by Ben Hanson

Regardless of the accomplishment, most people have a defining moment in their lives that builds their self confidence and quells any doubts they might have had as to whether or not they were on the right path. It's a moment that will stick with them forever. It establishes their place in their field of choice and solidifies their presence there. For some, it's landing that first big client or getting that first "A" on a major paper in college. For me, it was competing in the Minnesota State Strongman Championships in St Cloud, MN on June 25, 2005.

Until this contest, I wasn't sure if strongman was something I would do as a hobby or something I would pursue with the same dedication and enthusiasm that I'd pursued rugby for the previous 9 years. In fact, I only started training for this strongman thing as a way to supplement my training for rugby. I never had any intention of ever competing. I got talked into it.

In my first contest, I placed a dismal 9th out of 10 competitors. My second contest wasn't much better. I knew I was getting stronger, but I was beginning to think that I'd never be able to catch up to these monsters who had already been competing for a couple of years. They certainly weren't slowing down any, which meant I'd have to work harder and smarter than them just to catch up to their current strength levels. Surpassing them seemed an impossible task. Not only that, but I had some serious doubts as to whether the other competitors took me seriously or just thought of me as a relatively strong rugby player with a penchant for getting his ass kicked. Reluctantly, I filled out my entry form, paid the $50 to secure my spot in the Minnesota State Championships, and spent the next 6 weeks preparing.

I arrived in St Cloud on a hot summer Saturday morning about an hour prior to the scheduled start of the contest. Normally, competitors are given privileged parking close to the site, but not that day. The State Championships were one of the main attractions at Granite City Days, which is St. Cloud's summer festival, This meant two things: A HUGE crowd, and parking a half mile away. I'm a trooper, though, so I grabbed my 20 lb bag filled with all the tools of my trade and my 15 lb cooler filled with water, snacks, Red Bull, a few post-contest beers, and ice and started walking toward the contest site.

Ten minutes and two sore arms later, I arrived at the competitors tent for check-in, only to find out that the start time had been pushed back about an hour while we waited for some of the equipment to arrive. With over 90 minutes until the start, I figured there was no reason to begin my warm ups just yet (though some of the other competitors already were). I pulled up a chair under the tent and bullshitted with a few of the other competitors I knew from other contests. "Hey Paul, how's training going?" "Yeah, mine's going good, too." "I set a PR (personal record) last week." Finally, after about an hour of similar pleasantries and a Red Bull or two, I started warming up.

About this time, all of the other competitors started warming up, as well. Some were deadlifting, some stretching, and some were sitting quietly "getting their game faces on". I never understood that. I've always been of the mindset that one shouldn't have to get psyched up for doing anything. You can either do it or you can't. That's probably why I often appear disconnected and overly nonchalant. Sometimes, it seems like my veins bleed ice; other times, I look like the rodeo clown rather than the cowboy. With this Saturday no different than any other, I chose to loosen up with some stretching and light deadlifts. After 90 minutes of bullshitting and warming up, it was finally time for the contest to start.

The first competitors to do an event in an amateur strongman competition are always the lightweights. Normally, the weight classes are broken up into two simple divisions based on the 105 kilogram International Standard: Lightweights at 231lbs or less and Heavyweights at 232lbs and over. The promoter for this contest, however, was using an experimental Middleweight division. For this to work, the cutoff for the lightweights was lowered to a paltry 200 lbs. Anyone weighing 201-265 lbs was crammed into the Middleweight division, and anyone 266 lbs and over was a Heavyweight.

While this works in favor of some of the lighter lightweight and heavyweight competitors, it is a serious disadvantage to those of us heavier (typically) lightweights who tip the scales between 201 and 231 lbs. Instead of being the top guys in our weight class, we now had to compete with some of the lighter (typically) heavyweight competitors who are generally the best all around athletes in the field. Personally, I think it's a great thing that the little guys were getting a chance to showcase their abilities against competitors comparable in weight, but at the same time, I was disheartened and frustrated that I'd have to compete against guys who were usually in a different weight class.

This whole time, I'd been busting my ass to get as strong as possible while still staying under 231 lbs. Meanwhile, the other guys in the Middleweight division were typically heavyweights battling to add maximum strength with the advantage of getting to gain as much weight and add as much muscle as they could. Considering that there was no middleweight division at the international level, or even at the National Championships for that matter, it seemed entirely unfair. I wasn't alone in my silent protest, but the rules are the rules and by them we must abide.

