeting to talk through the details and an official offer was made, which I accepted. That's the story of how I became a full-time social copywriter for Erwin Penland.

This development was bittersweet though. I feel like I was starting to really find my coaching groove at CrossFit 212. I'd finally gotten used to my schedule and built up some consistent personal training clients that I liked working with but there's no way I could pass up this opportunity. I'm still coaching one night a week to keep my hand in it and because I enjoy it anytime after 10am.

Am I lucky with how all of this played out?  So very lucky. I was around the right person at the right time. But I also had the right skills. That's the cool part. I've spent the past 8 years honing my writing through stand up, twitter and these blogs. Without that, this never could have happened for me. The idea that I could parlay years of unpaid dream-chasing into such tangible professional success is incredibly empowering.

15.5 and 2015 Open Wrap-Up

The 2015 open is finally over. If you're unaware 15.5 was:

I suffered through the misery of 15.5 and all I got was this sweet photo of my upper back on the rower.

27-21-15-9

Row for calories

Thruster (95/65)

A stellar 15.5 performance required two things. First, you need great metabolic conditioning, or what some might refer to as an "engine". I've always hated that metaphor because I don't think it's accurate. A car's engine size represents it's ability to produce force. "Engine" should refer to strength. Metcon capacity is better compared to a car's gas tank. Technique/mobility could be seen as one's transmission, but I digress.

The second requirement to crush 15.5 is an ability to make yourself feel really miserable. I heard athletes of all levels reporting that this event made them hurt more than anything they've done in awhile. 

I had no idea what to expect from this couplet. I know I can do "Fran" with unbroken 21-15-9 Thrusters. But that first round of 27 reps changes the game considerably. Plus, the quads are working double duty here, contributing heavily to both the row and the thrusters. So, really this is NOTHING like "Fran". After seeing some of my teammates' times, I really wanted to go under 8 mins. My plan was to break up the 27 and 21 thrusters so that I could attempt the 15 and 9 unbroken. I would row at the fastest pace that would still allow me to stick to that thruster plan.

Over the course of this open, I let myself go a little. My training between events got increasingly worse as it progressed. This obviously wasn't my intention but between the cold I caught after 15.3 and some scheduling difficulties, it happened.

Aftermath. Former games champ Mikko Salo refuses to collapse to the floor after a WOD. I will, but only in seductive poses. 

So, my gas tank wasn't where it needed to be for this one. I broke the 27 reps into 10-10-7. I broke the 21 into 8-7-6. When it came time for the 15's I just didn't have it in me to go unbroken. I went 6-5-4. My only unbroken set was the 9's. I turned in an 8:58. Not horrible but far from my goal of sub-8:00. Despite that, I feel good about the effort I gave on this one. Sometimes you finish a workout like this thinking you could have gone harder. The extreme discomfort I felt for 20 minutes post-workout quelled that suspicion.

So that's it. The 2015 Open is behind us. I finished 358th out of 13,958 in the very competitive Northeast region. I finished 4,066th out of 153,273 in the world. I contributed to the Crossfit 212 team score on 15.1a (1st in my box) and 15.3 (2nd in my box). I'm really excited to get back to my normal, consistent programming without the wrench of a random Crossfit workout thrown into the middle of every week. I can once again neglect my gas tank and build a bigger engine. Also, some of you will appreciate that these blog posts aren't even gonna mention Crossfit for at least a few weeks.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Crossfit Games Open 15.4 Recap

My greatest weakness in Crossfit has always been my upper body pressing strength. To illustrate this point, here's what my last Crossfit Total looked like. These numbers are from summer 2013.

