#BuiltByAyres

19 March 2019

“How many push-ups can you do?”

It was my first personal training session at CrossFit 6S with Coach Dave Ayres. We had met the week before to talk about my journey as a masters endurance runner and my desire to return to the marathon after a four-year racing hiatus. Now he was assessing my overall fitness and determining the work we had ahead of us to get me to the start line of an October marathon.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “A couple?”

Dave gestured to the floor and I got into position to hoist and then lower my body weight as many times as I could. I pushed myself up, paused for a fleeting second, and lowered back down. I imagined my palms sending down deep roots for support as I lifted myself up a second time. My arms started to wobble on the ascent. Surely, though, I would at least be able to reach maximum extension a second time? I struggled to push through the halfway mark. “Just a little bit higher,” I begged myself. But it was to no avail. Two-thirds of the way through that second push-up, my upper body gave out and I fell to the ground.

One. Turns out I could do one push-up.

I had read all the warnings before arriving for this first workout. Endurance athletes are notoriously cocky about their perceived level of fitness. The ability to run long distances and tolerate — enjoy, even, if you’re a certain kind of person — the pain that effort entails leads to an overestimation of overall capacity. But a sport like CrossFit, which develops the ability to execute “constantly varied functional movements at high intensity across broad time and modal domains” (read: become adept in cardiovascular and respiratory endurance, power, stamina, speed, strength, coordination, agility, flexibility, balance, and accuracy), is brilliant at exposing fitness weaknesses. And turns out runners who only run have a lot of them.

In my case, I was a quadriceps-dominant athlete with a terribly underdeveloped upper body and posterior chain. After my initial adaption to and success in distance running, those weaknesses had led to a cycle of injuries and an inability to stick to any kind of consistent training plan. The push-up test exposed not only feeble arms, but also a core and back (from stem to stern) in dire need of bolstering to support and drive my forward motion.

In order to perform a strong push-up, I would need to rebuild my entire body.

In the log we keep to track our training, Dave’s notes for that first session say only one thing: “Push-ups need work.”

* * * * *

How do you go from finishing the 2015 Boston Marathon to struggling to get through a 5K by January 2019? I wish I had a good answer.

My fitness and my running regime slipped away from me gradually. Boston had been such a huge triumph. The year I turned 39, my long-term relationship failed and I found myself staring down middle age 50 pounds overweight and in dire need of reclaiming the self I had lost during a 12-year partnership in which I questioned my worth on a daily basis. My ex and I had adopted a dog a few months before we split. Even though he was the animal guy, our 1-year-old black Lab/border collie mix had bonded fiercely with me, and there was no question that I would keep Tilda.

No matter how long we walked or hiked, her boundless energy was tough to exhaust. So one day I tried running with her for a few minutes. Once she realized it wasn’t a game of tug-the-leash, we found a good rhythm together. Ten minutes eventually turned into twenty, and a few months later we were consistently running the Don Valley paths we had previously been walking. I was down an initial 25 pounds and starting to relish the rediscovery of who I was under all those protective layers I had piled on. But when a friend suggested that I run a 10K race I laughed, reminding her that in my youth I had been a provincially ranked sprinter — there was no way a naturally inclined short-distance specialist could go long. She convinced me to sign up with her anyway, and I finished that first race 25 minutes faster than I anticipated.

It was enough to spark my competitive spirit and a year after that first 10K, I turned 40 years old and ran my very first marathon — and qualified for Boston. By then running had become an integral part of my life. It kept me mentally and physically fit and Tilda and I developed a special relationship as we watched the sun rise together every morning while running our way up and down the river ravine system that bisects Toronto. Running had taught me anything was possible, and I began to apply that principle to other areas of my life.

Namely, I believed it might be possible for me to love again.

My completion of the 2015 Boston Marathon happened to coincide with a connection I forged via Instagram with a man who lived on the west coast of the United States. While he saw the 4,000 kilometres of distance between us as an obstacle, I saw it as just another endurance challenge that I could beat if I worked at it hard enough. And so that is where I began funnelling my energy. As the weeks and months passed, I ran less and less and sunk more and more time into nurturing a relationship I desperately wanted to bring to fruition.

Before I knew it, I had lost my mileage base, was sleeping and eating poorly, and was caught in an endless cycle of euphoric highs and agonizing lows as the push-and-pull of my long-distance obsession played out. I tried to return to running multiple times as a means of getting myself back on some sort of productive track, but every time I did I’d either be thrown off by injuries that began to plague my inconsistent training or a new episode of drama in the theatre of my life.

My physiotherapist suggested strength training would help injury-proof my body, but I had no idea where to even start with gym work. By the fall of 2018, sidelined with yet another bout of plantar fasciitis, I forced myself to face the reality that my running days were likely behind me.

