Bobcat's Take -- AAU

by Bobcat

On Monday the Sixteenth, my wife and training partner, Vondah, the Silver-Haired Deadlift Queen, turned 60. To her way of thinking, a new age division meant more records to rip to shreds. We had eaten at Bellini's--a top-flight Lexington Italian restaurant--with my stepdaughter Anne on Monday, so Vondah had to cut weight for the first time. I had done so before. I had been training around 170 and was aiming for 165 even.

Our other birthday celebration was a Wednesday afternoon in the Phoenix Room at Keeneland, Lexington's beautiful thoroughbred track. It included food. Restraint almost hurt, but betting on losers every race provided a counter-irritant. Vondah had a couple of potatoes with her meal; she had an extra day to make weight.

We got up early Thursday and packed the car. I weighed 166.0 and Vondah weighed, if I remember correctly, 165.5. With that extra day, she'd have no problem. I, however, had dark visions of missing my weight class by something like a tenth of a pound and having to forego a real dinner in order to make weight in the morning. That would be close to hell on earth! I made turkey-burger sandwiches with horseradish, lettuce and sawdust bread (all fiber, little salt, great for cutting weight). We had Scott Turow's Ordinary Heroes on several compact disks, the fruit of one of Vondah's forays into the public library.

In Eastern Kentucky, the fall colors had already begun to dot the hillsides, pointillist style. By the time we got into eastern West Virginia, we were doing 75 amidst a color riot. We had passed Tamarack, near the end of the West Virginia Turnpike, with some pain and longing--the food is wonderful, especially the pan-fried trout. It is prepared by folks from the Greenbrier cooking school. It is, alas, also salty. Neither of us wanted to lift as the lightest 181's in the meet.

The colors only got more intense as we rode through western Virginia and the Shenandoah Valley. Last year, on our way to AAU Push-Pull Nationals in Richmond, the colors disappointed. This year, if they don't leave your mouth wide open, you are soulless. The Blue Ridge Mountains looked, from I-81, like the Orange Ridge Mountains--until you looked closely and noticed the many dots of red, yellow, orange and several shades of green along with the usual blue. The display of glorious fall color continued unabated into the Piedmont.

We arrived in Richmond early. We had about 40 minutes before weigh-ins began for men 198 and lighter. We got situated, and I walked down the hall to register. There was an actual equipment check: I carried three singlets (two Matman and one Titan), high-top Chucks, low-top Chucks, cotton shirts with sleeves, a pair of Fruit of the Looms and a red, white and blue Inzer belt. Now to the men's room and the scale. 163.0! The nervous energy of dread had dropped me three pounds in about nine hours. I got my squat rack height (4), bought a meet cap (AAU meet caps are cool), and went back to the room. I consumed two glasses of chilled Pedialyte--an acquired taste to be sure--and then it was time to eat!

We hit the Steak and Ale just west of the hotel on Broad Street. They had an early bird menu. For $10.99 I got a ten-ounce ribeye, some bread (I ate the whole loaf), a salad bar (mine was 40% bacon for the salt), steak fries, iced tea and two chocolate chip cookies. That was the first of my three dinners.

After something between an hour and an hour and a half, I headed down to the Vietnam 1, a Vietnamese noodle restaurant, and ordered Pho with meatballs, tripe, tendon and sliced flank. I piled on the hoisin sauce because it was salty. Pho is delicious, even if you don't care for the more exotic additions such as tripe and tendon. I love Vietnamese food.

Some time after returning to the room, I ordered a 12" pepperoni pizza from Papajohn's--pepperoni because it's salty. I finished it as CSI was finishing up. This cat was stuffed! Time for bed, despite feeling as if I had one of Pavel's kettlebells in my stomach.

Come morning, I hit the breakfast buffet hard and Vondah, yet to weigh in, had a beautiful frittata with shrimp, roma tomatoes and asparagus. Just looking at it made me hungry. Therefore, I had seconds on scrambled eggs, lots and lots of bacon, lots of breakfast potatoes and a little bit of fruit.

