November 08, 2012
Molly Godby may work out alone, but in the middle of the WOD she feels the presence of other garage CrossFitters who urge her to keep going.
Tick-tock. It’s just the clock and me. No one else dropping weights. No coach yelling at me to pick up that bar, to explode from the hips. Only me, my music, my sweat, my thoughts and that ticking clock, mocking me as I struggle for air.
I am not one of the many athletes who have an affiliate to call home. I work out five to six days a week, and I work out alone. All alone in the back of a warehouse at my husband’s office.
Even though I truly suffer alone, I know that I really am not all alone out here. In fact, I share my gym with other loners. We pass like ships in the night. What we see of each other is what we leave behind—drywall scratch about WODs and times, sweat on the floor, chalk on the bars, the evidence of our pain and our accomplishments.
CrossFit, from the instant I did that first WOD, instilled in me a never-quit mentality. No matter what the devil inside my brain is telling me, I will get it done. I will finish. But then there is that voice that creeps in and tells me, “No, you can’t do this. Drop the bar. Take a breather.” The cynical voice doesn’t care about accountability or progress or goals. It doesn’t care that writing the workout on the board means I must complete it. It is the voice of unearned reps and shaved time. It whispers, “No one will know, so who cares?”
Except I know. And I care.