Lately my biggest CrossFit challenge has been managing what’s going on inside my own head. As Simone commented:

You get frustrated and “check out” of the drive. You can see it happen in your face.

Today’s running WOD was a perfect example.

On the minute every minute for 20 minutes, run 150m. If you fail to complete a round, do 5 Burpees, rest 1 minute and start again.

I’m not a runner, and the fact that I characterise myself as “not a runner” is half the battle lost right there. The WOD’s going to hurt; that’s not even a question. I just need to give more headspace to the voice that says “suck it up, buttercup” and less to the “fuck this, my legs hurt”.

“Move it, Seafort.” Sergeant Tallor reached forward with his baton.
“Aye aye, sir.” I lurched along the Farside track until I’d gained several steps. Sarge could easily have caught me, but I knew he wouldn’t increase his pace just to touch me. He was always fair. Still, I had to maintain my distance; one tap with his baton and I’d be sent for a caning. It befell one or another of us, not every day, but often enough. I wasn’t sure, but I suspected they’d been slowly increasing the pace.
Two laps to go … Could I hold out?
Sergeant Tallor was gaining again. I could sprint, probably even catch the stragglers a dozen meters ahead of me, but if I used my little reserve of energy I’d collapse before the last lap.
I stumbled, lost my pace. Tallor’s steps neared. Damn! No choice now. I dashed ahead, stopped only when I had left him a quarter turn behind. Now, I had only to hang on.
I turned into the last lap. Behind me, Sarge’s inexorable footsteps. My lungs heaved. It wasn’t fair. I’d been caned only last week. Lightly, it was true. Track canings were always light. But the humiliation was unbearable.
I staggered on. His step came closer. “Move on, boy.”
I nodded, too bereft of breath to acknowledge the warning. The distance between us closed. He reached with the baton. I lurched forward, avoided it by inches.
Again he neared. If only I hadn’t stumbled, the lap before. Now I couldn’t last even the remaining quarter lap.
The baton reached out -
And I went down.
…
“I wouldn’t have batonned you, Nicky.”
I cried, “How was I to know that?”
…
“I picked up the pace, but you hung on. I picked it up again, and still you managed. When you’re running, focus on each step, one at a time, as if it’s the only one. Don’t worry about the others to come. You have more endurance than you think. That’s what I wanted you to learn.”
– Fisherman’s Hope, David Feintuch (p215)
I know that this morning I didn’t achieve that. I sandbagged, I confess it, and I’m sitting here now feeling mentally worse for it than I’d feel physically if I’d busted a gut to finish those two rounds I bailed on.
Any and all tips on digesting that spoonful of concrete would be gratefully accepted.