Edit: This is another post by my friend, Brent. Enjoy.
–Justin
———-
2005, Doha, Qatar. It is the world weightlifting championships. The snatch session of the 105k+ men’s category is coming to an end. Of the 9 lifters competing in the A session, four of them have attempts left to obtain a result equal to or greater than 200k: Rezazadeh, the favorite, Viktor Scerbatihs, reliable as ever, Jaber Saeed Salem, an insanely strong athlete representing Qatar, and then there was Evgeny Chigishev.
Rezazadeh is just coming off a series of untouchable performances. At the 2004 Olympic Games in Athens, he clean and jerked the current world record, 263.5k, and totaled 17.5k more than the next competitor (Scerbatihs) with 472.5k (this is just 2.5k off from the greatest total of all time, set by Leonid Taranenko in 1998 at 475k). And in the 2005 Asian Championships, he totaled an effortless 460k, taking 10k jumps in all three of his clean and jerks, culminating in what appeared to be a fairly routine 260k.
Rezazadeh’s biggest problem is that it seems as if no one can challenge him.
Chigishev opens at 200k on his first attempt without trouble. Rezazadeh follows with an effortless 201k, which is greeted by great applause from the Iranians in the audience. Salem, who defeated Rezazadeh in 2003 in the snatch, also takes 201k, as does Scerbatihs in seemingly robotic fashion shortly after. Salem ups the ante with his third and final attempt at 205k, but is unable to rack the weight overhead to stand. Rezazadeh takes the lead again when he is successful at 205k, and with the pressure mounting, Scerbatihs fails on his third and final attempt to match Rezazadeh’s lift.
Chigishev has two attempts left.
He calls for 209k, a 9k jump from his previous effort. It is a considerable jump, but the Iranians in the crowd do not give him quiet. They whistle and they chatter, but Chigishev finds the focus to tune them out and explode the weight overhead. He is successful, and suddenly Rezazadeh is challenged.
Rezazadeh’s third attempt is 210k. He can’t call for 209k, since he outweighs Chigishev by 40 kilos, and it would also be unwise to take a larger jump to establish a greater lead, since this is his third attempt snatch. He has to make this lift, and he has to hope that Chigishev does not have it in him to succeed with a greater weight.
Rezazadeh’s final lift is, characteristically, effortless, and his performance is again awarded with loud applause. He’s wrested victory away from the hands of a Russian who looks like he should be posing on a bodybuilding stage.
But Chigishev has one attempt left, and he wants to send a message. He calls for 211k. If he beats Rezazadeh, he does not want to beat him by ruling on bodyweight. Chigishev wants to beat Rezazadeh, decisively and definitively.
Of course, Rezazadeh’s biggest fans are in the crowd. When Chigishev comes out for his final attempt, which will decide who takes gold in the snatch, the audience refuses to give him quiet again, even when he motions for it.
David Rigert, coach of the Russian National team, shouts at him to just fucking go, and Chigishev positions himself over the bar. With the crowd whistling and shouting, he’ll have to find his own quiet.
The problem with going up against people like Rezazadeh is that the illusion of his invincibility is as daunting as his actual ability to perform. If a man appears to be untouchable, people who try to best him are almost always going to be affected because of that illusion. Who can beat a man who is on the edge of becoming the strongest athlete the sport has ever seen?
The venue is packed. They are all there for Rezazadeh. But Chigishev stands alone over 211k.
His pull is violent, explosive. The bar is overhead, Chigishev locks it out, holds it there as it tries to wrench to his left. His knees are shaking at the bottom of the squat, but impossibly, he begins to rise, and methodically works himself to the top.
Rezazadeh is no longer in the lead.
And Chigishev, a modest superheavy at 125.77k, becomes a giant killer.
Remember that we’re doing the 70s Big TSC by the end of this month. If you’re not already signed up for something the next couple weeks, then you need to do this. If you already did one this month, enter your numbers when I post the results post (weird wording) the last weekend of this month.
It’s a friendly, simple virtual “competition.” Do it by yourself or with friends. Host one at your gym. It can be very informal. We’re all on the honor system here. Just stick by the simple rules below. I’m doing mine today because I’ll be out of pocket the next couple weeks.
The events are simple.
1. Max deadlift. You get three attempts to find your max pull. Do it meet-style. If you make an “AC-jump” between your first and second attempt, there is no going back.
2. Max pullups. Dead hangs. No chinning (palms must face away), and absolutely no kipping. Kippers will be shot, killed, and then banned from posting here. Thumbless grip. Bottom of jaw touches top of bar.
3. 5 min Kettlebell snatch test. 24kg kettlebell. Unlike GS, you may set the weight down or switch hands as necessary.
That’s it, three events. Perform these in one session, and rest at least 15 minutes between each even (or more if you have time). Perform the TSC the last week of April and post your results on the last Saturday of April (I’ll make a weekend post for it). Good luck!
At this point I finally had a break. All of the lifters were stationary, and I did my best to have them “sit the fuck down”. I was really worried about them conserving their energy for the deadlift, especially Chris (we had big plans).
During this time, the early flights seamlessly started lifting. This meant that there were young girls and boys all over the place cramming themselves into bench shirts. I don’t know if you guys have ever seen someone wear a bench shirt, but their arms kinda stick up, so the building looked like it was full of zombies. I had to resist the urge to “sever the head or destroy the brain”.
As I sat on the bleachers next to Brent, Cruton (the name he posts under on the site) came up and introduced himself. I had already met a few guys that were familiar with the site, but I was actually able to take a few minutes and chat with him (find his comment yesterday if you’re interested what we talked about). Alas! Zombies or not, it wasn’t long before Jorin needed to start warming up for the bench press.
