Dottir

by Katrin Davidsdottir

  After we returned from the beach I met up with the rest of my team back at the Marriott for a late breakfast. My mom, Heather and Ben and their daughter Maya, O’Keefe, and Afi all came by. Breakfast at the Games has become a tradition and whoever can make it will join us to sit and be with each other. The only rule is that we don’t talk about the Games. There is no talk about my placement or things that are already in the past. We don’t talk about events that are coming up. I don’t want to talk about any of that. It’s a time where I just want to appreciate them just being my mom or my friend. I treasure this time because it takes my mind off the competition. I can laugh and be myself.

  On that beautiful morning, with two successful days already behind me, I took a minute to feel gratitude for the amazing people in my life. I am so incredibly lucky.

  * * *

  For Friday’s final event at the 2015 Games, the fans had been given the power to choose our final workout. In a fan vote, they had selected Heavy DT over Double DT. What they didn’t realize was that by selecting the heavy option, Castro had slotted Double DT for the following year, and we faced it now. The combination of moderate-weight barbell cycling fits squarely in my wheelhouse. I knew I could win the workout. And when you have an event that you know you can win at the Games, you go for it. The points system rewards home-run hitters and the rankings at week’s end can be made or broken based on how many points you banked in earlier events. Ben saw the fire in my eyes and he encouraged me to show restraint in the early rounds so I could make the final push with no reservations.

  “There are other times when we can back off. But this one is everything you’ve got. Show me you’re smart, show me you’re strong. Show me smart, show me strong.”

  I repeated the strategy back to Ben one last time. In regular DT, my bar would never leave my hands. Tonight I would break after the 12 deadlifts and intentionally drop it to the floor. This would be the only time my bar touched the ground, however. Once the movements went above my waist, the bar would stay in my hands. He didn’t have to, but Ben reminded me that hang power cleans and shoulder to overhead are two of my favorite movements.

  The first heat of women were already staged to take the floor. My heat was lined up in the corrals. We could hear the clamor of the official opening ceremonies inside the tennis stadium. For what felt like ten minutes, a rumble in the distance turned into a swirl of thunder as the largest airplane I’ve ever seen passed over our heads at the close of the U.S. national anthem. The C-17 known as the Globemaster III drowned out all other noise. The sound was so deafening, it vibrated my body. I looked around and could tell everyone was as fired up as I was.

  The tribute held deeper meaning because DT and the Globemaster both served in the U.S. Air Force. Where Murph had honored U.S. Navy SEAL Lieutenant Michael Murphy, DT was dedicated to Staff Sergeant Timothy P. Davis, who had died in 2009. As in all Hero workouts, athletes felt a desire to go harder knowing they were honoring a real person who had made the ultimate sacrifice. The theatrics of the flyover and the cheering crowd took the excitement to another level. I had a good feeling this was going to go very well.

  Before an event, when Athlete Control staff moves us to our second corral, I take my deep breath. It clears my head and keeps me grounded. By focusing on something I’m feeling but had not noticed before—like the cool steel of the corral barricade or my heavy breath in my chest—I get drawn back into the present moment. The sensation I usually go back to is that of my feet in contact with the floor. I also ground myself by thinking of Amma’s second note: “Face to the Sky. Keep your feet on the ground.”

  I remind myself I’m not doing anything crazy or outrageous. It’s nothing I haven’t done before in training, and it’s nothing that I can’t handle. I remind myself to be here, right now. I exhale and I feel like I’m back in control. I’m no less nervous, but I’m just here now. I have confidence in what I’m about to do. I have a strategy. I have a game plan. I just need to execute.

  I repeatedly review the game plan in my head. I make sure I’m confident of what I’m about to do. I’m in my own world now. For an event in which I’m confident, I force myself to get aggressive. I slap my thighs right before my name is called, and I take the field.

  On that night, the venue was pulsing with energy as I ran down the stairs to my lane. My spine tingled.

  Before the event began, I took a deep breath on the starting mat. When I exhaled, my head emptied. The only conscious thought I allowed was a reminder to react quickly when the buzzer sounded. I perform best when I don’t think. When I just let myself go, I can get into the zone. I know what to do and that now it’s time to do it.

  “It’s double the reps. It’s double the suffering. It’s Double DT,” said announcer Sean Woodland, sounding almost cheerful as he greeted the audience at home.

  I followed my plan to the letter. I did not get flustered when Annie jumped out to an early lead. The first half of the workout was an Icelandic civil war. Annie, Sara, and I were virtually tied the entire way. Annie was directly next to me, and I could hear my name over the loudspeaker. All I was focused on, however, was my cadence. My grip felt fantastic and my hang power cleans were bouncing up to my shoulders. As we entered the final three rounds, the crowd got louder.

  In the seventh round, my grip was slipping and I broke my cleans after 7 of the 9 reps. It was not my plan, but I didn’t panic. I took one deep breath and forced myself to pick up the bar even though my body was screaming for rest. In my eighth round, I began to pull away and the momentum drove me harder. My pace was the same as it had been in my first round. I had sustained my effort. And as Sara made a last-ditch effort to catch me, I was able to throw my barbell overhead with the same ferocity as I had in Round 2.

