Me Vs. The White Board

I’ve heard CrossFit coaches talk about how workouts are “You vs. The White Board”. I think their implication is that it is just a blank inanimate, non-breathing, non-being object, so what you are really doing is competing against is yourself.

Well, I say Ha! And Bologna! (and nuts and broccoli if we Zone it….)

Oh, I see the evil white board staring back at me. At the beginning of the workout it acts all innocent. It is a blank, modest, rectangle just playing it coy, shuffling its feet in the dirt and whistling an unassuming tune as if to say, “I’m totally harmless.”

Then with an air of “hey, it’s no big deal,” it very casually posts the workout.

That is when you see the first glimmer of maliciousness. It is just a glint, and only later do you realize what it was.

“Burpees,” it says, to which I respond, “bleh! I hate those!” but I don’t want to appear weak, so I quickly add, “Bring. It. On.”

“Wall Balls, fourteen pounds” it continues.

“Fine, no biggie,” I say, restraining from wiping the nervous sweat on my brow, hoping that it will go unnoticed.

“400 meter runs…five of them!” It says, getting a little impatient its inability to outwardly unsettle my composure.

“OK, great.” I say, perhaps with a little less conviction, but if it really is just Me vs. The Whiteboard, I don’t want to give it the upper hand too early.

“Twenty minute time cap! GO!”

Well, that wasn’t very much warning, was it? But it is only twenty minutes; I can withstand pain, ignore lactic acid and trudge through twenty minutes of hell.

So I begin the workout in what I can only describe as a restrained sprint. Pushing as hard as I should knowing that, like rich food, money, and fame, too much too soon will only hurt in the end.

I read the tabloids, I know these things.

But the clock and the white board have a secret alliance and are in cahoots. As I get closer to my goal, the White Board, eyes red with rage, gives the Clock a subtle nod to speed up. The Clock; the Smee to the White Board’s Captain Hook, the Pinky to the White Board’s Brain, the Sundance Kid to the White Board’s Butch Cassidy; happily obliges. No way is the White Board going to give up a victory, not if there is anything it can do to stop me.

Yes, it is unfair, but there are no referee’s in this match. And technically I’m the one that keeps coming back to the White Boards’ turf, so I really can’t complain now, can I?

The clock is a vigilant cohort and is mindful to speed up the closer I get to completing the workout. It shares a gleeful chuckle with the White Board when there are only two short minutes left to go. Surely, they think sharing a knowing look, that I will tap out and bow down their greatness

But this is where there is a flaw in their maniacal plan. Silly non-living things! No way am I going to lose at this point. I’ve come too far at this point to fail. Not only am I going to prevail, but I’m going to do it with a minute to spare because that’s just the way I roll.

Okay, sure, I want to keel over and vomit when it is all done, but the points the White Board gets for those things are insignificant compared to a victory.

And so, to add insult to injury, I plaster my name with my time and my weights ON the White Board; a temporary tattoo to remind it that I am the victor of this round.

When I take a step back, I see what the coaches are talking about. The White Board has lost its life-like luster and is back to being inanimate. Taking a look at the clock confirms that the clock face isn’t actually alive. But they have merely retreated in the agony of defeat.

I know they’ll be back, but I’ve chalked up another victory, so I feel much better equipped to take them on tomorrow.