Jorin’s goal for this meet was to bench 300. We timed his last warm-up with the lifting out on the platform, and he was primed and ready to take on his opening attempt of 264. This weight wouldn’t be hard for Jorin; I spotted him on a paused 275 the week before, but your first attempt should be something you can make even if lightning strikes the building during the lift.
I reminded Jorin to listen to the judge’s commands, and then handed off to him. Start. Press. Rack. No big deal. He waited for his second attempt at 286, and I told Mike and Allen that they’d probably start warming up after his second go (Note: Allen started warming up three weeks prior to the meet to make sure he was good to go for this event). Jorin’s name was called, the bar was loaded, I handed off, and 286 was no big deal either. The dude wanted 300, so we called for 300. Then we played the waiting game.
Mike and Allen started warming up. Both of them are not as strong on the bench in relation to their other lifts, but they would both be aiming to open with a decent 264 with a pause. The flights took a bit longer this go round because there were additional “bench only” lifters. I’m probably not the only one who doesn’t like the “bench only” option as they slow the flow down, cause everyone to have to wait much longer to take their attempts, and they usually delay the meet significantly. But, I guess they pay the bills, eh?
Jorin’s bar was finally loaded, and I made an attempt to get him a little razzed for this third attempt. 286 looked so smooth, I expected this to be a moderately hard rep. I reminded him of the commands, handed off, got out of the way, and watched. He lowered the bar under control, got the press command, and the bar ascended off his chest just like it did at 286…but there was a catch halfway up. The bar’s movement halted, and he couldn’t get it going again. The spotters racked Jorin’s weight, and he got up, disgusted with himself. It’s hard to console a guy when he almost got it, but it was Jorin’s reassuring voice that said, “But hey, 286 was a PR.” He’s got a level head on him, that Jorin.
Mike and Allen lumbered out of the warm-up room. Allen looked like he should be chopping wood with his beard, and Mike looked like he should be fighting Shredder and his foot soldiers. They lifted one after another since they were taking the same weight, and both made easy work of 264. Give ‘em a break, the first lift is supposed to be money.
I called for 275 for both of them on the following attempt. Easy peezy lemon squeezy. With that lift, Mike tied the Texas State record for the Raw 242 class (I know, it was low). Mike didn’t care what his third attempt was, because we weren’t going to make a jump to 300, he just wanted to go 3/3. I called for 281 to get the record, and he did. Easily. I called for 286 for Allen (a 5kg jump instead of 2.5), and his lift looked identical to Jorin’s; fast off the chest, then stuck halfway up for a moment before the spotters racked his bar. I should have made a 2.5 kg jump, but I figured he would have easily taken 286 because of the ease of how he put up 275. No big deal, because Allen didn’t come here to bench, he was eager to deadlift.
At this point you probably know that while the 242 guys were lifting, Brent and Chris were warming up in the warm-up room. The goal was the same for both, go 3/3 and not fuck things up (ahem, Brent). Brent’s bar was loaded for his first attempt, but his rack height was seriously four inches above his chest. I quietly said, “What the fuck?” to myself so that I didn’t stress Brent out, but I had a helluva goofy time trying to give him a decent handoff. He easily took the 242 opener, and as the bar was racked, I said aloud in front of everyone, “Brent, why the hell is your rack height so low?”
“I dunno man, but that was a sweet lift-off. Did you upright row that?”
“Pretty much, we need to get that shit fixed.” Somebody, whether it was Brent or not, must have wrote the rack heights for the squat and the bench in the wrong space on his card, because things were all kinds of goofy (I’m betting it was Brent’s fault).
Chris opened with an easy 330. I’ve seen him do 345 for a triple in the gym as well as 340 for a three second pause. You gotta remember that a little over a year ago, Chris literally couldn’t lift a ten pound bar overhead. Now he’s pressing 230×3 and benching 325 for eight sets of three in the gym. But, as Brent says, “This is competition, Justin!” (accompanied by a look of derangement).
Brent was going for 253 on his second attempt, and I asked the judges if we could change his rack height since it was apparent there was a mistake. The judge said something very loudly, but I couldn’t understand it (I swear it was German). Brent and I just looked at each other and shrugged, but they moved his rack height up a bit. This saved me from upright rowing for a sweet set of traps. Brent benched the 253 easily, and looked like an asshole doing it. I love my Brent.
Chris took 347 on his second attempt, and the bar floated up. Nothing to report here.
Brent agreed that being conservative on the bench was the plan since he had already missed one squat, so we only jumped to 258, which he put up with just a bit of struggle. We wanted at least a 350 bench for Chris, and called for the planned 358. He took it out, lowered the bar Doug Young style, got the press command, and then steam piston pressed it up. Again, no big deal. Chris is no Doug Young when it comes to bench, but this was a PR for him, so he was happy. Nice lifting by all five lifters as they all hit a PR and went 13/15 as a group.
Jorin has had some trouble with his lower back recovering in the past few months, so his goal was to deadlift at least 400 pounds. We also wanted to go 3/3 on this lift, and opened with the planned, yet conservative, 365. I was worried about Jorin’s back being tired since it was an issue earlier this year, but he stood up with the weight like he it was the start of a set of ten. No reason to get hasty, so we stuck to the plan, and he took 385 easily on his second attempt. Well sir, 402 it is. Jorin approached the bar, took his grip, dropped his shins, took a breath, squeezed his chest, and pulled the fucking bar like he was doing a set of five. I was stunned by how easy it is, and it just goes to show that if you give your low back a bit of rest, it’ll help it heal up and perform to its potential. This capped Jorin’s successful day – he went 7/9 and only failed one lift (his third attempt bench…remember he didn’t wait for the rack command on his second attempt squat).
