At the end of an April week that promises the return of summer, Connie Jiang is trying to loosen a hydraulic filter from the underside of a giant red tractor while contemplating her future. Shaded from the high-noon sun and visible only from the waist down, Jiang jabs the blunt end of her wrench against the filter鈥檚 stubborn metal casing. A clang rings out against the tinny twang of the country classic 鈥淪omething to Brag About,鈥� which spills out of the whitewashed mechanic鈥檚 shop currently serving as Jiang鈥檚 classroom.

鈥淚nvestigative journalism is always something I鈥檝e really admired,鈥� she says, giving the casing another smack. 鈥淚f you have a government or some organization that鈥檚, like, trying to hide something, for that to be brought out is important.鈥� The casing finally gives and falls from the tangle of steel above into her oil-stained lap. 鈥淚鈥檓 kind of running into the same issue that I had in high school,鈥� she says, half-heartedly wiping her hands on her Carhartts. 鈥淓verything is just so interesting.鈥�

Jiang is a student at Deep Springs College, an experimental school in a remote California high-desert valley where 鈥渆verything鈥� does seem to mean almost everything. Since 1917, the two-year institution has taught students using a mix of cowboy grit and high intellectualism, a cocktail meant to prepare the world鈥檚 future leaders for a life of service to humanity. Twenty-six students at a time isolate themselves on campus, which doubles as a working cattle ranch. On top of a load of two or three seminars taught by a rotating slate of professors, students govern themselves and take on 20 hours of labor a week鈥攅ither the hard, physical work required for life on a ranch or the paper-pushing needed to run a school. In addition to shoeing horses, branding cattle, irrigating crops, and milking cows, students choose the curriculum, hire faculty, and select the next class of Deep Springers. Drugs and alcohol aren鈥檛 allowed, and there鈥檚 spotty internet and little contact with the outside world. For the students who end up here, that鈥檚 the appeal.

鈥淚solation is great for self-reflection,鈥� says Jiang, who came to Deep Springs after being disgusted by the cutthroat get-to-the-Ivy-League environment at her Philadelphia high school. 鈥淭here were cheating rings and people went insane over this stuff. If you鈥檙e cramming Quizlet, that鈥檚 not learning, in my opinion, even if you get an A-plus.鈥�

Despite its relative obscurity, Deep Springs is one of the most prestigious and selective institutions of higher education in the country. Students here have an average SAT score of 1500 and compete in a pool of 200 to 300 applicants for 13 spots a year. Graduates routinely transfer to schools like Cornell, Harvard, Yale, and Stanford to finish their bachelor鈥檚 degrees. Alumni have gone on to become prominent politicians, diplomats, journalists, mathematicians, and neurologists, and have been awarded MacArthur Genius Grants, Pulitzer Prizes, and Truman and Rhodes Scholarships.

The fact that Jiang is here, working under a tractor, stands out for one obvious reason: she鈥檚 a woman. Until 2018, Deep Springs admitted only 鈥減romising young men.鈥� It took 100 years, decades of debate, and a five-year legal battle before women finally broke down the institution鈥檚 gates and let the modern world roll in. Now the question is, how much of this modern world will Deep Springs tolerate?

The post This Elite Cowboy College Finally Let Women In. But Don鈥檛 Say It鈥檚 Changing. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

I was thousands of miles away from home when the Camp Fire ignited not far from where I grew up. It was November 8, 2018, and one month since I had moved to Berlin, where the day was cold and darkening. But back home in Butte County, California, it was hot and windy. At 6:45 A.M.,听the fear that permeates in that corner of the world was realized: a spark lit, and a blaze was born.

I鈥檇 spent my whole life in Northern California, where summers always carried the existential threat of wildfire. I鈥檇 seen a few pass through Butte Creek Canyon, where I grew up, slowly burning the ridges for weeks before simmering to a stop. But in recent years, climate change鈥攁nd in this case, negligence on the part of Pacific Gas and Electric (PG&E), which supplies the majority of the state with power鈥攈as been creating conditions that we鈥檝e come to consider a 鈥渘ew normal鈥�: wildfires that burn hotter, bigger, faster, later in the year, and less predictably than ever before.

