I'm a landmark guy.
Tell me to take "south this” and “I-70 that" and I'm lost. But tell me to “turn left at the two-story home that looks like it’s straight out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre” and I’ll know exactly where I need to go.
Landmarking doesn't stop for me when the road ends either. It’s part of everything I do: writing, coaching, training. It doesn't mean I don't know numbers. I can rattle off the times and lifts of my athletes at Practice CrossFit like a young Louie Simmons with hair, but not because of the numbers themselves. Rather, it’s because of the memory of where I was, who I was with, and how it felt when those numbers were set.
When Abby hit a 165-lb. clean and jerk during 15.1a, there was a small crowd in front of her, all holding their breath. Some were seated on plyo boxes, while others sprawled on the gym’s green turf. Somewhere a toddler laughed. When she punched the weight overhead the entire room erupted before she even recovered her feet. I'll never forget that, and neither will she.
I remember the guy with a nose ring who, during our first Open, lost his shit on double-unders and tossed his rope like a kid who had to share his Legos. He stomped about and made a mess of things for an entire heat.
"It's just a jump rope," I said a day later. It was a conversation neither of us wanted, but both needed. I learned a lesson in patience and made a true friend; he learned it's just a damn jump rope.
It's moments like these that make each Open workout a milestone, a landmark, if you will, on the road called CrossFit. A marker my friends and I look back on when we get lost, when the training days blend together like dinner on a crowded plate and everything starts to taste the same.
"Remember when Chris Skyped the entire Open workout because he was coaching volleyball two states away?"
"Remember when Mindy's 14.1 score was better than half the Leaderboard and she was eight months pregnant?"
"Remember when Garon didn't give up on 14.5, and no one gave up on him either?"
We remember each landmark, proud to have been a part of it, tucking it away in our memory for the next time we’re lost.
