“Obsession is a word the lazy use to describe the dedicated.” —Anonymous
Humans alone are granted the gift or capability of pondering their existence and the meaning of life. Weightlifters sometimes contemplate why they lift in a quest to uncover underlying factors or reasons that may shed light on their lifelong pursuit of power. What occurred during my early developmental stages that prodded me to seek out the iron as a security blanket? Why do I continue to engage in this activity even though I suffer from chronic pain? What emotional needs are being fulfilled? By peering through the mind’s window and delving deep into the subconscious, clues emerge that help explain why weightlifting satisfies certain inner needs. I will voluntarily place myself on Freud’s couch and regress back in time so I can examine the genesis of my obsession.
For me, it all literally started by chasing pussy. On a sultry summer’s day close to four decades ago, my older sister and I were passing our time at my grandpa’s hog farm by harassing a barnyard cat. This was before cable television existed, so kids actually played outside. Suddenly and without warning, we were fighting for our young lives. The nefarious creature had lured us into a frothy cesspool of hog manure. It seems as though gramps was negligent in properly covering the liquid waste that was collected and stored adjacent to the hog houses. The fleet-footed feline managed to outwit its human stalkers by somehow tiptoeing across the crusty upper layer of excrement. My sister and I naively walked right into the trap so carefully contrived by the evil breath-stealing beast. My sibling, who was five-years-old, tumbled in first, and I soon pulled a lemming and followed her.
Luckily, I landed on top of her and in doing so she was completely submerged. This was only my third summer on earth, but I reacted with the maturity and the level-headedness of someone twice my age. With puma-like agility, I grabbed the side of the concrete trough and began to scream like a banshee. It seemed like an eternity to me and even longer for my sister who was now fighting to hold her breath while I was hanging on for dear life. If I went under the flame of hope would be extinguished by the shit of swine. I would not succumb. I gave it everything I could muster and my mighty bellows were finally heard by my mother and grandma. They were in a nearby garden picking asparagus. I harbored a deep hatred for this vegetable for much of my life and only recently have I forgiven and released the asparagus from any culpability in this heinous rural crime.
In the end, we were saved from this pit of putrid squalor. I emerged with a lifelong aversion of the water and swimming while my sister has dealt with an intense fear or even a phobia of cows. Why cows? Who the hell knows, but that’s why we still seek counseling.
What is the point of this story? Well, ya know it is funny what a boy recollects, and this is my first memory. I recall the whole episode vividly, and I do not believe in the least bit that much of what I remember is a result of what Arthur C. Clarke calls a “false memory.” This sort of initial or formative memory has had great significance in my life. I have always had an intense inner need for security and a feeling of safety. The other factor about this less than wholesome experience of nearly drowning was that I was introduced to the importance of strength. My ability to hang on saved the day. I still derive much pleasure in doing pull-ups or any exercise that involves hanging on or going to the edge.
The Inquisition
My fondest memories regarding education always find their way back to my Catholic school experience. I attended a private school during my formative years from first through eighth grade. What sort of influence did this have on me ultimately? Well, I will readily admit that it had a substantial effect on my life and specifically on my lifting pursuits.
For example, there was a particular nun known for her crazy eyes and thus affectionately dubbed the “Hawkeye” by the student body. An oft repeated rumor that circulated on the wings of faint whispers exchanged secretly in the nooks and crannies of our old stone school building was that this nun was actually born without eyelids. To remedy her rare condition, a cadaver’s foreskin was carefully grafted in place of her missing eyelids leaving her just a bit cock-eyed. She once made me stand in a large metal waste can for talking in class.
Now, this on the surface does not seem inappropriate for a Catholic school—never mind the symbolism involved regarding human trash. What made this punishment reach a level that would have made the Spanish inquisitors bristle with pride is that I stood with my arms stretched outward, similar to a famous individual on a cross. To add flavor to the whole episode, I was forced to hold books in my skyward facing palms. There is nothing like crucifying a young boy in front of his peers to get a point across. I sure did learn a valuable lesson. I discovered that I could hold those damn books in this position twice as long as anyone else, including the girls. This crude version of the iron cross only served to stoke my fire for more physically exhausting challenges and, needless to say, the pestilent little demons in penguin suits did not disappoint.
During these school days, I constantly thought about our after lunch recess, similar to how a kid at fat camp daydreams about scarfing down a Snickers bar. One day, the principal came over the newly installed intercom system that had replaced our old system of Dixie cups and strings to inform us that a car had broken down on the playground. We were to avoid going near it. So, after a quick prayer, it was off to the cafeteria. My friends and I quickly ingested our food so we could both avoid tasting it and have more time to engage in our favorite playground activity—basketball. Strangely enough, the boat-like vehicle warned about via the intercom chose the corner of our designated play area as its Mt. Ararat.
My two friends and I inadvertently leaned on the bumper of the car as teams were being picked. Once this was done, the game ensued like any other day. As I was hooping it up, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the principal was making her way toward us. She trudged along with her mighty calves as scared students dove out of her way careful to avoid her wrath. As time passed, it was clear that Attila the Nun had my crew in her sights. We knew she was headed our direction, but we were oblivious as to why. The action ceased as she came upon us and announced that she was aware that some of us had leaned on and made contact with the automobile that appeared to be none the worse for wear. We were initially astonished that she had a direct phone line to the Big Guy himself. After all, who else could have told her? Later, it was discovered that the school secretary who lived across the way actually called and informed the head of the Gestapo of our misdeeds.
The punishment for this insidious grade school crime was to be marched to the center of the playground and formally executed. Just kidding. It was actually must worse. My friends and I were led to the middle of the schoolyard and ordered to assume push-up position. Mind you, our recess was 30 minutes in length. As I slowly assumed the position, I also assumed that this would last but a few minutes and then we would be released back to the rest of the population. I learned it is wrong to assume especially when dealing with a sexually frustrated woman of the cloth.
Time ticked by as the midday sun beat down upon us on the scalding asphalt. Tiny pebbles dug into our palms as sweat dribbled down forming puddles for the circling vultures to drink. Okay, this part is a bit embellished. I do pride myself from the standpoint of being the only one of the three to endure this escapade without breaking down. The other two were broken and lost face as they whined and cried in front of the younger kids who once held them in high esteem. This whole episode certainly had a great bearing on all of the perpetrators. Both of my buddies grew up to be dregs of society. One went to prison and the other is a local banker. I took from this the ability to persevere and the lifelong admiration of the push-up. Before I even embarked on my journey through the hallowed halls of high school, I had a firm foundation of training due to my childhood experiences. Push-ups and pull-ups were indelibly etched in my mind as the starting points for all things powerful.
You can find the ramblings of a strong, insane man right here