Unfortunately you thought this was another awesome post on brisket. Instead, it’s a meet recap from a guy named Briskin, but we just call him Brisket because it’s smart. Here is his meet recap:

Short version: I hit PRs in all my lifts, experimented with some new substances, and had a terrific time. Everyone involved was extremely supportive and a credit to the sport, except for one idiot who I will talk about later.

To prepare for my first meet, without going into excruciating detail, I used a version of the Texas Method I’ve been doing some form of TM programming for more than a year (started in January 2010) with good results, especially in the squat. Then, about three weeks out from the meet, I succumbed to the flu, which didn’t derail me completely, but it did cause me to miss a couple of important sessions. I bounced back quickly by pounding down water and protein, and was feeling okay one week out.

I showed up the afternoon before the meet. Ted Isabella, the USPF official in charge, was patient in helping me submit my openers and figure out my rack heights. In training, I weighed about 190, and I decided that instead of worrying about cutting a significant amount of weight for my very first meet, I would just show up at 190 and be in the middle of the 90kg class, no big deal. Then I got a shock when I stripped down to my underwear and stepped on the scale; 82.9kg (182.7lbs). My first thought was “There’s no way that’s right,” closely followed by “I hope Justin doesn’t find out about this.” Even though the flu had caused me to lose some weight, my appetite had mostly come back, my clothes hadn’t felt any looser, and I thought there was just no way in hell I was still down over seven pounds. Still, the scale said I was .4kg over the 82.5kg class. I decided if I was going to be that guy who weighs under 200lbs, I might as well do it properly, so I went to the john and caught up on some reading. Later I realized the meet scale must have been light, because the other lifters said they had the same experience. I was relieved to know that I wasn’t really that depleted, because it would have completely shot my confidence, but for better or worse, I was in the 82.5kg class.

This meet turned out to be small, only 22 lifters. Each lift went in two flights, with the first flight of each lift mostly composed of a team of kids from a local high school (more on them later). I served as my own handler and coach, which worked out fine. I started warming up each lift, taking plenty of time between sets, when I heard the start of the “A” flight announced. Between my lifts in the warmup room I stepped back in to the main room to watch some of the high school kids lifting. Then, when the end of the A flight was announced, I knew that it was time to hit my last warmup and move to the staging area. Of course, not having a handler to keep me updated on events and give my attempts to the officials meant more standing and walking around for me, but since I had nervous energy pouring out of my ears at this point, that suited me perfectly.

Before this meet I hadn’t really understood the wonder of adrenaline, or how well the competitive environment can channel it. As the last of the “A” squats was announced, I hit my final squat warmup at 385. “Damn,” I thought, “that felt pretty heavy.” Five minutes later, I was walking out for my opener at 195kg (430). I don’t usually scream or get very emotional in the gym, except for some quiet, inner psyching up for PR sets, but today I was foaming at the mouth on nearly every attempt. I unracked 430, waited for the “squat” command like a good boy and bounced the ever-living hell out of it. I was getting the “rack” command faster than I could blink. I was so excited at how light the opener felt that I stormed off the platform all the way to the back of the staging area, and right past the woman asking me what I wanted for my second attempt. I went back and called for 205kg (452), then resumed pacing.

My second attempt started much like the first, no problems waiting for the squat command. Again, I blasted it up fast, so fast that my left foot did a stupid little jig before the “rack” command, which got me three reds. This put me in a bit of a jam; I knew I had more in the tank, but if I missed my third attempt I would get credit only for my opening 430. I went back to the staging area and considered calling for 210kg, which I knew I could make. Then I thought “Fuck it, this is competition,” and called for 215kg (474). This was 20lbs more than I had ever had on my back before. When I heard my name five minutes later, I stormed out to the bar, bellowed, and walked it out. I was mad as hell, but I knew I couldn’t afford to miss either of the commands. I could feel in my entire body how hard the bar was trying to staple me to the floor, but it went up faster than I dared hope. My lovely assistant didn’t get the aftermath on video, but I went ballistic when I turned around and saw the three white lights. I also got he honor of being the very last squat of the day, because a 60-year-old suited lifter who had squatted 600 on his second attempt passed on his third. I hope the audience who saw me cap off the day’s squatting by yelling like an asshole feel they got their money’s worth. The bench is my least remarkable lift, and it went smoothly. I opened with a conservative 115kg (253) and threw it at the ceiling. My second attempt at 120kg (264) got a red light from the center judge due to a slightly uneven elbow lock, but it passed. I took my third at 125kg (275), a weight I had failed in training a week ago. I gave it just enough pause and pressed it more easily than my second attempt, probably because I had my feet and shoulders positioned better. I had about half an hour until the flight B deadlifts, so I hurried off to take my tenth nervous leak of the day.