Then off to the scale in the hotel's fitness room. Off with my sandals, off with my shirt; off with my glasses, my watch, my wedding ring--only my flimsy black trunks were still on me because anyone could see into the room. 177!!!!! When Marty arrived and asked about the weigh-in and my overnight gain, he actually looked thrilled with the answer. But I digress. He arrived after the first flight of squats was over.

My first was 341.7. Not hard, but only 2 whites. Hell; two whites is a good lift. The ref to my right was demanding deeper squats than the ref on my left. My second was 369.3. Also good. For my third, I called for 396.8, a PR in this weight class. This prompted the announcer to reveal my age--52--and to comment "400 pounds." An effort, but it did not totally exhaust me. It was good! The record is 413.4. When I started this training cycle, I aimed to break it with 418.9. But a minor back injury with a major, but short-lived, spasm had robbed me of two weeks of squats and forced me to drop the volume. I had also experienced occasional odd discomfort in my left knee. I controlled it by changing shoes, changing stance and finding a trigger point in my vastus medialis to massage. I wanted a total. I still felt fine. I decided not to risk injury and did not call for a fourth.

The 165 masters 50-54 raw lifetime drug-free bench world record was 192.9, and had been since June of 2000. I had come to break it. I had also submitted a crossover entry in the single-lift bench meet. The world record there was out of reach, but there was no American record. I wanted it. I played the Tuba Mirum from the Verdi Requiem over and over between attempts. Marty would hold up fingers to communicate how many lifters out I was at the time. My first bench was 187.4. Good. Marty said I needed to lie farther out for my next attempts so I could make the bar arc backwards if it stuck. Now, 198.4: also good. 209.4 for a third. Good as well. Now, for a fourth. Marty put it in, didn't tell me how much, and I didn't ask. I learned it was 214.9 when I was chalking up and the loaders got their instructions. Marty had noticed a little triceps fatigue creeping in, and so said I needed to widen my grip by one finger since my pecs seemed to have plenty of energy left. I placed my hands on the bar as normal and he re-placed them. Down went the bar, very, very slowly. "Store the energy," I was thinking. I paused. "Press!" Up it went, but it slowed. I thought I heard Marty's voice--with my diminishing hearing I couldn't be sure--then I pushed it back into an arc. "Rack!" Good lift!

At some time before the end of the bench presses, Marty introduced me to Jim (The Gym Muse). Jim is a gentle and soft-spoken fellow who is wickedly observant and who has an impressive store of knowledge about powerlifting. If he ever watches you lift and wishes to discuss your lifting with you, lend him an ear. You can't lose. I think it was to Jim that Marty remarked of me, "He doesn't look like he can squat 400 pounds, does he?" Ain't it great when your friends express boundless confidence in you? Whatever. When people underestimate you, you win.

The weigh-ins for Saturday's lifters--the youths, the teens and the women--were supposed to start at 4. Vondah was allowed to weigh in earlier, since the AAU has a 24-hour weigh-in rule and someone was available to do the weighing. 161; no problem. She could eat!! She'd just have to wait to get her squat rack height.

There was a break between the benches and the deadlifts. Vondah went to the Arby's a bit to the east on Broad Street and brought back 5 roast beefs, a diet soda (for her), a coffee (for me) and a jamocha shake (for Marty; he spilled some). Vondah, Marty and Jim each had a roast beef; I had two. I never like to deadlift while hungry. In fact, I can't think of anything I like to do when hungry except eat. Eventually, we discussed warm-ups. Don't need many for the deadlift: 1 x 135, 1 x 225 and 1 x 315.