Back Squat opener for 2013 CF Total

Squat 430

Press 150

Deadlift 455

One of these things is not like the others. Of course your strict press should certainly be less than your squat or deadlift but not THIS much less. I have to admit, if you're going to have a weakness, this is a pretty good one to have for Crossfit. I wouldn't dream of trading my squat and deadlift numbers for a bigger press or bench because Crossfit rarely asks you to strict press a barbell overhead. When there's an overhead barbell party, hip extension always gets an invitation and as evidenced by my 300 lb jerk, I've gotten pretty good at hiding my weakness behind a veil of strong hips, speed under the bar and good overhead mobility. But there is one exercise in the Crossfit movement pool that aggressively exploits it. That exercise is Handstand Push-ups, which brings me to 15.4

8 min AMRAP

3 HSPU

3 Cleans 185 lb

6 HSPU

3 Cleans 185 lb

9 HSPU

3 Cleans 185 lb

12 HSPU

6 Cleans 185 lb

15 HSPU

6 Cleans 185 lb

...etc .

I wish I was smart enough to see this workout and immediately tell everyone on the team at Crossfit 212 to lower their expectations. And then lower them some more. I wish I was smart enough to have told MYSELF that. But I wasn't. I was hot off my best week of the open so far. 15.3 gave me such a boost in the leader board rankings that I was drunk on that confidence. I laid out a pacing plan that made 100 reps seem manageable. Due to the cold that hit me early last week, I decided to wait until Monday to do 15.4 so I'd be well recovered. Over the weekend other team members were turning in scores in the 70's and 80's but I was undeterred. Our team had strategy discussions where the phrase "...assuming a triple digit score from Ryan.." was thrown around.

I completed the first 3 rounds in 1:44, even faster than my intended pace. All the 3-rep cleans were touch and go, hands on the bar the whole time. No problem. I broke up the 12 HSPU into triples. Once the cleans became 6's I started dropping them but still went unbroken and got back on the wall for the 15 HSPU. That's when things took a turn. Somewhere in the 15's I hit failure on one of the HSPU. I knew things were getting bad when I was kipping my way up but could barely control the descent of each rep. I breezed through the  6 cleans again only to find myself staring at the wall for the 18 HSPU. At this point I overheard my shoulders and triceps talking about unionizing. In the remaining time I made 10 or 11  HSPU attempts. 8 were valid, leaving me with a final score of 74. Prior to this, my worst ranking any week so far was 887th in the region for 15.1. That performance seems stellar next to my 15.4 ranking of 1089th in the northeast.

I'm not happy with this one, but all I can do is look ahead to next week. Four down, one to go.

PS: I posted a new set on my Video page. Go check it out.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Crossfit Games Open 15.3 Recap

Best energy drink out there IMO. Tastes like a seltzer water.

One of the most difficult decisions to make is whether or not to workout when you feel like you maybe, just might be, getting sick. I planned on doing 15.3 this past Saturday. I could feel on Thursday and Friday that I wasn't 100%. I was like 96%. Such a small degradation from my usual self that it was almost unnoticeable but I could tell something was off. I was trying to decide what to do. Should I push myself through this event on Saturday as planned? Would I be capable of turning out a good performance? I could always rest until Monday and do it then. As of 11:00 am Saturday I still hadn't come to a firm decision but my heat was set to go at 12:40. I didn't feel vibrant or strong-willed. My mind wasn't in it. "You felt this way going into 15.2 last week and THAT turned out ok", I told myself. I was coaching a client half-way through their workout when I made up my mind. I crossed the point of no return once I opened a can of Hi-Ball energy water, my pre-workout stimulant of choice. I started sipping it and honing in on my game plan.

Two night's before I was at the gym coaching the final class of the evening when 15.3 was announced. We all knew there would be double unders. After all, the announcement was sponsored by a company known for their jump ropes. There had been some pistol speculation and a lot of movements whose appearances were still considered inevitable at some point. Muscle-ups, Burpees, Thrusters, Box Jumps, Wallballs. These are considered guarantees. And we got two of them.

15.3 was:

AMRAP 14 mins

7 Muscle Ups

50 Wallballs (20 lb)

100 Double Unders

I liked everything about it except the wallballs. Muscle Ups and Double Unders are two skills that really thin the herd. They're also skills that I feel pretty competent with. So my pacing strategy was:

7 Muscle Ups- 30 seconds

50 Wallballs- 2 min 30 seconds

100 Double Unders- 1 minute 30 seconds

The airdyne, being modeled by a man displaying an incorrect emotion for being on the airdyne.

