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YOU WIN OR YOU LEARN
ÞÚ VINNUR EÐA ÞÚ LÆRIR
August 6, 2017
Momentarily, I forget where I am. The ceiling looks unfamiliar, the bed feels foreign. I start to wake up; the sheer soreness I feel hastens the process.
It’s Sunday—the final day of competition at the 2017 Reebok CrossFit Games in Madison, Wisconsin.
I fight my eyes open. Gravity was absent in my dream; now it feels as though its strength has doubled in my consciousness. “Tired” falls devastatingly short of describing my physical condition. I stretch my arms and wince in pain. I feel every movement from each of the ten events of the previous four days. Everything hurts—quads, calves, hamstrings—all vibrate with a consistent, dull ache. The smallest of muscles whose existence I previously ignored make their presence known with sharp, stinging intervals. My forearms and biceps feel bruised. I swear there’s a knife buried between my shoulder blades.
I’m twenty-four years old. Right now, I feel like I’m sixty-four.
I’m no stranger to pain. My chosen profession as a CrossFit Games athlete forces me not only to make pain a habit but to find new and creative ways in which to experience it. I’ve been here before. And I don’t mind it. It’s my life’s work to be here—at the “ultimate proving grounds for the fittest athletes on Earth.”
The Games are first and foremost a celebration of the world’s largest fitness community and of the athletes who represent the pinnacle of that community. In practice, the Games take inspiration from all disciplines of modern sports and combine them with manual labor and mental-fortitude tests borrowed from U.S. Navy SEAL training. What the World Cup is to soccer, the Super Bowl is to football, and the World Series is to baseball, the CrossFit Games is to fitness.
The Games crown the Fittest on Earth through tests that assess athletes’ competencies by any and all conceivable measures of fitness, which CrossFit defines as increased work capacity across broad time and modal domains. To speak plainly: It combines the marathoner, the gymnast, and every type of weight lifter into one tidy package. It is observable, measurable, and repeatable. And, therefore, testable.
As I gingerly test each sore limb, it occurs to me this might be my last day as “Fittest Woman on Earth.” I don’t know exactly where I am on the leaderboard, but I know enough to know I’m going to have to fight today. I try to dismiss the thought as best I can.
Control what you can control, Kat, I tell myself.
The old me would have thrown herself a pity party. But I’ve grown substantially as a person and an athlete; my 2014 self wouldn’t recognize similarities. When I began my professional career, I was immature and reactive. I didn’t realize there was any other way. Much of the credit goes to my coach, Ben Bergeron. The mental toughness I developed under Ben’s coaching is the reason I’m here, attempting to become the only woman in history to win the CrossFit Games three times.
I’m still braiding my hair when Ben knocks on my door. Ben has become accustomed to this. I’m always late. While he’s transformed nearly every corner of my mind, he has yet to cure my chronic lateness. Unfazed, he picks up my bags and takes them downstairs. He comes back and sits on the edge of the bed, the only surface not overrun by piles of clothing.
As I stand in front of the mirror, I imagine an alternate reality where I’m not a professional athlete. Maybe my hands aren’t covered in calluses. Maybe I’m an engineer, as I once set out to be. Or a lawyer, like my grandfather. Maybe I have a dog. Maybe I have a boyfriend.
A throbbing pain in my biceps reminds me I chose this life instead. I’m a professional athlete. I’ve chosen to live by a code that permits only a narrow bandwidth when it comes to lifestyle: diet, rest, training, recovery. I’ve studied how champions live and I’ve done my best to imitate their best practices. What I want requires laser focus and discipline. I must tightly control all my activities. Winning the Games has required monumental time and effort on improving myself. I don’t consider myself selfish, but I want to be justified. As the best CEO, writer, or diplomat makes intentional choices on where to focus their effort, so, too, must the fittest athletes on Earth. This a choice, not a sacrifice.
Finally, my hair is battle ready. Ben and I leave the hotel to walk across the street for breakfast at a small café called Gooseberry. We order the same thing we’ve ordered every morning all week: eggs, greens, oatmeal, and coffee. Ben, a known crazy person, doesn’t drink coffee.
We don’t talk much during breakfast. The silence is comfortable. It’s a sign of profound friendship, I think, when the quiet feels just as soothing as deep conversation. Ben became my coach in 2015, and after years of mutual struggle and countless hours of tinkering, he is so much more. Our relationship involves the familial bonds between mentor and student, athlete and coach, confidant and friend. To me, he’s family.