I hadn't deadlifted in at least four weeks because of that back injury. I had put down 341.7 as my first attempt when I weighed in. Given the way the meet was going I wanted to start heavier. My first attempt was 352.7, and it wasn't that hard. Marty observed that I had my hands placed too wide for someone my height and my shoulders were too far forward--all making for more work and possibly worth fifty pounds. My deadlift technique is usually spot-on, but I was out of practice. I had taken a wider grip to take advantage of the knurling. My normal grip--I lift sumo in competition, by the way--got 100% smooth bar.

"How does your grip feel?" asked Marty.

"O.k.," I replied.

I would, we decided, chalk up heavy and try the more usual grip. I wondered whether that would cure the shoulder problem. Marty didn't know; let's find out! My second attempt, if I remember correctly, was 396.8--keeping up with the squats. Heavier for sure! But no slip of the grip and a lot less misspent effort. A good lift. At the scorer's table, pointing at the kilo chart, Marty told me to pick a number: 407.9, 413.4 or 418.9. "Eighteen," I said. It would be a PR in this weight class.

Back to Verdi. Marty's finger signals. It was time. I've developed a little habit to control, but not squelch, the tension as the loaders prepare the deadlift bar. I go straight over to the chalk as soon as possible and chalk up at length and repeatedly. I don't know why it works, but it does--it's one of those little athletic rituals that pays off for me most of the time. It worked this time. The bar went up--more slowly than last time, but it never stopped. "Down!" I set it down. I did not just let gravity take it with my hands attached, I actually set it down. This surprised me, given my long hiatus from deadlifting. Good lift. I had totaled 1025.

"You've had enough for one day," said Marty.

Indeed I had. Ten for ten doesn't suck. A record in one lift and weight class PR's in the other two don't suck either. Nor does a 2% increase in my total even after dealing with two injuries since my last full power meet.

If I remember correctly, it would have been toward the end of Friday's goings-on that I met Ivy and Danimal. Of course, I could be conflating things and putting a Saturday event on Friday. Vondah used to tell me, "When you get past 50, forget it . . . and you do." She's right.

Earlier in the day, I had met Bill, a 165 pound masters 65-69 competitor in the single lift bench press and deadlift meets. Bill is a North Carolinian now living in Richmond. He was being coached by Michael, a younger, thinner, and taller guy wearing a "Dr. Ken and Kathy" shirt. (Chiropractor and former Iron Island Gym owner Ken Leistner is a well-known proponent of hard and heavy iron work. Despite the sale of Iron Island, the Leistners still train people.) These guys raised an irresistible prospect: Morton's! Morton's of Chicago, that is, a high dollar steak house that was the scene of much merriment and beef consumption last year. I asked Marty if he was up for Morton's. Affirmative--no surprise.

We were originally going to meet in the lobby at 4:30, but we discovered Morton's wouldn't start serving until 5:30. The meeting of the beefeaters would take place at 5:00. We used the extra hunger time to get Vondah's squat rack height (5).

Bill, Michael, Vondah and I stood outside the lobby and talked. It got to be five and we wondered where Marty was. Bill and I went to the desk to try to page him, but with no success. Then, he appeared. Bill would drive his car and I would follow, driving Vondah's. Bill would pull over if a traffic light were to separate us--which happened twice. Vondah and I got to talk with Jim as we headed for downtown Richmond.

Morton's offers valet parking for five bucks--a good idea in any sizeable downtown. We left the cars and went in. It took a few minutes to ready the table. I looked ahead of me while waiting at the wines on display. To our right were what looked to be kit lockers with various people's names on little nameplates. Curious. By this time, Bill and I were ready to eat entire cows.

We were seated. Our table was one table farther from the door than the table at which our merry crew of powerlifters had sat last October. I actually remembered who had sat where last year. Drinks were ordered. Vondah and I ordered merlot. Marty ordered . . . Guinness!! Our waitress paraded steaks, potatoes and vegetables before our very eyes and told us of the specials. She also offered us the opportunity to order one of the special signature desserts. They had to be ordered early, to give the kitchen time to prepare them. There would also be a cold dessert cart presented at the more usual time.

