Dottir

by Katrin Davidsdottir

  After the paddleboard event, we returned to the StubHub Center for a throwback to the 2010 CrossFit Games, the first year the event was held in Los Angeles. We moved 720 pounds of sandbags from one side of the stadium to the other, jumping walls and climbing stairs to make it happen. To cross the stadium floor, Rogue had constructed an overbuilt wheelbarrow that felt heavier than all the bags combined. I had never used a wheelbarrow in my life before that. I loved that we were just doing lots of hard work. It was like Bootcamp had been moved to Southern California. There wasn’t a lot of strategy, but before the event Ben taught me the best way to distribute the weight and I got the hang of it quickly.

  Friday

  Friday morning started with the Hero workout Murph. In a class of workouts known for their difficulty, Murph stands out. In honor of U.S. Navy SEAL Lieutenant Michael Murphy, who was immortalized along with his teammates in the movie Lone Survivor, which details their heroic fight for life in the failed Operation Red Wings, the workout calls for hundreds of repetitions of pull-ups, push-ups, and squats sandwiched by 1-mile runs. The whole time, athletes wear body armor.

  MURPH

  For time:

  1-mile run

  100 pull-ups

  200 push-ups

  300 squats

  1-mile run

  Murph shows up a lot in CrossFit gyms on Memorial Day in the United States. Even people who live outside the United States will hit the workout on holidays like the Fourth of July and Veterans Day. But as common as it is, there were variables in Murph at the 2015 Games that most of us did not consider.

  The first was the format. Dave required all the work to be done on a single movement before moving to the next. In our home gyms, we would normally break the movements into 20 rounds of 5 pull-ups, 10 push-ups, and 15 squats, for example. In Dave’s world, we were starting Friday with a mile run and 100 pull-ups in body armor. The second variable was the heat. The event took place on the soccer-stadium floor in blazing sunlight. Reports of the temperature on the grass grew into tall tales: from 110 degrees to in excess of 120 degrees.

  On the field, Dave gathered us in a huddle and fired us up by talking about who Murph had been as a person and why this event was so important. We were so excited when the event started that everyone took off in a sprint. The run took us underneath the StubHub Center before looping around a side street and back the way we came.

  Underneath the stadium, I closed in on Kara Saunders from Australia. Kara was a top competitor and as I pulled up to pass her, she cut sharply in front me, forcing me to cut back. When I tried to pass on the other side, she cut me off again. I couldn’t believe it. But I had enough energy to elevate my pace and pass her on the gradual ramp that led past the television trucks and up to the stadium level. She finished fifteen seconds behind me. When I crossed the finish line, I turned to see her swerving like she was drunk before collapsing on the grass. It was only then that I realized she hadn’t been trying to block me. She was hanging on to consciousness by a very thin thread. Scarily, Kara blacked out and was carted away on a stretcher. I finished twelfth in the event, but more important, I was feeling fine. Some of the other girls were absolutely wrecked.

  While we waited for the fifty-five-minute time cap, we sought out whatever shade we could find. People hid underneath carts and behind equipment. If there was a sliver of shade, someone was in it. People were devastated, had and underneath the stadium, it had turned into chaos. Girls were crying, some were angry.

  On my final run, I was surprised to see medical staff helping Annie. I wasn’t allowed to go check on her until after the time cap, when I found her in the medical room. She had suffered heat damage. She looked confused and couldn’t finish the event. She said her vision was blurred and she could hardly stand on her own two feet. I had never seen her remotely close to this condition, and it freaked me out. Annie friggin’ Thorisdottir doesn’t get beat up by a workout. It was hard to see her so upset.

  Medical staff gave Annie 2.5 liters of saline solution intravenously over the ninety minutes that followed. She took the floor for the next event. Kara also recovered for the next event, but neither woman would bounce back completely. Immediately after Murph, Dave gathered competitors on the tennis-stadium floor for another briefing. All I wanted to do was jump in the ice bath.