On November 8, PG&E was supposed to shut off the power in Butte County, but it didn鈥檛. A transmission tower failed in the Feather River Canyon, and within an hour, the ensuing flames were headed straight for the tiny town of Paradise, which sat on the ridge above the canyon where I grew up. Back in Berlin, I opened my laptop to gauge the threat on my home and watched the chaos unfold. I read accounts of people鈥檚 cars burning on the Skyway鈥攐ne of the only roads out of Paradise鈥攁s traffic snarled their escape. I saw videos of fire lining the roads, civilians fleeing on foot. I heard about people trapped in their homes and those who didn鈥檛 make it out before their cars ignited. Not long after, the fire swept down into the canyon.

It was days before I knew that my sister鈥檚 home in Butte Creek Canyon had burned down, along with the majority of homes in that area, and that my childhood home had miraculously survived. It took weeks before anyone knew the total tally of the devastation in Butte County, but as November 8 drew to a close, 85 people were dead, 18,804 structures were destroyed, and Paradise had been wiped off the map. The Camp Fire would soon be known as the most destructive wildfire in California history.

News teams streamed into Butte County for months after the blaze, telling and retelling the gut-wrenching tales of those who survived and those who didn鈥檛. But watching from so far away, I felt like I didn鈥檛 understand it, like I couldn鈥檛 get a full picture of what happened that day. What I did know was haunting, but what I didn鈥檛 haunted me. Until I read former San Francisco Chronicle听reporter Lizzie Johnson鈥檚 new book

Paradise, out this month, is a harrowing minute-by-minute account of the Camp Fire, combining on-the-ground stories from the town鈥檚 residents, first responders, and officials, with a complete picture of the environmental conditions, urban-planning missteps, corporate negligence, and bureaucratic failures that coalesced into this unprecedented disaster. By the end, I closed its pages with the paradoxical realization that the devastation this fire wrought was completely avoidable, but also that we鈥檙e doomed to see it repeated over and over again鈥攁nd already are.

The book opens at dawn at fire station 36 in the Feather River Canyon, where California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection (Cal Fire) captain Matt McKenzie wakes to the sound of 鈥減onderosa pine needles [falling] like the raindrops that refused to come.鈥� An hour later, he鈥檚 forced to abandon the breakfast he鈥檚 preparing for his crew, when news of a nearby fire pings his phone. From there we watch in slow motion as the fire explodes, traveling an acre a second and cascading through the tiny community of Concow鈥攚here residents only knew of the fire when flames licked their homes鈥攂efore bearing down on Paradise.

Johnson takes us through the chaos as emergency responders try to calculate the speed and threat of the fire, which moved faster than anyone could wrap their heads around. City officials stall evacuation orders, not fully comprehending the magnitude of the impending disaster. We see how vulnerable Paradise was: because the town is located atop a ridge with just a few routes out, evacuating all of the听nearly 27,000 residents at once was impossible.

In the end, it didn鈥檛 really matter how they timed the orders鈥攄ue to a technological error and a low registration rate, the emergency alert system failed to send an evacuation notice to 80 percent of Paradise鈥檚 residents before it was too late. As the flames neared the town, smoke turned the sky a 鈥渂ruised navy, then black鈥� before a 鈥渉ail of embers鈥� like 鈥渕illions of lit matches flutter[ing] from the heavens鈥� bore down, starting hundreds of spot fires. The residents knew for themselves it was time to flee.

The bulk of the book takes place in the firestorm. Packed with so much suspense and detail that it sometimes reads like fiction, Paradise delves so deep into the experiences of every character听that we see the fire through their eyes, feeling the weight of their every decision, every close call. My heart pounded as flames closed in on Rachelle, clutching her hours-old baby in the back of a stranger鈥檚 car. My eyes welled as Tammy, a nurse at Feather River Hospital鈥檚 Birth Day Place (the labor and delivery unit where my niece was born one year earlier), called her family to apologize for past transgressions and say goodbye, not sure she would make it out alive. I had to put the book down several times to catch my breath鈥攚hen Travis watched his friends get sucked screaming into the flames, or when police-department dispatcher Bowersox listened as elderly residents stuck in their homes cried for help, knowing no one was on the way to save them.