Marty ordered the bone-in ribeye; just like last year. Vondah ordered one of the "petite" steak selections--any of which would be a full-sized steak in lots of steakhouses. I ordered the 24 ounce porterhouse. Michael ordered the 48 ounce porterhouse. When I saw his steak deposited in front of him, I regretted not ordering one of the behemoths, too. Pure bovine glory! I hereby resolve to order one as soon as I total 1100 or better . . . or sooner if I feel like it. Nevertheless, the 24-ouncer--mooing, blood rare, so little cooked that any veterinarian would feel ethically obligated to try to revive it--was an exceptionally delicious and satisfying steak. Home fries, giant asparagus vinaigrette and beefsteak tomato with purple onion and vinaigrette dressing were passed about. More wine--two more glasses--accompanied my eating of the porterhouse and suffused the darkened restaurant with a warm blood-rare glow. When my skills as a steak surgeon reached their limit, I picked up the bone and gnawed. I was not alone. Everyone who ordered a bone-in steak ended up gnawing, and rarely is gnawing so satisfying.

Time for dessert and coffee! Vondah and I shared a plate of fresh raspberries. These were far better than what we buy on our Sunday trips to Kroger. Properly firm--until they yield to your teeth--both sweet and acidic, and vividly red. The waitress had offered after-dinner drinks with our desserts. She explained that they had Grand Marnier of three ages. When she briefly left us to ponder, I explained that there was regular Grand Marnier, a laid-down-for-a-hundred years version, and a version that was laid down in 1827 and bottled in 1977.

One of the best dining memories of my life occurred in the late 1970's when a friend got married in Washington. A group of us headed to Annapolis for dinner. We were not long out of college and not wealthy. For dessert, the group of us shared two snifters of the 150-year-old Grand Marnier. We simply passed the glasses around the table until all the beauteous liquid was gone. The best-tasting alcoholic beverage I had ever consumed and I remember it well, now almost 30 years later.

Marty then performed a startling act of generosity that only advanced dementia could cause me ever to forget. I was going to order a plain Grand Marnier. He bought me a snifter of the 1827 - 1977 version! It was every bit as good as I remember. Oranges are good. Many good things are made from oranges. If oranges awarded a Nobel Prize, this spirit would have won it several times. I think I was just too startled to say more than, "Thank you." I don't remember what I said beyond that, but I cannot have imagined a better end to a 10 for 10 day.

Vondah had sat through Friday's rules briefing with me, so she did not attend Saturday's. We just slept later--often good meet prep! This time, Vondah could sink her teeth into the breakfast buffet, including her beloved potatoes. Back to the room, and then down to the meet. I would be the novice coach today, spending most of the day under the tutelage of Marty and Jim, but left on my own to get Vondah through the deadlifts. Remembering how some of the squats were called Friday, I wore my "Friends Don't Let Friends Squat High" t-shirt. It features a pale blue squatter and blue letters on a white background. The shoulders have rust stains on them: I actually do squat in that shirt and the bars are old. Anyway, I liked this arrangement. As a very green coach, I've coached Vondah while also lifting myself. That's a very demanding mental task, and I've usually made some mistakes just by having to think along two tracks at once. It would be good not to be lifting and helping on the same day, and to watch two much more knowledgeable guys do their thing.

Vondah was in the second flight. The first flight consisted of the kids; the second was all women, except for one teen. We watched some of the kids squat. Many had impressive and unmistakable depth. Of one, Marty remarked, "He squats better than you, Bob." Oh well; the kid doesn't have osteoarthritis! Incidentally, Ivy would be lifting in Vondah's flight.

It came to be time to warm Vondah up. We commandeered a squat rack, and I pumped the hydraulics until it was set at the proper height. A much taller woman, Cheryl, worked in with the racks at the same setting--probably a difficult warm-up. But Vondah's warm-ups looked fine. Once they were over, she donned my navy blue hoodie and a pair of her knit pants to stay warm.

