Bobcat strikes!
29 August 2005If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. Thanks for visiting!
Dr. Robert, my personal Tom Hagen-like consigliere, enters his first powerlifting competition at age 50-plusputting yourself on the competitive spot brings to a persons training a degree of intensity not thought possible leading up to the event and a degree of exhilaration not thought possible in the afterglow
I was so focused I cant even remember seeing the wheels. (The weights)
First Meet
By Bob Friedman
I had been entered in both the bench press and the deadlift in the Son Light Power Kentucky State Fair Bench Press and Deadlift Championships, Saturday August 27. I had to withdraw from the bench press because I had injured my left hand in an obscure way while doing a wide-grip bench a week before the contest. Even a reasonable token bench would be painful and harmful–I have to start out with wall push-ups and progress from there–but a deadlift might not be. The first-class sports physician I saw Monday morning thought I could deadlift. The chief hand therapist who did the therapy evaluation was a little more skeptical. On the other hand, he’s an ex-powerlifter. He said to try pulling something around 200 pounds to see how it felt. I pulled 225 Thursday night. It felt o.k. Hester’s Family Fitness is on the second floor of an industrial building on the very south side of Louisville. Vondah (my wife and a potential masters 148 55-59 deadlift champion) and I arrived early. We had eaten a big breakfast at a Waffle House in Lexington, and hit the road a little past 8 A.M. The rest area between Frankfort and Louisville that we remembered seemed no longer to exist. After finding the loos, we walked into the gym, and were directed to a bearded, barrel-chested guy sitting at a small table. This was Dr. Darrell Latch, director, promoter and chief referee. We talked awhile. He’s a very interesting and friendly guy. I was a little taken aback to be asked at 9:45 what my first attempt would be (this was my first meet), but I settled on 315 because I did not know how much my injured left hand could take.
Darrell said if I changed my mind before the deadlifting started, that would be o.k. You could have a fourth attempt for either a state record or a personal record. There was no state record in this organization for my age and weight. Therefore, if 315 bugged my hand, I could leave it at that and still have a state record. I decided to stick with 315 and move up if it didn’t bother my hand. Since anything decent would be a state record and anything over 400 a personal record, I decided to count on being able to make a fourth lift. A surprise. The scale for weigh-ins was right there in the open. I had expected to weigh in wearing only briefs and glasses. But I wasn’t going to display my red Fruit of the Looms–they matched my power belt, my low-top Chucks and my bag–to all the people in the gym doing cardio. How many treadmill-stompers really want to see a near-naked 51-year-old powerlifter? So off came the shoes and the belt; the change, the keys and my wallet came out of the pockets of my shorts. 180.0. My weight was recorded as 179.0–an allowance was made for clothes. Later, one teen lifter did strip down to his underwear for the weigh-in, but he was wearing longish boxers. Last year, there were about 60 lifters at this meet, with twice as many benchers as deadlifters. The rules meeting was to be at 11:30 and the deadlifting would probably start between 3:00 and 3:30. There should be plenty of time for lunch with time left over to watch a good bit of the benching. The meet would be held in a large room that was usually devoted to karate. There were karate trophies everywhere. Bleachers were set up for people to watch.
It was a little after 10:00. We read. After a while, I went to sit on the bleachers and exchanged a few words with a couple of other lifters and their families. Soon everybody was noticing two things. There weren’t that many lifters, and it didn’t look as if the rules meeting would start promptly at 11:30. By 11:50 I was hungry. I devoured 320 calories worth of engineered food bar, but it didn’t quite satisfy. I remarked upon this and another lifter laughed. “You’ve never been to one of Darrell’s meets before?” It turned out that weigh-ins were being extended because some lifters had–erroneously–been told that they would have until noon to weigh in. So the delay was actually a fine demonstration of decency, and indeed the fair thing to do. (But I was still hungry!) Somewhere around 12:15 or 12:20 the rules meeting started. It was finished in under 5 minutes. There would be one flight of benchers and one flight of deadlifters: 21 bench press contestants and 10 deadlift contestants. (A small number would be competing in both events, so there were less than 30 lifters. This was a small, friendly meet, and in fact the lifting was all done by 3:30.) Three of the deadlifters were named Robert! For deadlifters, there would be a “down” signal. The bar was to be lowered under control, not dropped. Beware of hitching! It became clear that I would not have time to drive to the main road, where there were several restaurants, and sit down for lunch. I asked Vondah to get some roast beef sandwiches from Arby’s, about the closest food place. She left, and I watched some benching. The contestants ranged from a 114 pound woman in the masters division to a couple of super heavyweights. The openers ranged from well under a hundred pounds to . . . well, honestly, I forget the exact figure. Let’s say huge. People benched raw and with shirts. I saw a couple of what looked to be very tight single-ply bench shirts, and a humongous-shirt with Velcro closures on the back that looked as if it could stop a .22 caliber round.
