I've never barfed during or after any workout since beginning Crossfit or otherwise. That's not to say that I don't work hard. I'm proud of my 3:18 Fran and once in a while I'll record the top score on the whiteboard of my local box. And while I've brought many friends to puke after a met-con, I've never ralphed, even trying to keep up with the early-tweny-something-firebreathers. Whenever I look at that crude crossfit clown, doubled over and yacking, I'm reminded of a different purge.
Of the times I’ve barfed because of sickness or some sort of poisoning, I’ve always felt better after purging my stomach of whatever was ailing me. In fact, compared to the feeling of needing to ralph, the feeling directly after releasing the demons, is an almost euphoric physical enlightenment. Somehow though, this image of the clown is so offensive and I love it.
I’ve never barfed during or after a workout, but Crossfit healthfully forces us to purge our systems of all the trash that we’ve learned about our physical selves in the past however many decades. Within that cartoon stream of green bile expelled is all the misinformation we’ve been fed by any number of sources: your high school weights teacher, “Squatting too deep will hurt your knees.” or your doctor, “Deadlifting will ruin your back.” or your running addicted friend “Running long distances is the best way to get into shape.” your body building friend, “You need cable machines to work out.” or vogue “Skinny is healthy.” and the entire fitness industry that sold me the most worthless idea of all, crunches and whatever machinery they could think of to help me do crunches.
Sure, pukie represents intensity, but Crossfit serves to cleanse us of the dishonest or misguided and potentially oppressive information about nutrition, movement, and health. That process is abrupt and violent and offensive like the scene of Pukie the Clown’s depiction, but it is good and necessary and liberating.
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