If I could stick to that pace I would complete 3 rounds and 7 muscle ups. 478 reps. But I knew this pace was conservative. So, my plan was to hold this until the final 2-3 mins. At that point I'd ramp up as much as possible to make a run at 500+. The only x-factor was the wallballs. I'd think 10 reps every 30 seconds is doable but I hadn't done a single wallball since early December. But I knew this, wallballs are all about endurance in the quads and I've been SMOKING my quads with Airdyne intervals on a weekly basis.

When my heat kicked off, I grabbed the rings and got to work on muscle ups. 7 reps unbroken. Onto the WB's. I broke my first round 20-15-10-5. I liked the idea that each set got smaller and smaller. I was taking brief but adequate rest but I couldn't see the clock from where I was. I needed to finish round 1 by 4:30 to be on pace. I grabbed my rope and got to work on the double unders. I think I did 3 big sets, something like 40-30-30 (Barry Sears would be proud*). No actual rest, just failed reps with immediate restarts. At the end of round 1 I checked the clock to see if I'd earned some rest time, although I wasn't desperate for it. I was feeling pretty good. The clock read 3:30. I was a minute ahead of pace! I got back on the rings and broke the muscle ups this time. Wallballs became 5 x 10 for rounds 2 and 3. I had about 1:15 remaining at the end of round 3. Now was time to make that run at 500+. I broke the muscle ups 3/4 and went straight to the wallball. I wasn't even counting reps I was just focused on not setting down that fucking med ball. I asked my body a simple yes or no question. In this space and time, regardless of what came before or what comes next, can you do unbroken wallballs for 30 seconds? The answer was yes. The time ran out, I collapsed to the floor and my judge reported my final score to me. 503. I completed 25 wallballs into the 4th round, making this BY FAR my best event of this year's open. I placed 40th in the northeast region in this event. Compare that with my next best score, the Clean and Jerk from week 1, where I placed 250th and my worst score (Week 1's 9 min AMRAP) was 887th in my region. So to break the top 50 on this was a real underdog victory for me.

(*If you got that joke, congratulations. You're way old school CF)

But this success came with a price. When I woke up Sunday, my head was foggier and my nose runnier. Over the course of Sunday and Monday I got progressively sicker and I was laid out with a brutal cold all day Tuesday. It was during that day that I wrote my 15.2 recap which is why it was such an uninspired, just-the-facts piece of writing. Sorry about that. The cold is lingering today but I am at least functional again and capable of making dumb zone diet jokes. So, we'll see what happens this week. I haven't worked out since 15.3 but I plan on getting in an easy session tomorrow in hopes of being in fighting shape come Saturday.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Crossfit Games Open 15.2 Recap

I don't go too crazy trying to predict what each Open event will include but after 15.1/1a I was fairly certain 15.2 would be more of a lung burner. It turned out to be a repeat from last year's open. 

With a continuously running clock you have from 0-3:00 to perform:

An Overhead Squat

2 Rounds:

10 Overhead Squat (OHS) 95 lb

10 Chest-to-Bar Pull up (C2B)

If you complete that you have from 3:00-6:00 to complete:

2 Rounds:

12 OHS 95 lb

12 C2B

A chest-to-bar pull up

Then from 6:00-9:00:

2 Rounds:

14 OHS 95 lbs

14 C2B

This pattern continues as long as you can finish the ever increasing workload within each 3 minute window.

So, as soon as it was announced all the other members of Crossfit 212's competitive team were setting goals based on their performance in 2014 while also considering how they've grown as athletes over the past year. But I didn't compete last year. Having not had that experience I really had to think about it. After giving it some thought I made it my goal to get through the 16's which run from 9:00-12:00 on the clock. 95 lbs is a light OHS for me, so my plan was keeping those unbroken and then do whatever feels best on the pull-ups.

When I arrived at the gym that Saturday I really was not feeling it. I'd had a long week and I couldn't muster the same excitement I had for 15.1/1a. I mentioned this to some one of my teammates and they pointed out that this is actually a good event to go into emotionally neutral. You don't need to be revved up at the start because the workout really begins at the  6 minute mark. The 10's and 12's are like warm-ups.

