Whattya Bench chief?

Whattya Bench?

One of the oldest, most cliched, ubiquitous, and irrelevant questions from the globo gym era. You remember it, right? Standing around the free weight area at the gym on a Monday – international chest & tri’s day – and listening to people with artificially puffed out chests and invisible-lat-syndrome talk about what they’re doing for sets and asking, “How much ya bench?” Looking at this behavior in retrospect initially seems as goofy and awkward as a Sarah Palin porn; something best left just outside the bounds of the conscious.

Sort of like that time a girl let you buy her a drink, and then she walked away and gave it to her boyfriend. It makes us cringe and feel uncomfortable because we’ve been there and don’t want to remember. Alas, it happened and we’re stuck with it so we might as well understand why.

Fran is the bench press of CrossFit. People know each others times. It’s the social yardstick of the CrossFit world.

It’s a measuring stick. Something everyone in your environment does, and therefore provides a standard or metric by which inhabitants of that environment can compare themselves. These scales exist in every part of society. Think job status, level of income, how good your kids are at sports, etc. They may be petty, shallow, or as tasteless as the Jersey Shore, but it’s human nature to compare yourself to your neighbor. As long as it’s not done with malice or taken too seriously it’s not harmful.

We CrossFitters have a pretty lofty opinion of ourselves, but we’re not beyond reproach. While we claim exemption from determining self-worth based on physical appearance, or absolute strength (like bench press) we have no problem obsessing over CrossFit benchmark workouts; especially “Fran”. Right or wrong (and mostly wrong), people have always put their “Fran” time on a pedestal above other workouts. “Fran” is the bench press of CrossFit. People know each others times. It’s the social yardstick of the CrossFit world.

But why do we wear our “Fran” time on our sleeve, not “Helen,” or “Elizabeth?” It’s arguable that considering the time domain and the slightly more varied modes that Helen is a better test of fitness. In fact many feel it’s the ultimate test of Metcon and the glycolytic energy pathway. So what’s Fran’s fuckin’ deal? Well, it’s all about the power.

Power, both real and imagined. In the mathematical sense and in the figurative Skeletor taking over Eternia sense. That’s what makes the difference. “Fran” is powerful physically, because it’s one of the highest intensity workouts we can possibly do. It taxes the system in such a way that inhuman power output can be sustained for a very short time. 

In a literary sense “Fran” captivates us because it is a living, breathing abbreviation of CrossFit. It’s what you’d show someone when asked, “What’s CrossFit?” if you could. “This is,” you’d say and show them people doing “Fran” like a boss. The workout’s brutality and brevity are indescribable. It’s so astonishing that we can make ourselves hurt that badly in such a short period of time. The workout is short lived because it has to be. Nothing that intense can last.

45 Butterflies to freedom…

Fran is a good old fashioned prick waving wrapped in CrossFit (and bacon). But it’s all in good fun. It showcases some important things to us and to those who are not yet “us.” It’s a workout of pure, unadulterated power production. Some of the best of what CrossFit has to offer. Functional movements done at the highest of intensity; an output that can only be sustained by a sheer force of will that would give Winston Churchill a big rubbery one. It’s fast, hits harder than a dump truck loaded with nitroglycerin, and looks almost as painful as it is.

Why wouldn’t it be a standard by which people measured themselves. Many people try to downplay its importance, but socially it’s an inextricable part of our CrossFit cult(ure). It speaks volumes to mental toughness, and dedicated training, and it really lends itself to a celebratory beer after a nice Puerto Rico. It’s heartening to think that the day is fast approaching when dudes sizing you up will never again ask you how much you bench. The day is coming that you will walk up to a girl in a bar and say, “So … What’s your Fran time?”