The details of these accounts are painful enough. But Johnson鈥檚 powerful ability to pull us so completely into the lives of each person makes them almost unbearable. We don鈥檛 just pick up with the characters in the midst of the flames; we get their entire backstory (sometimes excessively), learning how they ended up in Paradise and why they loved it. Beloved Paradise Unified School District bus driver Kevin McKay, for example, moved to the hamlet from Santa Cruz, California, when he was 12. After growing up and buying a house in Magalia, a small community north of Paradise, he enrolled in school and took a job that gave him the time he needed to study鈥攄riving the school bus. During the Camp Fire, McKay navigates a busload of children through the flames, asking the two teachers on board to make a manifest of everyone鈥檚 names in case they didn鈥檛 survive.

The effect of these backstories is an intimacy that makes each escape feel personal. That鈥檚 the true feat of Johnson鈥檚 meticulous account: she humanizes a tragedy that is otherwise too big to fathom鈥攅ven for those of us, like me,听for whom the tragedy was already personal anyway.

This humanization extends to the aftermath, too. After we see all of the characters escape the flames, Johnson takes us to the reckoning, where we begin to understand that, while climate change, poor infrastructure, and flawed emergency systems were all contributing forces, the real blame rests on the shoulders of PG&E. The fire was caused by a single hook installed in 1920 and then neglected, on a transmission tower that failed. It would have cost just $19 to repair. 鈥淚t was the hook that took the lives, the hopes, dreams, the health, the sanity, the wealth, the happiness of a community,鈥� Johnson recalls Butte County district attorney Mike Ramsey saying during the court proceedings against PG&E. 鈥淏ut etched into the very soul of this community is a concern: What will happen next? Will this happen again?鈥�

Those questions are already being answered. Since the Camp Fire, wildfires across the West have exploded and consumed more towns whole. In August 2020, the North Complex Fire burned through California鈥檚 Butte, Plumas, and Yuba Xounties, killing 16 people and leveling the communities of Bery Creek and Feather Falls. As of press time, Butte County is 鈥攏ow the largest single wildfire in California history鈥攚hich started just ten miles from the ignition point of the Camp Fire. Again, it looks like ,听and again a handful of small towns are threatened.

In this landscape, it鈥檚 hard to land on a note of hope, and Johnson doesn鈥檛 try to. Like everyone else, she admits in so many words that the solution to this swelling problem is anything but clear. But before the book鈥檚 epilogue, Johnson brings us to the conclusion with an Indigenous legend from Butte County鈥檚 Konkow tribe, something she weaves poignantly听throughout the book. In the legend, a wildfire as destructive as the Camp Fire kills the majority of the tribe and displaces the rest, forcing them to wander for generations before finally making an exultant return home.

The modern-day residents of Paradise haven鈥檛 been so lucky. Just 2,034 of the town鈥檚 26,500 residents returned to the ridge. Houses are being built as quickly as possible, but for every person who promises to return, it seems, there鈥檚 one who vows they never will. The memories of the fire are still too raw, or the price of building materials too high, or the insurance payment still pending. More than that, the Paradise they knew is gone. The beloved Johnny Appleseed Day parade, the weekly football games with residents piled into the bleachers of Om Wraith Field, the thousand American flags that lined the Skyway on Memorial Day. Gone, too, are the 鈥渂almy summer evenings at the drive-in movie theater, a mattress thrown in the truck bed鈥� and 鈥渢he air that smelled like heaven after the first winter rain or the first warm day of summer.鈥�

For now, at least, these memories have been preserved. More than just a portrait of destruction, this book is a small act of restoration. Paradise will never look the same again, but Johnson captures its pre-fire charms with enough compassion that, for some, reading Paradise may feel something like coming home.

The post A New Book Examines What We Lost in the Camp Fire appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

It鈥檚 a hot August morning in Madison, Wisconsin, and Greg Glassman is sipping iced tea in an air-conditioned, glass-walled room perched above a preternaturally green field. Below, two dozen ripped athletes are hanging by their feet from bars, performing听upside-down sit-ups in sync while Kendrick Lamar鈥檚 鈥淟oyalty鈥� blasts from the speakers. The sun-warmed听bleachers are a blur of taut and bulging skin, fans already drinking beer and getting rowdy above signs that declare this event the 鈥淯ltimate Proving Grounds for the Fittest on Earth.鈥� It鈥檚 the 2019 CrossFit Games, the annual competition听that brings together athletes from around the world to prove themselves worthy of this听title. Here, the high-intensity workout regimen happening in nondescript gyms across the globe becomes a sport. And for the millions of CrossFit enthusiasts, it鈥檚 a big deal.