The record was 121.3 pounds. Her first squat was 181.9 pounds. Not hard. Marty walked up to me and asked me to tell her to drop her depth by just one inch because one side ref was calling them deeper than the other. I told her, and emphasized that it only needed to be an inch. But she started having trouble. Her second and third attempts were at 198.4, just shy of the 200 she had aced more than once in training, but they were red-lighted. She took a fourth and got it! While we had come hoping for more, she did beat the record (both American and World) by 77.1 pounds. Do not underestimate 60-year-old powerlifters!

Vondah is not a big bencher . . . for the time being. We divided up the coaching. I stuck with her in the corral. Jim handed off. Her first attempt was 60.6 pounds. She had done 80 in training, so there was no problem. In between the first and the second, Jim gave her some good advice: pull the bar down to the pause; change your elbow position. Take the thing down under control. You're storing energy. Her second, also good, was 77.2 pounds. She looked strong. Jim, Vondah and I conferred. Jim suggested 88.2 pounds, Vondah concurred, and I put it in. Jim took me aside and remarked that we may be headed for record territory! I ran to the warm-up room and checked. Jim was right: the record was 93.7 pounds. We plotted to put in a fourth with the smallest fractional plates added once she made her third. Only problem was, the third didn't go up. Well, ratz! Nevertheless, Jim had given her some good bench advice which made sense to her and made her second attempt easier. I wouldn't be surprised to see a hundred-pound bench in 2007. She's thinking of dropping to the 148's. I still wouldn't be surprised to see a hundred-pound bench in 2007, just later in the year than if she stays at 165.

Marty had to leave early. We said our good-byes, I thanked him again for his Grand Marnier generosity, and then Vondah and I went across to the concessions room to eat lunch. I didn't want Vondah deadlifting hungry either! She had a burger; I had a small Uno sausage pizza.

The deadlift is definitely Vondah's lift. She's a conventional deadlifter. The deadlift is a good lift to be good at: "The meet ain't over till the bar hits the floor," is perhaps the most-repeated bromide in powerlifting. She had done a crossover entry in the single-lift deadlift contest. We had come to eat this record alive, as well as the deadlift record in the full power meet. Vondah makes her deadlifts. Period.

Deadlift warmups would be simple. 135, 160, 195, put on the knit pants and hoodie. The first attempt, discussed at length weeks before the meet and discussed again with Marty, would be 214.9, the current world and American record. Vondah had done 230 in training; this should be easy. I told her to chalk up thoroughly, and to start chalking the second the prior lifter touched the bar. It was an easy lift. The barbell looked like a toy weight.

Up to the scorer's table. I pointed at 226 and 231.5 and told her to pick one. She went for 226, a conservative jump for sure. In July, she had pulled 242.5 at NASA Grand Nationals. I felt sure that she could match or exceed that with her third, and then take a fourth at 259 or 264.6. She chalked up. The bar went up. Then she lost her balance and went down, still holding onto the bar. I stood still for a second, dumbfounded. Vondah missed a deadlift? Then I noticed that she didn't get up! There was brief pandemonium on the platform as she was helped up and as I draped her right arm over my shoulder so I could support her as she left the platform. She had strained a muscle in her left calf. It only hurt when she put weight on it. She sat down in the corral and propped her leg up on a chair. Steve Wood, one of the meet directors, appeared with a first aid kit. He took out a cold pack and some tape, and wrapped her calf. She still wasn't sure she wouldn't lift again, and actually asked me to put in the same weight again. I did, but I was dubious. In a little while, she got up and walked on it, and it hurt. She then agreed to pass her remaining lifts.

We got Vondah back to the room, propped her leg up on the ottoman that came with a nicely stuffed chair, and put a bag of ice under her left calf. She sent me to collect her medals, which I did before the ceremony got underway. That's right: despite missed and passed lifts she got a total--215 kilos or 474 pounds--and set a new record in the squat. She also got a medal for the single-lift deadlift. Even though she only made one, it did tie the AAU record! I later learned that during the awards ceremony, her medals were announced to applause all around.

