At one point in 2008, I declared 2009 to be the “Year of the Pullup,” fully intending to learn to do a kipping pullup during that year. Surely, I thought, if I have a whole year I can learn to do it. Everyone else can do it…
Then the Frankenneck happened and last summer I managed a deadhang chinup from a box and felt all kinds of optimistic about my kipping possibilities… then Thyroid Meltdown #2 happened… and then, frankly, a whole lot more of life happened. Pullups moved way down my priority list as merely keeping my everyday life on track took on new importance.
Now here I am, July 2010, still using the bands when the workout calls for high pullup reps and still struggling to really swing on my kip and still having a hit-and-miss relationship with a strict deadhang chinup.
I don’t even really care.
Here’s the thing: pullups in any form are still pullups. And they’re still freakin’ hard. Jumping, bands, kipping, strict… they’re all challenging for the person doing them. So all you beautiful people out there thinking “I can only do jumping pullups from a box” or “Some day I’ll be able to do real pullups,” just stop that right now. OWN your pullup in whatever form it takes, ’cause each one is a challenge. And each one gets you closer to the next step in the progression.
In other news… I’m apparently a seal now.
Not this kind:
Or this kind:
But pretending/aspiring to be this kind:
This month, Bonita’s Saturday workouts are all taken from a Navy SEAL CrossFit site, so we suffered mightily yesterday in the humidity – but not as much as the real SEALs, so I tried not to whine too much.
24 pullups (left-hand tear)
8 pullups (right-hand tear)
My time: 30:30
I’m no hero: when I ripped the callous on my left hand, I boo-hooed quite a bit, then slapped some tape over it and finished the workout. I 100% would have quit the workout if it had been bleeding, but it wasn’t – it was just annoying. Then on the last round, a callous on my right hand succumbed to the humidity and the friction of the bar, leaving a tender, pink hole the size of a dime between my index and middle fingers. Pretty!
Adding insult to injury, we ‘celebrated’ the birthday of one of the tribe with 24 burpees… during which I acquired a black-and-blue mark on my left knee.
Trophies? Badges of stupidity? You decide.
For me, they’re neither points of pride nor shame, just signs of life, a reminder that if you’re gonna play hard – metaphorically and literally – you’re gonna get knocked around a little bit… and that’s totally OK.
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