Warming up my deadlift, I could feel some fatigue seeping through my adrenaline shield. I decided that if I could tie my PR of 507, which I had set while completely fresh, I would consider that a victory. I came out for my opener at 210kg (462) and pulled it easily. I asked for 230kg (507) next, and paced a little more. Earlier in the warmup room a lifter who I had been buddying around with all day suggested I try dabbing a bit of talcum powder on my thighs to reduce the friction with the bar, and I may have gotten overzealous with it, because I got the bar within an inch of lockout, and then it slipped forward. Stupid. I walked back to the official’s table to declare my third attempt, and wondered aloud whether I should go up 5kg. Ted Isabella, sitting in the head judge’s chair, looked over while the loaders were working on the bar, saw me hesitating, and said “Jake, stick with the same weight. Work the total, don’t work the ego.” Even considering how small the meet was, I was impressed that he cared enough to pay attention to me personally and advise me. I had seen him do this throughout the day, making sure that lifters who missed lifts understood why they had been red lighted. So I asked for 230kg again.

It was also at this point that I decided to try an ammonia cap for the first time. I was facing the prospect of having to redo what I thought would be my last lift of the day, and getting my blood up one last time after having it up almost constantly for the whole day. I’ve heard many descriptions of the feeling of ammonia inhalants, but I’ll add my own experience: imagine taking a giant gulp of the hardest liquor you’ve ever tasted, then right as you swallow it, K. Konstantinovs runs up and slaps you in the face. I stormed out to the platform, yelling my head off and asking for more crowd noise, then pulled for a ll I was worth.

Once I got it past my knees I knew I had won, and it was just a matter of staying committed to lockout. Putting the bar down and seeing three whites after that was difficult to describe. In the end, I went 474/275/507 for a raw total of 1,256 in the 181 class, and a nice shiny trophy.

Remember when I said I would talk more about the team of high school lifters later? Well, now’s the time; I hold nothing against any of those kids, but their form on all the lifts was absolutely egregious, and for that I can only blame their coach, the one errant turd in the bowl of otherwise delicious punch that was my day. I won’t apologize for blasting him, and because his kids are too inexperienced to know better, I feel like I have to rail him twice as hard on their behalf. This prick, who by the way was practically spherical, has cheerfully taught half a dozen kids to high-bar squat piddling weights in running shoes and knee wraps while looking up so far you’d think there was a porno being projected on the ceiling. For doing this massive disservice to the kids in his care, he deserves to be fined at the very least. About the only good thing that can be said about this clusterfuck was that I didn’t see any of the kids squatting high.

Now, I’m not one of those people who argues that Olympic lifting is better than powerlifting because it looks sexier, or requires more flexibility or balance or eleetness, but I will say this: when you go into a gym where people call themselves weightlifters, you learn the snatch and the clean and jerk properly, and you either follow the same high standards as internationally competitive lifters or you find yourself another gym. Powerlifting would benefit greatly from this kind of quality control. Powerlifting is a great sport, but teaching impressionable kids to do stupid shit is NOT A SPORT, and wrapping your knees to squat 150lbs as your third attempt is definitely not a sport. It seems like some people–not many, but a few–are willing to throw any combination of squishy-shoed, porn-on-the-ceiling squats, sloppily paused bench presses, and butt-ugly deadlifts into a pot and call the resulting gruel “powerlifting”. And that is a damn shame.

To end on a high note, I owe many thanks to Ted and the other USPF officials and lifters who made the meet possible. You are all class acts, I respect the hell out of you and I don’t blame you at all for the actions of this one fool. Thanks are also due to all of my friends who encouraged me or sent me any kind of positive vibes–you know who you are. And to the audience at the meet, I apologize again for screaming in your faces.