Glassman, the 63-year-old founder of this fitness phenomenon, doesn鈥檛 seem to听think it鈥檚 such a big deal. From the glass room, the CrossFitters鈥攏ow pushing massive, weighted carts across the field in teams of four鈥攁re hard to see clearly, and the TV meant to broadcast the games isn鈥檛 working. Glassman is unperturbed. He has turned his back on the action and is chatting with his ever present entourage about his new favorite topic: , the company听initiative听positing that听CrossFit is the cure to chronic illness and the savior of the failing health care system.

This is all Glassman wants to talk about these days, and he鈥檚 ready to raise his voice鈥攆rom this VIP glass house or anywhere else鈥攖o ensure his point is heard. The problem is, he鈥檚 having a hard time convincing the world that the same sport pitting scary-buff jocks听against each other could also be the very thing that saves ordinary people鈥檚 lives.听

At a press conference the day before, Glassman bickered with a roomful of CrossFit-loving journalists about this very point. When a reporter听asked about much discussed changes to the games鈥� structure this year, which some听believe lowered the听bar for qualifying athletes, Glassman ignored the question, going off on a tangent about CrossFit Health. He concluded with a harsh takedown of the very event everyone was there to cover. 鈥淭his isn鈥檛 the miracle, and this sure as fuck isn鈥檛 the business,鈥� he boomed as the room went still. Later, while being escorted across town in a rented black Escalade, he beamed with pride. 鈥淒id you feel how awkward that room was?鈥� he asked, craning his neck to flash a feverish smile.听

Glassman is known for this style of gleeful antagonism. In 2015, when musician Nick Jonas criticized a CrossFit tweet linking Coca-Cola to diabetes (Jonas is a type 1 diabetic), Glassman started his听听with a succinct, 鈥淔uck Nick Jonas.鈥� When Facebook deleted (then reinstated) the group Banting7DayMealPlan in 2019, which promoted the CrossFit-approved low-carb, high-fat diet, Glassman deleted CrossFit鈥檚 Facebook and Instagram accounts and 听damning the tech giant. He鈥檚 sicced his CrossFit constituents on any听reporter, scientist, or layman who doesn鈥檛 wholeheartedly agree with his agenda. And it鈥檚 not just outsiders that get him riled up; he has unleashed on those inside the CrossFit community as well. In 2012, an affiliate owner criticized a nominal choice by the company on a CrossFit message board, and Glassman 听to revoke his affiliation, though he later walked that back.听

鈥淭here are whole communities, they just hate my fucking guts,鈥� he tells me later. 鈥淎nd, you know, that鈥檚 something I鈥檓 proud of. Why? 鈥機ause they鈥檙e losers. They鈥檙e fucking idiots. Obvious idiots.鈥澨�

Glassman was a teenager living in the suburbs of Los Angeles when he first started developing the foundation of his high-intensity strength and conditioning program. Despite a childhood bout of polio that left him with a permanent limp, Glassman was always a natural athlete. In high school, after he took up cycling and joined the gymnastics听team, he found that he needed both cardio and strength training听to excel听but questioned the usual practice of separating the two. This was the era of bodybuilding that favored machines and fragmented workouts, hitting the legs one day and the arms another. But Glassman believed that segmented training leads to segmented ability, that听the magic of fitness happens when you mash cardio and strength up into a medley of intense bursts of exercise that favor functional movements like stepping听and lunging. And thanks to his dad, Jeff Glassman, a literal rocket scientist, the younger Glassman was used to quantifying everything around him鈥攊ncluding construction听nails, which his dad made him measure to the exact millimeter in order to teach the lesson that 鈥渘othing counts if you didn鈥檛 measure it,鈥� as Jeff told me. Glassman incorporated this quantification into his workout regimen, making measurement a pillar of .

