Ben was just like me. The dust had hardly settled from the competition, we had won, and he was on to the next chapter already. If he didn’t think it would lead to burnout, we would be training in the hotel gym right now instead of eating. I said nothing—just enjoyed my food and focused on his words.
“We’re gonna get strong. We’re gonna get so strong,” he said with a look on his face that told me there was a lot of hard work on the horizon.
The Games ended on July 24. I stayed in L.A. for a week and then took the opportunity the downtime presented to visit Iceland. The month of August was difficult for me. No one held me accountable and by my standards I got relatively out of shape. I knew I would start training again in September, but that felt like a lifetime away. We would start with a modest workload and ramp it up slowly.
Being in Iceland post-Games made me feel more human, as strange as that may sound. My personal life is so dependent on my training that I tried to make up for lost time when I was home. I socialized with friends and family like a normal twenty-three-year-old. More normal, at least. During the heavy training season I felt like a hermit. Post-Games I was able to break free for a minute. I am actually a social butterfly when I give myself the opportunity.
The whole time, however, training was in the back of my mind. Winning the Games means nothing after it’s done. The slate is wiped clean. It’s not like you take a points advantage in the Open. If anything, being the champion, and especially a two-time champion, makes things harder. You have to learn how to carry the additional burden of the target on your back.
When we returned to CFNE, Ben had a plan in place to follow through on the prescription he had made at the breakfast table.
“We’re gonna get so strong.”
Fitness means proficiency in any athletic skill. But it’s not enough to be good at everything—you have to be great, as your placement is most likely determined by your worst score, not your best. Athletes who want to excel rather than survive at the Games need to turn themselves into a Swiss Army knife of skills and abilities. Enhancing what you’re already good at is part of the equation, but shoring up your weaknesses is critical.
Over four years of focused training with Chris Hinshaw, my endurance and recovery were fantastic. However, my top-end speed was not where it needed to be relative to my competitors’. I had finished tenth at the Games in the suicide sprint. However, it was sandwiched between the handstand walk and the Plow, and more of a testament to my recovery than my sprinting ability. I also had an engine that allowed me to cycle barbells for days and operate near my maximum exertion for longer than most athletes. The more grinding metabolic-conditioning-focused events favored me.
Strength and speed events are where I fell short of my goal to place top five in every event at the Games. We incorporated the help of a sprint coach, Eric Buscher, to inject some springiness and snap into my legs. We also wanted to sharpen my technique on the barbell, knowing it would aid in my explosiveness, speed, and power. For that, we brought in weightlifting coach Fred Calori.
I didn’t know what a deep dive into Olympic weightlifting technique looked like. After my first heavy set of three, I walked around the bar and tried to set up for my next set. I wasn’t even sweating yet.
“No ma’am,” said Fred. “Take a seat.”
He was serious. I had to sit down and rest between sets. I know there is logic to it, but I just couldn’t get used to it. I didn’t want to rest; it felt unnatural.
Work on the track was the same. We would smash the intensity for thirty seconds at a time and then stop. It was a large departure from how we had trained in the past. I trusted Ben and I believed it would work, but I was definitely in a strange landscape. The sled dog in me wanted to run.
December 2016
I went home for Christmas and was forced to face a looming fear. My friends make fun of me to this day, and, in retrospect, the stress I experienced from such a small obstacle is hilarious considering the real challenges I’ve faced. But it was terrifying to me. It had nothing to do with CrossFit or training: I needed to have my wisdom teeth pulled out.
I would always put it off in my mind, pushing back imaginary deadlines. After the Games, I would tell myself. Every time the day came, I would push it back further. After the Open, I told myself. Post-Regionals? Nope. I couldn’t commit. This had been going on since I was eighteen, and now I had waited too long. They were presenting the danger of infection and I was told I was at risk for a flare-up that could possibly require emergency retraction.
“Maybe this could happen on the week of your competition,” the doctor had said, knowing this would strike a major nerve. “What are they called? Regionals?”
