Well a couple days ago was my one year anniversary to when I started working out. I will re-live it for you…
The goal was 300, not that heavy in the realm of things. I mean, crap, I can bench more than that. We warmed up with the 260# for triple’s. His name is “sandpaper” and for good reason, my forearms are still shot after almost a week. Then we went on to “bigboy”…he’s 20# lighter but about 6 more inches around. I hate him. I like it when I can touch my fingers.
Then we rolled him out. With the spray-painted “300” staring us in the face. I tacky up…and get set. My buddy slaps my shoulders so hard they go numb. My jaw clenches, I start breathing heavier…thinking…getting set. I reach down and grab him, pushing my heels down for all I’m worth. I lap him (whew), then pause for the triple-extension. I repostition to put my hands on the top of the stone.
I try to stand up.
Heaving with everything I have. It’s resting on my stomach so hard my ribs are bruising. I grunt and try to extend my back…but to no avail. I am 6 inches away from putting the 300 stone on a 56" platform…almost.
I failed. I look at the 300 stone every time I am walking into my friends garage where we lift. I tell myself I still did good for only a year of hitting the iron…and hitting the stone as well. Nothing beats them. It’s all brute strength and pain and blood. My forearms are scabbed and my bottom set of ribs are bruised, but so is my spirit.
But when I can get the 300 all the way on the platform…it will all be worth it. All the torn callouses and flesh, all the sweat…everything goes numb when you try so hard you think you are gonna pass out and have a stone fall on you.
p.s. chalk is a good blood-clotting agent.