It鈥檚 possible that that鈥檚 not what Jeff had in mind during听his lessons. But Glassman didn鈥檛 really want to do anything but train and coach. In the 1990s, after dropping out of six colleges, he听began working as a personal trainer in Los Angeles, where he became known for peddling his seemingly eccentric exercise methods. Instead of the usual workouts of biceps curls and an hourlong slog on the stationary bike, he would have his clients run backwards听on the treadmill and听lift weights, all while competing against each other for the fastest time. He was intense, and maybe a little contrarian, but his clients were impressed. Glassman鈥檚 ex-wife and CrossFit cofounder Lauren Jenai, one of his听first clients in Santa Cruz, California, says听she felt like she鈥檇 never worked out before training with Glassman. 鈥淚 had just spectacular results,鈥� she says. 鈥淢y body started changing quickly.鈥澨�

As Glassman鈥檚 reputation as a highly effective trainer grew, gym owners didn鈥檛 always approve听of his methods. 鈥淕reg would be pushing the edges as to the etiquette of the gym,鈥� says Jimmy Baker, a CrossFit affiliate owner who started training with Glassman in 1998 at Spa Fitness Center in Capitola, California. He remembers hearing stories听about Glassman鈥檚 clients dropping weights (a big no-no) and using the equipment in unconventional ways. But even though Glassman left听every gym he worked at, his ripped disciples always followed听him out the door. 鈥淭he ease with which I could go a mile and a half down the street and take everyone with me was just amazing,鈥� Glassman says. When he parted ways with his last gym,听in 2000, Baker and another client gave听him听their credit cards and told him to open his own establishment. He taught classes under the CrossFit name in听a听jujitsu听studio before opening his first official 鈥渂ox鈥濃�擟rossFit lingo for gym鈥攊n a converted auto shop a year later.听Around this time, Glassman and Jenai launched 听to post the method鈥檚 free foundational Workout of the Day, or WOD, which quickly attracted fans all over the world. Soon after, two trainers from Seattle approached Glassman to open their own box.

In 2007, one of Glassman鈥檚 friends hosted an event on his ranch in Aromas, California, where a few CrossFitters made the WOD into a competition鈥攐r 鈥淸ran] around trying things,鈥� as Baker put it. This was the start of the CrossFit Games, now a major international event that has aired on ESPN.

With word-of-mouth proliferation and zero marketing, the company grew from that small garage in Santa Cruz into听a worldwide phenomenon. There are now an estimated 15,000 CrossFit gyms听in more than 150听countries. The business is structured in a Glassman-approved libertarian fashion鈥攅ach box is independently owned and operated, with little say-so from CrossFit HQ, for a 鈥攁nd it鈥檚 become听the largest fitness chain听in the world. Though the company鈥檚 revenue figures aren鈥檛 public, Forbes 听in 2015听that CrossFit pulls in over $100 million a year.听Glassman sums up this success simply: 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 want the first box. The first one wanted me, and that鈥檚 true of number 15,000.鈥澨�

To think that one of the biggest fitness trends started as a fluke听and grew by the force of its own obvious听superiority is a compelling story. It鈥檚 also one that Glassman likes to push as he oscillates between his idea of what modesty sounds like and his less filtered smugness, two听modes that often overlap in confusing and telling ways. Although Glassman told me several times that he never wanted to run a chain of 15,000 affiliates, and听in fact听gives credit to听others for this听impressive听growth,听he also repeatedly referred to those independent offshoots as 鈥渕y gyms,鈥� despite the fact that he has no ownership or direct influence over any of them. And while he says CrossFit is not about elite athleticism, he also tells me he loves 鈥渕aking gods and goddesses听out of mere mortals.鈥� At times听his听phrasing becomes听especially bold. 鈥淚 take credit for this like I chiseled them听from stone myself,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 feel like my name should be on the bottom of their fucking foot.鈥� Humility is a relative concept when you鈥檝e literally changed the world鈥攐r at least believe you have.

A week before the games, I meet Glassman at his home outside Santa Cruz, where he lives with his second wife, 35-year-old Maggie Robinson,听the youngest three of his eight (soon to be nine) children,听and their two dogs. The big house sits on 16 acres off a long, tree-lined road in a gated community. When I arrive, it鈥檚 chaotic and full of people. Christie Mountain鈥擱obinson鈥檚 brother鈥檚 girlfriend and the family鈥檚 personal assistant鈥攊s simultaneously showing Glassman cement samples for the driveway repaving project听and helping Robinson write down questions for a potential nanny who will arrive soon. The youngest child, Riley, is roaming around in a Grateful Dead T-shirt, playing with a music box.