  I sat between two of the more veteran Games athletes: the affable and funny Australian Chad Mackay and All-American Scott Panchik, who had finished fifth or better in three Games appearances before this one. We would face the Snatch Speed Ladder next. We knew the structure of the event. It was nearly identical to an event from the 2014 Games, the Speed Clean Ladder, only now the weight was going overhead. The stakes were literally being raised. Dave had announced this event in advance of the Games with few details. Now he filled in the gaps by briefing the weights we would be lifting. The final snatch weight for women was 180 pounds. I had snatched 183 at Regionals, but that was a 1-rep max. If I got a shot at the final barbell, it would mean I had already successfully completed fourteen bars, five of them over 135 pounds. I got up to leave, assuming Dave had already delivered his punch line.

  “Wait for it,” Scott said, pointing out that Dave was still glaring at us intently. “Betcha it’s another Hero.”

  Scott was a student of the game and very familiar with Dave’s style of showmanship. No sooner had he said it than Dave started to speak again.

  “At Regionals we had Hero Friday. You’ll do that again here now.”

  I slapped Scott Panchik on the thigh. He had guessed right.

  “Tonight, we will do the Hero WOD DT.”

  He explained the format of another challenging workout, but this one featured the barbell. I was excited.

  DT

  5 rounds for time:

  12 deadlifts

  9 hang power cleans

  5 push jerks

  *All at 105 pounds

  “That concludes the Friday-evening event announcements,” Dave said. “You guys can go ahead and start warming up for your squat snatches.”

  I jumped up and walked away as quickly as I could. I wanted to get to the ice baths first. I was first in line, speed walking ahead and already thinking how I would approach the quarterfinal snatch weights. I was almost close enough to touch the 20-foot-tall entryway banner that hung across the cavernous mouth leading to the tunnel beneath the StubHub Center when Dave’s voice stopped me in my tracks. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

  “You know what? Turn around,” he said.

  He looked to the sparsely populated arena and told them they would be involved in the decision-making process for the event. We weren’t going to do DT. We would be tasked with either Double DT—10 rounds instead of 5—or Heavy DT—the standard workout with 145 pounds.

  “What you guys do tonight will be decided by the CrossFit community. Now you can go.”

  I loved the idea of a fan vote. The crowd that attends the CrossFit Games is unique. It gets lovingly referred to as “The fittest crowd on Earth.” The fact that they are participants of the methodology that feeds the sport before they are fans creates a feeling of symbiosis and shared struggle unique to anything I know. When I am grinding through the end of a brutal event, the encouragement that fills the stadium comes from a place of understanding. The fans here have had to dig deep. They have felt the pain of a hard workout and the reward that comes after. When I’m in my deepest holes, it’s the Games fans who can lift me up, because in a way, we have suffered through it together.

  Now they would decide what challenge we faced. When I got to the warm-up area, I pulled out my phone and voted for Heavy DT. The 600 reps in Murph made me think that shorter was better, no matter how heavy it was. I focused on recovery and got what little rest I could before we hit the Snatch Speed Ladder.

  By my new standards, I was already feeling like a champion. On the leaderboard, however, my finishes were unremarkable: eighteenth, fourteenth, and twelfth. Things turned around in the Snatch Spe
ed Ladder.

  I felt good in the warm-up area. I was standing by Annie and I could see she was emotional. Her body was not following her commands, and I could tell it was really troubling her. I gave her a hug and told her it was going to be all right. She was fighting back tears and to be honest, I was impressed she was even standing there, ready to take the floor.

  In the quarterfinal round my movement felt like butter and the weights moved easily. I breezed to a first-place finish. As the weight got heavier in the next round, I slowed my charge but made no mistakes. I fell behind Nicole Holcomb and took second in my heat. Between heats, we sat in the equipment tunnel and waited as the names of qualifying athletes were called. I was pleasantly surprised that we both were fast enough to advance to the final, where we would join the top performers from other heats. Annie was clearly disappointed not to advance, but she gave me a hug and celebrated for me.

