Brawn, Pomp, and Blood

  A gonzo meet report.

A friend invited me to their first powerlifting meet. It had been years since I, cloistered in the gorgeous Rocky Mountains, had witnessed this kind of spectacle. Years more since my last competition. They call them meets, borrowing from track and field, where athletes can be seen running, jumping, and throwing… athletic feats, the opposite of what happens in this so-called sport. Meet, it seems, is a long-running joke, or perhaps a misspelling carried on by the brutes who themselves organize the event for a small profit: the vicarious pleasure they expose with wide eyes, licked lips, and shouts of “UP!” The cuckoldry of iron. Had-beens in polo shirts telling meatheads who is lifting and when. Thus, powerlifting meat. Loads of it.

The drive was ninety minutes of speeding down steep grades. The soundtrack was Bolt Thrower, Mastodon, Lamb of God, and all else heavy and fast, interrupted by my beeping radar detector, keeping me from another stern talking-to by a statie in a smokey or a deputy in a ballcap. “You know how fast you were going?” Absolutely not. Is that powdered sugar in your mustache? That trusty device has saved more ass than the South Park Burro Rescue.

Dropping into the Denver metro from the high country is what I imagine it was like being an angel falling from heaven. I had screwed up big time, landing me square in the smog-covered, oxygen-lacking, concrete and billboard hellscape that is the Mile High City on a 95-degree day. I wore jeans, figuring they were a kind of soft armor against the filth I’d be walking into. Who wants their calves exposed to what might be stumbled into down here? Ticks in the brush become who knows what in the city.

I’d been a resident of the Front Range since I was a child and, as an adult, witnessed its descent into madness. The kind of gym I was going to is evidence of its decline. Not that it is a bad gym. Far from it. More so, the kind of gym. One of those that upstanding citizens don’t go to because it resembles a cult hideout. Windowless. One entrance. Tucked away in an industrial district. One wrong turn and you’re in an alleyway where a body might be waiting to greet you, hand outstretched with rigor mortis. Is that a vial of testosterone in the poor soul's hand? No? Damn. Just another crackpipe.

The asphalt parking lot was full. I should’ve expected that. I drove to the rear of the building and parked in one of the few remaining spots designated for other businesses. There was a crowd around the trunk of a car across the way from mine. Several heavily muscled men were passing something from one to the other. Getting out of my car, I didn’t bother to ask. Not my business, I figured, based on their hushed voices. One side-eyed me, giving a look that said I wasn’t invited. I nodded and headed to the entrance, noting the strip club across the street. A common pairing for this kind of gym.

The place was called Steel Killers or some such play on words. A tell that it wasn’t trying to advertise itself. Those who knew, knew, and so would join. Those who didn’t, wouldn’t, keeping out the soft, posh, upper-crust well-to-do types living luxurious lives down the road in Cherry Creek. The kind that lifts cushioned weights to “tone” and “not look too bulky.” Not this crowd. Not this gym. Such a Denverite would be laughed out, that is, if they weren’t willing to whiff ammonia before sacrificing some skin on the sharp knurling of a bloodstained Texas Deadlift Bar. Then again, no one comes here unless they know what that kind of equipment is and what it means.

Shade tents were set up for the crowd outside. Dozens lounged on camp chairs, complaining about the heat. I joined. It was an ugly hot. The kind that convinces you that the sun hates humanity. The garage door was open, and the platform sat inside on the loading dock. Every spectator wanted to be indoors, assuming the gym was cooler. It wasn’t. I found my friend “D” in a small group next to the stairs. “Yo!” I said. We hugged. He had lost eighty pounds. He’s still twice as wide as I am. My shirt is wet with his sweat. Great.

“You missed the squats,” he said.

“Sorry, I headed out late. How’d you do?”

“Smoked 585… should’ve gone for 600 but wanted to save some gas for deads.”

I nodded. “Good idea. Let’s go inside.”