Mike and Allen had already been warming up, and if you’ve read Parts 1 and 2 you know that I’ve been running back and forth to let them know when they should take their warm-ups. Allen opened with 468, and I’ve seen him do this weight for multiple reps before. Just to clarify, that’s a 40 year old badass deadlifting more 75% of you readers. Step up your game. Oh, and he made it look easy. I like to think of Allen as a technician on the deadlift, because the bar never trails away from his body and has a beautiful vertical path.
We planned on hitting 501 for Mike’s opener. Mike has long-ass legs and a short torso (and ninja turtle-like features), so he is in a goofy pulling position. He was also wearing a pair of VS Athletics that had quite a bit more heel than he probably needs in the deadlift (they are excellent for him when he squats, but his anthropometry will require a flat shoe for optimal pulling mechanics). He pulled 501 and it wasn’t super fast, but it was not difficult at all. His issue is that the bar was about an inch from his legs, and not very efficient. I’m not sure if it was his lack of attention (his form was atrocious last November) or if the shoes put him at a major disadvantage, but I told him he needed to clean that up if he was going to hit 556 for a Texas State record on his second attempt. We were going for broke on that lift, because we were already planning on waiving his third attempt.
Flash to the warm-up room and Chris and Brent, the giant and the Asian, were warming up. Flash back to the platform and Allen’s name was called just as I returned from the back room. After I jawed in his ear (you know, that whole get-you-pumped thing while reminding him to listen to the judge’s down command), he walked up to his bar, stood in front of it a moment with eyes looking forward unfocused, and set up. I was ready to wave Allen’s third attempt if this second lift was hard because I didn’t want him getting hurt right in front of his family. Allen knew this, and pulled the shit out of the bar. It was smooth up his legs, and he locked it out without too much trouble. After returning the bar to its gravitational destination, he turned to walk to his seat, smiled at me and said, “Let’s go for 500.” I just started laughing and called for 501.
Meanwhile, Mike is no longer Mike. He is the reverse of a butterfly, forming himself into a grotesque creature that is hungry. His face contorts and I shit you not, he is skin is an ashen gray as if all the blood in his body drained to his legs, hips, and back. The bar was already lifted in Mike’s mind, and he wasn’t gonna let a little bit of tiredness deny him.
Mike was grunting, making noise, and it was almost comical. Instead of making fun of him, I poured gasoline on his intensity by jawing in his giant ear. I told him to make it smooth and listen to the down command, except I added 13 or 14 choice words. Then I smacked Mike harder than I smacked my dog Leda when she pooped in the house three times in one night (true story). My hand stung hard, and the national side judge winced at the spectacle. Mike went up to the bar, seemed to disregard any technique advice he had received in the past five months, and pulled on the bar…HARD. The battle didn’t start until it was past his knees, and it took four seconds to travel the last four inches. But he didn’t quit on pull – he wanted that lift and he wanted that record. Three green lights for a good lift. Nice lifting by Mike and a solid day; he went 8/8 in his first meet and totaled 1350.
Allen had one more goal to take down before his day was over. He had already gotten his 400 squat (you’ll recall he hit 413 on the third attempt), and now a 501 lb. bar beckoned him from the floor, daring Allen to lift it. Allen unfocused his gaze forward, as if he was visualizing the pull, then bent over to set his grip. The grip was nice and tight, right outside his shins. He squeezed his chest, and got a nice arch in his back. I had just reminded him that he might pull it ugly, but he better keep pulling on the bar. Turns out, Allen could pull the bar and make it look pretty at the same time for as he started pushing the floor away, his back didn’t yield to the 500 pounds at all. The bar ascended at a moderate speed, never slowing down until it was locked on the top of his thighs. The down command was given, and Allen broke into a bearded grin as I body checked him for the second time that day. Solid day for Allen; he went 8/9 and hit his squat and deadlift goals.
Chris lumbered out of the warm-up room to take his place by his platform and Brent backflipped out onto his platform. Brent’s bar was on the floor before Chris’, and Brent calmly stood again. I swear, he looked like he was waiting in line to get a raft so he could float down the Lazy River. It’s weird, because the little bastard is confident, but he’s not antsy. He deadlifted a paltry 429, set it down, and then discovered that he had two red lights.
“What the fuck?” Brent was unhappy .
“They say your knees weren’t locked out. Flex your quads if you have to at the top.”
“Whatever.” And then Brent silently returned to play Sudoku at his seat. Asians play Sudoku, right?
Chris was gearing up for his opening lift, which was set at 600. 550 didn’t look handsome in the warm-up room, and I was slightly worried about how spry Chris was at this point. In any case, I knew he wouldn’t be missing a silly 600. Chris tightened his belt, stomped to the chalk bucket, and then stalked his bar. He was the lion, striding back and forth, eyes never leaving the bar. The deadlift is Chris’ favorite lift, and he wanted to destroy this opener.
Chris approached the bar and took his grip – you Chris fans will remember that he uses a double-overhand hook grip (this makes Brent jealous). He dropped his shins to the bar as he simultaneously locked his back in position, and then pushed the floor away without too much discomfort. The bar had a constant speed to it, and it was locked out, much to the delight of the nearby crowd. The junior national record for the 275 class was 660, so we were trying to hit 666 on the third attempt. 600 is typically not a big deal for Chris, and he is used to pulling heavy after squatting heavy, so the plan was to treat the opener as the last warm-up and go for 633 on the second attempt to make the same jump up to 666 for the third. Chris returned to his seat to ready himself for the 633.