The first attempts went quickly. I wolfed down the first of two roast beef sandwiches. Once the second attempts started, I figured I had better start warming up. Marty had e-mailed me a good warm-up strategy which involved doing warm-ups five minutes apart. I changed into my black singlet, red shirt and red Chucks. I went to a back room where there were plates and bars, and ended up warming up with a 198 55-59 deadlifter–a novice like me–who was quite a nice guy. After some jumping jacks, I just did singles for my warm-ups. I still wasn’t sure what my left hand would take, and in case it would take a lot, I did not want to expend all my energy warming up. The hand took the warm-ups, all the way to 275, quite well. I went back into the meet room. Third attempt benches were underway. I heard a couple of “screamers.” Some folks–me included–have complained about trivial, showy screamers in the gym. But this was Showtime. Whatever helps, including ammonia capsules and smelling salts. I took the occasional bite of the second roast beef sandwich as I watched. There were two especially impressive benches. A 50-year-old 123 in what looked to be a single-ply shirt did a double-bodyweight bench. A 275 did a raw 500 bench. I enjoyed watching that! Of all the people there, this was the dude who most looked like a powerlifter. Bald head and tattoos on his upper arms. Massive chest and shoulders; He wore loose knee-length shorts, so who knew what his upper legs were like? But his calves were huge. If I were a betting man, I’d put down money on the proposition that this bencher had done some squats in his time. (He also competed in the deadlift.)
Without asking, I had expected the deadlifts to get underway with little delay. Wrong! There would be a break until all 10 deadlifters were warmed up and ready to go. At intervals, I took a couple of extra warm-ups. The bar was loaded to 135. I lifted it. It was loaded to 225. I lifted it. People were still milling around. Another bite of the second roast beef sandwich. I went to the back room again. A lifter had a bar loaded to 225, but was taking a break. He kindly let me step up and lift it to keep warm. Back to the karate room. After what seemed like a long time, the order was announced. I would be fourth. The amazing 123 was “Bob,” a younger guy was “Robbie,” and–according to Dr. Darrell–I was “Dr. Robert,” a reference to the academic driver’s license I got in order to pursue my first career as a professor. 315–a state record because there was yet no state record for my age and weight–went up quickly. My hand was o.k. I was so relieved and pleased over this that I forgot to walk up to the table and tell Darrell what I wanted for my second lift. So he shouted out the question and I shouted back, “365.” Time to get serious. If my hand wasn’t going to fink out on me, I wasn’t going to settle for a cheap record. I was determined to get a lift I had to work for. 365 wasn’t a problem either. In fact, it would have been my opener if I had been completely healthy. Robbie and I had named the same weight for our first and second attempts. There was no other 50-54 181 in the deadlifts, but I decided to play a mental game with myself to help me with my third and fourth attempts. I had to lift more than this guy.
405 was my third lift. This would be a personal record. It went right on up! My hand seemed to be holding on. I felt as if I had another 10 pounds in me. I asked for 415. I was one of three lifters who asked for a fourth. A 60-64 181 was sitting at the table. I had mentally dubbed him “the bionic man” because of the device he had to wear to bench without breaking his hand. (In a meet in another federation, it had once been disallowed and he did break his hand lifting without it. It was an interesting story. He knew his hand would break and he benched anyway! That’s hard core. You may scratch your head, but you must admit he has courage.) He congratulated me on how smooth my deadlifts were looking. Ailing hand or not, I was officially having a good day. 415. Afterwards, Vondah said she had wondered if it had taken me a long time to break it off the floor. It hadn’t. It had taken a little longer to compose myself than it had with the prior lifts. I remember finally getting the degree of focus I wanted: so focused I can’t even remember seeing the wheels. I placed my hands at the ends of the knurling. I placed my feet wide, and pointed outward. (I’m a sumo deadlifter.) I made sure certain muscles were tensed. It was as if I were running down a pre-flight checklist. Now the breath. The first two didn’t feel right. The third one did. Yank the thing up! Explode! This was work. It felt as if the bar slowed slightly about 2/3 of the way up–though afterwards the bionic man said all my lifts were smooth. I could hear shouts from the audience–in “deep background”–but I had no idea what they were saying. I pulled it to the top and leaned back. I got the “down” signal but held on a split second longer so there would be no doubt in anybody’s mind–including my own. 415 was mine.
I took home a trophy that’s a little less than 3 feet tall. At the top is a little golden dude leaning back about 15 degrees with a nice, big deadlift. I could swear he has a moustache! (I’ve worn one since I was 18.) I did lift more than my mental opponent. However, as he was having difficulty with his last lift, I was shouting encouragement along with everybody else: “Pull! Pull! Pull!” I was disappointed for him that he didn’t get it. He turned out to be a 242 junior. He’ll get it–and some more–next time. And even more the time after that. That’s one thing I really liked: all the lifters applauded one another’s successes, and shouted encouragement when needed. I’m told that’s the rule at powerlifting meets, not the exception. The other guy is just the secondary opponent. The loaded barbell is the primary opponent, and everyone is united in contest with it. I’ve now got a taste for this. I’ve got to get my left hand well before I can really work my bench again. It’s time to work the dickens out of my squat!
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