“You need a wristband. It’s for coaches only.”

The wristband wasn’t needed. The organizers cared about overcrowding earlier in the day but lost control once the competition started. Every lifter had a girlfriend, a brother, two buddies, and a stranger. Support staff. Spectators. Not of the event, of the platform, that is. Of the warm-up area, backstage, where the competitors were mingling. A sexless orgy of flesh wrapped in wrestling singlets and bound in neoprene knee sleeves. Enough elastic to contain the muscle and fat that paid to be there, and all their perspiring partners. PG-13 bondage. Tantalizing masochism. A gateway ritual to the hardcore.

I took an inventory of the place and compared it to my own gym. There were a few more squat racks and benches. Dozens more barbells and specialty bars. Devices to target this or that muscle. Heavy canvas sandbags and atlas stones that could crush your skull with one wrong back bend and a too-long breath hold. See that cracked upholstery on the leg press? The thing gets used too often to replace something as soft as padding. Eventually, it’ll crumble, leaving only the steel back. All that these monstrous humans need. My gym needs one. Then there were the numerous holes in the drywall. I stopped counting and started imagining how they got there. Headbutts and punches, likely. Missed lifts inflicted on the construction by the people who, in the moment, weren’t strong enough. But hey, they were strong enough to interior decorate.

The gym hadn’t been cleaned in years. Maybe ever. No bother. I chugged my water bottle and got in line for the sole restroom. It had been cleaned, but by this point in the meet, after the squats, it looked like a snapshot of a war zone. Someone’s nose must have blown up on them. Too much ammonia. Too much weight. Too high blood pressure induced by anabolic steroids and obesity, making a human spring. It was on the toilet, the mirror, the wall. Whoever almost died in there tried to clean it up. Tried. I pissed in the pink toilet water, smiling when it turned orange, then washed my hands and dried them on my jeans, rushing out. Lifters were waiting. I didn’t want to be the guy who made a line of monsters impatient. One was doing the peepee dance. He later benched 407 pounds.

The water fountain was to the right. I refilled my bottle and drank. Warm. Gross. Recycled human waste purified by technology and chemicals. The taste of both made me choke. Or maybe it was knowing where it came from. Down the road, the city’s sludge becomes its drinking water. I passed it on my way into the metro. Didn’t think twice. Should have. I would’ve stopped at a corner store for something leeching plastic, rather than reeking of chlorine and diluted antidepressants. I slugged another drink and met my friend at a bench where he was warming up.

Competitors are organized by flights. Weakest to strongest both within the flight and from one flight to the next. The bar gets heavier as flights progress. Each lifter gets three attempts at the squat, bench press, and deadlift. Flight B was ending while I was waiting in line for the restroom. Mostly teens, women, and people new to the sport. D was assigned to flight D. He began warming up while the lifters on flight C were assembling for their first attempts. With about 20 minutes until he would be standing in line, waiting his turn to bench before the judges, D was getting fired up. He had been chipping away at a four-plate bench over the last few years. Steadily losing body weight while adding pounds to the bar. Hell of a feat.

“What’s your last warm-up?”

“Three plates,” said D.

“First attempt?”

“Three-fiftyish. I forgot the kilos.”

Recalling a conversion chart, mentally scrolling down the columns, I said, “160?”

“That’s it. I’ll go up to 175 for my second”

“Third attempt?”

“Four-oh-fiveish, baby.”

“185 kilos. 407 pounds. Almost 408.”

“Stop bragging,” said D with a slap on my shoulder. He sat on the bench and resumed his warm-up, hitting 275 pounds for an easy triple. It flew up. He could’ve thrown it.

Other lifters were using the same bench. “Put three plates on,” said the next. Another “coach” and I loaded the bar. He smoked it. So did two others after him. Then it was D’s turn with 315 pounds. He did the same. They were getting antsy. It was getting hotter. Their pits were dripping sweat onto the bench, creating a nacreous oil slick. Pointing to the wet floor, I said, “Drink up.”