The lightweights kicked off the contest with the farmers walk with 200 lbs in each hand. There were only 6 of them, so they went pretty quick. As soon as they had all gone, the officials increased the weight to 250 lbs per hand. The first two competitors went side-by-side down the street 75 feet, turned around a cone, and came back to the finish line. I was up next and in the lane beside me was Jason Adamski, the defending Minnesota State Under 231 champion. I knew this was one of his best events (in reality, he doesn't have a bad event, but this is one that he excels at), so I knew my hopes of crossing the finish line first were slim to none. I put one last dusting of chalk on my hands and walked up to the line. I reached down and gripped the handles of the implements, tightened up my back, hips, and legs, and got ready.

"Competitor Ready?" came the call from the head judge.

I took a quick glance over at Jason in the other lane. He was definitely ready. Was I?

"Set."

I gripped the handles just a little tighter and sunk my hips a little bit more to prepare for the pickup. My entire body was as tight as a compressed spring just waiting to explode.

"GO!"

I straightened my back, flexed my hips, and extended my legs all at once releasing the potential energy that I'd built up. I struggled upward, but in mere moments, I was standing upright with 500 lbs in my hands. I took my first step. Then my second, third, and fourth. Before long, I was accelerating down the course. Again, I glanced over and noticed that Jason was a good 10-15 feet ahead of me, but that was of little consequence because I was quickly approaching the turn, which is a notorious trouble spot for many of the competitors.

As I approached the turn, I slowed down slightly and took a wide arc around the cone just like I'd practiced. I made it through the first 75 feet of the course in about 8 seconds and I certainly didn't want to screw up a good run. If I dropped the implements once, I'd probably be able to make the second pickup and still finish the course, but I didn't want that. I was half way through the turn and I was still doing well. I finished the turn and paused just for a second to steady the momentum of the implements (Newton was right, two 250 lb objects in motion will stay in motion along the path you directed them, whether you like it or not) and started walking back to the finish line.

I was accelerating again and the finish line was only 20 feet away when, suddenly, it happened. First, the middle finger on my left hand started to loosen. Then, my index finger and ring finger slipped. Ten feet from the finish line, the handle attached to the cylinder started to slip down to my finger tips. What looked like a great run a few seconds ago was instantly turning to crap. I looked up and noticed that Jason was already finished. I had to make it. I made one last effort to quicken my final few steps. It took all of my concentration but I crossed the finish line just as the implements released themselves from my grasp. I'd made it. I'd completed the 150 foot course flawlessly in 24.86 seconds.

When the chalk dust had settled and all of the middleweight competitors were finished, my time was good enough for 4th place. 4th place. I WAS IN 4TH PLACE! I'd gone from finishing in the top 5 in an event only once before in my previous two contests and here I was with the best in the land in 4th place. You better believe I was fucking pumped, even if it was after only one event. I went back to my chair under the tent to get out of the blazing sun and get a little rest before the next event. I watched from a distance while the heavyweights took their turns on the farmers walk and waited while the next event was set up.

The second event of the day was the log press medley. Originating in the strongman contests of yore, when legends like Bill Kazmaier (Kaz) and Jon Pall Sigmarsson hoisted actual tree trunks over their heads, the log has evolved into a tubular steel imitation that allows for exact and perfectly balanced replicas. Regardless of the change in material, the log press is an event which requires the competitor to pick a large metal cylinder with handles welded inside off the the ground, bring it up to their chest, and press it overhead.

Normally, the log press is either contested for repetitions or for maximum weight. Today's event, however, had an interesting twist. Laid out parallel to one another were four logs of increasing weight, the first one 220 lbs, increased by 20 lb increments until the last one, a massive 280 lb log, laid in wait for any man strong enough to conquer the three daunting obstacles that lay before it.

To this day, the log press is my worst event and it's a rare day when the log press doesn't have a negative effect on my final placing. Luckily, because of my high placing in the previous event (it's standard procedure for the competitor who took last in the previous event to go first in the next event while the rest fall in line in reverse order of finish), I got to go toward the end of the pack for the log. Not only would this give me more time to rest and get an idea of how well I'd have to do to at least maintain my overall standing, it also gave me a chance to watch the other competitors and formulate a little strategy.