Meanwhile Brent was sipping a daiquiri on the beach with his feet propped up. His flight was experiencing some difficulties and had to wait quite a while before his second attempt. I kept an eye on how far away Brent and Chris were from going again, and Brent’s name was called a few attempts before Chris.
The bar was loaded to 441, and Brent walked up to the bar with a little bit more urgency since he was red lighted on the opener. I had just reminded him to “make sure you lock your knees out,” to which he replied,
“Oh, I’ll show them some fucking locked knees.” I really didn’t know how to take this comment. He said it in a threatening way, and I imagined Brent pulling his weight, then attacking the side judges, hyper-extending their knees to show them “some knee extension”. In any case, he made an easy lift, and wasn’t even wearing a belt on the deadlift (his Velcro belt was illegal).
Chris was gearing up, and I signaled for him to toss his earphones off. He tightened the belt, and then assumed the lion stalk. I followed him around, talking him up more with every step that he took. I know how to get Chris going, and I wanted his blood to boil so that this weight didn’t feel difficult. When he was about to burst, the judge announced that his bar was loaded. Let’s get it.
Battel cry. Double overhand hook grip. Butt raise. Shins drop. Back locked. Push floor. The bar rose and continued past his knees, and then slowed just a bit as he smoothed his way through the lockout. Down.
I rushed over to him, and he turned around, eyes bloodshot, and he stepped in a funny way that said, “That taxed my back, but I don’t want to admit it.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I dunno.” He was still catching his breath.
“Do we go for broke.”
His eyes answered. They told me he was tired. The record wouldn’t fall today.
“You decide.” Chris walked away to undo his belt.
I stood there for a moment, unsure for the first time today. No, I didn’t think he had 666 in him. But I did think he could battle through 650, because the 633 wasn’t a limit rep. I called for it.
We played the waiting game, and Brent’s platform continued its slow progress. So much that it looked like Chris was going to lift before Brent. This was the culmination of the meet. It was twelve hours since we arrived at the gym to weigh in, and I was exhausted. Everyone joked around that I had been running a marathon, and my body was starting to wear on me. Each lifter had to psyche up for 9 lifts, but I was psyching up for every lift. My adrenaline rose and fell with each lifter that I took to the platform. I wouldn’t last much longer. This was the last push, the final attack of the day. I had to ready Chris for this lift, force him into the most fierce fight or flight we could summon.
Whenever Chris lifts, whether it be in the gym or at this competition, I get goosebumps. My adrenaline spikes with his, and the last three minutes before his lift was no different. Our eyes met, and I told him, “It’s time.” It was time to do what we came here to do. Once he ripped the headphones off for the final time that day, I was in his ear. It’s hard to remember what I even said and I was talking as fast as an auctioneer. It was primitive. Short sentences. Pull. That. Fucking. Bar. Chris stood, staring at the bar. His face frowned; he was legitimately upset with the bar. His eyes never left the center knurling. Whatever I told Chris, I told him one last time, and pushed him to the bar. And then time slowed.
He positioned his feet carefully under the bar and lowered his body. The bar looks small in his hands, I thought. He sucked in quick breaths, but they were slow and deliberate to my ears. Every motion seemed to occur very slowly and its detail was magnified. Chris’ eyes were wide and terrible. When someone meets him, they always comment on his eyes. “He never blinks,” they say. He’s always watching, but now, at this moment, with his hands chained to the bar, his eyes were a window into the fury that swelled within his body.
Chris lowered his shins to the bar, and pushed the floor. The room thundered for Chris, once again. I screamed my throat raw, and the bar was pulled against gravity, against 650 pounds…slowly. Each inch took an eternity, and once he was five eternities from the floor, the bar stopped moving, and fell. Chris was beaten. I lowered my eyes to the ground. We were defeated.
I turned to walk away; I couldn’t stand to look at the 650 lb bar. Brent was ready to take his third attempt of 452. Brent didn’t seem too worried about it, and pulled a nice, even, kinda hard, but wonderfully solid third attempt deadlift. I walked up to him, slapped hands.
“Nice job.”
“Thanks.”
“Chris missed his deadlift.”
“I saw.”
“Yeah.”
I walked away. I actually went into the warm-up room. Chris’ 550 was still loaded from his last attempt. The room was a fucking wreck, so I figured the least I could do was strip his bar. I did so and realized I was avoiding Chris. I was hoping he wasn’t being too hard on myself, and knew I shouldn’t either. I found him, and he was upset.
“I know that sucks, man, but you gotta think about what happened today. You squatted 600, benched over 350, went 8 for 9, and totaled almost 1600. That’s pretty fucking good for you first meet. This is just the start of a long lifting career.” He agreed, and seemed to soften up a little. He was back to the same ol’ Chris.
Brent was the same ol’ Brent because he never even stopped being Brent in order to lift. He just went up, did it, and sat on the bleachers to wait. He’s very business-like about it. It makes me think he wears a tie when he trains. I’ve been with Brent at four meets now, and this was the only one that wasn’t a weightlifting meet. I did notice how he was very confident at this meet, and this is what he lacks in his Olympic lifting. Sure, there is a lot of variability because of the technical nature of the Olympic lifts, but if Brent can harness that same confidence in weightlifting as he does powerlifting, he will see more success.
There was good lifting all around for all five lifters. Everyone went at least 7/9 with three of the lifters making at least 8 attempts. There were only three lifts that were missed (Allen and Jorin’s third bench and Chris’ third deadlift), and the other three misses were technical in nature (Brent’s boxers, Jorin ignoring the rack command on squat, and Brent’s knees on the deadlift). Solid performance by everyone and some good PR’s along the way.
