Clear the Mechanism - February 21, 2007

by Ben Hanson

I hate getting to the gym late. Whenever I show up later than 7:00, I'm almost sure to find the 50-something aerobics instructor and her pal in the free weight area cooling down from their aerobics session. Normally, I'm happy to see other people, especially middle-aged women, in the free weight area. It's not because I have a thing for older women, but because I know that free weights are essential to weight loss and overall health for people of all ages and lifestyles. These two, however, are different. Whenever they have the free weight area to themselves, even if it's for two minutes, they'll change the radio to the easy-listening/music-that-makes-me-want-to-vomit-violently-in-my-sleep station. Believe me when I say that if you've got 500 lbs resting on your back, the last thing you want to hear is "Smooooooothe operatoooooooooor!" It's just not safe.

Much like the elementary school playground, there are certain sacred, unspoken rules in the gym. The most sacred is that you don't walk up and talk to someone when they're getting ready to lift. Further down the list is the rule that says a person alone in the gym has complete control over the radio and anyone who may come in after him is shit out of luck if they don't like what he's listening to. Tonight, I didn't get there until late and the two aerobic grannies had already exercised their radio rights. I was out of luck. Surprisingly, the shitty music and the smell of old lady perfume duringthe first hour of my training session wasn't enough to distract me from having a really productive deadlift session.

On the drive home, I started thinking about what I could do (other than getting to the gym earlier) to combat these intensity-killing distractions. I was scanning through the stations when I realized none of it mattered. Whether it's Metallica or Kenny G, when I'm actuallylifting, I completely block out everything around me. I see nothing, I hear nothing, and I feel nothing. I remove myself from the world. It is my Valhalla. I become the weight and the confluence of flesh and iron is the only thing my mind can process.

It reminded me a lot of "For The Love of The Game" starring baseball actor extraordinaire, Kevin Costner. In the movie, Costner plays fictional Detroit Tigers pitcher Billy Chapel, an aging ball player who takes the mound in Yankee Stadium just a few hours after being dumped by some soul crushing woman he adores.

Chapel takes the mound for the final start of his illustrious career to a flurry of cat calls and taunts from the typically harsh Yankee fans. Just before his first pitch, he utters a phrase that becomes a theme throughthe rest of the movie: "Clear the mechanism." When he utters this, all of the sound from the stadium ceases and everything but the lane to his catcher, Gus, blurs on cue. In this altered state, Chapel sees and hears only what is pertinent to the task at hand. He's able to block out every distraction, no matter how great or how small.

After 80 minutes of pointless romantic flashback and only 10 minutes of baseball, the movie ends with the wily veteran pitching a perfect game in the final outing of his career. The point of the movie (other than the stupid love story part) is that with proper focus, you can achieve greatness.

During contests, and even in the gym during a lift, I do the same thing. I can "clear the mechanism." It's not something I set out to do, nor is it something I consciously do. It just happens. When I am competing, the only thing I can see is the object I'm supposed to lift and the only thing I can hear is the judge or time keeper. I routinely joke around with the other competitors and spectators right up to the moment I hear the judge say "COMPETITOR READY!" Once the command is given, something happens. My breathing quickens, every muscle tenses up, and I nod to the judge to acknowledge I am ready. Then, just like in the movie, all ambient noise is sucked from the universe and I get tunnel vision. The only thing I see is the finish line and the object which I must push, carry, or pull across it. The only sound I hear is my racing heartbeat and the command of the judge. I'm truly alone in my head. The mechanism has been cleared.

Ever since my first contest, I've noticed I had this uncommon ability to attain complete and total focus. Perhaps the most memorable instance occurred in Tulsa, OK in July of 2005. As is typical for Oklahoma in July, it was a scorcher (104 on the bank clock) and the blacktop parking lot we were competing on didn't make it any cooler. The third event of the day was a 600 lb. tire flip for 100' with a 75 second time limit and the heat was starting to bring my Minnesota blood to a simmer. As my name was announced, I approached the line, gave a quick glance to my then-girlfriend in the crowd, and stepped up to the tire.

"Competitor, take your grip," stated the judge as I bent down to grip the treads on the massive tire. I took a few deep breaths and loaded every muscle in my body until it was as tight as a compressed spring.

"COMPETITOR READY!" I nodded and entered my state.

"SET!" I took one last deep breath before the moment of truth.

TWEEEEEEEEEEEET! came the screech from the whistle.

Every muscle that was previously compressed released in one explosive motion that sent the tire flipping end over end. The second and third flips were just as explosive. The fourth flip wasn't as easy.

The first three flips had diminished my power reserve to the point that the remaining flips required me to pick up the tire, rest it on my knee, regrip, get it up to my shoulder, and finally, put my shoulder down and push it the rest of the way over.

Somewhere around the fifth flip, I blacked out. Not only had I cleared the mechanism, but I lost all memory of my actions. My next memory was being 5 feet from the line with the spotter telling me, "FIVE SECONDS LEFT. YOU HAVE TO GO NOW!"

Then something clicked. The lactic acid building up in my legs, hips, shoulders and arms, telling me to quit, went away. I dropped down and gripped the treads of the tire for the last time that day, sunk my hips, and exploded upward and forward in a last ditch effort to complete the course. The tire lurched off the ground and rested itself on my knee. I quickly sunk down and heaved it up to my shoulder. With every ounce of remaining energy, I pushed it over.

As I laid motionless on the ground, trying to muster the will to get up and walk away, the judge leaned over me and said, "74.25 seconds. Good job." I'd finished the course. As I got up off the ground to walk back to the competitors tent, I finally heard the cheers from the crowd. They'd been encouraging me throughout the entire event.

Posted by Ben Hanson at 5:33 PM

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Comments

"I finally heard the cheers" was a special part of this because as the reader I didn't think about the crowd until you heard them. It kind of brought me into the story with you. This was very well-written. Good job!

Posted by: Wayland at February 21, 2007 06:36 PM