Three weeks ago, mid sausage roll, it dawned that a reckoning was coming my way, ominously approaching on a 152kg weighted sled. Unavoidable now.
The ostrich approach had failed, Hyrox Dublin was taking place in the RDS in mid-November and I would be participating. Me, with my chicken-wing biceps. Me, who ordered weights during lockdown but uses them to balance lopsided table legs at home and to prevent garden furniture from blowing away in storms.
How did I end up here? The pitch was straightforward: event sponsors Red Bull were assembling a training group for six weeks and those involved would then be among the 15,000 Hyrox participants.
Founded in 2017, Hyrox has become a global fitness craze. The “sport of fitness racing”, as they term it, will this year have 80 races around the world involving more than 550,000 entrants. The Dublin event sold out in minutes.
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Participants complete a 1km run followed by a functional exercise station, repeating that sequence eight times.
At first glance, the stations were intriguing.
Lunges: I spent most of my junior football career lunging at lads. Burpees: one of my kids had those as a baby. And if it wasn’t the burpees, it was the windies. Farmer’s Carry: I’m from Meath. Wall Balls: Sounds fun. Hyrox, count me in.
When I outlined the challenge to my wife, she was initially indifferent. Eventually I mentioned we were to be coached by John Belton.
“John Belton,” she exclaimed, suddenly all flushed and giddy. “He trained Vogue.”
“The magazine?” I blurted out for no reason other than, taken aback by her sudden excitement, it was the first thing that entered my mind.
“No, Vogue Williams and Joanne McNally. Vogue and Spencer. I was going to say you’d recognise her from the laundry detergent ad, but sure you don’t know where our washing machine is.”
She was already striding triumphantly back towards the kitchen congratulating herself at that put-down when it occurred to me that what I should have done was heave the washing machine up on my back and lunge all the way down the hallway. That’d show her.
But we both knew such an endeavour would end with me pancaked across the floor beneath said washing machine like the unfortunate casualties in those ghastly cartoon deaths. Plus, I wasn’t entirely certain where we kept the washing machine.
Just like that I was signed up for “Red Bull, Road to Hyrox”.
For those unaware of exactly what the race entails, here’s a breakdown. I know this because after agreeing to participate, I googled it.
This is the men’s singles. There is a 1km run between each of the following stations:
SkiErg: Simulates the motion of Nordic skiing, which you must pull for 1,000m.
Sled Push: A 50m push of a sled weighing 152kg.
Sled Pull: A 50m pull of a sled weighing 103kg.
Burpee Broad Jumps: 80m of burpees.
Rowing: 1,000m on a rowing machine.
Farmer’s Carry: Carry 2 x 24kg kettlebells for 200m.
Sandbag Lunges: Complete 100m of lunges while carrying a 20kg sandbag on your shoulders.
Wall Ball: Throw a 6kg weighted ball at a target 10m high, doing so starting from a squat position every time – 100 reps.
At this point it’s worth mentioning that I am not a member of a gym. Signing up for an event like this without being a gym member must be akin to entering a swimming gala while still wearing inflatable armbands and requiring a foam noodle for extra buoyancy.
In sheer panic, two weeks out, I contacted a gym and obtained a four-day trial.
On that first afternoon I spent 20 minutes expertly loading the sled with 152kg of weights. But when I gave it a shove, it didn’t budge. Not an inch. I sheepishly circled the sled hoping to find a brake engaged somewhere. No brake.
A mountain of a man was in the lane alongside me texting with one hand while effortlessly pushing his sled with the other as if propelling a curling stone down a sheet of ice.
I decided the solution to my predicament was to remove some of the 20kg weight plates but it soon became apparent that I couldn’t actually get my hands between the plates to slide one of them back up the horn (the internet told me that’s what this bar is called).
I then tried spinning the top plate to see if it was possible to generate momentum and make it rise a tad. That approach almost ended with a crushed thumb.
