Not this band…
Or this band…
I am in THIS band, but it’s not the one I mean.
I mean this one:
Yesterday’s CrossFit Women workout was a monster, and I’m still feeling the after-effects. It was five rounds of stuff that, taken individually, didn’t seem too bad. But the sum of the parts meant it was a palm-killer.
5 rounds for time:
10 sprawls + kb high pull, 20kg
10 kb swings + walking steps, 16kg
Crystal warned us she wanted a sub-20-minute finish, so the heat was on to keep moving. I actually like the sprawl+high pull thing, and I cranked through the first set of those and the swings feeling confident. The swing+steps are HARD, but Good, too.
I hit the pullup bar with the blue band – it’s maybe 1.5 inches wide – and was soaring over the bar. As much as I enjoy that feeling, it seemed like a bit of a cupcake. Pullups are not meant to be easy, especially when, like me, you’re still working on learning to kip. Easy is not the order of the day. Easy is not acceptable. There should be no smiling on the pullup bar (unless you’re feeling great about kipping unassisted, then you’re free to smile away).
Round two: same thing. The swings were a little harder, but I was still keeping a good pace and in halfway through round three, Crystal called 10 minutes. Sweet! I’m cranking!
But then my conscious kicked in about the band.
Damn the band!
I switched to the skinny purple one. It’s width? About half an inch. Just enough to provide the mental and physical support to get my chin just over the bar.
Those I can only do one or two at a time. And there is no “soaring” over the bar. My overall timing took a nosedive, but my self-respect enjoyed an upswing. Making it harder always feels good, in that really painful way.
So I finished rounds three, four, and the first five pullups of round five with the skinny purple band, when I found I could no longer get my chin over the bar. The last five, I was back on the blue band and finally, blessedly, called time.
After I’d eaten breakfast and showered, I had a penny-sized blister on my left hand, just below my middle finger. It’s almost like my palm is trying to flip me off.
I lanced and drained it (yuck!). In the middle of the night last night, I dreamt my hand hurt, and when I woke up for a 2:00 a.m. bathroom break, it really did hurt. Again with the lancing and the draining (and the yuck). By 6:00 a.m., it was filled with fluid again.
Lance. Drain. Neosporin. Band-aid. Deadlifts and shoulder presses at the craptastic gym. My palms look and feel like a braille sign. What does that braille sign say?
I’m with the band.
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