I was fucking exhausted at this point. We had a 12 hour day in which I was constantly moving around, catering to the five lifters, making sure they were prepared fully for whatever task was before them. I didn’t get much sleep the night before, and I didn’t get to eat much throughout the meet. But I would do it again in a heartbeat, because those five guys are all my friends and they lift hard. I especially would have done that and a lot more for my best friends Brent, Chris, and Mike. Nice job, dudes.
Hopefully you readers were inspired by the valiant efforts of these five lifters. They all have different backgrounds and different goals, but they all stuck their neck out on the line to compete. Maybe you learned something about competition that you hadn’t considered before. And maybe you were just entertained. I was present for almost 45 of the attempts those lifters took, and I felt the adrenaline and emotion for every one of them. I wouldn’t have been comfortable had I not told this story, because the whole experience meant a lot to me. Hopefully I was able to share the experience with you so that you get your ass out there and feel it yourself.
As the first two flights began lifting, I had already reviewed with everyone our strategy for their lifts. At this point, I wanted everyone to relax, especially Chris. I mentioned yesterday how Brent and Mike were acting about as normal as a belligerent Asian and a obsessive compulsive weirdo can act, but Chris was having problems. He was a fucking train wreck sitting there watching the 90kg class start their squats on the platform 15 feet in front of us. I had talked with him last week about some deep breathing exercises that Bill Starr explains in his excellent book Defying Gravity, but it was already too late. His headphones seemed to not have any calming effect at all, and I finally said to him, “You need to get the fuck out of here, let’s go.” I walked him outside under an awning. It was raining lightly, and I told him to lay down on a picnic table and start to breathe very deeply while mentally removing himself from the situation.
It’s understandable why Chris was nervous; he had been waiting for his first meet for at least six months. Every training session in the past year culminated to this moment, and it must have been hard to remove that fact from his thoughts. Brent is an Olympic weightlifter, so this meet was secondary to him. It was Mike’s first meet, and he had always wanted to compete, but he had only been thinking about it a few months (not to mention he’s borderline insane anyway). Jorin and Allen just wanted to hit some PR’s, not necessarily make a huge splash. Chris was consumed by his thoughts, and if I didn’t get this under control, it could be his downfall.
While progressive relaxation may not be of the “old school” mentality that we sometimes divert to with 70’s Big, it certainly can be useful. I painted a relaxing picture for Chris, one that he could imagine with all of his senses to engulf himself in this image to take himself far away from the business of the meet inside. I like to think it worked, I really never asked him about it later. I just needed his nervous energy to get in check because I knew this would be a marathon meet, and I wanted him to have as much physical, mental, and emotional energy as possible. Meanwhile, it was getting closer for Jorin to warm-up.
Jorin was the only one of my lifters in the second round of flights, thus he had the luxury of my company for the entirety of his warm-up. Halfway through his warm-up, Allen started warming up. Remember that Allen is about to turn 40, and I recently started calling him the Tin Man because he has to oil all of his joints in order to be spry for lifting. The warm-up room was a 900 square foot room that contained five squat racks. I don’t know if that means anything to you, but this means that the room was only 30 feet by 30 feet, and it was crammed full of assorted lifting equipment. As is customary at meets (weightlifting or otherwise), we had to mix and match plates just to get the appropriate weight on the bar. But the equipment was pretty good, and the bars weren’t shitty, so things worked out.
I busied myself with checking how many attempts Jorin was away from opening. This helped me tell him when to take his warm-ups. In Defying Gravity Bill Starr mentions that you can take one warm-up for every three attempts on the platform, plus giving yourself time to “gear up”. I read the phrase “gearing up” as something that meant “getting psyched” since there wasn’t a whole lot of equipment in Starr’s days. In any case, I loosely based my warm-up recommendations on Starr’s formula, but paid attention to the speed of the lifting on the platform and how much time my lifter wanted before his first attempt. My judgment ended up working pretty well for everyone.
Jorin opened conservatively, as any new competitor should, with 365 (I have decided to use pounds in this article since they are more familiar to the majority of readers. Keep in mind that any USAPL meet is going to function in kilograms, and you should plan for such. I recommend getting to the point where you can easily distinguish between kilos and pounds.). Jorin’s goal was to squat 400 at this meet, and this would put him on par to do so. Keep in mind that I had witnessed all of my lifters completing whatever weight they were opening with for a single, triple, or a 5RM (depending on the individual). The first squat of the meet should be cake, and the lifter should annihilate it. This is exactly what Jorin did.
He took 365 out of the rack, buried it, bounced it, hip drove it on up. An easy first squat, and he took care to listen to all of the commands just like we practiced. I decided to have Mike and Allen, both 242 competitors, start warming up right after Jorin’s second attempt. I communicated this to them, went and checked on Chris (who had returned from his 20 minute time out), told him to relax, and swung by Brent to give him a hearty “Fuck you, Brent.”
I returned back to Jorin who was listening to headphones while sitting in one of the provided chairs. I updated him on how many attempts out he was, and when he was four attempts out, he started getting ready. For each lifter this usually meant pulling their sweats off that I had them bring and “gearing up” Bill Starr style. We were going after 385 on the second attempt so that the third attempt would be his goal of at least 400. Jorin walked the squat out, waited for the squat command, buried the rep, but as he drove his hips, he lifted his chest slightly. There was a slowing to his ascent, but he held strong and finished the squat. His mind must have gone blank, because he didn’t wait for the rack command, and he was red lighted for his effort. Jorin was irritated, especially because he wanted that 400 lb squat, but it was his idea to repeat the weight on his third attempt to make sure that he got it. This is exactly what we did, and he made a much more solid rep to make 385 competition official.