The clock started and I calmly worked my way through the 10's. I finished with about a minute to spare and enjoyed the rest time. Then the 12's started. I approached them with the same calm pace and finished with about 40 seconds to spare.

Then came the 14's. Now things were getting spicy. I kept the OHS unbroken and I honestly don't remember exactly how I broke up the C2B but I don't think I did more than 5 at any one time without coming off the bar. I finished the 14's but unlike the 10's or 12's I wasn't given a big fat rest period before going into the next stage. So I carried all of the fatigue and elevated heart-rate of the 14's with me into the 16's. I still managed the first 16 OHS unbroken. I chipped away at the first 16 pull-ups and it was around this time that I realized I wasn't going to see the 18's. This came as a relief at the time. I could now see where the workout would end for me. The finish line was in sight. No matter how uncomfortable I was, when that clock hit 12 minutes the whole thing would be over. I kept the second round of 16 OHS unbroken, except for a brief rest behind my neck at rep 10. I got on the pull-up bar with about 30 seconds left and managed 6 pull-ups giving me a total score of 198 reps. This wasn't one of the top 3 performances in the gym, and therefore didn't contribute to our team score. But it's respectable and I'm ok with it. Every event can't be a 1RM Clean and Jerk.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Crossfit Games Open Week 1: 15.1/.1a

I know I'm behind on my 2015 CF games Open coverage. I've had some time-consuming developments in my professional life recently that I might write about here in the near future. 

Wilmington, NC: Home of the Cape Fear Comedy Festival

For now though, one thing that I will announce is that I've been invited to perform in the 2015 Cape Fear Comedy Festival in Wilmington, NC April 29th - May 2nd. I've submitted to a handful of comedy festivals over the course of my career and this is the first one that's given me a spot on their lineup, so it's an exciting milestone for me.

Now let's talk about these first two 2015 Crossfit Games open events.

I'd like to state here that my only goal for the open is to contribute to our team score at Crossfit 212 and to prove to myself that I'm still good at Crossfit despite the heavy strength bias in my programming. I have no delusions about qualifying for regionals. I've encountered a few regionals-level Crossfit athletes in my day. I've watched them work enough to know that I am not one of them. So I just want to see some events that enable my particular skill set to be put to good use and help out our team.

On Thursday 2/26 dramatic pause aficionado, Dave Castro announced 15.1:

9 minute AMRAP:

15 Toes To Bar

10 Deadlifts, 115 lb

5 Snatches, 115 lb

When this was announced, I was indifferent. There's nothing too intimidating about it but it's not exactly in my wheelhouse either. The barbell is light enough to keep the DL/Snatch unbroken. I knew it would just come down to pacing the toes to bar and not burning out my grip. Then... 15.1a was announced.

Starting as soon as 15.1's 9 min AMRAP is over, you have 6 minutes to establish a Clean & Jerk 1RM

Clean & Jerk 1RM's are almost as far inside my wheelhouse as you can get. If I was doing an MTV cribs walk-through of my wheelhouse, Clean and Jerk 1RM would be way up on the 4th floor as the grand finale. So this was something I could sink my teeth into. Below is a video of my lifetime PR from a meet in December 2013. 137 kg/302 lbs.

Post by Ryan Brown.

My advice to anybody performing an Open event is to go in with a strategy. Have a plan in mind, but don't be married to it. Over 50% of marriages to Open WOD strategies end in divorce because you said those vows with a resting heart rate.

I made a commitment to 3 sets of 5 for all my Toes to Bar. But around minute 7 of the AMRAP, I was lead astray and couldn't resist indulging in some sets of 3 and 4. I kept all the barbell work steadily unbroken and managed 169 reps. 11 reps shy of my 6 round goal.