“Good idea. I got a cooler full of water bottles. Want one?”

“No,” I said, thinking that it was already too late and that he should get the good stuff because he’s competing. I had already drunk the gym’s water, its funk growing on me like an IPA at a microbrewery on the outs. Swishing a sip around my mouth, I picked up notes of birth control and sleep aid medication. Yum.

“We’re up,” said another lifter.

The dozen or so men lined up from smallest to largest. D was midway. Three monsters were at the tail end. Two in matching white outfits. Shoes, socks, shirts and singlets. The only difference was their skin. One, a fair-skinned farm boy. Probably Germanic. The other was olive-skinned. Probably Hispanic. Behind them was a huge Samoan that I recognized from a meet ten years ago in Utah. He’d been in the game a long time. Stayed while I left. Ages ago, these were the champions of competing tribes. Here today, there are no tribes. Only the unifying flag of steel, under which we’ve all gathered to test who is the best among us. My money is on the Samoan.

As Flight D began their first attempts, D got more excited. “Stay calm for your opener,” I said. “Right,” he said before putting in his mouthguard. The announcer called, “Platform ready!” It was D’s turn. He put up 160 kilos without a grind. 175 kilos would be his. Knowing bar speed, 185 kilos would be a reach. Not being one to instill doubt so soon, I would wait until his second attempt was finished before trying to convince him that he should go for a lower third attempt to secure a higher total. That’s what a full power meet is about: the total.

“How’d 160 feel?”

“Easy!”

I nodded and handed him a cool bottle of distilled water from his cooler. He drank half of it. Part of me wanted to finish what was left to get the city out of my mouth. We stood to the side to watch the next benchers, angling positions to see what the three giants would put up as their first attempts. Each was in the low four hundreds, with the Samoan putting up 195 kilos, about 430 pounds. D got back in line. I stood beside him and said the usual powerlifting phrases. Little reminders of how to bench, not that he needed them. More to keep him focused. “Chest up. Back tight. Tight grip. Leg drive.” Yatta, yatta.

“Platform ready!” called the announcer. D went to the bench and began setting up, doing everything right, everything I told him. Everything he already knew. With a handoff, D unracked his second attempt and steadied it. The head judge yelled, “Start!” D lowered the weight slower than his first, pausing it on his chest, waiting for the command. “Press!” yelled the judge. D pushed hard. It reached the halfway point as fast as his first attempt. He began to grind, and grind and… “AHH! Take it! Take it!” D jumped up from the bench holding his shoulder. The meet director ran over to him and asked if he was hurt. “I’ll be alright,” said D. “Want your third?” asked the director. “I’ll pass.”

As D walked up to me, I wondered what had happened. Was it his pec? His rotator cuff? A back cramp? I held out my hand and told him to squeeze it as hard as he could. Strength was still in him. “You can deadlift,” I said. He smiled. “You sure?”

“We’ll change your opener to be lighter. That way you still get a total. If you don’t deadlift, you don’t total. If you don’t total, you bomb out. Then all this was for nothing.”

“Right.”

“We’ll see how the warm-ups go. Where’s it hurt?”

“Deep in the shoulder.”

Rotator cuff.

“Probably just a strain. You’ll be alright.”

“Think so?”

“I only play a doctor on T.V.”

D laughed as we walked to a folding chair that served as his campsite in the gym. Around him was a mess of lifting gear spilling out of his gym bag. Knee sleeves, squat and deadlift shoes, a shaker cup, a bottle of baby powder, and an assortment of wraps and straps. He brought every piece of gear he had. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Treat it like any other day in the weight room, and the weights will move the same. Except they hadn’t. D got injured benching a weight he had hit in training. Sitting into the chair, he tossed his wrist wraps into his bag, adding to the pile of heavily used, stinking equipment. Gripping his shoulder, D said, “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. Seemed like you were tucking too hard.”

