ChasingKaz - April 23, 2007

I came into this contest not really knowing what to expect from myself. My gym lifts had improved significantly in the nine months since I'd last competed, but I'd also been really sick two weeks prior to the contest. I dropped 15 lbs and spent the final pre-contest week resting and trying to gain back some of those essential pounds. I felt well rested, but I had no idea how strong I would be.

I'd made plans with Paul, another lightweight competitor from Minnesota to car pool down to Des Moines and share a hotel room. We've traveled together quite a few times, and Paul's eccentricities always make for an interesting weekend. He picked me up at work in his baby blue Buick Le Sabre at ten minutes to 5:00 on Friday afternoon to begin the journey. With rain pouring down and 250 miles to our destination, I knew we'd have to haul ass to make it in time to weigh in. Considering Paul's less than smooth driving style combined with the weather and the time crunch, I knew I was in for some white knuckles.

In the past Paul had mentioned his ambition to take up breakdancing. Whether his intentions are to revive a lost art form or to just have a really kickass victory dance, I'm still not sure, but it was our first topic of conversation.

"So I got 'How to Breakdance' volumes 1 and 2 last week. I tried a six-step the other day, but my apartment's too small," he said without the slightest hint of jest.

Pause-no problem; Assess the situation-he's not joking; Respond accordingly-"What's a 'six-step', Paul?"

"If it's done properly, the person appears to be revolving around three axis simultaneously." he explained.

"I know which one you're talking about" I replied, recalling the movie 'Breakin'. "It's the one that looks like a crab on meth, right?"

"Yup" he responded coldly, focusing intently on the wet pavement ahead of us.

After taking a moment to process all of the info Paul was throwing at me and realizing that he was absolutely, without a doubt, not joking, I said "So . . . how did all of that turn out?"

"Not so well. I almost took out two of my walls. I guess I'll just have to wait until they offer classes at the dance studio by my house."

"Really?" I inquired, shocked that such classes were being offered in the affluent Minneapolis suburb where Paul lives. "Are they actually offering breakdancing classes?"

"Not yet" he said, "but they will. If they ever want to get me out of their lobby, they will."

Paul was in rare form. It was going to be a fun drive.

We stopped about an hour south of St Paul to pick up my girlfriend. I'd told her a little bit about Paul, but nothing I could say would prepare her for the unfiltered monologue she was about to experience. With the road conditions worsening and the 8:00 deadline for weigh-ins growing ever closer, I offered to drive the rest of the way. Paul would have none of it. "Nobody drives my hoopty but me" was his response, so I recommended he pick up the pace to 85 or 90 mph. The rest of the trip consisted of Paul talking about his favorite porn stars (he's quite fond of Nina Mercedes) and other assorted topics while barreling through pea soup fog at 80 mph on I-35.

At 7:30, we were still about an hour away, so I called the promoter to see if he was going to be doing weigh-ins any later than 8:00. He said he'd stick around for a while and wait for us. With some extra time, we slowed our pace to a still unsafe, but more reasonable, speed. We got there shortly after 8:30 and ran inside to register and get weighed in. We said our brief 'hellos' and 'thanks for waitings' and walked over to the scales. I was the first to step up, and even fully clothed, wearing my Doc Martens, and with a bladder full of 3 1/2 hours worth of water, I was still only 224 lbs. Naked, I would've weighed a lot less. In a sport where five pounds of body weight is a cherished commodity, I was going to be at a considerable disadvantage against the other 231 pounders.

When Paul finished verifying that he was also under 231 lbs, we walked over to the implements set out for the next morning's events. He casually picked up the log, which was somewhere around 150 lbs and pressed it with ease. I followed suit. It was the first thing heavier than my laundry basket that I'd lifted in two weeks and it felt pretty damn good. After that, we walked over to the deadlift and both knocked out a few reps with the 295 lbs already on the bar.