  As I walked out onto the competition floor for the Snatch Speed Ladder final, play-by-play commentator Sean Woodland made an uncharacteristic error to the viewers at home: “Two rookies and three vets in this winner-take-all final. The two rookies: Brooke Ence and … I’m sorry, one rookie and four vets.”

  To his credit, the statement was symbolic. No one at the Games expected me to perform well. My previous performances at the Games had been lackluster, and last year I was absent. In my mind, this was a rookie season as a brand-new athlete. Just by gaining entry to the final, I was guaranteed a top-five finish—the first of my Games career. I was thrilled. It was just another confirmation that my approach was working.

  One of the vets he was referring to was Elisabeth Akinwale. She was incredibly fit and had a gymnastics background. At the Games, she had earned a reputation for her heavy-barbell prowess. It took everything I had not to be intimidated as I lined up next to her.

  The snatch is technical. As weights increase, the smallest of deviations can lead to failure. The lift is similar to a golf swing in that even tiny distractions can submarine an otherwise good rep. I put blinders on and kept my gaze locked on the wall at the far side of my lane. I focused on burying every single rep. I would set up, take a deep breath, drop my hips, then pull. The “miracle snatch” from Regionals was back. I successfully threw myself under 160. Then 165 and 170.

  I let myself get caught up in the excitement on the second-to-last barbell. Elisabeth and I arrived simultaneously and I watched one of the leaders, Nicole Holcomb, fail her first attempt as I addressed my bar. I pulled before I was set and although I got under the weight, I dumped it immediately on the ground in front of me. I recomposed myself and caught my next attempt. It was behind me, and my arms had to stretch like rubber bands, but I recovered. Good rep. Nicole and Elisabeth came with me to the final bar. Brooke Ence had failed her first attempt and we all were now back in a virtual tie. I took my time, chalking my hand and refocusing. Everything fell in place at 180 and I sprinted across the line, just two seconds behind Brooke.

  Second place in an event at the Games. I gave Brooke the biggest hug and smiled from ear to ear. I was feeling the magic of Regionals again, only now it was magnified.

  We laughed and danced a little bit in celebration. That feeling is what dreams are made of. But win, lose, or draw, it was time to turn the page. I went back to the warm-up area and celebrated with my team before we turned our focus to DT. The fans had opted for heavy barbells. It was a choice welcomed by the athletes, as we had already put in so much volume.

  My momentum carried into the evening. The evening events inside the tennis stadium stand out from all the others; the bright lights bring intensity to an intimately small stadium and comp floor. There was always an electricity in the air from the anticipation of what’s to come on the competition floor. As an athlete, I could feel it and it would propel me to my best performances. Before DT, Ben told me to start slower than I wanted to. I stuck to the plan even though I had a temptation to push. I finished 11 reps behind Sara. I felt fantastic.

  Saturday

  Everything was falling into place this year. For two years, I had floundered at the bottom of the CrossFit Games leaderboard. Last year I wasn’t even here. Now I was gliding through the weekend. I was with a team that I loved, and I was having the time of my life at a competition where I had previously only felt disappointed and embarrassed.

  I didn’t check the leaderboard once, on principle. I didn’t need it to know how dramatically I was exceeding my expectations. I would give my best effort, finish happy, and move on. Then repeat. I was in the zone.

  But after two days and five events, my sunshine-and-rainbow walls threatened to crumble and bury me by Saturday afternoon. Although I was avoiding the leaderboard, I couldn’t avoid the bright white jersey overall leaders must wear. It was pressure I didn’t need. I was being tested.

  We had just completed the Sprint Course 1 and 2 that included obstacles. I had underperformed, but I wasn’t unhappy with my effort. I turned the page to move on. But it was harder this time. I was letting my brain take over; it was stealing my confidence.

  The day’s second event, the Soccer Chipper, includes flipping a so-called Pig that weighed 395 pounds a total of 100 feet, as well as 4 legless rope climbs and a 100-foot handstand walk. Legless rope climbs—the same movement I had repeatedly failed at last year’s Europe Regional before crumbling into barely controllable sobbing as the whole world watched. To add insult to the injury, the ropes at this year’s Games were thicker in diameter. It wasn’t enough to ensure failure, but it wasn’t helping.