* * * * *

 16 July 2019

“Wait for the hashtag!” I called over my shoulder as I bounded up the stairs, on my way to work after a morning training session with Coach Dave. I often joked to friends that I left CrossFit 6S feeling strong enough to pick up a car and throw it across the street.

This particular morning was no exception, and Dave had just sent the video he had taken of me earlier pulling a weighted mini-sled behind me from a belt around my waist while I carried kettle bells overhead in mixed-rack position. The sled was developing hip strength while the kettle bells were training my upper body to hold good form under fatigue — which is crucial in the final 12K of the marathon, when the body starts breaking down from the extreme exertion.

The work I was doing twice a week with Dave could be considered unconventional, even by the small percentage of recreational runners who incorporate regular strength training into their regimes. While the long-term goal of building me a functional upper body, a strong back, and glutes and hams that would take some of the load off my quads was always in sight, how we were getting there always varied.

In addition to being a Level 3–certified CrossFit trainer, Dave routinely takes courses and workshops on methods and techniques, which find their way into his programming. That kind of curiosity, drive, and creativity is contagious. For someone like me, who had been used to just pounding out the miles five days a week, the constant variety and challenge Dave was bringing to my personal training sessions gave me a whole new and exciting perspective on what it meant to be fit and what my potential was as an athlete.

From learning barbell basics to understanding just how deliciously brutal well-designed metabolic conditioning could be, week after week I found myself doing things I never imagined I ever would or could, and I watched my body change in both its form and its ability to function.

While that evolution was always fun, it certainly wasn’t easy. On a few occasions I had come within a hair’s breadth of saying, “I can’t,” and bailing on a workout. One of those times was while doing a final 3-round segment of a 250-metre sprint on the rower followed by a dual kettle bell hold with 26-pound bells. It sounds easy enough but after the fatigue of a full workout plus the tax of the sprint, holding 52 pounds of weight with correct posture turns out to be excruciating. I started whimpering in round two and could think of nothing but how much I wanted to drop those fucking bells. That’s when I heard Dave’s voice.

“Just focus on keeping your shoulders packed,” he said quietly from where he was standing at my side. “Eyes on the horizon, now keep the hips tucked in, glutes tight, and legs strong. Start back up at the top and go through that checklist again. The checklist will set you free.”

And it did — it does. Cycling through those corporeal checkpoints takes your mind off the pain and allows you to endure what moments before you were sure you couldn’t. I use that checklist now when I’m fatiguing in a long run.

It’s that kind of ability to lead someone successfully through the dark tunnel of doubt and extraordinary amounts of discomfort that establishes trust between a coach and an athlete. Once that trust is in place, an athlete will follow a coach anywhere.

Some of you will recognize the name Ben Bergeron. He’s a legendary coach in the CrossFit world and has a contingent of elite athletes who qualify for and place in the top tier of the CrossFit Games each year. He is a proponent of hard work and mental toughness over raw talent, and his athletes are fiercely loyal to him. They believe in him, his methodology, and his results. On social media, they use the hashtag #BuiltByBergeron.

As I dragged that weighted sled behind me while fighting to keep kettle bells in a strong position at my shoulder and above my head, I could hear Dave telling me to imagine being in the punishing final kilometre of the marathon — if I didn’t give up in this moment, I wouldn’t give up then. I believed him.

So when I posted the video of the workout to my Instagram Stories feed later that morning, I knew exactly how I was going to tag it. I believed in my coach just as fiercely as Bergeron’s athletes believe in theirs. And so it became official:

I am #BuiltByAyres.

* * * * *

Okay. I’ll admit it. I started CrossFit under the influence of a boy. (He didn’t last, but clearly the CrossFit did.)

We had met on the Bumble dating app and though he had a day job in the creative industry, he was a former professional cyclist and had taken up CrossFit in his fifties after rehabbing a knee injury. His natural athletic talent and superhuman work ethic serve him well, and each year he gets closer to qualifying for the CrossFit Games.

In January 2019 I decided to give running another go once my plantar fasciitis had subsided. As I talked about my running history with my Bumble connection, expressing my frustration with the injury cycle and endless comeback attempts that always ended up sidelined, he kept repeating the same refrain: “CrossFit could really help you.”

He had also called runners “no-skill athletes,” so I was initially inclined to disbelieve him, but knowing that my physio had been encouraging strength work, I started to do some research on runners who incorporated CrossFit into their training programs. Almost invariably, the praise was overwhelming.

Those who undertook it seriously broke through sometimes years-long running plateaus. They got stronger and faster while running less (helpful for those prone to repetitive-motion injuries) and increased their overall fitness capacities by significant measures. Some of them returned to running only after finally knocking out a new PR, but many decided to keep CrossFit as part of their comprehensive running strategy.

I decided that if I continued doing what I always did, I was likely to keep getting the same results. So if I was truly tired of injuries and setbacks, it was time to try something new. That was how on a cold night in early March, I found myself at an introductory consultation with one of the owners of CrossFit 6S.

