From Chardonnay to Strict Pull-Ups (The Real Timeline)

 Sherry shook her head and pointed across the room.

“That!” she exclaimed. “I want to look like THAT!”


Hanging from the pull-up bar was Chita. 





Short for Conchita.  My only Puerto Rican athlete.  Booty shorts.  Sports bra.  Tattoos for days. Facing away from us repping strict pullups.  Her back looked like twenty miles of country road.


Chita walked in the doors three years ago after a bad breakup.  Never left.  


Super sweet lady.  But trained like a caffeinated badger.


I sighed.


Sherry was a 34-year-old mom of three.  5 foot 2.  176 lbs.


I nodded.


“Sherry, if you eat a certain way, and train a certain way, 3-4 times a week for the next year and a half, you will get your first pull-up.”


Sherry looked at me like I had just farted in church.


She tried.  She really tried.


The nightly routine of 3 glasses of Chardonnay became 1 glass Wednesday and weekends.


Little Caesar sent out a search party looking for her.  She swapped Crazy Bread for 2 chicken breasts and a salad so big she needed both hands to carry it.


16 months and 3 days after she joined, she got her first pull-up.


No crying, no screaming or dancing.  


It came on a regular Tuesday during a normal workout with rowing, wall balls and jumping pullups.


Her face was bright red, her hair looked like she had fallen in the pool.  Sherry got off the rower and I yelled “TWO MINUTES!”


She did 8 wallballs and headed to the bar.  


“SHERRY YOU GOT 30 SECONDS….do a pullup!”


She jammed her hands in the chalk bucket, and slapped them together like she had seen Chita do so many times before.


She wiped the hair off her face, leaving a giant streak of white dust across her forehead.


She jumped up and grabbed the bar.


Son of a bitch.  She did it.


TIME!  TIME!


Sherry crumpled to the floor, chest heaving, gasping for air.


It never registered.


From that day forward, she became a lady that does pullups.  1 at a time.  But good ones, real pullups.


She had a new identity.


She had completely forgotten.


But I remembered.



“Coach Just Tell Me What To Eat!”

She had tears in her eyes. Heather was 42.  A mother. A wife.  And nearly 70 pounds overweight.






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