The drive to the venue is the last piece of our pre-competition ritual. Within the confidential confines of the car, we detail strategies and make necessary reinforcements to my mental preparation. It’s been this way since 2015. Ben makes a joke, and for a second I forget my nervous butterflies. I used to fear my butterflies, but I’ve become friends with them over the years. Being nervous is a good thing. It means you care. It means your body is physically preparing for the coming task. Welcoming the butterflies is my first order of business when heading to the venue. At the end of the day, what you feel doesn’t matter—it’s what you do that makes you brave.
This year, the drive is different. Everything is different—from the sights and smells to the venue itself. Most notably, the drive is far shorter than in years past. As a result, so, too, is our preparation time. Over the previous five years I had learned to navigate Games competition at the StubHub Center in Carson, California. The layout, staff, and protocols had become familiar. I had a routine there. This year, I was navigating new territory.
I was unsure about Wisconsin. I felt like my safety blanket had been snatched away. I wasn’t scared, but I didn’t feel safe. Until this year, the StubHub Center was all I knew when it came to the Games, and I had so many emotions tied to that venue. I transformed as a person and an athlete while competing there. So many of my greatest moments and memories took place there.
All year long I had come to crave the magical combination of sights and sounds that seemed intrinsic to the bowl of StubHub’s Tennis Stadium. Just by closing my eyes and thinking about it, I could hear the roar of the crowd resonating in my bones, sending tingles up my spine. I often replayed times when I would seemingly lose control of my body and feel as if I was floating under the Friday Night Lights. In training, I would often try to conjure that rush of adrenaline—the deafening roar of the fittest, most enthusiastic crowd on Earth carrying me over the finish line. Would that magic be transported to Wisconsin?
As a matter of team policy, we don’t spend time or energy on the leaderboard. That is a well-established truth among those who know me. But I’d be lying if I said I was oblivious to my current standing at any given point in the competition. Short of going blind and deaf, that would be impossible. Massive, on-field screens display fancy graphics and scoreboards. Indefatigable on-field announcers amp up the crowd with real-time standings.
“Katrin Davidsdottir has some ground to make up, if she wants to get back to the podium!”
A constant stream of cameras and interviews seek information for fans at home.
“Kat, you’re the two-time champion. You’re currently 110 points back in fifth. What will you change for tomorrow?”
If that weren’t enough, where you stand on the floor is where you sit in the overall points race. Competition lanes are reshuffled prior to each event. The leaders are featured dead center, with their chasers cascading out to the perimeters from first to worst.
The trick, then, is not to waste your energy dodging interviews, closing your eyes, and plugging your ears. Rather, the trick is to filter the information appropriately. The leaderboard tells a story of what happened. It’s in the past. We constantly move forward with our game plan and focus only on the next right move. Everything else is background noise. The next moment, the next rep, the next event are what we can control. What’s done is done, and dwelling on mistakes or “shoulda, woulda, coulda” scenarios is a waste of time and emotional energy that competitors can’t afford. Easier said than done.
Sunday mornings at the Games have traditionally been my jam. The events usually feature grunt work, requiring grit and the ability to grind after multiple days of physical challenges. They also tend to feature a lot of running. Sunday mornings are special to me, and I enter the final day determined to fight. It doesn’t occur to me that I might be out of the running to win even with a miraculous day. This morning’s event—the Madison Triplet—shares DNA with the Sunday events of the past. This is where I excel. I can feel it. This is where I dig in my heels. Now, I fight.
MADISON TRIPLET
5 rounds for time:
Run 450 meters
7 hay-bale clean burpees (70-pound sandbag for women, 100-pound sandbag for men)
I’m amped. I cruise through my warm-up in the massive exhibition hall that houses the athlete warm-up area. I’m anxious to get on the floor. Pacing on the self-propelled Assault Air Runner, I visualize the competition rush and feel adrenaline dripping into my bloodstream. I’m picturing myself sailing past the other women and being first over the finish line. Suddenly, Ben snaps me out of my visualization. That’s when I realize I’ve gotten carried away. I’m pushing my pace in my warm-up—and I’ve been at it for twenty minutes. That’s the same amount of time I'd have to complete the Madison Triplet. I’ve made a mistake.