Would I be better off going for the first log as fast as possible and get a good time split for it, but possibly miss the second, or should I take my time and conserve energy to hopefully get the 2nd log and maybe the third? After studying the other competitors, I decided I'd be best served with the former strategy. I nervously chalked my hands every minute or two as I watched and waited.

After all of the lightweights and the six middleweights who finished lower than me had taken their shot at the log, it was my turn. I chalked my hands one last time and stepped up to the log with a head full of doubt. I bent down, firmly gripped the handles inside the log, and waited for the signal.

"Competitor ready?"

I gave a slight nod that could only be perceptible to an auctioneer or a strongman judge.

"Set."

The time between commands seemed like an eternity.

"LIFT!"

I pulled the 220 lb log up to my waist, sat back, rested it across my lap and took a few quick, deep breaths to prepare myself. Then, in one fluid motion, I popped my hips and half-curled/half-rolled the log up my stomach to my chest until it rested across my shoulders and sternum. This was no simple task. The degree of difficulty with the log that doesn't exist while pressing a barbell is a result of it's diameter. Unlike a regular 1 3/8 inch bar that you find in the gym, the diameter of a log is very close to that of a 5-gallon bucket. Because of its unusual girth, the log can not move in a direct line from the chest to the lockout position without first knocking your chin off. It has to take a path along a slightly arced plane. The elliptical plane of motion may seem like a difficult obstacle to overcome, and it is, but the psychological factor of having 200+ pounds resting on your sternum, squeezing the breath out of you while you contemplate the lift at hand is the real kicker. Most people wouldn't think that pressing a weight overhead could be an adventure into the cardiovascular realm, but you'd be hard pressed (pun intended) to find the fittest of competitors who isn't gasping for air after a mere five reps on a log.

I took a few quick breaths in a futile attempt to convince myself that it wasn't as heavy as I thought. Finally, after my thoroughly unconvincing reassurances, I quickly dipped at the knee and thrust the log upward over my head. I locked my elbows, pushed my head forward, and looked sternly at the judge.

"Good lift" he said coldly as he gave the 'down' signal with sweeping, outstretched arm.

I quickly brought the log back to my waist in one motion and released it to the ground. Without hesitation, I hopped over the bouncing log that I'd just conquered and ran to the next log 5 yards in front of me.

As I approached the second log, it crossed my mind that I'd never pressed a log this heavy before. If I could get it overhead and get the down signal from the judge, I would set a new personal record (PR) of 240 lbs. Would this poorly timed revelation inspire me to dig deep and push myself to new heights or would it plant the seed of doubt that would lead to my failure? In less than 30 seconds, I would have my answer.

I took a deep breath to help flush the seed of doubt (or possibly the spark of inspiration) out of my head, bent down and gripped the handles. Just as I'd done 15 seconds prior, I ripped the cylinder off the ground and brought it to my shoulders in the same two-step motion as before. I took a few more deep breaths and cocked my head back. Again, I dipped slightly at the knees and thrust the log skyward. It went up just past the top of my head and stopped as if I was inside a room with a low ceiling and remained there in suspension. With shoulders and triceps screaming, I pushed with all of my might to complete the lift, but it would go no higher. I brought it back down to my chest, took a few more deep breaths, and once again attempted to thrust the log skyward. It wasn't to be. I dropped the log to the ground with a thud and walked away dejectedly. I knew some of the other competitors had also failed the second log. My only hope was that I was able to lock out the first one in less time than they did in order to salvage a few points. Luckily, there were three other competitors who weren't as quick as I was on the first log and I ended up in 7th place. Talk about knocking the wind out of the sail.

I went back to the tent and played the waiting game while the logs were rolled away and the next piece of equipment was brought out. The third event of the day was another one that had been giving me problems since I first tried it. Known as the Super Yoke, the event requires the competitor to walk (or run) as fast as possible with a three sided steel frame of sorts across their back.

You may have seen it at the 2005 World's Strongest Man contest when they carried two refrigerators attached by a crossbar. That is the super yoke. In the amateur competitions, we don't have the sponsors or resources to allow us to shove a steel bar through two perfectly good refrigerators, so for us it's just a 2-3" steel tube welded to a pair of uprights. Add some weights to some pegs at the bottom of the uprights, and you've got our yoke.

