Nemesis

Hubris. I've come to understand that word intimately over the last year, and in understanding it, I've managed to un-fuck most of my training practices. Before I get into how that worked out, I have a history lesson to share with you. 

When I started writing this blog post, I was hoping to come up with a fictitious character to represent my inner hubris, much like the Oatmeal's Blerch:

I loved this comic, and I straight up HATE running, runners and all they hold dear. 

Then, I made the mistake of reading, and, as is often the case, I discovered my bright-ass idea had not only been done, but was done better by the classical antiquity millennia ago. Hubris, to the Greeks and Romans, had a slightly different meaning. It involved more buggery than we're used to nowadays. However, the concept was still bound to the idea of offending the gods with an expectation of impunity. The classic gods would do things like turning you into a stag and having you ripped apart by your own hounds for looking at them the wrong way, so finding someone with the brazen cojones to piss them off on purpose had their own category of stupid. Anyway, over time, hubris came to represent extreme arrogance, particularly the self-defeating kind. The classics had no specific deity or little monster to represent hubris itself, but they did have a horrific winged enforcer whose job it was to punish those who succumbed to it.

Much cooler than what I was thinking.

That would be Nemesis. This is roughly how antiquity envisioned her: you commit the sin of hubris, and Nemesis smacks you down like a bitch.

Okay. That's the history bit done.

If I had to pick a single flaw in my early programming, it would have to be hubris. I had the belief, as many do, that I had some bit of insight or knowledge that meant I could willfully alter the content of someone's program and have better results. I know you've seen it happen, if you haven't done it yourself.

"I'm going to do Wendler's 5-3-1, but I'm only going to use Olympic lifts because Louie Simmons said I should include speed work and Greg Everett says that Olympic lifts are second to none for force development... AndI'mgoingtodo30minuteconditioningworkoutsfivedaysaweekBECAUSECROSSFIT."

What ends up happening is a shitshow that offends the gods. Nemesis will descend upon the trainee with the fury of a thousand Rippetoes. The trainee will get few or no benefits, and then, depending on what they've been exposed to, they either think they're a fitness guru because their squat went from 205 to 210, or they go straight to internet forums and comment threads to throw in their 2 cents about how Westside programming only works if you're on steroids.

A year ago, give or take a few months, I abandoned my hubris. I committed myself to using the Texas Method. I stopped listening to the little voice inside my head that whispered things like 'You should do your light day reps in the form of a metcon' and just obeyed the program.

And I grew stronger. Exactly as as the programs chief proponents (Lascek, Rippetoe and Pendlay, or the Wichita Falls crew) said I would. My deadlift and presses slowly ratcheted upwards. My squat went up 70lbs. People started asking if I was on steroids. My beard grew more lush and thick.

Occasionally, I'd wander off the path. I wouldn't get enough rest, I'd skip assistance work, or life in general would screw with the entire schedule. Every single time that happened, Nemesis would visit me on Intensity Day and would crush me under a pile of 45lb plates.

The program was designed to work a specific way. Volume, assistance and light work are in their weekly places because to put them anywhere else would invite poor recovery, frustration, and probably brain damage.

Now, Texas Method is just one of many intermediate training programs. Others handle progression, stimulus and recovery in different ways. They they may have slightly different goals. The core of hubris in programming is thinking that you can violate the central premise of a program and still get benefits from it. Once you've carefully selected a program, the wisest path is to shut your fool mouth and listen to what its makers are telling you.

That's what I learned. I learned that the Wichita Falls crew knows more than I do, and that until I push beyond the results they promised me, I should just shut my mouth and obey the program.