  The fans on the stadium floor are on eye level in the tennis stadium. Looking into the crowd, I felt as if all fifteen thousand people were lifting me up and pulling me toward the finish line. I don’t live for these moments, but I sure do love them. An event win is the icing on the cake. The real feeling of pride comes from having a plan and executing it.

  In the postgame interview I was asked how being the champion had affected the way I trained.

  “I trained harder than ever. Every day I try to train like I compete so that every day I go as hard as I possibly can, knowing I’ll leave nothing in the tank. That way I know I’ll do the same thing out here on the floor.”

  The strategy was paying off. I left Friday feeling confident and happy.

  * * *

  When I was a gymnast, I would always come up short at meets. I was a beast in training but when it came time to perform in competition, I felt like a magnet for mistakes. I couldn’t figure out what was going wrong. I didn’t have performance anxiety. I was excited to compete. But I could never re-create my performances from training.

  I was trying to exceed my capabilities. I was good on the beam in training, but I would get so nervous during competition, trying to do something better than what I had practiced. I would jump higher and run faster, forgetting everything I had done in training. When I mimicked my training, I had great success. At the time, I didn’t understand why I was underperforming.

  So, I always messed up. I never tried to do my best. Instead, I always tried to do something better, to no avail. Competition can give you a boost, but it’s not a magic bullet.

  With Ben’s help, I had finally cracked the code in 2015. I had performed like a champion in competition by focusing on my best outcome—not my ideal one. Now, at the 2016 Games, I was offered another opportunity to overcome my battle with the rope.

  I had overcome my fear and was no longer focused on others being faster than me. I was simply excited to give it my best. I knew I wouldn’t win the event, but I was effectively cured of my rope-climb terror. Events that incorporated the StubHub Center’s berm were typically my favorite. In general, they were longer—I had to grind them out. They required a lot more fitness.

  The StubHub berm is eerily s
imilar to the hill we run in the parking lot adjacent to CFNE. The distance and incline are virtually identical. The only real difference was the stairs, which wasn’t enough to throw me off. The berm made me feel comfortable and at home. You get to the top and get a small rest before you give in to gravity and ride it back down.

  In the warm-up area, I was slightly stressed about how to approach the odd object they were calling the Snail. The Snail was an enormous cylinder, turned on its side. It was half filled with sand, making it difficult and ungainly as you tried to push it.

  Mat Fraser gave an impromptu tutorial: “To move something like that you should put as much force as you can into the middle. That’s the only way you’re gonna get it going.”

  Mat, who had just finished engineering school, analyzed all movements as if they were equations.

  He clearly thought what he was telling me was common sense. I didn’t let on any different, just bobbed my head and smiled. I had never touched the Snail, and would not be allowed to until I met it on the field, but Mat gave me insight on how to approach it.

  Many of the women were trying for large pushes in hopes of making up more ground. They had varying degrees of success. I took Mat’s advice and went a step further. With my arms locked at full extension, I pushed into that huge, annoying cylinder as if I were doing a handstand walk. I used short, choppy pushes to make it efficient and fast.

  I was in my own world for that event. I didn’t know where any of the other women were. Longer events into which I can settle in are my favorite. Two rounds in I started to feel too comfortable and increased my pace. Entering the final round, I pushed my pace to the limit. I was running fast now, and jumping up before I thought I could.

  When I came off the rope climb, I realized I was in a tight race. Sara was right next to me; we were neck and neck. I barely beat her over the line. It was another win.

  When I got back to the warm-up area, Ben congratulated me. He told me it was the best event he had ever watched me compete in. I had been smart and maximized every part of the event. I had not made silly errors by trying to be something I’m not, and I had pushed at exactly the right time. I was proud.

  * * *

  Gymnastics rings are difficult enough to hold yourself on top of normally. For the next event, Dave Castro asked us to turn ourselves upside down on them.

  Earlier in the week, he had told us we would face ring handstand push-ups. Further details were absent.

  It was the Monday prior to the Games in a small gym on top of a hill within range of Manhattan Beach. The space was tiny, and Mat, Michele Letendre, Cole Sager, and I were doing our best not to trample each other as Ben and O’Keefe looked on. The only rings in the building were set to hip height.

  “Kick into a handstand,” Ben instructed.

  There’s a misperception that gymnastics training should equate to success on the relatively modest movements that CrossFit incorporates on the rings. While this might be true for men, it fails to take into account that women are not trained on the rings. Even at the highest level of gymnastics, rings are reserved for men only. On my first approach, I didn’t even make an attempt. I had to step back while I tried to wrap my head around the movement.

  Michele flipped upside down as if she had been doing this her whole life. I was blown away. When I tried, I couldn’t overcome the feeling I was going to fall through the front and face-plant in a heap under the rings. We put down a crash pad. I made countless attempts but couldn’t commit. I would drop down as soon as I passed my comfort zone.