Once I finished playing with the implements, I realized I'd better empty my bladder while I could still do so voluntarily. When I finally finished pissing ten or fifteen minutes later, I grabbed a goodie bag full of supplements and other miscellany that all of the competitors get upon check-in, and headed out to the car where Paul and my girlfriend were already waiting. We were off to the hotel to check in, eat, and get to bed.

We woke up the next morning around 8:00, showered, ate breakfast (Paul ate his oatmeal cold, because he thinks it's easier than heating the water), and headed out to the contest site.

Paul eating cold oatmeal

We arrived about an hour before the 10:00 start time and the event center was already abuzz with a majority of the competitors warming up on the equipment scattered about the 120' x 60' competition floor. I walked my girlfriend to her seat in the front row and went off to claim a chair in the competitors area near some of the other guys from Minnesota and Wisconsin. After a few minutes of catching up on old times, I headed out to the floor to stretch and do some light warmups on the log and deadlift. Before long, I heard the gruff voice of Willie Wessels, the president of North American Strongman, Inc., on the microphone requesting that all competitors report to the main stage for the rules meeting. Kickoff was only fifteen minutes away.

Everyone huddled around the stage and Willie began to address the sixty competitors by thanking the sponsors, the promoter, and the guest judges, Dave Ostlund and Jesse Marunde. Once finished with the niceties, he went over all of the particular rules for each event. All of them were standard rules like: 'Wait for the down signal from the judge on the deadlift and log or your rep won't count', and 'The entire farmers walk implement must cross the finish line'. Most of the rules are standardized for each event, but there are always a few variations (or loopholes), so the veterans as well as the rookies pay close attention. After a few quick questions, we were told the contest would start in ten minutes and dismissed.

The 175 and 200 lb classes were the first to try their hand at the log press. In the rules meeting, we were told that we would be going two at a time so it would go fast, and that was no lie. As soon as the first two competitors were finished, the next two were called up to the platforms. All of the competitors were finished in about 15 minutes and the weights were then increased from 200 lbs to 230 lbs for the 231 lb class. My name was third on the list. I watched intently as the first two 231s lifted. One of them set the mark to beat: 11 reps. I was going to need a PR day if I wanted to top that.

I chalked my hands one last time and walked up to the platform to set the tone for my comeback. My first rep was smooth, but my second was a little shaky. I popped it up just fine, but my feet were shaky causing me to take a few steps before getting steadied and hearing the 'down' signal from the judge. The next rep went up without a hitch, but on the fourth rep, my fatigue started to show. I had trouble locking out number four, but after a bit of a struggle, I locked my elbows and got credit for the rep. I set the log down and looked to the judge for a time check. "20 seconds in. You're not even half way yet. Plenty of time." he said. I told him to let me know when there were 20 seconds left and took the opportunity to shake out my arms and catch my breath. On the judge's cue, I picked the log back up into my lap, rolled it up to my chest, and made a few more futile attempts to pop the log over my head. I ended up tied for 6th place out of 12 competitors in the log, only two reps out of 5th place. At the time, I was disappointed by my performance, but looking back, it wasn't as disastrous as it could have been.

The next event was the farmers walk, which is one of my best events. It was only 250 lbs per had for 80 feet and there was no turn. My PR for 250 farmers walk is 9.79 seconds, and that was a 100 foot run in Tulsa, OK a few years ago. For only 80 feet, a sub-ten second run was a no-brainer. My placing all depended on how fast the other guys could do it.

I stepped up to the line, confident that I'd redeem myself from my poor showing on the log. The pickup was just a bit on the slow side, but I got off to a quick start once I got walking. About 1/3 of the way through the course, I noticed that the guy in the other lane was starting to inch ahead of me. I couldn't let that happen, so I told my legs to pick up the pace and they did. A little bit. It was enough to pull ahead of the other competitor by a foot or two, but it wasn't as fast as I knew I could go. For one reason or another, my legs just wouldn't respond like I wanted them to. I couldn't find my stride. I crossed the finish line about two feet ahead of the guy in the other lane and immediately headed over to the judge to get my time: 12.06 seconds.