The walls of the house are stark white and towering, the ocean view and sparse furnishings accented with sealike abstract paintings and family portraits taken on the beach. Glassman, on the other hand, presents a less polished image. He鈥檚 dressed in an old zip-up hoodie, a T-shirt, and jeans, his graying wavy hair swept back beneath a backward baseball hat. Scruffy and not exactly a mass of muscle, he looks more like a guy who enjoys a good burger than any CrossFit buff or business mogul. But when he speaks, this air of unpretentiousness dissipates. In a spacious breakfast nook off the kitchen, Glassman and Robinson interview the future nanny next to a large whiteboard scrawled with CrossFit notes鈥攈alf-erased ideas for workouts and rest-day posts for the website, the latter of which are always a poem or a painting or a short story, something for the mind. During the interview, Glassman can鈥檛 seem to break his habit of orating. At one point, he stands up from the table to announce that he has figured out why his youngest son wants to wear the same outfit every day: 鈥淗e wants to be in control.鈥�

Perhaps听in his son, Glassman was recognizing a quality of his own鈥攃ertainly, he鈥檚 attempted to听direct听the narrative around his own empire. As CrossFit ballooned into an international sensation, an undercurrent of negative press dampened its reputation. Reports surfaced听about the potential dangers of听the workout, along with听rumors of its cultlike following. At first, Glassman brushed off the criticism. He even seemed proud of CrossFit鈥檚 intensity. 鈥淚t can kill you,鈥� he 听in 2005. 鈥淚鈥檝e always been completely honest about that.鈥� But he stopped being so blas茅 in 2013 when the National Strength and Conditioning Association (NSCA), which licenses physical trainers and issues scientific guidelines around fitness training, published a study听from researchers at听Ohio State University claiming that听16 percent of CrossFitters ended up injured. Though听compared with other forms of exercise, this听number is arguably modest鈥�runners, for example, experience an injury rate of 46 percent鈥擟rossFit鈥檚听official response was to call the study fraudulent. 鈥淲e recognized almost immediately that this wasn鈥檛 just a single paper听but part of a much larger campaign to both harm the reputation of CrossFit affiliates through baseless and false claims听and also to leverage that mythology about CrossFit being dangerous, to restrict both CrossFit affiliates and the commercial sector,鈥� says Russ Greene, CrossFit鈥檚 former director of government relations and research. 鈥淭hat was an existential threat.鈥澨齀t sued the NSCA for false advertising and unfair competition, alleging that it was听part of an attempt to edge CrossFit out of the fitness space because it was threatened by the company鈥檚 growth.听

CrossFit鈥檚 response had all the classic signs of a baseless conspiracy theory. But Glassman and Greene ended up being right鈥攁t least about the falsified data. An investigation revealed that the journal鈥檚 editor-in-chief, William Kraemer, forced the study鈥檚 author, Steven Devor, a professor of exercise physiology at Ohio State, to add in fake听injury data. The study was retracted, and Devor resigned from Ohio State. And in December, a federal court in California ruled in CrossFit鈥檚 favor.听Judge Janis L. Sammartino found that the NSCA 鈥渄eceived and continue[s] to deceive the public and consumers regarding the safety and effectiveness of CrossFit training,鈥� and ordered听the organization听to pay CrossFit a $4 million terminating sanction after determining that it interfered with the lawsuit鈥檚 discovery process.听In a statement, the NSCA said it 鈥渄oes not agree with the findings or conclusions in the December 4, 2019听Order. The NSCA is analyzing the Order in detail, and considering all of its听options.鈥澨�(The NSCA declined to comment on the 2013 study, CrossFit鈥檚 initial complaint, and Devor鈥檚 resignation. Neither听Kraemer nor听Devor听replied听to requests for comment.)

The NSCA lawsuit accelerated CrossFit鈥檚 obsession with uncovering corruption in the health and fitness space. Around 2013, Glassman, Greene, and听a handful of CrossFit employees听started investigating sports-training organizations in earnest,听reporting on the听听and听the听鈥檚 (ACSM) ties with the soda industry. (They found that the NSCA听was partly funded by PepsiCo.,听and they听听a partnership between the ACSM and Coca-Cola.)听CrossFit soon went听all in in its听fight against the ACSM,听NSCA, and Big Soda,听听听for warning labels on sugary drinks in California听and working 听to听facilitate conversations with听lawmakers about听why federal contracts shouldn鈥檛 go to听the NSCA.听By taking on听the听greedy, manipulative, and willfully deceptive听mainstream health system, CrossFit cast itself as the keeper of truth. The company鈥攁long with its fearless leader鈥攂ecame something of a martyr, the underdog just trying to make America healthy while corrupt fat cats lined their pockets with the exorbitant cost of chronic illness.