The second that 9 minutes was over, I put the whole triplet behind me. Now the real work began. I quickly changed into my weightlifting shoes and loaded 225 on the bar. Easy lift. At this point my breathing and heart rate were returning to normal and the only thing that felt inhibited was my grip strength. Nothing some chalk couldn't fix. Next up was 255. No problem. I loaded 275 on the bar, rested about a minute. It took a little more aggression but the 275 went up about as fast as the 255. At this point I had met my goal. I wanted 275 and I had it. That's just over 90% of my all-time best lift, so I didn't really expect much more. But I had time left. I decided to get a little greedy. I loaded 290. and I waited. I watched my time expire. I knew I only had one shot at this anyway so I wanted to get in as much rest as possible. With 15 seconds remaining I set up and pulled. I remember it feeling strong off of the floor. My chest caved forward a little as I caught the clean in a deep front squat. I was off balance, in my toes but somehow I stood it up albeit very inefficiently. Now I was standing there with the bar racked on my shoulders, still in my finger tips. The weight bore down on my frame, making it hard to breathe. I performed a small dip-drive so I could regrip and get setup for the jerk. I've never had less confidence in a jerk attempt in my life. I wasn't sure if I could put this bar overhead but if I could, I'd have the biggest 15.1a score in the gym. I took a deep breath, popped my hips, and dove under the bar.

I suddenly found myself in a balanced split-stance, elbows locked overhead with 290 lbs of metal and rubber perched on my wrists. I brought my feet together, standing tall beneath the barbell and looked over at the clock to see the final seconds of the 6 minute window pass. The lift was good and I had secured the top men's clean and jerk for the team, lifting 95% of my lifetime best.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Into the Great Wide Open

Greg Glassman and Dave Castro discussing the scaled option for the 2015 Open.

I have successfully registered as a competitor in the 2015 Reebok Crossfit Games. Just ask the confirmation email in my inbox. (Or peep my athlete profile.) I know a lot of my readers are crossfitters, well aware of what "the open" is. The rest of you can follow this link if you're curious:

What is this "open" to which you keep referring?

This is the second time I've participated in the open, the first being back in 2013. I came in 249th in the Mid-Atlantic region if you were wondering. This year, I'm not just going to do the workouts, I'm going to write about them too.

Some things have changed in the 2015 Crossfit Games Open. For the first time ever, there's a scaled division for each event. There are rumors afloat that if the scaled division is a hit, the 2016 games will include scaled regionals and a scaled world championship in Carson. Start practicing your band assisted kip now! Tighten up those single unders! Expect skill-based events like "Least Hesitant Handstand Kick Up" or "Quietest Knee Joint Crunching During Pistols". The prize money awarded to the Fittest, Without Muscle-ups, on Earth is rumored to be 50 bit coins! Obviously people will go to great lengths when that kind of money is on the line. Don't worry, athletes in the scaled division are going to be drug tested but are only required to submit half as much urine as their Rx counterparts.

Come back next week to read my re-cap of 15.1, whatever it might be...

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Older Posts

Scott's Latte

Scott wandered the aisles of the book store. Scanning the titles along the shelves labeled "young adult literature". He slowly took in each book cover, even though he had no intentions of buying them. In moments of honesty with himself, Scott knew that this is exactly what he was doing in life. Taking in the options, looking at open doors and examining the contents but never quite stepping through a threshold. His was a rifle with a well-used scope but an untouched trigger.

In 18 minutes the man Scott was there to see would take to the podium which was set up in front of neat rows of folding chairs. Self-help guru, Jeffrey Maxwell would be reading from his latest book. Scott had already read half of the book and he was counting on it to change his life. I can't blame him. Changing your own life is hard. Outsourcing such a daunting responsibility to a book written by someone else has tremendous appeal. 

With his left hand Scott took sips of a vanilla latte procured from the bookstore cafe. It was good. He had considered a mocha but deferred to the barista. "Mocha or vanilla latte? What do you recommend?" he had asked, once again placing his fate in someone else's hands. Scott had fallen into the trap of believing that if you let someone or something else make a decision for you, then you can't hate yourself for the outcome. This wasn't working. Lately all Scott did was hate himself.

He could feel the laxative effect of the coffee taking hold. Luckily there was just enough time for him to head to the restroom before the reading. So he wove through the aisles and up an escalator to the bookstore men's room. Once inside the bathroom, Scott saw there were two stalls. One was occupied, conveniently leaving him only one option. He entered the available stall and relieved himself while thumbing through his copy of the book.