Super Yoke, courtesy of Matthew Brouse, Certified Personal Trainer, Strongman

The sensation one gets when trying to run with a yoke is hard to describe. You see, when you squat with a bar across your back, the bar is firm, and when you move, the bar moves with you. This is not the case with the yoke. The weight on the yoke is not at the top, but attached to pegs near the bottom of the uprights, causing a pendulum effect when you move. With each step, the intensity of the pendulum swing increases. If your core isn't strong enough, it will make you buckle instantly. If your core IS strong enough, it will bring you to the verge of collapse. Add to that the fact that each time you take a step with the swinging rack, the entire weight of the yoke (usually a minimum of 600 lbs) is supported by only one leg, taking a tremendous toll on the ankles, knees, and hips. It is truly an exercise in full body torture.

Just before I left the tent, I had another competitor put some chalk across my upper back to help keep the bar from slipping. With a back full of chalk, I approached the line and took my place between the uprights. I gripped the sides and rammed my shoulders and traps into the crossbar. While I was setting my feet and getting ready, I did a little shimmy to try to get the thick bar across my back in a semi comfortable position. After a few deep breaths and a nod to the judge, I was ready.

On the signal, I tightened my core and tried to either pick up the 600 lb yoke or push my feet through the pavement, whichever came first. Once my legs were finally straight and I was standing upright, I took my first step, only to experience a sensation which can best be described as "my spine trying to escape my body through my asshole". Despite the pain of my impending vertebral diarrhea I took another step, concentrating all the while on keeping my diaphragm full of air to help stabilize my core. The next steps seemed to come more easily and in little time at all, I was motoring down the 80' course with confidence. Then, about midway through the stretch, I felt an incredibly sharp pain akin to that of being punched in the gut by Mike Tyson while John Henry drove his giant sledge hammer into my lower back. My knees buckled and the yoke fell to the ground with a crash. It seems that while I was becoming more confident in my run, I chose to take the luxury of breathing. As I exhaled to make room for more air, I forgot to keep my core tight, causing the present melee. With the weight of the world momentarily off my shoulders, I took a few quick breaths and prepared to pick the yoke up again.

The second pickup seemed easier than the first one and so did the initial steps. I resumed my pace sooner than I had begun it the first time and quickly I was up to speed with the finish line fast approaching. About 15 feet from the line, I decided to pick it up a little bit. After all, at the end of the day, 1/10 of a second could mean the difference between going home with a t shirt and going home with a t shirt and a trophy. I picked up my right leg and instead of setting it down, I extended it just a bit further out than I had before and did the same with my left. While it was clear that lengthening my stride would improve my time, it was also clear that the change in rhythm was increasing the intensity of the swinging 600 lb pendulum on my back. I took another step and this time Mr Henry walloped me across the knee, bringing the yoke down with a crash for a second time. Thoroughly frustrated and anxious to be done with this event, I wasted no time in picking the damn yoke up for a third and final time and finishing the course. I dropped the cursed yoke on the far side of the finish line and hobbled over to the time keeper.

"Time?" I said to him.

"Thirty-one flat" he replied coldly. "Nice run."

It was a token compliment. "Thirty-one flat" was only good enough to be middle of the pack. I made my way into the shade of the tent, grabbed a cold bottle of water from my cooler, and plopped down into my folding chair to wait for the next event. I was exhausted. By the time the fourth event was ready, four hours had passed from the time I first arrived. When you figure in the 90 minute drive there, the blazing sun, and the competition, I was starting to get really tired. I didn't try to hold back the intermittent yawns, but I did grab a few Red Bulls in an effort to stave off the impending and eagerly anticipated rendezvous with dreamland.

Despite my fatigued state, the next event had my full attention. Unlike the ones before it, this event was a mystery to everyone but the promoter. We knew we were going to have four random objects that had to be loaded onto the back of a flatbed trailer, but the identity of the objects were a mystery. Would they be relatively light, but irregularly shaped, or would they be of uniform shape, but heavy as hell? Perhaps a few of each. None of us knew, and despite our attempts at snooping like children shaking wrapped Christmas presents, the objects were kept well hidden until the truck pulled up to the contest site.