Soon after I dismount, Games staff usher me and the rest of the athletes in my heat between multiple metal barricades to march us across the parking lot, into the venue, and to the starting line. For this particular event, Games director Dave Castro, a retired U.S. Navy SEAL instructor, is exhibiting his flair. Stacked hay bales are a nod to the Midwestern locale, while obnoxiously yellow 70-pound sandbags pay tribute to the host city’s famous cheese curds.
My plan is to use the first two rounds to feel out the event and settle into an aggressive pace I can maintain. The 450-meter run is modest. It takes us out into the open space north of the stadium on the perimeter of the broadcast compound, where dozens of cameras and hundreds of people are sending images to television and social media platforms.
Sam Briggs—the 2013 champion known for her endurance prowess—leaves the stadium like she was shot out of a cannon. I’m immediately faced with a split-second decision: Latch on to the lead pack or take a gamble their pace will falter. I accelerate for ten steps. But my body is downshifting, and a wave of panic floods over me. I’m in a no-man’s-land behind Briggs and the leaders and in front of the main group of women. Something isn’t right.
When I arrive at the burpees, they feel more taxing than annoying. Unusual. The cadence is awkward: throw the sandbag, drop to the ground, hurdle over the hay bales. I have to concentrate to avoid throwing the sandbag and immediately hurdling over the hay. Mistakes are costly.
By the second round, the imaginary tether connecting me to the event leaders snaps. My body is throttling down my speed, and I seem to have no say in the matter. I fall back into the middle of the pack.
What is happening to me?
My running feels like trudging. The burning, tingling sensation of lactic acid spreads rapidly throughout the muscles in my legs. My quads and calves are screaming. My feet feel like concrete blocks. I’m familiar with all these sensations but they typically appear when I’m close to finishing, not in Round 2.
In Round 3, the crowd noise sinks to a whisper, and my field of vision slowly evaporates from my peripheral. All I can see is what’s directly ahead of me. I’m laser focused on the competitor just beyond my grasp—more for directional guidance than competitiveness. I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out.
The final two rounds are a blur. I’m going through the motions, doing my best to minimize the damage and, more important, to stay conscious. I fall farther and farther back on the runs. My push simply isn’t there. It’s like I’m running in quicksand or navigating a dream in which my body disobeys every order I send it. As I enter the stadium for the final round, Sam Briggs finishes the event.
I finally stumble across the finish line and collapse. I’m shell-shocked. This is the most disappointed I have ever felt in a Games event. I immediately search my brain for answers. Maybe I’m sick. I was like a stranger in my own body for the entire event. The fatigue slowly subsides on the walk back to the athlete warm-up area. That’s when I remember: My twenty-minute warm-up. As a two-time champion, I had made a rookie mistake.
I sit by myself, processing the weekend so far. Good, bad, or indifferent, I always allow a brief moment to indulge my reaction and assessment. It’s the only way to successfully compartmentalize emotions and effectively move on. Now I allow myself to be disappointed. How could I have been so stupid?
I choose to refocus my attention on two things: First, there is no more room for mistakes. To be the champion, I’ll have to be flawless and aggressive. Second, it’s not over. In the Sport of Fitness, anything can happen. Ben’s notion of competitive excellence is so ingrained in my psyche, it might as well be tattooed on my brain: We give our best effort regardless of circumstance. Where you are on the leaderboard is irrelevant. We have one speed—all in.
The inverse also applies. My favorite training partner, Mat Fraser, is having an experience the opposite of mine. Basically, he is destroying the competition. Barring an injury or a lightning bolt shot from heaven, Mat is on track to win his second consecutive championship by a record points margin. Regardless, after every event, he focuses on opportunities for improvement. He could complete only the minimum work requirement for the remainder of the competition, but instead he continues to push. He’s hungry for improvement, even after event wins. His scenario and mine are both opportunities to display competitive excellence. If I’m being honest, though, I’d prefer to be in his shoes right now.
Shortly after the Madison Triplet, Game staff gathers us competitors in the warm-up area for the briefing on our next event. Head judge Adrian “Boz” Bozman is curt and brief as he explains the standards for the next event: 2223 Interval. The event is the first of its kind. There will be periods of work followed by one-minute rest periods:
Copyright © 2019 by Katrín Davíðsdóttir. Foreword Copyright © 2019 by Ben Bergeron