“I always tuck hard.”

“Maybe your elbow flared early? Tough to say. I wasn’t standing on that side.”

“Yeah, I set up super tight on my third squat, and something happened to that bicep.”

“After the meet, you need to reassess your form. You’re strong, but your body is different now that you’re 100 pounds lighter. You might’ve gotten this far by luck and caveman strength. You need to become a technician to keep this from happening, especially with this much weight.”

D nodded. His older son, maybe 14, began massaging his traps. I left them to go watch the action. “Platform ready!” One of the monsters was taking their second. Stepping into a gap between equipment and banners, I watched him smoke a clean 195-kilo bench. 429.9 pounds, without wrist wraps. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen someone bench that heavy without supportive equipment. A feat becoming rarer as “raw” powerlifting edges nearer its less popular cousin. Twenty years ago, lifters wore suits of armor. That fell out of style around the time I got into the sport. Minimal equipment became the norm. It still is, but today’s minimal isn’t the same as it used to be. Materials are stronger and stiffer, letting lifters get more out of their gear. Raw lifters seek heavy-duty equipment that still meets the unequipped standard. Then they size it tight, hoping for more assistance, even if they need to cut off their knee sleeves mid-workout. At $130 a pair, it is an expensive gamble to stay “raw.”

I remember getting my underwear inspected at competitions. Whitey tighties or boxers. Strictly cotton and nothing “compressive,” lest they give some support like the squat briefs worn by the single- and multi-ply powerlifters of the day. That’s no longer the case, it seems. I asked the truly raw monster, naked in powerlifting terms, if he always benches without wrist wraps. “Yeah, they just never felt good.” He’s here competing with himself. One of the few. If he wanted to win overall, and he could, he’d learn the equipment, how to skirt the rules (a powerlifting tradition), and why not feeling good is mandatory for winners. Nevertheless, he’ll win the imaginary trophy for most raw and, in my heart, most impressive.

The platform was ready for the Samoan. He completed a 210-kilo bench. 462 pounds. More than most were deadlifting. That’s what makes powerlifting special. The strongest in an area compete on the same day as those trying to become strong, using the same equipment and cheering the same. Those who’ve been doing this a lifetime stand around casually, knowing it's just a meet, trying to calm the nerves of those thinking that because it's their first day on the platform, they must put up their best numbers, lest some tragedy befall them. As if they would be banned from the sport for being bad at it. “There’ll be another meet,” says the strong to the newly less-weak. What I didn’t want to say to D, who, both bigger and stronger than me, held off doing his first meet for a long time. It was his special day. He spent years trying to be ready for it, and when it came, part of him wasn’t. Pesky shoulders.

Others were sitting around with D’s same look. They had missed a squat, or a squat and a bench, and were running that inner arithmetic. Were they weaker than they thought? Were they too ambitious? Had their coach given them bad attempts? What if their deadlift went the same way? Maybe their opener is too heavy? There comes a point where you cannot go down in weight, usually when the flight before yours starts. Once you pick a weight, it’s put up or bomb out. Rarely does someone miss their first attempt and make that lift on a second attempt. There’s a psychological toll. The bar feels heavier. Some have, sure. But, often, a missed first attempt is a disaster. That’s why “Open with your last warm-up” is common advice at meets.

We had about twenty minutes before the time limit to change D’s first deadlift attempt. He was in good spirits. D’s two young sons and his older brother were standing around him, doing their best to lift him up. He was sipping water, trying to stay hydrated in this furnace. He was hours into the event. Sweat evaporated into the air, making it rancid and humid. I could taste the jocks.

“Start warming up your dead now so we can adjust your opener.”

“Should I just do a plate?”

“We’ll see how much you can get back here before your shoulder starts yelling at you.”

“Already is.”

“See how holding the bar feels.”

“Okay,” said D, getting up from his chair.

 It went better than he thought. 45, 135, 185, 225, 275, and 315 were fast.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?”

