My coworker Andrew has a little joke. “How do you know someone does CrossFit?

“Because they tell you.”

It reminds me of a saying from when people used to do “est” self-awareness seminars, and then go around noisily proselytizing.

“What’s the different between an asshole and an esthole?

“Asshole’s still got his 400 dollars.”

My spouse, sons and coworkers have drunk the CrossFit KoolAid. CrossFit, if you don’t know, is a high-intensity conditioning program of gymnastics, sprinting, rowing, carrying around strange objects, and other clamor. Also, devotion.

The first time my older son, Teddy, went, he threw up, audibly gagging in the bathroom. The staff sat him gently on a bench and gave him some Coke to sip. Arriving home still gray-faced, he, who plays high school football and runs track, whispered, “I thought I’d be in better shape for it.”

I step inside the place to pick up my younger son, Roy, and the instructors smile.

“You should do it,” says nice, ripped John.

“Why would I want to throw up? “

“Oh,”  he says, waving, “that's just Teddy. He pushes it.”

I pick up Roy again, and he says, “Mom, you should go. They love old athletes -  I mean ... people who used to be, like, pros.”

At work, Ashley and Shannon talk continually about their workouts and all components thereof.

When burly Ashley tells me how sore she is from yesterday, she says, “I know you’re sick of CrossFit,” while continuing steadily: “We did 15 pull-ups, 15 box jumps, 15 burpees and 15 sit-ups,  then 14 pull ups, 14 box jumps, 14 burpees and 14 sit-ups, 13 pull ups, then 13 burpees, 13 box jumps, 13 sit-ups. … all the way to one of each. Total, that's 120 pull-ups, box jumps, burpees and sit-ups!”

Her boyfriend, Jeremy, tells me softly, “I hate CrossFit.”

Roy says, emerging from the gym another day, “Mom, all those people in there are one-upping you.”

Later, he tries a different tactic. “You couldn’t do it,” he says, shaking his head regretfully. “You’re strong, but…”

Through CrossFit, my kids know Mike, a young guy who works at the grocery store. One day as I use my City Market card, he says, “You saved $30,” adding with glowing eyes, “That’s another week of CrossFit!”

I used to love Will Gadd. Long ago he was my teenage intern, camped uncomplainingly in his pickup truck in the dead of an Aspen winter. (I convinced him to stay in an old paint closet at my house for a night or two during that year’s Arctic Express.) Two years ago, all grown up and a conquering hero, he came to the Redstone Winterfest, stayed at my house, stood in the kitchen one night and first told my rapt spouse and sons (while I daydreamed) about CrossFit.

Now they have also talked their friends into going. Teddy wants to do a CrossFit team comp. I will say this, my spouse, another Mike, a jack-of-all-mountain trades, climbed little this past year, but then climbed surprisingly well. He came into the gym once and hucked a problem that I (who had been climbing all year) tried for five days with no luck.

I find Mike and Roy at night looking at CrossFit videos. They show me a picture on the local CrossFit website of our friend Tyler lying dazed on the gym floor. “Yeah, Tyler was hurtin’,” they say with strange conviviality.

One night the boys come from CrossFit declaring they want to eat the Paleo diet. Meaning, in general terms, fresh fruits and vegetables, and meats, all fine – but generally not pasta, breads or even potatoes.  Everyone knows potatoes are how anyone can afford to fill up starving teenage boys.

The low point occurs when I serve up burritos, an easy, healthy fave, and Roy recoils, saying, “I don’t want to eat legumes!”

Teddy throws up again at CrossFit, comes home laughing about it.

They talk about CrossFit at dinner, Mike concluding with a very serious expression, “I really need to work on my overhead squats.”

At one point I am almost tempted to try, thinking the pullups and other exercises would be good for, and somewhat natural to, a climber. But then I hike up the local Red Hill with a friend and her friend, who steams ahead set-faced. While I can keep up, barely, I can also barely speak.  I realize that what I like best in exercise is combining it with seeing friends; such as hiking at a talking pace.

One of the things I love in climbing, and one reason it is such a rich sport to write about, is that you and your partner not only share this great experience but can communicate. I couldn’t talk with my friends half as well if I was throwing up.

[Above photo: Sure the devil has a nice smile. The bad Will Gadd. Photo by Christian Pondella.]