I stand with Jorin (right) as he prepares to squat.
I made a mental note to cue everyone to wait for the rack command since everyone was inexperienced with lifting in meets. Unfortunately for Jorin it took his little mishap to sharpen up my coaching. I had told him prior to his lift to listen to the judge, but you forget important shit like that when you’re squatting with surging adrenaline. My pre-lift coaching was individualized to the lifter based off of their personalities, what their mood was, what cues they needed, what attempt it was, and whether I thought it would be hard for them or not. Sometimes I needed to amp the lifter up, and sometimes I merely had to direct their energy and rage to the appropriate cues that they needed to execute. But I always reminded them to listen to the judges after Jorin’s mistake.
Allen is one of those guys that will get pumped, but keeps his emotions in reserve. He looked good in the warm-up room and always squats well. His method is to descend slower than you, the reader, normally would, but then his hip drive accelerates at an alarming speed, like he’s got rockets attached to his ischial tuberosities.
Allen walked 385 out of the rack, waited calmly for the squat command, and the proceeded to make a mockery out of the requirement for the side judges to question his depth. He buried the FUCK out of this squat and hip drove the PISS out of it. It was routine, and he could have stood there and done a set of five. I’ll remind you that Allen told me months ago that his goal was to squat 400 by the time he turned 40. Well, my friends, he’d get his chance on the second attempt, because I called for 402.
Meanwhile Mike was sitting in a chair waiting for his opening attempt of 485. I knew this would be easy for Mike since he had squatted 500 a couple weeks before with a mock judge sitting in front of him. Nevertheless, he still got amped by watching the Mathias Steiner video Brent wrote about last week on his phone. This was refreshing, because Mike is usually listening to really shitty music to get pumped to (maybe he’ll create a log-in name so he can defend himself today). But, when he does get psyched, he seems to morph into a gargoyle of sorts; his face contorts, he is angry, and his head twists around as if Mr. Hyde was tearing through his skin. I held onto the back of his belt after he chalked up.
“All right, Mike, get some fucking tempo on this squat. You gotta have some SPEED if you want this bounce to be crisp. You better get some fucking SPEED here.”
…illegible grunting from Mike.
“Bar is loaded!”
“Get some SPEED, Mike. SPEED. And listen to the judge. Wait to squat, and wait to rack it. And get some SPEED.”
Mike stepped to up to the platform, un-racked the bar like he had been doing it for years, had a beautifully timed descent that produced one of the prettiest bounces you could ask out of his oddly shaped body. Autumn leaves aren’t as crisp as his bounce, and the lift was never in doubt.
Meanwhile Allen is waiting on his next attempt at 402. I stopped by Chris and Brent to inform them that they’ll probably start warming up once the other two guys take their second attempts. As I was about to leave, I turned back to Brent, presented my closed fist to him, and routinely went through our “fist pound with exploding shrapnel”. He smiled. I walked away without saying goodbye.
I returned to Allen, told him how many attempts he was out, did the same with Mike, and then had a few seconds to be stationary. This was over pretty quick because Allen was in the hole, and started to gear up, as they say. 39 year-old Allen took 402, a milestone for so many lifters, out of the rack. He set his feet, and shattered his goal to pieces. He basically simultaneously power bombed and choke slammed 402, but the damn thing was so routine. Quick congrats were in order, and I called for 413 for his final attempt. I stopped by Mike to update him on his attempts position, then I ran over to the warm-up room to check on Brent and Chris. Brent was his usual “I’m a 5’5” nerdy looking Asian with big traps, and I think I’m at the wrong meet” self, and Chris looked better than he did earlier, but you know he wanted to get that first lift under his belt. I gave them some instructions, then went and found out what order they were in their flight (I did this routinely throughout the day, and the crew working the table was very helpful since the flight order wasn’t posted). I told them their spots in their flight (Brent was in 7 or so, and Chris was 12th or 13th). I ran back over to Mike.
It wasn’t long before Mike was standing there, growling at the site of his bar like my pup Leda does when anybody walks in the gym. This was 501, and this is what he came here to do; get a 500 competition squat. Make the shit official. Again, I’m holding his belt, giving him the impression that he is a restrained animal that must be unleashed with merciless fury on his bar. Then he gets stereotypically meatheaded.
“Hit me.”
“Where?”
“On my back.”
“All right.”
I remind him about the SPEED and the judge’s commands, then clapped him hard on his back between his scapulae – I’m pretty sure Mike’s protruding ears vibrated from the impact for at least four seconds. Mike placed his hands on the bar and gripped it tight like he wanted to rip it to pieces and bathe in its blood. He stepped it out of the rack fast, eager to attack, and once he was given the “go ahead and kill” command, he descended with a gorgeous tempo and hip drove the bar like it was 135. He racked the bar, pleased with his three whites. We planned on being conservative to hit all of his lifts. The plan was to hit 507 on the third attempt, but I called for 513 (a 5 kg jump, meager by powerlifting standards, but appropriate in this case for a new raw lifter).
I checked on Brent and Chris (I’m pretty sure Brent was twiddling his thumbs or pushing his glasses back up his nose with the back of his index finger), then went back to the platform to see Allen. Now, this distance between the platform and the warm-up room was no meander through the park. I had about 30 yards to cover, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to risk messing up the timing for my lifters because I was moseying through the crowd. I literally ran to and fro, dodging lifters and punting children along the way (just because).