“Better.”

“Sometimes weight is a painkiller.”

He laughed. “Wasn’t an hour ago.”

D didn’t understand what I meant. Or maybe he did and didn’t want to go down that lane. Looking around the gym, others in his flight, the biggest and strongest of the day, were going internal. Going to that place inside reserved for rage. Rage put into bent bars and clanging plates. Rage they once wanted to be rid of but now cannot be strong without. Rage held onto like a heavy deadlift. Rage that existed before they could pull big weights. As if it called them, demanding something of them: a chance to be seen. Having given in, they keep it shackled to a stone-walled heart, letting their rage see the light of day when they need it to lift more weight so they can feel a happiness that fades with the knurling imprinted on their skin.

We loaded 365 pounds for D. It was easy. Then came 405. It went the same. “Shoulder good?” D tilted his head side to side. He could deal with it. He wasn’t going to bomb out.

“What do you want to open with?”

“Whatever you think I can do, Coach.”

I got in line behind others to lower his opener. He had wanted to start with 255 kilos, 562 pounds. I told the man with the clipboard, “Make it 200.” He scratched out D’s original number, jotted in the new one, and said, “Got it. Hope it ain’t bad.” I gave a thumbs up and said, “Nothing he can’t come back from.”

Powerlifters love a comeback story. I remember guys from my era suffering torn pecs, biceps, hamstrings, and a multitude of back injuries. Few returned. Some left forever. Weren’t seen on the platform again. Disappeared from the scene. Once contenders for records, once record holders, faded stage left and died to the sport. Me.

I found D sitting on his folding chair sipping Gatorade and told him, “You’ll open with 440.”

“Wish you hadn’t said that.”

He was right. I should’ve let him lift blind and give it his all. Maybe it would have moved faster. We’ll never know.

He shrugged, “But I know I can do that.”

“No doubt.”

D shifted the conversation to my training. I told him it could be better and that I was on new medications that had sent me to urgent care. Twice. “How bad is it?” he asked. “There’re good days.” He nodded, “That’s good.” I nodded. Good is good. We left it at that.

D’s older son walked up and said, “Dad, your flight is starting.”

“Better get in line then.”

It wasn’t a line, more a crowd of lifters behind the wall of banners that were the platform’s backdrop. I poked my head around the edge stage right, looked at the screen with the list of names, and saw D was near the start. Weaker in the order.

“Your buddy alright?” asked the director.

“He’s pulling.”

“Alright, enough, I guess.”

I nodded and said, “Takes pain to play.”

He smirked and returned to his laptop. It was an empty phrase. One of those platitudes I heard at a gym somewhere. Something lifters say to sound inspirational and wise. As if pain weren’t the byproduct of training and competing, instead the goal. Sometimes I wonder if that’s how it is, how I am, chasing pain and not a pump, seeking self-inflicted pleasure others see as strange. That’s what the gym is. Temporary discomfort giving a glimpse of a feeling, of a place not found anywhere else but under a bar and, some say, in the presence of that everlasting uncreated light or the eternal absence from it. Maybe that’s why we see stars after a heavy squat. Maybe that’s why our vision goes black after a hard deadlift. Strain in this life prophesying our ultimate destination as gym rats, trying to earn an afterlife in this one, buying our ticket with knurled floggings. When heavy enough, bars whip. More of the same. Monk-like in a demented way. The squat rack our cells.

Pushing my way through the mass of lifters and their handlers, I told D that he’s fifth up. “Think I’ll get cold by then?” It had been fifteen minutes since his last warm-up. “No. You’re fine.” He was. It took another twenty minutes of attempts before his first. The spotters and loaders were moving slow. The heat was getting to them. The water wasn’t worth drinking, not yet, at least for the crew. I wasn’t drinking enough. My hamstrings were beginning to cramp. Those early signs of impending doom. Tightness behind the knee and little twinges with every step and when shifting weight.

