Three weeks ago, I decided I was going to do a sub-3:00 “Fran”.  Given my previous best of 3:22, a solid effort that included coherent talking afterward, I didn’t think this would be a big deal.

I was wrong.

Things went off the tracks during the middle of the 15 set, when I lost my balance and pressed out the eighth thruster.   The workout never got better, and I finished my last pull-up at 3:52, a full fifty three seconds shy of my goal.  Unfortunately, missing my personal record was not the worst thing that happened to me that day, as I spent the next four hours lying on the bathroom floor making sounds like a wounded kitten while my head pounded out the baseline to “Thunderstruck”.

When “Fran” came up yesterday, I decided to take it easy, mostly for fear of repeating my date with our less-than-clean linoleum.  I coasted through all 90 reps and remained standing when it was over—four minutes and nine seconds after the start.

The difference between the two efforts was a mere seventeen seconds, yet the first left me laid out and squealing while the second merely left me.  The difference could be attributed to sleep, diet, or overall conditioning, but I don’t believe it hinged on any of these factors.  Rather, the explanation lies in a simple truth:  as performance reaches the bounds of human capability, incremental improvement requires a disproportionate effort.  In other words, the better you get, the harder it is to get better still, and the more it hurts to get there.

Examples of this phenomenon abound in sports, embodied by the fact that beginners improve quickly and veterans improve slowly, if at all.  Often, we find experienced athletes living in stasis, turning in predictable performances until a new breed eclipses them, one more willing to suffer, more willing endure the inconveniences of elite performance.

These inconveniences are no small thing.  They are the major life changes required for minor athletic improvements, a gigantic social anchor that will keep you away from alcohol, restaurants, nightclubs, and Cold Stone creamery.  Your fun becomes nine hours of sleep, a balanced diet, copious stretching and icing, and a manic desire to approach every workout like the gold medal round of the CrossFit Games.  Your fun becomes waking up in the morning with improvement as your only goal.  Your fun is not fun.

The difference between a 3:22 “Fran” and its 2:59 doppelganger is not measured in seconds.  It is measured by an unreasonable and foolhardy commitment to masochism, combined with a compulsive attention to lifestyle details.  You don’t end up here unintentionally.  You’ve got to want that twenty-three seconds more than anything else on earth, and then you’ve got to earn it with unwavering dedication.

I’ll get there, and I have a feeling it will take a few more visits to the bathroom floor.  It’s not a nice place, but sometimes it’s not about where you are.  It’s about where you’re going.

Ethan earns every second of his 400-meter effort.  Picture courtesy of The Napping Poet.