I gave her the nutshell version of my athletic history and a recap of my road to Boston and subsequent fall from grace. I admitted that the idea of a strength-training program left me overwhelmed and unsure where to start but I was open to new direction.

I have this indelible memory of her reply. At the time I had no idea how significant it would be, but the simple phrase she uttered would turn out to be a life-changing one.

“I have the perfect coach for you,” she said.

* * * * *

4 October 2019

“Yeah! There it is!”

Dave was walking towards me as I was doing the last round of a circuit that began with dual bottoms-up forward/back lunges, 6 per side with 13-pound kettlebells. The bottoms-up position, where you have to balance the heaviest part of the kettle bell in the air while performing an additional body movement, is really damn hard. I lunged forwards and backwards on my right leg six times and then paused for a second in the neutral position while letting out a sharp burst of air before inhaling again and beginning the lunges on my left side.

“There is NO WAY you could have done that unbroken a few months ago,” Dave said, smiling broadly. “Look at you!”

I put down the kettle bells and trotted over to the rig to do the next movement in the circuit: toenail spot pull-ups, where I was getting better and better at pulling up my body weight so my chin could clear the bar with less and less help from my tip-toes, which I could leverage off the side of a box beneath me when my upper body reached its pull capacity. In the not-too-distant future I will be able to do an unassisted strict pull-up.

Look at me, indeed.

I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t pretty amazing to have a more defined and toned body at 46 years old than I did at 26 years old. Defying middle-age stereotypes makes me feel badass. But even more important is what my body is capable of doing today.

People tell me all the time how strong I am based on some of the challenges I’ve faced, and some that I continue to face, in my personal life. I am, in many ways, on my own. And one of the things that has occurred to me is that my inner strength is now being mirrored in my improving physicality. Every time I’m able to lift heavier weight, do more reps, or better execute a movement, it reminds me that I am taking charge of my life rather than letting life merely happen to me. Even in the times that I fail, I have the option to grow by analyzing what went wrong and carrying the resulting knowledge forward.

I am not the same person who walked into CrossFit 6S seven month ago. How could I be?

When you set about to rebuild your body, a whole lot of other things get reconstructed, too.

* * * * *

At this time last year, I was fairly certain I’d never run another marathon. Knowing what getting to that start line entails, I just couldn’t see how I’d manage to rebuild my capacity for endurance. What’s more? I wasn’t even sure I liked running anymore. Trying to “come back” and failing too many times to count had sucked the joy from a sport I once loved fiercely.

But something kept calling to me.

Distance running had transformed my life at the age of 40. It gave me confidence. It gave me purpose. It gave me faith. I wanted those things in my life again, and I was willing to entertain the idea that I’d have to find them in a different way than I had the first time.

While my progress in the gym has been continuous, measurable, and compelling, the marathon build itself hasn’t been perfect. I broke the fourth toe on my left foot in August in a freak collision with the leg of my kitchen island cooking dinner one night and was sidelined from running for a full month. I had a disappointing result in a June 10K race, and while my short-distance times have been consistently dropping over the last 6 weeks of the training cycle, my long-run times have bounced around.

In hindsight, it was probably a bit ambitious to think I’d not only build from a base of 0–5K to 42.2K in one season but also lop 18 minutes off my personal best marathon time. I’ve trained for and run enough of these things to accept that the long-run paces I’m currently laying down will not get me close to the big 3:15 time goal I set out to achieve this year. Truthfully, I don’t know what the clock is going to say when I cross the mats at the finish line.

But this is what I do know: I am a better, more well-rounded athlete today than I ever have been. I am fitter today than I ever have been. I have run healthy (unrelated toe accident notwithstanding) for 10 months straight for the first time in years. And — this is the most important part of all — I am just getting started down this new road.

I began this year training for a marathon. But what happened is that I fell in love with running again. And the reason I love running again is because running is no longer the only thing I do. I savour the physical and mental challenge of the work I do in the gym and how it augments my skill and ability. I relish how becoming stronger makes me feel more capable in every other aspect of my life. I am grateful for the opportunity every day to live the motto painted on the entrance wall of CrossFit 6s: Better Than Yesterday.

Another motto graces a different wall of my CrossFit box, and it is this: Success in Numbers. It reminds us that we are better when we band together in community to strive for our goals. In so many ways running is a solitary sport: nobody can run the miles for you. But what they can do is share the depth and breadth of their expertise, their passion for excellence, and their belief in you. How fortunate I am to have had Coach Dave pave my way with that kind of support.

On October 20, 2019, I will don bib number 2312 and with much happiness and gratitude toe the start line of the 30th anniversary running of the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Marathon. It will be a hard-earned moment of personal achievement for me, and I will be proud to do it as an athlete #BuiltByAyres.