Disappointed doesn't begin to describe how I felt about my performance. Not only did I bomb one of my best events, but I failed to meet my goal of finishing under 10 seconds. The guy who won the event blew everyone away with a time of 7 seconds. When you consider that my 7th place performance was only 1.5 seconds out of 2nd, a sub-ten second run would've been huge for me in the point standings.

Going into the contest, I knew that if one event was going to ruin my chances of a good finish, it was going to be the deadlift. Since I'd already blown my chances at a good finish with the first two events, I really had nothing to lose. I waited for my turn to lift, watching the first three or four competitors fail to get a single rep. As the competitor before me finished his attempts, I kicked off my shoes (a lot of competitors deadlift barefoot because it effectively decreases the distance one has to lift the bar), cracked open an ammonia tab and took a big whiff to clear my head, and walked up to the platform.

On the judge's command, I gripped the handles of the hexagonal apparatus and sunk my hips to prepare for the lift. My first rep with 500 lbs went up smooth and with perfect form, as did the second, third, and fourth reps. Then, fatigue got the best of me and I set it down to take a few breaths. When I went to finish my attempt, I couldn't budge it. I have no idea why. When it was all said and done, my four reps were good enough for 8th place. The 7th place competitor finished with eleven reps, so another four or five would have done nothing for my final placing, but I still would have loved to get them.

Going into the final event, no performance, no matter how stellar could land me in the top three in the final standings. This would be for pride and I was confident in my abilities. None of the competitors who had gone before me had managed to load all five kegs onto the 4 foot platform. I was going to do it. I even made a point to joke with the Emcee, Jesse Marunde, that they should have a 400 lb keg instead of the final 300 lb keg to make it interesting. I stepped up to the line, and on the judge's signal, I grabbed the 200 lb keg, hoisted it up to my chest, and carried it ten feet to the platform. When I went to pop it up to the ledge, I caught the lip of it, causing the entire platform to shudder. It cost me a second or two to re-grip and toss it up, but it was only a minor error. Whether it could cost me in the standings remained to be seen. The 225 keg went up fast and flawless, as did the 250 and 275, and I was on to the final 300 lb keg.

When I reached down and gripped the last keg to pull it into my lap, something unexpected happened. Instead of jumping up off the ground like it's four buddies, the last keg just sat there, defiantly, laughing at me. I couldn't do anything to silence it. I was cashed. I tried to pull it into my lap a second time, but the effects of being sick, not eating, not training for two weeks, and losing 15 lbs combined to leave me on the brink of exhaustion. I had to give it another shot, so I stepped back a pace or two and stared at the final keg as it sat there taunting me. "You're going up, fucker" I muttered to the concrete-filled hunk of steel. I stepped up to my nemesis, gripped it by the handles, and pulled. Then, a strange thing happened. It started to move a little higher than it had on my previous two attempts. I leaned back as far as I could to use my leverage. Finally, I pulled it into my lap where I sat with it for what seemed like an eternity. I repositioned my hands to the far side of the keg and made a quick thrust of my hips, hoping that I would miraculously load it, but I was gassed. Quitting would have been easy at that point, but I'd come too far to leave the stage a conquered man. I was so close, yet everything inside me was telling me to drop it and walk away. With time running out, I gave it one last shot and some way, some how, it went up. I pushed it onto the platform and walked away a minute and four seconds after I began; angry, disappointed, and absolutely exhausted.

As soon as I had enough energy to carry on, I walked over to my bag to get my flask of Jim Beam and some cash for a few beers from the concession stand and sat by my girlfriend in the audience to watch the remainder of the contest. One thing was for sure: I wasn't going to have to get off my ass to accept a trophy. All things considered, the day wasn't a total bust. The deadlift actually felt pretty good and if I hadn't been so fatigued, I'm confident I could have pulled it for double digits. Other than that, it was my worst performance to date and the only thing I took with me from this contest was motivation.

Finishing 7th out of 12 sucks.

Posted by Ben Hanson at 12:58 PM