I’m pretty sure they just wanted me to stop being a baby, but it was convincing. What if it happens during the Games? I thought. No time was a good time, but the fear of missing competition overrode my five-year-and-running aversion to the procedure. I called and booked an appointment for when I was in Iceland in December.
In the lead up to the procedure, I was freaking out. For years, it had given me anxiety. I hate the dentist. It’s my worst nightmare to be looking up, watching them digging in my mouth and drilling into my teeth. I’ve never had broken bones or major surgeries, thank God. But I will cry at the sight of a hypodermic needle. I’m not a cool customer when it comes to any medical procedures. I don’t know where it came from, but I freak out. Being in the dentist chair makes my top-ten scariest things I can imagine list. The lights, the thought of what they’re doing for hours. It makes me so uneasy, I avoid it like the plague.
Despite my incredible, unbearable anxiety, I made it through the procedure with little drama.
I woke up with my chin down to my chest, and my cheeks looked like a hamster’s stuffed with food. I looked like Jay Leno’s little sister. Every time I looked in the mirror, my face surprised me. That actually wasn’t that bad, I thought.
When the anesthesia wore off, I was in the most pain I’ve ever experienced. I returned to the dentist on multiple occasions to check in. Something had to be wrong. They assured me I was fine and that the pain was normal. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. They were some of the hardest days I had ever experienced.
“You had surgery,” they told me. “You’re supposed to feel this way.”
What kind of doctors are these people?! I wondered.
I had accounted for the surgery being difficult, but hadn’t even considered that there would be a recovery period. I was out for five full days. My training suffered and it took me a while to break out of the fog. As far as training was concerned, December was more or less a wash.
February 2017
I had ramped my training intensity back up in January, intent on making up ground for any losses I had sustained after taking time off for the removal of my wisdom teeth. The focus was still on short, high-power-output sessions. My speed was certainly improving on the track and my lifts were all going in the right direction.
I felt physically strong, but the gains were accompanied by a fatigue that was more mental in nature. I felt tired all the time, and my recovery from our sessions was taking longer than I liked. You wouldn’t know it from my performance in the Open. The five-week competition is typified by lung-burning, gas-tank-draining workouts, yet even with our training focus directed primarily at strength and speed, I had taken tenth place in the world. My fitness appeared to be on point. In addition to my overall placement, the performance was punctuated by a fourth-place finish in the squat snatch and chest-to-bar pull-up couplet of 17.3. My body was feeling strong and fit.
We went back to the track when the snow finally cleared. Instead of the three Hinshaw workouts per week to which I was accustomed, however, we were still focusing on my form; I was doing sprint work. I would only do one or two Hinshaw workouts, with the sprints taking up the bulk of my time on the track. Nothing lasted more than thirty seconds in those workouts.
The mental fatigue was due in part to my travel responsibilities that ye
ar. I love the opportunity to travel. It’s fun to go see cool places and do fun things. But starting with the Open, it became too much. I visited Hinshaw in his new home in Cookeville, Tennessee, and participated in a few athlete camps, some for me and some for my sponsors. All those things are amazing, but a professional athlete, especially a two-time champion, needs to put training first. That had become nearly impossible. My headspace spiraled and I yearned for the routines I cherished in Boston.
I have my morning routine down to a science and I value every second of it. I am neurotic about having my food meticulously prepared and available at the gym. I am used to being coached in a certain way. I’m used to seeing my chiropractor and having access to my massage therapist. I like to sleep in my own bed. I was physically fit, but being away from all of it pulled me away from my game.
I had wrapped up the Open with a live announcement against Sara Sigmundsdóttir. I edged Sara out in the very last set of double-unders to take the win. The event itself was amazing to be a part of. I had won. The Open was over. I should have been celebrating, but when the lights were out and I went back to my hotel room, I felt like I had been hit by a train. I didn’t want to do anything but sleep.