While she was icing her leg, I went to Walgreen's and Total Wine--at her request. I bought a chrome cane to take her weight off her left leg. I also bought tape and a couple of cold packs. Then west on Broad Street to buy wine. Jim had told me about the wine store. This place was unreal! As big as a small grocery store and full of nothing but wine and wine paraphernalia. I found a bottle of merlot and a corkscrew and went to check out. They had "impulse buys" strategically stationed to be unavoidable when you stood on line. I saw a Romanian wine: The Legend of Transylvania Pinot Noir. How could I resist? I used to tell Anne vampire stories when she was a little girl. She loved them. All my vampires were educated. They were alumni of . . . "Transylvania University, E Pluribus BI-tem." (Always delivered a la Bela Lugosi.) By the way, Transylvania University is in Lexington, and has been around since 1780. Jefferson Davis was an alumnus. The bottle got a laugh from Vondah when I showed it to her.

We're over 50, so we get to eat circa 4:30 if we feel like it! We went back to the Steak and Ale. Vondah had left her credit card there, as I had discovered by calling them a little after 8:00 A.M. We both had ribeyes this time, and Vondah got to eat her beloved potato--and drink some wine. We went back to the room, settled in for the evening and sipped merlot. We decided to bring the Transylvanian wine back to Lexington.

The next morning, the big guys were lifting. I had the pleasure of meeting more of the Northern Virginia crew: Fireman and Viking. One lifter/official shared an observation that made sense of Vondah's deadlift accident. Ellen, a masters 70-74 lifter (called "Florida Ellen" in last October's write-up) told me she observed a small superfluous motion, and shrugged to demonstrate. Lights went on. Vondah has a touch of scoliosis: her left shoulder is obviously higher than her right. We have worked on one of the consequences in training. As she did reps, the bar crept farther from her left shin than her right. A cockeyed bar motion would be just enough to make balance a problem. Hanging on would result in more force--and torque--on her left leg. The explanation made sense of everything that happened.

Before we left, we saw a couple of big squats--600 or so. But we did need to leave, so we packed up the car, checked out, and headed west on I-64 with Scott Turow's book on disk playing.

The Piedmont was still dappled in vivid glorious color. The mountains of western Virginia--from Lexington to the West Virginia border--were even more spectacular. We decided we needed to eat trout at Tamarack, but it was a long way, and the Bobcat does not suffer an empty stomach gladly. Neither, after a meet, would Vondah. So we stopped at an Arby's and had a snack of junior roast beefs and coffee.

After a quick stop at the West Virginia welcome center, we sped on through eastern West Virginia--still as beautiful as it was Thursday, if significantly colder. Finally! We got to stop at Tamarack. With an injured powerlifter, one must pay some attention to logistics. Vondah drove up to the place where buses and handicapped people pulled up. She exited the car and headed, cane in hand, for the entrance--no small distance away. I slipped into the driver's seat and parked the Saturn. I walked on up and entered Tamarack. I did, as expected, catch up with her; however, I did have to go a bit farther than I expected. Recovery had begun!

It was time to eat a very late lunch or a very early dinner--pick one. We both got the pan fried trout with red potatoes and asparagus, of course. For not the first time, there were problems with all the ice machines. Tamarack does seem to keep having ice problems. One of the staff delivered ice from somewhere, so we had cold drinks. The trout was every bit as delicious as we remembered. We dispatched it without undue delay.

Vondah then made her way to the sidewalk as I walked ahead to get the car. I pulled up, we turned around, and we were soon back on the West Virginia Turnpike. All the rest of the way, the colors were delightful, even in the dimming light of dusk.

Let me end with a riddle. What do two powerlifters do as soon as they get back into town after a long weekend of lifting?

Eat, what else? (Sorry, Jim. I couldn't resist playing with your motto.)

We stopped at Fazoli's--"Italian food fast"--and had some pasta.

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