  In my head I started thinking about how fast the other girls were going to move. I worried about my placement and where I would finish in relation to them. Anxieties I thought I had put behind me were bouncing around in my brain when CrossFit HQ’s Angel Forbes, part of the Athlete Control team, approached me. “Here’s your leader gear. Congratulations! Please make sure that you’re wearing it when you take the field for the next event.”

  I hoped it was a mistake. I had no idea I was in first place. It wasn’t where I wanted to be. I had finished poorly on Sprint Course 1 and 2—a pair of twenty-first-place finishes. I was overcome with terror when I realized everyone was about to see me fail at legless rope climbs. It was all I could think about. I’m going to be wearing the leader jersey and they are all going to watch while I fail again.

  To Angel’s dismay, my eyes welled up with tears and I began to cry before she had even turned to leave. It must have looked more like she had handed me a note detailing how I was going to die than a token of my success. She tried to console me. Then I lost it.

  I looked around frantically and saw Frederik Aegidius standing nearby. He saw the distress in my face and tried to help me. “Just find Ben, please! I need Ben here!” I watched Frederik run off into the crowded warm-up area that was already in full preparation mode for the event that was about to end me.

  When Ben approached, I was holding the leader jersey like it was a dirty diaper. Before he was close enough to hear me, I rattled off my mounting insecurities like verbal diarrhea. “I have to wear this thing and everyone is going to see me fail and I’m so nervous for this event … this is terrible.”

  He absorbed my babbling without reacting. He was calm—that made me feel better. But I needed him to say something. He waited for me to make eye contact.

  “I don’t care about the leader jersey. Neither do you. That thing doesn’t matter. It’s Saturday afternoon at the CrossFit Games. The leaderboard is irrelevant. You’re just going to go out there and show everyone how hard you’ve been working.”

  Hard work was an understatement. We had been maniacal about training rope climbs.

  I had been traumatized at last year’s Europe Regional. Legless rope climbs had exposed an enormous weakness. I had been humiliated in front of the world. I had questioned my identity as a CrossFit Games athlete.

  I got panic attacks when rope climbs appeared in a workout. The anxiety led to decreased physical strength and tears. When I stood in front of
a rope, my arms went numb. Even in training, I would get so nervous I couldn’t breathe.

  I would jump up for an attempt and my arms wouldn’t work. This strengthened my belief that I was terrible at legless rope climbs, so I would panic and then fail again. The vicious cycle repeated endlessly. Sometimes I had to leave the room just to breathe.

  As a cure, Ben prescribed three legless rope climbs every single day. Progress had come slowly, but it had come. On the last legless-rope-climb session before the Games, he had me complete them for time. The first two went okay, but I got really tired. I looked at the clock and made a mental note. My final climb took me twenty seconds exactly, despite the fatigue I was feeling. I had made huge strides in the past year. That’s what Ben was reminding me of now as I faced the Soccer Chipper.

  “It’s just like every other day in the gym. Just picture the two of us in the gym. Climb the rope.”

  I knew he was right. We had worked hard at this.

  “Come down from your first climb and rest until I would tell you that you’re ready again.”

  Ben and I have worked together so closely that we have one mind in practice. He can tell by my facial expression and body language how I’m handling the discomfort, how hard I’m working, and when I’m ready to go.

  “All I want you to do is make two rope climbs.”

  It was a modest goal. Our strategy was to complete half the prescribed work.

  Okay, I thought. I can do that.

  Everything seemed to turn around in an instant. My worries about failing in front of everyone evaporated. Instead I was excited to show everyone how hard we had worked and how much I had improved.

  I was smiling as I entered the stadium. There was nothing on my mind but two rope climbs. Then I realized that in my obsession with the rope, I had overlooked what preceded the climbs: a new implement called the Pig.

  I won’t have to worry about the rope climbs if I don’t make it past this thing, I thought.