Only one unedifying option remained. Slowly, I made a circular motion with my right arm, overemphasising a facial grimace during the rotation. Simultaneously, I moved my left hand to grab my right shoulder as if preventing my collarbone from falling out of place. “Shoulder is f**ked,” I sighed in the direction of Hercules beside me who was still nonchalantly pushing his sled but was now on a video call with somebody on the other end of the line who was laughing hysterically, for some reason.
“Went too hard with my clean and jerk earlier,” I added. “Idiot,” chuckled the hyena down the phone. So, with the sled sitting exactly where I’d stacked it, I scurried off to the sauna.
To rebuild my confidence, I invented a game to see if I could outlast everybody else in the sweatbox. My unsuspecting opponents fell one by one, exiting all ruddy-faced and partially melted until nobody remained but me. Champion of the sauna.
By the time I got to the steam room, I’d reasoned that to save further embarrassment it was best to withdraw from Hyrox. But then from across the room – invisible through the steam – a voice emerged. “You know you’re meant to factor in the weight of the sled?” I did not know this.
No wonder I couldn’t move the blasted thing, the Ireland frontrow wouldn’t have shifted it. Suddenly, my shoulder was cured. Hyrox was back on. Sure, didn’t I have a four-day gym membership now. And after one afternoon I was already the best at sauna.
For the many marketing images of the chiselled Hyrox pro athletes, the event is very accessible – there are the singles races, doubles, relays and an adaptive division for athletes with impairments.
“It’s taking traditional gym training and giving people a benchmark and a standard to either push towards or overcome. It takes general fitness and puts it into a competitive platform,” explains John Belton.
I had completely underappreciated the value of a top personal trainer. John held a group training session in his No 17 gym in Dublin city centre once a week for six weeks and compiled a parallel training programme. He got us to the start line.
The RDS was hopping last weekend. Participants set off in waves from within a giant tunnel full of motivational quotes emphasising the importance of positivity and self-confidence. I told the guy beside me I was pretty good at sauna. He moved away without uttering a word.
By the time we got to the first station, SkiErg, most of the men were topless. I had noticed this phenomenon during training too and had checked the official rules beforehand to make sure it wasn’t some peculiar mandatory requirement. Thankfully, it appeared to be purely optional. But very popular, nonetheless.
On arriving at the Sled Push, I threw my full weight at the machine and mercifully it crept forward. If only Hercules could see me now.
It is fair to say my Burpee Broad Jumps were not the most elegant performed at the RDS. If it was the venue’s iconic Horse Show, this probably would be the moment they’d have put me down.
I rebranded them Burpee Small Jumps. I proudly relayed this to the judge accompanying me on my painfully slow and ungraceful burpee journey but she merely responded with a strained smile that suggested she’d heard that one before.
The runs gradually got harder. Depending on the functional station you were emerging from, various limbs didn’t quite, well, function. Compromised running feels like wading through treacle.
My biggest fear were the final stations – Sandbag Lunges and Wall Balls. I was particularly worried about the lunges because if you dropped the sandbag twice you were disqualified.
I hoisted the sandbag over my shoulders and with trepidation set off for lunge number one. Knee down. “Pleeeeeasssse come back up”. Phew. Repeat. For six minutes and 21 seconds.
Last station, Wall Balls. On the first effort it was clear my arms had dissolved to mush. Imagine two strands of floppy spaghetti trying to throw a meatball in the air. That was me at Wall Balls.
I failed to make the height with my fifth throw. More than 90 reps remaining. Alarm bells ringing.
It was then I heard John from behind the barrier: “Do three and take a break.” And so it went. “Do four.” “Keep chipping away.” This approach worked, disaster averted. Ninety-eight, 99, 100. Done.
“From a coaching and training perspective, you can see where somebody needs to work to get stronger or fitter because you get the analytics back from your times on each station,” says John.
“I think a lot of people go to the gym and train without any major purpose. This gives traditional gym training a huge purpose.”
At the finish line, pain and joy. Never again. Until next year. I must check how Hercules is fixed for doubles.
