RECREATION

CrossFit whips followers into shape

Rings, running, pull-ups, squats: CrossFitters do it all

By Pamela LeBLanc
AMERICAN-STATESMAN STAFF
Saturday, April 11, 2009

The music is blasting, and a buff-looking woman is crouched over a barbell nearly as heavy as she is. In one swift motion, she hoists it up in a perfect "clean and jerk," then drops it to the ground with a clank.

I secretly quake in my sneakers.

I've been hearing about CrossFit for months and have finally worked up the nerve to try one of the classes. All I know is military folks, police officers, football teams and (probably) bounty hunters around the globe are taking on this fitness program in a sort of global competition that's as hard — or easy — as the individual makes it. It's more than an exercise class, it's an evolving culture of six-pack abs, bulging biceps and toned thighs.

Carey Kepler, who co-founded this gym with her brother Jeremy Thiel, is teaching me a few basics before class begins. (Everyone who joins CrossFit Central must complete three one-on-one instructional sessions with a coach before jumping into the fray.)

First lesson? How to do "cleans" with a weighted medicine ball. Kepler breaks the move into parts, and we practice over and over until I master it enough to get through class. Then we head to a pair of gymnastics rings dangling from the ceiling. Because I'm not strong enough to do a real "muscle up" on the rings, a move better left, in my opinion, to barrel-chested Olympians, Kepler scales it back a bit, to a modified version of the exercise.

That's the thing about CrossFit. Everyone in class does the same lineup of exercises on a given day, but those exercises are adjusted depending on skill level. The other thing about CrossFit? The variety. It might be heavy on running on Monday, but on Tuesday you're hoisting barbells and doing pullups. The idea is to strengthen the whole body by doing a wide range of exercises.

"We're teaching you to be a kid again," Kepler tells me. I gawk a little at her ripped muscles, the veins snaking down her upper arms.

The CrossFit movement started in California and has spawned some 1,000 affiliates around the globe, including Australia, Japan and India. CrossFit Central, located in what was once an auto shop with roll-down garage doors on Burnet Road, is one of a handful of locations in Central Texas. It opened in December 2005. Members pay between $135 and $300 a month, depending on how often they visit.

"People leave box gyms and come here to sweat," says Thiel.

Members can pick from Level 1 classes for beginners, co-ed classes or women's only classes. Part of the 45-minute workout is always timed — members race to finish as many rounds of the Workout of the Day, or WOD, as they can in 20 minutes, or they see how long it takes to complete a given workout. Some of the workouts are named for women, as if they were hurricanes.

"It can become very competitive among students," Kepler says. "But a lot of people just compete against themselves."

The gym hosted an eight-week "I am Crossfit" challenge last year and is launching another challenge, dubbed the "300 Spartan Challenge" this spring. Participants will team with coaches, keep food logs and work to improve their times. Members and coaches also compete in a national competition, The CrossFit Games, in California.

And so, shortly after noon on this steamy day, I hover in the background as instructor Mike Gregory leads a group of about 15 in a warmup: Jumping jacks, pushups, fast feet and high knees. We run down the street and back, and now that we're good and sweaty, he demonstrates what we'll be doing.

The day's workout calls for as many rounds of two muscle-ups, 10 medicine ball cleans, and 20 double unders (jumping rope so fast it twirls under your feet twice with every jump) as we can do in 20 minutes.

"Three, two, one \u2026 go!" he yells.

I start with jumping rope. After whipping my rear end with the rope several times in an attempt to do "double unders," I scale back to single jumps. Then I move on to the medicine ball. I squat, I lift, I drop under the ball \u2026 sort of. It's tricky, but I feel more comfortable the more I do. Finally, it's on to the rings, where Kepler gives me an assist.

Hairstylist Havalah Winslow, 30, is trying to master the rings, too. She's having more luck than I am, and her abs show it. "I like being sick fit, and it keeps me there," she says.

All around, people are exercising at a frantic pace, darting to the white board on the wall between sets to put a tick mark next to their name.

"Way to go, Terry, let's keep moving," Gregory, the instructor, hollers.

Jump ropes are zinging, medicine balls are flying and rings are swinging. "Two and a half minutes! Two and a half minutes!" Gregory shouts, checking his watch.

Everyone rushes to cram in another set before the countdown — "Three, two, one, finished" — then sort of melts in place.

Randal Setzler, 28, who works at a library for the blind, likes the "primal nature" of CrossFit. "No machines, just raw weights," he says. He does CrossFit five times a week and says he eliminates weakness by training everything. Weightlifters have to run, just like runners have to lift weights.

"I don't know what the workout is until I show up," says Richard White, 32, who hates the monotony of going to a gym alone but loves this. "It might be something I don't like, but it doesn't matter; I have to do it \u2026 Your pride makes you work a little harder."

pleblanc@statesman.com; 445-3994