I was a cyclist, and my engine was big. As I rode, I imagined this motor a diesel and could go for many miles at a steady clip as long as I kept it stoked with clean fuel to burn. My legs were strong too, at least in a narrow rotational sense. I’d learn later that all those miles I spun did squat for my…err…squat.

At any rate, I walked into Crossfit Bishop for the first time with trepidation smeared across my forehead by stories I’d read on the Internet. Stories of people hurting themselves, and of course, tales of Uncle Rhabdo.

I remember years ago, my sister’s fiancé (seven years older than I, a West Point cadet, and on the water polo team) challenged my younger brother and me to keep up with him while doing a pushup pyramid. Sets of ten, twenty, thirty, forty, thirty, twenty, and ten. One hundred and sixty pushups total is no big deal for a trained athlete, but for a novice middle school punk, I was over my head. But I did it. And for the next week, my arms were locked at forty-five degrees. I could carry a cafeteria tray just fine but tell me my shoe was untied, and woe was I to do anything about it.

Same with a Crossfit workout—it’s easy to overdo it. Especially before your core has had a chance to strengthen.

One of the first movements we did in my on-ramp (the several one-on-one classes you take before you start classes to gauge fitness and keep you safe) was a med-ball sit-up. Easy. Sit on the floor with your legs out in front of you. Catch the six-pound medicine ball the coach throws to you, lay back touching the med ball to the floor over your head, sit back up and throw the ball back to the coach. Right.

I was not able to do even one. This was how weak my core had become in the saddle. “Really?” was all my coach said.