The months of travel had caught up with me and my headspace had deteriorated. Now that it was over I realized that I was in a bad place, possibly the worst I’d ever been in. It caught me off guard, because the shift had occurred gradually. By the time I recognized it, I was only a few months away from Regionals.
Ben was holding a training camp in Madison in conjunction with the Open Announcement. The whole team was in town, which never happens: O’Keefe, Mat Fraser, Cole Sager, and Brooke Wells. We visited local CrossFit affiliates and checked out the areas where we would be competing later that year. It should have been special. But I felt like I was sleepwalking.
During one of our sessions, I had a realization. I did not want to be there. I didn’t want anything to do with it, actually. This really scared me. I had never felt that way before. I was with my team, whom I love as much as anything in this world. I had this amazing opportunity to train with them and get better. And all I wanted to do was leave. I was so tired I could have balled up on the floor and slept. In between workouts, I hid away in the back of the gym on the verge of tears. I was mentally exhausted. I felt so overwhelmed.
That was at the end of March, and it didn’t go unnoticed. Ben and O’Keefe approached me separately. All I could express to them was that I was tired. Whatever is going on in your head, your body will follow. Soon I lost my zest for training altogether. I was not excited for the mental work, either. I lost the motivation to read and journal.
I started to hate the impersonal lens of the camera when the documentary team came to visit. I was annoyed when people asked me for pictures. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved the camera. My grandfather would follow me with a camcorder in my childhood years and you can see me light up every time I’m on center stage. When I started getting older, I would seek Afi out so I could address the camera.
“Hi, I’m Katrin Davidsdottir, and this is where I live…”
It’s so funny to watch. In school it was the same. I was the first one to gravitate toward the camera. I couldn’t understand why I was annoyed with it.
I felt like everything that wasn’t making me a better athlete was just a distraction. I was tired of it. If someone asked me for a picture, I hated that they weren’t asking for a conversation. They wanted the shallow and empty interaction of snapping me quickly for a social media post. It felt empty and draining when that happened. I love conversation. I like to hear stories and share mine. It was hard for me. I was depressed.
I didn’t take off training completely, but I put in two very light weeks. I stopped traveling altogether. I focused on helping myself recover. I needed to plug back into my routine. I needed to feel better.
In April, I moved to a new apartment. There was a spare bedroom, which was a game changer. I could have guests now, and I loved having company. My dad came for a week and helped move me in. He did dad stuff, like building my furniture. It was fun to have him around. My mom came later in the month and Afi followed close behind her.
My best friend, Arnhildur Anna, came to stay with me in Boston. She is my best friend in the world—the peanut butter to my jelly, the macaroni to my cheese, and the social to my butterfly. She stayed for a week and it was like therapy. On my birthday, she and Heather covered my room with a hundred balloons. It was a great way to wake up and it made my heart sing. It had taken months, but I was beginning to bounce back.
2017 CrossFit Games East Regional
By Regionals, I had recouped some of my headspace. But I still had less fun than usual. I could feel the trade-off I had made in the prior year’s work. My power was there on the low end, but I had lost an endurance gear that I was used to relying on. It was unfamiliar territory, and I was thrown off by it.
I noticed it right away on the first event. It was a long grind in a 14-pound weight vest that started with a 1,200-meter run and ended with twelve rounds of handstand pushups, chest-to-bar pull-ups and squats, all in the weight vest. I expected to win it, but crossed the finish line in third. The placement wasn’t bad, but the way I felt, it came as an unpleasant surprise.
This was the first time I was forced to compete in CrossFit injured. Normally, I am just fearless. I don’t have thoughts, I just perform. The final event on Saturday, however, injected a dose of fear. It featured heavy kettlebell deadlifts, and I tweaked my back in the first of four sets. It was nothing at first. But by the end of the event, it was all I could do to finish. I doubled over immediately after crossing the finish line and dug my fingers into my hip, trying to find relief.