“D, any water in your cooler?”

“Nah. Sorry.”

“All good. I should’ve come prepared.”

“The water here that bad?”

“Tastes like drinking from the toilet.”

D smiled and said, “You would know what that tastes like.”

I laughed. Even when he’s down, D will find a way to lift the mood. He’s been a good friend for a long time. I hope being here gives back some of what he’s given me. Endless encouragement, sanity checks, and a cheerful outlook when my own was bleak. He has that kind of sense. Not all lifters do. Too many are superficial tough guys wound too tight as if their persona came from their knee wraps. No, for those guys it comes from the other kind of gear. The sort being sold out of a trunk in the back parking lot. One of those guys was standing beside me, riling up his lifters in white singlets. “Yeah, yeah. I know…” Something wasn’t right. In the commotion, I couldn’t tell what. The coach’s tone was reassuring. His eyes were doubtful.

“Platform ready!”

It was D’s turn for his first deadlift. He pulled it fast. Hit the lockout and looked back at me, surprised. “Down!” yelled the head judge. D set it on the carpet. Three white lights. I pushed my way to the table and met D where we negotiated his second attempt.

“Should I go up 20?”

“485 pounds? No.” Looking at the man with the clipboard, I said, “227.5 kilos.”

D read the chart and said, “501.”

I grinned. “You’ll smoke it and be happier to have hit 500 in your first comp.”

“Yep. That’s it,” said D, pointing to the clipboard. “227.5.”

We rejoined the crowd of lifters, their handlers and coaches behind the banners. Moving slower after each attempt, the loaders made the big men upset and anxious. “I’m getting cold,” said the one who had benched without wrist wraps. “Impossible, bro,” replied another. “It’s a million degrees in here.” His reassurance didn’t land. The truly raw guy scowled and turned away. It wasn’t yet his turn, and, having to wait, he was sweating anxiety. Maybe a belt would’ve contained it, but he didn’t have one.

Seeing the Samoan in street clothes, I asked if he was bench only. (How the old men stay in the sport.) He nodded and said, “As a guest lifter.” Guest? Little did I know he’s been making a name for himself. I’ve been out of it a long time. “PR?” I said. “No. I wanted 501, but it wasn’t there. Too damn hot.” The huge Hispanic guy in the white singlet nodded. His coach said, “You’ll get it. Don’t worry.” His buddy in a matching outfit slapped him on the back and said, “It’s yours. You’re ready.”

The bigger, stronger guys took their turns. One opened at 584. The rest were above 600. Each lift was slow. The white dude in the white singlet pulled 640 pounds (290 kilos). It was a grind. Then it was his dark-haired, dark-skinned partner’s turn. “Platform ready!” yelled the head judge. The screen said 317.5 kilos. A hair under 700 pounds. Their coach slapped him and screamed, “PULL IT!” He stomped to the bar and took his time setting up his sumo stance. Raising his hands overhead, he took a deep breath before reaching down and preparing his hook grip. The guy had learned every means to improve his chances of lifting elite-level weights. But something wasn’t right.

He dropped his hips, pushed his knees out, and pulled his chest high. The bar bent. The inside plates came a millimeter off the floor. The outside plates stayed glued to the carpet. Letting go, he stumbled back and turned to his coach. Three reds. No lift. A missed first attempt. Disaster. Shaking his head, his coach said, “Something was off with your setup. That’s all. Slow down, okay? Do it correctly next time, and it's yours.”

D and I returned to the other side of the assembling area and waited for his second attempt. “Do you think the heat is getting to them?” said D.

“Probably. How are you feeling?”

“Strong.”

“Good,” I said, then sipped water and made a stink face.

“C’mon. It can’t be that bad. Let me try.”

“You sure?”

“I’m all out of the good stuff anyway, and I don’t want to get thirsty before my third attempt.”

“You might want some gum or something.”

“I’ll huff ammonia to get the taste out of my mouth.”