What happened next would change his life as much as he'd hoped the work of Jeffrey Maxwell would. Scott finished and stood up, waiting for the sound of a flush. But the flush never came. He turned around and realized this was no modern restroom. Over the past couple decades using a public bathroom has become a very automated experience. Aside from opening the door to step inside, nearly every other aspect of the human waste disposal ritual is dictated by machines. Toilets decide when to flush. Faucets turn themselves off and on in reaction to your presence. The appropriate amount of paper towel is dispensed with the wave of an arm. But this bathroom, in this bookstore, was the wild west. An unregulated world of shiny metal levers meant to be operated by human hands. Fallible human hands. Scott felt the pressure bearing down on him. He couldn't run from this anymore. He looked at the toilet bowl and something changed within him. He had an epiphany. He realized that if he didn't flush this toilet, it wouldn't get flushed. His waste would linger indefinitely. Sure, someone else would come along and flush it eventually, but that wasn't their responsibility. Scott realized that this was his vanilla latte shit. This was his toilet to flush. This was his life to live. At exactly this moment, Scott took ownership of his destiny.

Scott's balance shifted onto his left foot as the sole of his right broke contact with the tile floor beneath it. He stomped down on the handle and was invigorated by the power of free will. He watched as clean water came rushing into the toilet bowl, washing away the feces and thin sheets of tissue coincidentally bearing his own name. But he wasn't done. This was only the beginning. Scott charged out of the stall towards the sink where another challenge waited. But, without hesitation he turned on the faucet and allowed the water to run for what he knew to be just the right duration. In fact, he'd never been so sure of something in his life. He grabbed the lever of the paper towel dispenser and cranked it down one and three-quarter times. A voice coming from the deep corners of his mind asked, "Did this allocate the correct amount of paper towel to adequately absorb the moisture on your hands?" Scott replied to the voice, unshaken. "You're goddamned right."

Scott walked out of the bathroom, leaving his book in the stall. It wasn't forgotten. It was left behind, like the shed skin of a snake. He went down the escalator, walked past the podium and the neat rows of folding chairs, now filling with people. He passed the cafe and the barista. He walked right out of the bookstore and, finally, out into the world.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

 

Older Posts

Loner

I can be a bit of a loner. People don't really say "loner" much anymore. I think "introvert" has taken it's place because "introvert" doesn't have as much of a negative connotation. "Introvert" feels innate and un-chosen like hair color or height. "She's really quiet sometimes but she's an introvert. That's just how she is."  The word "loner" paints a different picture of someone who's maybe been hurt by people, leading to a dislike and distrust of others and a preference for black clothing. Personally, I use both terms interchangeably to describe people who are at their most peaceful, focused and natural during times of solitude and I surely identify as one of these people.

It's not that I dislike other humans or find it hard to connect with them. It's almost the exact opposite.

You're all wildly distracting. 

The behavior, opinions and reactions of other people fascinate me. If I am near you, I am concerned with you. The former cannot exist without the latter. But that concern requires energy. When I'm around people, my every word and action have to be sub-consciously processed through a complex "How will THIS make THEM feel?" filtration system. Yes, I know extroverted people have that filter too. What I'm unsure of is whether theirs is more efficient or less sophisticated. Either way, this filter can only be operational for a finite amount of time before I must withdraw. I do this by either leaving the situation to seek isolation or by retreating into my own head. Many of you probably know that charging your phone on airplane mode replenishes the battery twice as fast because staying connected to your network takes energy. Even if you're not engaging with the network, just that passive connection is draining. I'm the same way. Sometimes I just have to put myself on airplane mode. 

I estimate that I've been alone for 90% or more of my own training sessions. Periodically, I've had a few training partners over the years and I can appreciate the upsides to lifting in the presence of supportive peers, but nothing matches the peace and focus of a solo session where it's just me and the weights in an empty gym. Likewise, I'll sometimes work on jokes with other comedians. It's fun and provides insight that might not be found working solo but I never feel tapped into my full creative potential in a group environment like I do when I'm pacing around my empty apartment, thoughts racing inside my head.