Allen had secured his victory with his second attempt, but now it was time to eat his cake too. 413 stood on his back, trying to press him into the floor. But Allen pretty much grinned at it right in the face as he, once again, buried the SHIT out of his squat, rebounded, and had to push a bit on this one, but was victorious in the end. I congratulated him with a body check and a slap on the back. It stung my hand.
Meanwhile Mike’s crazy ass is pacing around, one hand holding his music device while his head cranked around like a special effect in a creepy horror film. I would signal to him with my fingers how many attempts out he was. I had his belt strung across my shoulder. I glanced back at him, flicked my head towards the chalk bucket, and he ripped the earphones out and stomped his way to the bucket. He levered his belt in place, chalked his hands, and I gave him the lowdown again. SPEED. Judges. Last rep. Fucking get it. Goose bumps. Hard back slap. Hand stung. Get it, Mike. He thinks it’s only 507 because the crazy asshole didn’t want to know what was on the bar, but he walked 513 out and crushed it like a tin can. He stayed amped, and when he turned around I said, “That was 515, baby!” and his face contorted, and he slapped my body hard and grasped me in his gorilla arms. He was ecstatic with his victory. This is the kind of shit you live for as a competitor.
The fourth flight began, and I was able to focus most of my attention on Brent (who was on platform 1) and Chris (platform 2). Brent was up first, and he stood fifteen feet away from his 415 lb bar very calmly, as if he was waiting in line to pay for his groceries. He approached the bar, and one of the judges asked, “What’s that under your singlet?” Brent and I looked at his crotch – this would have been a funny time for a photo.
“Uhh, boxers?” Brent said.
“We need to check ‘em.”
Brent started rolling the leg of his singlet up, and the judge awkwardly pulled his boxer briefs down a few inches and said, “Nope, can’t wear those.”
“Can he still take this attempt?” I asked.
“(scoff), No.” the judge said, treating me like I was a total dumbass. The thing is that Mike had done a similar thing with his underwear, but it was noticed after his first attempt squat. That lift counted, and he changed between his first and second attempt
“God damn it.” I walked away with Brent, and I told him to go take his underwear off in the locker room as fast as he could, and to meet me in the warm-up room so he could take 405 (his last warm-up was 385ish). I called for 424 on his second attempt, an easy weight considering I’ve seen Brent triple 430 before, but it would still be his first squat at the meet, and I wanted him to destroy it. Meanwhile Chris was still in the warm-up room, and I asked him what he had under his singlet. He was aware of the rule, but wanted to wear his spandex pulled up short like a pair of whitey tighties.
“No, take them off.” I said.
“But they are pulled up.” He showed me.
“I don’t care, Chris. Don’t give them a reason to red light one of your squats like they did to Brent.”
Mike brought in a pair of his own underwear. For some reason, Mike wears whitey tighties. I don’t know why, but he had them ready like he had been waiting on the opportunity for Chris to wear his underwear all morning. Chris was starting to leave to go to the locker room to change his underwear, and I told him just do it there in the warm-up room. It was kinda funny, because every wall had a mirror on it, so wherever he turned, his dugan was staring back at him.
“Hurry the fuck up, just get it over with.” I said.
“Well, fucking [unintelligible mumbling].”
“I’ll block you.” I was standing in front of him, because there were several 14 year-old girls standing outside of the warm-up room, and none of them were ready at that age for a Chris Riley cock-fest. Right as he pulled the underwear on, four of these girls walked in the room. They were half a second from having the Best Saturday Ever.
Chris finished getting dressed, and I watched him take 515 in the warm-up room. It didn’t look sharp and fast like he normally does. I filed this info away, and went ahead with the plan of opening with 562 (we had toyed with the idea of moving it up to 573, but after seeing the warm-up I kept it the same). I had Chris walk to the platform, find a chair, cover up with his sweats, and relax while he waited for his first attempt. Deep breathing, Chris. Now is not the time for getting psyched. After observing the attempt cards, it looked like Chris and Brent were going to be squatting at about the same time; Brent on his second attempt of 424 and Chris at his opener of 562. I stuck with Chris, and Mike (who, by the way, looks like a ninja turtle in his singlet and neoprene knee sleeves) was with Brent. I kept them updated on how many attempts out they were, and then it was show time for Chris Riley.
Chris sort of relaxes as Allen (right) stares aimlessly
I allowed Chris to pace around for a minute or two before calling him to the chalk bucket. We tightened his belt together, which was one of the more difficult things I’ve ever done. I helped Allen tighten his earlier, but Chris seemed to want his belt snug on his liver, and we struggled with it for at least 15 seconds. I was sincerely worried it took too much out of him to do the lift. Finally, it was time. Chris approached the bar, finally able to direct his nervous energy into the thing that he’s done hundreds, thousands of times before. Right before he stepped on the platform I said, “You’ve been here before. It’s just you and I in the gym right now. You’ve been here a hundred times before. Go over there and bounce the FUCK out of it. And listen to the judge.”
Chris un-racked 562 pounds, looked at the judge in the eye, was commanded to squat, and he descended for the first time in competition. As he hit the bottom his knees shifted around, but he returned at least part of the bounce into an upward movement that wasn’t very difficult. The looseness at the bottom wasn’t enough to deter him from conquering the first lift of his career.
Meanwhile Brent apparently “smoked the shit out of” 424. So much that I walked over as he finished calling for his next attempt of 457.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why the FUCK would you make an AC Jump right now?”
“Woah buddy, settle down. I’m gonna get it.”
“You asshole, why didn’t you talk to me about it…that’s a…[doing some math in my head]…15 kg jump in your first meet!”
“Look man,” as he gave me an Asian version of the five finger point, “I’m gonna get it.”