I laughed and handed him my water bottle. He gulped a mouthful and coughed.

“Yee-uck! You weren’t lying. Tastes like balls.”

“You would know.”

He chortled and said, “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

We watched others make or miss their second attempts. The heat was killing them. Then came D’s turn. “Platform ready!” D put in his mouth guard, smiled so I could see the green plastic, then whiffed an ammonia cap. He shook his head and mumbled the words, “Lightweight baby!” sounding like a Mexican Eddy Vedder quoting Ronnie Coleman. I slapped him twice on the back and told him 501 was his. And it was. Three white lights. He pulled it fast. Fastest lifter of the group. Somehow he had evaded the heat, or, more likely, his work had adapted him to it. D, a talented mechanic, had spent the last twenty years in garages like this one. Sweating. Lifting engine blocks and transmissions. This was an average day for him. The only difference was the scenery.

I met D at the table where we entered his third attempt.

“What do you think it should be?”

“Try the weight you wanted to open with.”

“That’s a big jump.”

“Will you regret missing 562, or regret not trying it?”

“What about my total?”

“You’ve already got one, and it’s already less than you wanted.”

“You’re right. There’ll be another meet. Make it 255.”

The director said, “Got it,” and we rejoined the group behind the platform.

Then came the big men who weren’t so well off. Most missed their second attempts, including the one who didn’t need lifting equipment. Up next-to-last was the jacked white dude in his white singlet. He put his nose in a bottle of ammonia. When he pulled it out, blood poured from his nostrils, staining the front of his bib. “Time? Time?” yelled his coach, pointing to the head judge. “100 seconds!” Once the platform is ready, you’ve got two minutes to start the lift. Blood and open wounds are not allowed on the platform. The coach ran to the restroom and pushed open the door, breaking the chintzy slide from the trim. “Hey!” screamed a woman’s voice. The coach came running out a second later with a fistful of toilet paper that he stuffed into his lifter’s nose.

“60 seconds!” yelled the head judge.

“GET UP THERE! PULL!”

In a white singlet splotched in red, the hardest 310 kilo pull I’ve ever seen came up. The lockout was barely there. In a different federation, it might not have been good enough. But it was worthy of two white lights here. Then came the other white singlet. The one who didn’t make his first deadlift. Now attempting the same weight for his second. His coach, having just managed the blood fountain in one of his lifters, was now managing expectations in his other. “You’ll get it. You’ll get it,” he said. The huge man nodded. His bloody partner in white shook his head and screamed, “Don’t quit on me!” Another nod. He had already been defeated.

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe his coach didn’t know his lifts well enough. Maybe he pulled too little after squatting. Maybe the numbers, 699.96 pounds, intimidated him. Lifters are like that. A weight becomes impossible the more we desire it. Once we get it, if we do, the next benchmark is set, and it too becomes impossible. Train and repeat until you fail the impossible. Then it becomes training out of habit, knowing that either our bodies, our minds, or both will quit at some point. Eventually, the lifting stops. For some, it comes faster. For others, we hold onto that knurling as if it were medicine, because for some, it is.

He took a few deep breaths before stepping on the platform. He slowed down. He methodically wiggled into a textbook sumo stance. He reached down and hooked his thumbs under the bar, clenching his fingers over top of the knuckle, squeezing a fist, smashing his bones into the steel. Another breath. Then a grunt and a slow, steady pull. The bar, plate by plate, lifted from the floor. The outside edge peeled itself off last. 317.5 kilos was in the air, grinding up his shin. It reached the bottom of his knee… and stopped. He screamed. It moved halfway up his thigh. His coach yelled, “HIPS! HIPS! HIPS!” But they weren’t there. The bar ripped from his thumbs and slammed into the platform. No lockout. No lift. Three reds. He fell to his knees and honored the bar by resting his forehead on it.