When the tarp was pulled back, the objects that lay before us were a fire hydrant, a 12 x 12 six-foot railroad tie, a dually hub for a semi trailer with the tires still attached, and a big rectangular steel object with a big hook connected to it by a movable joint. I had never lifted any of those before, and neither had any of the other competitors. While the first few men to attempt the event would be at a serious disadvantage, the rest of us watched intently trying to glean which methods would work the best. After a few of the first competitors, I had a pretty good idea of how I was going to approach each object. Whether or not I would remember my strategy after the first object remained to be seen. I approached the line with a fresh coat of chalk on my hands and eagerly awaited the signal from the judge.

"Competitor ready?" came the familiar command. I nodded.

"Set." I bent down and took my grip on the first object.

"GO!"

I grabbed the fire hydrant with a hand under each of its protruding arms and picked it up to my chest like one would do when picking up a baby. If it was an actual baby, it would have been a giant, diaper-clad, blubbering toddler, but it was a fire hydrant and a light one at that. It was 100 lbs, tops. I sprinted the ten yards to the truck and heaved the fire plug almost to the other side of the 8' wide truck bed and sprinted back to the two yard long railroad tie waiting for me.

I bent down, picked up the end of it, and started walking my hands down the length of it until it was standing vertical. I wrapped my hands around it and let it fall gently back onto my shoulders while I slowly stood up and started walking to my destination. When I got to the edge of the truck, I again hurled the object nearly across the entire bed. As I jogged back to get the dual truck tires next, I realized that I was moving at a good pace. If I could get the next two objects loaded, I'd be back in the mix for one of the top four spots and an invitation to the Midwest Championships.

After a quick feeling out of the dually hubs, I decided to approach it head-on. I bent at the knees and reached down so that my chin was in between the two tires. I firmly gripped the center of each side of the hub. With an explosive burst, I popped my hips and rolled the 200-some pounds worth of rubber and steel up my chest and pushed it onto the wooden frame of the truck.

The last item is what is referred to as a 'switchblock'. Anyone in construction knows what this is but for the uninitiated, a switchblock is the large chunk of metal on the crane that connects the upper movable cables on the boom to the straps or chains securing the material below. The size of the switchblock varies depending on the size of the crane and the heft of the material being hoisted. This particular block was about 3 feet long, 18 inches wide, and about a foot thick. There were rough, square edges on the top of it and an 8" grapple hook hanging off the bottom. Judging by the failed attempts of the preceding competitors, the only successful way to load it would be with the crane to which it was previously attached.

I stepped up to the hulking mass of dead steel and attempted to become the crane. My first move was to grab the large hook on the bottom and pull it up enough to get my hand underneath. From there, I reached down and gripped an opening in the top. I quickly crouched down and pulled the switchblock up into my lap, pausing long enough to feel my skin being singed by the hot, sun-baked metal while I contemplated the best way to stand up with it and finish the event.

The first thing I tried was to cradle it with both arms underneath. It only took me one attempt to see that I wasn't going to get it high enough to load on the truck bed. Even if I could, I'd be stuck with my forearms pinned to a truck bed by a hot, 300 lb chunk of steel. Bad idea. I brought it back down to my lap and tried to think of how on earth I could get it up there. I experimented with a few different hand placements, but none of them seemed like they'd bare any fruit. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I heard a voice say, "Put your right hand over the top". YES! THAT WAS IT! I took the advice of the mysterious voice and threw my right hand over the top of the hook, wrapping it around the back, gripping the back side of the hook, and stood up. With my new grip, I was able to lift the right side high enough to put that half onto the truck bed. I released my right hand from the hook, let it teeter a bit on the edge of the bed until I finally gave one last push and shoved the switchblock to rest 4 1/2 feet above where it laid just 20 seconds earlier. I'd done it.

I was in the lead for the event, too, at least for the moment. Only four competitors remained with a chance to top my time of 41.03 seconds. Two of them did. Luckily, a third place finish in this event put me in contention for a trophy with only one event to go.

The final, deciding event of the day was the truck pull. Always a crowd favorite, the competitor is strapped into a harness, connected to a semi truck, and charged with pulling the big rig a specified distance. Often times, a guide rope is laid out down the center of the course to help the competitor with his pull. With arms, shoulders, and back pulling against the rope, the legs constantly driving, the truck pull is an absolutely grueling event that not only tests ones strength, but also ones will and tolerance for pain.