I do my best to carry myself tall and not show any emotion, no matter what. Even if I’m hurting, I’ll grit my teeth and hide it with a smile. I took my hands away from my back when I was on the competition floor, but had to pinch myself to deal with the pain.
“Something’s wrong,” I told Ben as soon as I came off the field.
Even a slight hyperextension would send pain shooting up my back. I couldn’t bend down to pick anything up. I never considered dropping out of the competition. I can work with pain. It’s not fun, I don’t like it, and I probably won’t have the best outcome, but I can do it. I was determined to push it through.
I spent hours that night trying to recover. I stopped thinking about event strategies and put all my focus into getting my back healthy, just trying to make it through. The next day, I was unable to warm up for the muscle-up event. I felt lucky that the first two movements were doable. I didn’t warm up, I just had my PT take me through some movements.
The following day opened with a classic CrossFit couplet.
21-15-9 reps for time:
Muscle-ups
Single-arm overhead squats
Women use a 55-pound dumbbell
Time cap: 11 minutes
We had been working on muscle-ups since the 2015 Games. Every time I competed, whatever improvement I’d been feeling in training seemed to go out the window when I hit the competition floor. My judge was strict and I was forced to exaggerate my lockout. This made it hard for me to open up my hip and go down smoothly. I was reduced to singles by the end of the event. I was back to my old self and it disappointed me. I wanted to show my improvement. But my technique had deteriorated.
When you’ve put in so much work on a movement and even turned it from a weakness into something that you can drop the hammer on, you put a higher premium on excelling at it when it comes up in competition. When it falls apart, the disappointment is greater than if you hadn’t worked on it at all. I want to show off my hard work. I want all that training time to pay off. It felt like I had stepped onto the floor having not put in a single second of work.
But I also had great events. Regionals were my first competition love, after all. I always get a kick out of seeing my family in the stands, holding the Icelandic flag.
; Before the event, Ben encouraged me to be smart.
“Kat, I know you love competing and you love events like this. Our main goal is to make it to the Games. You have to make it through healthy. I want you to do what you can do, slow down if you need to. Just make it through this event healthy.”
In the warm-up area, I put a belt on and tried a few reps. My back felt like it could give out at any moment. I wasn’t able to warm up how I would’ve liked to. I was scared that I might do lasting damage. The last thing I felt was fierce. I realized how much of a blessing it was to compete healthy.
After Regionals, I had to take some time off to heal. It took a week before my back calmed down. Thankfully it wasn’t anything major and it resolved itself. My back, however, is something that I’m constantly aware of.
I respect my fellow competitors and I know they are great athletes. I respect the competition itself. Second place was a necessary wake-up call. The silver medal made me work harder. I made a habit of carrying it in my training bag so that I would see it every session. It was a reminder that nothing was a given in this sport and I would have to earn my way when I got to Madison. The memory of underachieving makes me want to push myself harder. When I don’t win, I see potential for improvement.
June 2017
My U.S. travel visa expired in June and I was forced to go back to Iceland. Ben and Heather wanted to take a vacation, so they came with me. In light of my mental fragility at the time, and the fact that I was always overextended when I went home, bringing them along wasn’t the right decision. There is intense pressure to see people and be social when I’ve been away. It’s a luxury problem, I get that, but this was during Games training, which is highly demanding. I tried to fit it all in, and my diet and rest suffered for it. Of course my relatives and friends weren’t weighing and measuring and I didn’t have my meal-prep company sending me food. At that point, it was stressful. The time difference affected me as well. There was too much to think about during those ten days.
After the Iceland trip, I returned to Boston. It was Games-training time. Traditionally, I love this time of year, when it’s warm outside and sunny. I’m like a plant—the sun is medicine for my soul. Everything feels like it’s working correctly and my joints feel better. I love sweating—it makes me feel like I get a better workout, even after the warm-up. The volume is also through the roof at this time. Ben coaches me every single day, even on weekends. There is so much running. There is so much fitness in general. The pressure and excitement are at an all-time high.
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