I walked away without saying goodbye.
I ran back over to Chris, told him how many attempts he was out, and played the waiting game with Brent and Chris. I constantly updated their position so that they were never in wonder and they could mentally switch gears as their turn got closer.
I headed back over to Brent, who was sitting between two high school kids who were wedged into squat suits. He was totally out of place, calmly sitting there. I swear he thought he was at a bus station (in Hong Kong no less, although Brent would never visit). I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Well, we can’t change the weight now.”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, so you better fucking make this or I will kick the fucking shit out of you, you asshole.”
I left without saying goodbye, but I could hear Brent in the background announcing, “Justin Lascek ladies and gentlemen, he’s my coach!”
It came time for Chris to squat again, and 584 was the next challenge. If he hit this weight, then we’d go on to 600, which was a goal we set quite a few months ago. A 600 raw competition squat ain’t no joke, friends, and this is what I wanted just as much as Chris.
We went through the gearing up routine of pacing, but I had Chris tighten his belt on an old basketball goal frame on the edge of the high school gym. He chalked up at the bucket, and I was in his ear. Judges. Bounce. Get this. You own that bar. Bounce. Judges. It’s kind of hard to remember what I said to him because my adrenaline is surging just as much as his. The only difference is that I’m holding mine in check so that I can direct energy to what he needs to do. But the timing of Brent’s third attempt and Chris’ second attempt was nearly simultaneous. I watched from afar as Brent hit a solid third attempt, getting his weight and thus preventing the act of me kicking the shit out of him.
Instantly back to Chris as he steps the bar out of the rack slow, robotic. It’s not quite 600 pounds, but he’s still raw, and it’s still 585. He gets set, and his knees fidget slightly because of his adrenaline and the weight. I think the god damn things were locked out, but the head judge commanded him to walk it back in. She said that his knees weren’t locked. I asked the back judge how much time we had. About 20 seconds.
“Hold on Chris. Take a breath.”
I had him wait a few seconds.
“All right, let’s get it!”
As he un-racked it a second time, I cued his straight knees. She gave him the squat command, and he sucked in as much air as he could, and descended. There was a bounce. Not a bounce that I’m used to seeing out of Chris Riley, but a bounce nonetheless. The rep wasn’t easy, and the crowd shouted with his effort as he rode the bounce up at an even, non-fast pace. He got the top to the crowd’s delight. That rep wasn’t easy, but I knew I could summon his effort to hit 600. We didn’t get all dressed up for nothing, so that’s what I called for.
It was the waiting game again. After a few hours of running around, standing their watching the attempts ticked by seemed to take an eternity. I showed Chris that he was 9 attempts out with my fingers. Then 7. Then 5. It was almost time. It was almost time to smite the mighty giant, that milestone barrier called 600 pounds.
Chris paced. He fumed. He gritted his teeth. I motioned to him that he was one attempt out. I signaled for him to remove the headphones and tighten his belt. He met me at the chalk bucket. This was it. Bounce. Don’t quit. This is what we’ve been waiting for. You own that bar. Listen to the judges, and then BOUNCE that shit up. You own that bar. Go take it.
His face contorted into a grimace. Tears welled in his eyes. His whole body shook. He was ready. He strode to the bar and lay his shaking hands on it. He let out a battle cry. Twice. He paused right before getting under the bar and gasped for air. He heaved the bar out of the rack and inched it back with pounding footsteps. This isn’t just Mr. Gravity boys and girls, this was 600 pounds on his back. He was wearing a singlet, shoes, and a belt. I cued his knees. He was commanded to squat. He began his descent. The 600 pounds tried to break him, it tried to slam him into the ground. But Chris didn’t show up on that day to get nailed, to get pinned. Chris took that weight lower, and lower, and lower. Suited lifters cringed, they had never been that low before. Chris took it just a bit lower, and the 600 pounds tried to laugh at him, tried to use its momentum to turn him into dust. But Chris wouldn’t be denied. His body tensed as it recoiled, it rebounded, and it bounced. His hips drove that bar out of the grave it tried to dig, and they drove him up…slowly. The crowd thundered throughout the gym, lifters and family alike were screaming one word over and over: UP. The weight tried to push him down, but Chris obeyed the commands of the hundreds of eyes that rested upon him. His face grimaced in strain, and he pushed harder and harder, up and up. At last, he stood once again, with that 600 pounds defeated on his back. Chris Riley was victorious.
He racked the weight, relieved the tension on the bar, and stooped down and howled like a barbarian who has conquered his enemy. He turned away from the 600 pounds, and looked me in the eye. My throat was raw. His eyes were as red as his singlet. He had almost been defeated, but his eyes told me, “We did it.”
Minutes later his family surrounded him, congratulated him. I hung back out of the crowd and fought hard to hold back a sob.
If you live in the west Texas area, the first 70’s Big Workshop will be in Amarillo this coming Saturday (April 24th) at 9:00 AM (time subject to change if the participants at Amarillo SC want it any later). There is a good group of people from Amarillo Strength and Conditioning that are signed up, but non-gym members are welcome as well.
Topics will include:
What is 70’s Big? — Strength, anti-emaciation, competition, education, etc.
The effect of strength on other physical attributes
How to start or continue training in a smart, efficient manner
Dispelling training myths
Points of emphasis for different populations (male/female, small/medium/large)
Dealing with injuries and setbacks
Programming guidelines
Routines, Rituals, and Training Quirks
Food plans
Much like a physiological system, this workshop is adaptable to the questions and needs of the participants in the audience. The interactive workshop will last for 4 to 5 hours and you can register here for $85.