“Damn it,” muttered the coach, trailing off in a stream of expletives as he walked to his lifter and helped him off the floor. His bloody partner followed. He would not attempt the weight a third time. He was the strongest at the meet but bombed out. Tragic.

D looked at me and said, “That sucks. I thought it was his.”

“I was rooting for him. Missing it once made him the underdog. Would’ve been an insane finish.”

“You think I can get my third?”

“We’re about to find out.”

“Guess if I don’t, I can blame my shoulder.”

“Now you’re a real powerlifter.”

D got in line for his third. A proper line. The crowd thinned when half the flight missed their second attempts. My friend was the last big man standing, and even though he wasn’t going to win, I could tell he was proud of the fact that, though injured, he wasn’t passing on his third attempt. Four lifters were ahead of him. Two missed their thirds, each at 250 kilos, or 551 pounds. More intimidating numbers. The loaders moved with misery and fatigue seeping out of them. D was pacing, looking up at the ceiling, talking to himself.

“Want baby powder for your legs?”

“For sure.”

I grabbed the little bottle from his bag and shook it onto his legs. He joked, “Don’t tell my wife I let you do this.”

Rubbing it in, I smirked and said, “I’ll give her every juicy detail.”

“Ha! She might like that.”

“Platform ready!”

“D, you’re up.”

He put in his mouthguard and chalked his hands, then took a hit of ammonia. Apprehensive, I waited for his nose to erupt. It didn’t. He charged the platform. Yelled. Gripped the bar and pulled. It flew up to his knees, where it started to grind up his thighs. Where it stuck. The baby powder did nothing. I yelled “HIIIIPPPS!” like it were a magic word. My incantation didn’t work. He held it a few seconds longer, trying to finish a lockout. His face turned purple, then he dropped it.

Beaten, D turned around and held his palms out. His calluses had torn. White chalk mixed with the blood creeping to his fingertips like a dry desert creek born again in a storm. As we made our way to his campsite in the gym, I asked him what happened. Taking out his mouthguard, he said, “My shoulder. It just, kinda gave out.”

“How’s the pain?”

“Too much adrenaline to tell,” he said, sitting in his folding chair.

Through the speakers, the announcer’s voice interrupted. “Listen for your name to receive your medal.” Then came the words, “It’s too damn hot. Hurry up.” Outside, the crowd laughed.

“Think I placed?”

“In your weight class, maybe.”

“I’m going to wait around and see.”

“Good. You should. Even if it's bronze, it is a symbol of what it took to get here.”

“And it will motivate me to do better next time.”

“True. So you’re going to do another meet?”

“Once I’m healed up, I think so. This was awesome. Thanks for coming down, homie.”

“Of course, bro. Sorry I was late and missed your squats.”

“All good. I didn’t need you for those anyway.”

“I see. You just wanted me here to powder your thighs.”

D laughed and held out his fist. We bumped knuckles and he said, “Thanks again. You heading out?”

“Yeah, I think so. I’ve gotta get some fluids in me. My hamstrings have wanted to cramp for the last hour.”

A small finger poked me in my ribs. It was D’s youngest son. About ten years old, he was a kid-sized version of his father.

“What’s up, big dog?”

“Your zipper is down.”

I rushed out of the bathroom hours ago… Jeans were a mistake. It's been open this whole time.

“Oh, jeez,” I said, zipping myself up. “Thanks for letting me know.”

D and I hugged and said our goodbyes.

After finding the nearest gas station, I gingerly walked to the water section of the refrigerator doors, babying my hamstrings with little steps so they wouldn’t cripple me. I pulled a bottle out, unscrewed the cap, and drank half with the door still open, spilling on my shirt. It was the coldest part of the day, much-needed relief from the boiling box that is Denver’s most hardcore gym. I grabbed a second bottle, paid for the two, and got back in my car for the long drive up the mountain, returning to beauty, away from the metro’s cruel heat.

Later that night, D texted. “Do a meet with me.”

“Maybe.”