CrossFit competitions are intense tests of physical skills—but they’re also where colorful characters let it all hang out. A now-sober Kevin Daigle reports.
The more I compete in CrossFit, the more I learn about myself—including how bad Rob Orlando and James Hobart can kick my ass.
Having just returned from Albany, N.Y., and the Northeast Regional event, I should be ready for a long summer’s rest and recovery. Strangely, I’m fired up about training as never before.
What the hell is wrong with me? I just got my ass beat at regionals like the Karate Kid sans Mr. Miyagi. I shouldn’t be excited about training. Is it because I finished 29th? While I don’t consider my finish that impressive in absolute terms, it met my goal, and it isn’t a bad spot in the pool of approximately 212 firebreathers who started at the sectional level. Am I excited to train because the volume (for those of us who didn’t make the cut for the Albany Crippler final WOD) was fairly low for a competition? No, that’s not it. My shoulders burn like the morning pee after a night at the Bunny Ranch in Vegas.
I realized what it was on my drive to work the following Tuesday morning: CrossFit isn’t real life. No one has that much fun in real life—at least not with clothes on.