Following suit with missing a pull due to an injury that should be babied, I woke up and thought what's the point of pussyfooting around. This either goes one of two ways, I tear it completely, or I push it, and deal with the pain and make a good run at the Arnold.
My thought process on that morning was this: if I can get a solid triple with 500 while fucked up, I SHOULD be able to pull something out of my shw ass come meet day.
Skipping all the boring warm-ups felt like analogies--let's get right to it. Loading 500 lbs I took a single just to test the waters, shit held. Wrapping my wrist and the spotters walking up asking "one?" Nah- triple, even with my eyes focused on my wrist, I can feel the looks exchanged between each other, heavy with the doubt. Should someone have said hey this isn't a good idea, probably, but, nobody wants to waste their breath trying to convince me not to be me.
Layed down, said to myself "fuck it" as a last thought runs through my head-- what if it goes? All that build up all that adrenaline, and I missed about 3/4ths way up on the 3rd rep. I didn't get what I wanted, but I had to secondary victories. It held, and I had the balls to push it, no fear--cause 500 lbs doesn't give a fuck about you or how you feel.
Finished up the session sore, but banged out my accessories, using the red shoulder saver pad for my extra volume helped a ton. Five hundred for an almost triple while banged up; any meathead would take that, I left happy, time to get dialed in and win my third Arnold.