  Mat and Michele seemed to have more bend in their arms when they inverted. Neither of them seemed to be breaking a sweat. They were going into a half press-up to assume their balance before pressing out. I, on the other hand, was having a hard time overcoming my formal gymnastics training. My instinct was to do a normal press-up, but the instability of the rings made the move nearly impossible. I would keep my arms straight and locked, which forced me to balance at the hinge point in my shoulder. It was farther away, making the challenge more difficult by a multiple of ten.

  The good news was that I was watching them have success right in front of me. I knew that if they could figure it out, it was only a matter of time before I got it. The bad news was that the “matter of time” seemed to be a target that was moving in the wrong direction. After what seemed like an hour, I decided the only way I would succeed was to risk falling. I took a chance and threw myself forward. My shoulders traveled way farther in front of the rings than I was comfortable with. I sprawled my legs into a straddle and they caught the straps attaching the rings to the ceiling, saving me a split second before I toppled over. With one successful rep done, I knew I could do it again when it mattered.

  When we saw the competition floor, I was excited that the rings were set to a similar height as they had been in practice.

  The event was called The Separator. It was the second of the day and the ninth of the Games:

  THE SEPARATOR

  15 back squats (165 pounds)

  20 burpees

  6 ring handstand push-ups

  18 front squats (145 pounds)

  20 burpees

  4 ring handstand push-ups

  21 overhead squats (125 pounds)

  20 burpees

  2 ring handstand push-ups

  Time cap: 16 minutes

  In an event like this with so many unknown variables, there is really no way to guess what the outcome will be for you or the other athletes. I kicked up confidently into my first handstand and pressed it out.

  “No rep!” my judge shouted.

  I tried again and got another no-rep. I was successful on the third rep. The problem I now faced was that I had no idea what had distinguished the third rep from the first or second. I came down to take a rest. The frustrating part of no-reps is that I had performed 3 reps just to earn one. If that pattern continued, I would be in trouble. The judge reiterated the standard that had been briefed: The legs may not bend during the ascent. I truly had felt no difference between any of my reps. I did my best to ensure my legs stayed as straight as possible. I went slower than I thought I needed to, ensuring there was no wasted effort. I would go like hell to try and make up time on the squats and burpees.

  Because of the difficulty of the ring handstand push-ups, there was forced rest. That meant a lot of standing around. And a lot of looking around. I noticed Sara had started hot and taken an early lead before accumulating several no-reps. It wasn’t until the last round that I started to pull away. I went as hard as I could and I finished the last round.

  I was the first to come off the rings on the final set of two. The moment my shoes hit the floor, I sprinted like I was being chased. I went so fast, I couldn’t stop at the finish line without the help of the stadium wall. I hit it so hard, I bruised my palms. I didn’t care. I was in a state of pure bliss.

  “Yes!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  * * *

  In the post-event interview, I was asked if there were any movements or events I didn’t want to see.

  “No, I want to see everything,” I replied. “That’s why I train. I want to be challenged. And where else would you want to be challenged than here in the tennis stadium? This is where magic happens.”

  While I wasn’t caught up in the leaderboard, I was obsessed with doing my best. Now I knew a lot more about how to play the game; I wanted to capture every single point I could. My worst nightmare was having to rehash the weekend after it was over and identify all the places I could have done better or where I gave away points.

  Dave briefed the day’s final workout—called 100%—twenty minutes before it began. It was a sprint: 40 box jump-overs at 24 inches for the women and 20 D-ball cleans at 100 pounds. I was nervous. This would be short and explosive. Longer is better for me—there’s more room for adjustment, time for other athletes to make mistakes. This event had none of that. It was easily a sub-three-minute event full of opportunities to make costly mistakes.
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  When it started, I redlined almost immediately. Lateral jumping—a requirement in the event—is not among my strengths. My first mistake was doing too many reps on the box jump. I realized too late that I was on the wrong side of the box after my final rep. I lost time, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

  Just keep moving, I told myself. Shake it off.

  By the time I got to the D-ball, I was behind the other top women by a handful of seconds—an eternity in an event like this. I started throwing the D-ball like my life depended on it. The floor layout was well suited to seeing where your competition was. I was on fire, turning around to pick up the ball before it had even hit the ground.

  The rules dictated that the ball had to go over your shoulder before you could advance. D-ball over, turn, pick up, advance. I was in a hurry trying to use every split second to make up the time I had lost. My mind wasn’t keeping up with my body. I got the ball to my shoulder on the fifteenth rep. I was facing the finish line and had pulled even with the leaders. I threw my ball into the next segment of the field prior to completing the rep.

  As it was falling, I knew I had messed up. I locked eyes with my judge with the ball still in midair. “No rep!” he said loudly. One D-ball that late in the workout was so costly.

  I finished the workout and jumped on the finish box. I was so angry with myself. I had lost points on a stupid mistake that had nothing to do with my capacity. I had handed off points. I could have forgiven myself for the box-overs, but the mistake with the ball was killing me.

  It was late and it was dark outside already. I sat in the warm-up area and tried to stop fuming. When Ben came over, I vented.

  “It’s gonna happen,” he said. “No one is going to have a flawless weekend. You made that mistake. How cool is it that you now have an opportunity to come back?”