In 2017, CrossFit launched CrossFit Health and hired Jeff Cain, cofounder of American Philanthropic, a fundraising consultancy for nonprofits, as CEO听to handle the听day-to-day operations of the business. An听overhaul of the company鈥檚 image began in earnest that same year听and听included a 听of the CrossFit website听in 2019. Images of bulging CrossFit competitors were replaced with average people just trying to get in shape: instructional videos show older adults doing tricep dips听off a vintage kitchen counter or raising bags of dog food off the floor. Normal people, functional movements, total health鈥攖hat鈥檚 the new CrossFit brand. (Cain resigned from the CEO position for unexplained reasons during the reporting phase of this story. He declined requests for comment.)

But if you鈥檙e still wondering exactly what CrossFit Health is, join the club. While Glassman projects听confidence about his ambitions,听the initiative seems to听lack听a clear objective. The website proclaims that CrossFit Health is 鈥渁n investigation into the ills of modern medicine and the wilful听[sic] abuse of the public鈥檚 trust in science,鈥� a line Glassman reiterates repeatedly. But what exactly does that mean in action? Past coverage in 听and 听has stated that the company is amassing an army of doctors to prescribe CrossFit听and听that Glassman is working to completely overhaul the American health care system. But听in the world of health care reform,听CrossFit Health has听barely made a splash. When I reached out to three听health organizations to get their take, most had not even heard of CrossFit Health,听and all declined to comment. Unlike the American Health Association or the Commonwealth Fund, CrossFit Health is not a nonprofit or a foundation. It鈥檚 not even an independent arm of the company. Instead, it鈥檚 something like a collection of individual motives and ideas clustered beneath a听mission statement that I hear Glassman rattle off so many times, I could recite it in my sleep: 鈥淲e sit in unique possession of an elegant solution to the world鈥檚 most vexing problem.鈥澨齌he vexing problem, of course, is chronic illness and a broken health care system. The elegant and optimal solution is CrossFit鈥攊ts workouts; its preferred听diet of meat and vegetables, nuts and seeds, some fruit, little starch, and no sugar; and a commitment to unearthing the truth behind mainstream medicine and health research.

Glassman isn鈥檛 wrong in his assessment of America鈥檚 health problems. According to a 2019 Harvard听, nearly half of all American adults will suffer from obesity by 2030. Another , published in听2018, found that听70听percent of deaths in the U.S. are听caused by chronic illness.听In Glassman鈥檚 mind, the answer is simple: 鈥淥ff the carbs, off the couch.鈥� It鈥檚 widely accepted that exercise and nutrition are fundamental to overall health and the prevention of illness, and there鈥檚 even evidence that type 2 diabetes can be reversed by 听and exercising. But that doesn鈥檛 mean, of course, that CrossFit is the only answer. Katie Heinrich, director of the Functional Intensity Training Lab at Kansas State University, has run several studies that show CrossFit workouts can reduce fat and increase muscle. But is CrossFit the superior workout, better than all the rest? 鈥淚 wouldn鈥檛 say so,鈥� she says, adding that it doesn鈥檛 mean it鈥檚 not a good option for some. The same goes for the CrossFit-approved high-fat, low-carb diet.听Jedidiah Ballard, an osteopathic emergency physician at the Augusta University Medical Center in Georgia, has听said听it is, at the very least, better than the standard American diet. But like the workout, it might not be great for everyone. There鈥檚 also that carb-restricted diets might not be the healthiest choice (after all, carbs are a major source of energy) and that eating loads of is not only bad for the body听but听for the environment,听too.

But Glassman is not about to reconsider his beliefs. One听of the tenets of CrossFit Health is the total distrust of mainstream health research,听which听makes it easy for him to dismiss any scientific evidence that counters his views. Over breakfast in Santa Cruz, he cited a well-known from Dr. John P.A. Ioannidis at Stanford that claims the overwhelming majority of published research findings听are false. When I ask him if he plans to fund studies that would prove the efficacy of CrossFit or its nutrition plan, he tells me: 鈥淚 don鈥檛 need a study. It鈥檚 my freak show.鈥澨�

Still,听he is pulling as many medical professionals into this freak show as possible. After discovering that some 20,000 physicians were practicing CrossFit across the U.S., Glassman created a trainer-certification course specifically for doctors. That evolved into a mini-conference series featuring antiestablishment scientists that support Glassman鈥檚 views on health care. Though Glassman says the plan was simply to get these doctors to network with each other, a large portion of them have become converts, calling themselves the Derelict Doctor鈥檚 Club (DDC). Shakha Gillin, a pediatrician, said the DDC doctors 鈥渁re now getting our patients better from what we鈥檙e learning.鈥� Tom Siskron, a urologist and the owner of a听virtual CrossFit training platform, told me, 鈥淕reg Glassman and CrossFit saved my passion for medicine.鈥� Last year, Glassman launched the , a one-day seminar for medical professionals and other interested parties听the day before the CrossFit Games. This year听some 200 health-truth seekers gathered at the Monona Terrace Conference Center in Madison to hear lectures from other health professionals on the disconnect between a diet pushed by public health officials and a diet backed by scientific evidence, the 鈥済reat cholesterol con,鈥� and more.

Glassman made sure to mention several times to me that he stands to make no profit off CrossFit Health. He offers the health conference to doctors for free and is spending millions on litigation and lobbying against the ACSM, NSCA, and Big Soda.听But it鈥檚 hard to imagine he鈥檚 not hoping for a return on investment. Convincing the world you have the ultimate answer and getting medical professionals to recommend it to patients doesn鈥檛 seem void of monetary gain. Although Ballard, the osteopath, says he agrees with CrossFit鈥檚 skepticism of mainstream health science, he鈥檚 unconvinced it鈥檚 all for the benefit of public health. 鈥淎 massive for-profit organization like CrossFit has more effective marketing in being controversial, hitting viewpoints hard, and giving black and white answers,鈥� he says.

In other words, Glassman has found a way to keep the intensity of CrossFit鈥檚 contrarian image,听while presenting it as a听shiny, health-forward package鈥攁nd he doesn鈥檛 deny that that鈥檚 lucrative. 鈥淲e sell the truth for a living,鈥� he says. 鈥淎nd it鈥檚 highly profitable in an age of mass delusion.鈥�

On the first morning of the games, hundreds of ultrafit athletes line up for the opening ceremony. Before all 489 of them take a lap around the field wrapped in their country鈥檚 flag, Glassman makes his way down the line, shaking as many hands as he can. He steps out onto the field and waves to the cheering crowd before his security guard leads him to the VIP lounge. On the way, an attendee leans over a small barrier, yelling, 鈥淐oach! Coach!鈥� Glassman reaches out and grasps his hand. 鈥淚t鈥檚 an honor,鈥� his fan says, then asks for a selfie. When he鈥檚 done, another muscled man leans over the fence for a selfie, and then another and another, a chain reaction of adulation听lining his way. For all of Glassman鈥檚 dismissal of the games, it鈥檚 clear he鈥檚 loving this. I say as much. 鈥淥h, of course. It鈥檚 a lot of fun,鈥� he says, before retreating to his glass box above.

After spending three days with Glassman, I鈥檓 tempted to believe that if he has changed so many lives, he must be doing something right. What he preaches has to have some real-world value. It鈥檚 this thinking that prompts me to let three doctors drag me to my first CrossFit workout in Madison during the games, where I perform burpees and rowing reps until I鈥檓 pouring sweat and can鈥檛 lift my arms. It鈥檚 what leads me to pose for a post-workout photo with a water bottle hovered over my open mouth as if I鈥檓 鈥渄rinking the Kool-Aid,鈥� as the doctors put it.

Back home, though, I mull over Glassman鈥檚 immutable commitment to skepticism. Embedded in the CrossFit听brand is the belief that we should always question the established order. So听I have to ask: Is a multimillion-dollar company claiming exclusive access to the truth not part of the established order? If I drink the CrossFit Kool-Aid, shouldn鈥檛 I question the ingredients?听

I鈥檓 still grappling with this a few weeks after the games, when Glassman asks me rhetorically, 鈥淎re we dangerous? Or do we sit in possession of an elegant solution to the world鈥檚 most vexing problem?鈥� My own unsatisfying opinion is some conglomeration of both,听neither,听and who knows.听But I鈥檓 not sure Glassman cares what I, or anyone else, thinks. He already has听his answer. Anyone who doesn鈥檛 believe it is just another obvious idiot.

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