I've learned to separate myself from humanity in the same way that a school teacher would separate two talkative friends sitting next to each other. I have to create an environment that allows for focus. If I don't remove myself from the herd, I'll never get anything done. The problem is that I still get lonely. I'm not a sociopath. I need to connect with people to feel fulfilled. I think it's for this reason I've naturally gravitated towards jobs where I'm around other people, but I'm working by myself. I do stand up comedy and coach group fitness classes. Both scenarios involve me developing a plan in my head, that isn't shared with or approved by anyone, and then carrying it out. For me, social interaction is at it's least taxing when it's done on my terms and I'm more or less in control.

One of my biggest fears is that my affinity for autonomy and time to myself leads people to think I don't like them or think I'm better than them. I'm sure there are people out there who don't realize the high regard I hold them in or how much I care. We live in a world of loud voices and big gestures, dominated by reality TV stars and polarized pundits. Those of us who don't wear our feelings and opinions on our sleeves are easily overlooked or misinterpreted. I know to some I can seem uncaring or emotionally distant but, unless I've indicated otherwise please just assume that I absolutely love you.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Read More

The Blizzard of 2015: Why I Love Severe Weather

Looking down from my building rooftop on Amsterdam Ave.

I'm writing this mid-blizzard. At 25 years old, even after four winters spent in the mountains of western North Carolina, snowstorms still excite me. Growing up in the south, snow was such a novelty. People were abuzz as soon as it was predicted.

"Heard we might be getting 4 inches Wednesday night."

"I heard it's gonna be 8 inches."

"Nah. It's gonna miss us entirely. We're too far south. We'll just get a dusting at the most."

To a kid in the south, snow was like a shitty divorced Dad you were supposed to spend one weekend a month with, always promising grand adventures but not even showing up half the time. You learned not to get your hopes up. Too many times you'd dreamt of sledding and snowball fights only to find yourself sitting in a classroom the next day.

I still love a disastrous, shut-down-a-city snowstorm but now it's for a different reason. I love how humbling it is. Look at the frenzy it sends us into. They're calling for this to be one of the worst blizzards New York has ever seen. (To the blizzard, that's probably a compliment.) Flights are cancelled. I'm rescheduling with my private training clients. Another coach is covering my classes at the gym because if I go downtown to work tonight I may not be able to catch a train back up. I'm losing money. It's chaos. That's what I love about it. Sometimes the routine of our man-made infrastructure seems unstoppable. Everyday we go to work. Trains run. Planes fly. Goods are produced. Services are rendered. Water, electricity and internet are all delivered without interruption. Most of the time these things occur with a regularity that matches the rising and setting of the sun. I think this has lead many of us to develop a reverence for our artificial system, equal to that which we have for forces of nature.

And then a blizzard hits to help us remember the stark contrast in importance between our own processes and those being carried out by our environment. Our sacred contrived rituals aren't so enduring. They're rather fragile, entirely malleable to the forces that truly govern this world. And even the most powerful human beings are stripped of their influence when confronted by these forces. Blizzards can't be paid off or made illegal. If a blizzard commits mass murder we don't even bother protesting. Nobody blogs about how we condone a blizzard culture. We just accept the fate handed to us by nature. 

On a midnight walk through the empty, snow-covered streets in my neighborhood.

I appreciate the reminder that this world is so much bigger than our little ant hill of humanity. Although day-to-day life may not always feel like it, a snowstorm reminds me that in the grand scheme of things we're in a mad scramble to adapt to our environment quickly enough that we might cling to survival, with knuckles as white as the avenue outside my window.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Swimming Sucks

People often ask if I played sports growing up. I guess a lot of people in the fitness industry have a background in competitive athletics. It makes sense. They enjoyed movement in their youth, then found a way to turn the teaching and discussion of movement into a career. I played ice hockey from the ages of 8 to 14. I quit to be more involved with high school theater. However there was a brief period, just before I quit hockey, that I considered transitioning to swimming. I guess I was tired of the water being frozen. So my freshman year of high school, I tried out for the swim team. It was an absolute disaster and I'm here to tell you all about it.

When I started high school my older sister was already a senior. I was in this new uncharted territory but she was a veteran. I looked to her for leadership. She gave me a piece of advice. She told me she had regretted not taking up a sport and said something along the lines of 

"Its a great way to make friends and girls will think you're hot".

Making friends and girlfriends were my some of my foremost priorities at the time, so this was a strong sales pitch. She made it sound so easy. Join the swim team, make the friends, get the girls. Bing, Bang, Boom. A silver bullet for all my social woes. So I started thinking "Yea, this swim team sounds like a pretty good deal."

A young Ryan Brown during the peak of his intense off-season training regimen. On the real, probably exiting the pool to snag another vanilla coke.

But was I qualified for a spot on the JV swim team at Wakefield High School? Was my body prepared for these rigors? I asked myself those questions back in mid-2003 and gave the following answer, which I found satisfactory at the time.

"Well, I mean... I know HOW to swim...we have a pool in our backyard... I sure do spend a lot of time in that pool during the summers... I've been known to hit a few laps here and there. I think I can do this."

Thinking my leisurely summer pool time was at all preparing me for the swim team was like thinking you're prepared to climb Mount Everest because you own a North Face jacket. My delusions would soon become apparent. 

I showed up on the first day of try-outs and felt out of place almost immediately. All these kids trying out seemed like they had been swimming a lot more than me. I wasn't helped by the fact that I looked ridiculous. I didn't own a speedo, like every other guy at the try out was wearing. My parents said they would buy me one after I made the team. So all I had to wear were red floral-print, knee-length swim trunks. Everybody else was sleek and streamlined like snake people. I was swishing around with a parachute of fabric held to my waist by a drawstring. They had giant cargo pockets. My outfit was practically designed to create the most drag possible. My only saving grace was my lack of body hair at the time. I didn't feel embarrassed but looking back on it now I'm positive some of these other kids were embarrassed FOR me. 

We moved to the pool's edge and I remember the coach, who I would later have as an English teacher, told us to do a certain stroke at a certain pace. She shouted some numbers I didn't understand. Nobody else seemed puzzled. She pointed to this big clock on the wall that was some sort of stopwatch or swimming metronome and said

"If you don't know how to use one of these, I suggest you figure it out real quick!"

Some animals are meant for swimming. Like this smiling, elated elephant.

Others animals are better at games with balls and sticks and math problems. Like this agonized man.

I guess I wasn't real quick enough because before I had time to stare at this contraption and make sense of it's workings it was already my turn to get in the pool and swim along with everybody else. The first lap was alright. After three, things were starting to burn and I felt my pace slow. By the 6th lap I knew I wasn't going to make the team. By the 8th one I didn't even want to. This was all happening inside my head before the warm-up was complete. I don't know if you're aware but, when you're swimming, you can't breathe most of the time. There are very brief and specific windows for breathing to occur. That turned out to be something I couldn't really tolerate for more than 5 minutes. Continuous swimming does not have my endorsement as an activity for people. Are we sure the human body is meant for this? It just feels like maybe we're forcing it a little. I have a hard time accepting sports that animals can beat us at. Our best human swimmers have nothing on the most average dolphin. What's our endgame here?

The tryout lasted 2 days and I attended both. That's right. I went back for more. I put back on the same shorts, still damp from the previous day and tightened my drawstring once again. I'd had that rough initial exposure but maybe now I was adapted. I could turn things around and emerge from day two victorious. 

NO. More of the same. Miserable and gasping for air in no more than 10 minutes. These were hour-long sessions. By the end of day two I hung up my shorts for good, in a competitive context, mind you. You bet I was still wearing them for a casual afternoon dip on my home turf.

At the end of the following week, the roster was posted. I had to go and check the list even though I already knew the result beyond the shadow of a doubt. I needed closure. I needed to know that swimming wanted me as little as I wanted it. I walked to the designated classroom after school to gaze upon the piece of paper posted on the teacher-swim-coach-hybrid's door. I scanned the list to find that I had not made the team. What a relief.

You subscribe to certain ideologies and magazines. Why not this blog? Enter email below:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Read More