By the time the first lightweight competitor finished the course--in 20 seconds!--it was clear that the road was on a downward grade. The promoter decided to let the lightweights finish pulling it the same way, but as soon as they were finished, the driver cranked over the giant diesel engine and drove around the block, only to return facing the opposite way. The UPHILL way. The middleweights and heavyweights were going to be in for a colossal challenge.

For the final event, the competitor order is changed up just a bit. Instead of going in reverse order of finish of the previous event, it goes in reverse order of the overall standings.

The first middleweight competitor to attempt the truck pull strapped into the harness and barely managed to move the truck from its original starting position. The second guy to go didn't fare any better. The next two competitors to step up to the line were able to get it moving, but they couldn't build up enough momentum to pull the truck past a slight dip in the road near the quarter-way point in the course. Finally after watching two men ahead of me fail outright and two others get stymied less than midway through the course, it was my turn to strap up.

I walked up to the line nonchalantly, stepped into the leg holes of the yellow roofing harness, and pulled the two remaining straps up over my shoulders. Normally, the harness for truck pulling consists of just two shoulder straps and a strap that goes around the waist, but there were problems with getting one shipped on time so we had to settle for a harness used by OSHA compliant construction workers. It was uncomfortable and I had fears of the leg straps restricting my movement, but it was the only thing available to connect man to machine, so it would have to do. I fidgeted around in the harness, trying to get comfortable while the helpers clipped the carabiner to the metal loop on the back of the harness, connecting me to the 23,000 lb Peterbilt. Another helper handed me the guide rope. I pulled it taut and leaned forward, taking the slack out of the line on both sides of my body, and waited for the signal.

"Competitor ready." I nodded as a bead of sweat rolled down my forehead into my eye.

"Set"

"GO!"

I leaned forward as far as I could, driving with both legs and pulling the rope in front of me so tight a circus performer could have walked the length of it. I took one seemingly futile step and a second one after that. Then, on the third step, the rope in front of me started to sag ever so slightly as my elbows slowly got closer to my body. I was moving the semi! I took my left hand off the rope and took a firm grip ahead of my right hand and pulled with all of my might and took another step. After a few rounds of the pull-step-pull-step routine, I had the truck rolling UP the road at a cruising speed of about 2 mph. It wasn't fast, but it was momentum, and momentum was what I needed. Once it was moving, all I had to do was to keep my legs driving and my arms pulling. About 1/3 of the way down the 90 foot course, my legs and arms started to burn.

Sometimes if you're lucky you'll hear some twirp in the gym yell "FEEL THE BURN" to his partner struggling to squeeze out one last curl with shitty form and think that they are pushing themselves to the limit. They will never experience the 'burn' that I was feeling at that moment. It's one of those sensations you can't really describe. I could get kind of close to an accurate description of the pain if I said it felt like my whole body was being pierced with surgical needles, but then again, that doesn't really do it any justice. Every step I took sent a new pulse of pain throughout my entire body, every muscle contraction dug each needle deeper and deeper into my flesh. I'd already surpassed all of the previous competitors' distances in the pull and quitting right then and there would have been easy. But I don't do this shit because it's easy. If I wanted easy, I'd play golf.

This Isn't Golf

I soldiered on, excruciating step after excruciating step, inching ever closer toward the finish line. In the back of my mind, I knew I'd kept enough momentum to carry me through the dip in the road that had stopped all of my predecessors dead in their tracks. I could feel it when I hit it. Now I was the pioneer, the trail blazer, going where no man had gone before. Would I hit another bump in the road? If I did, could I fight through it? Could I silence the voice in my head screaming at me to quit? Could I quell the pain or would it shut me down and allow me to go no further? I had no idea. I was in uncharted territory.

Being the sadist I am, I decided to test my absolute limits. At the 60' mark, I had my answer in another small dip in the road. Shame on the city of St Coud for not knowing how to lay a level fucking road. Finally, after 120 seconds of soul-crushing pain, the whistle blew as I crossed the 66' mark of the 90' course. All I could do now was sit and wait and hope no one else could eclipse my mark. As soon as I freed myself from the restricting harness and pulled the world's worst wedgie out of my ass (I knew those leg straps would be bad news), I walked laboriously back to the competitors tent and grabbed one of the post-contest beers out of my cooler to the jealous stares of the others in the tent. Whether it would be a victory beer or a consolation beer would remain to be seen. Fifteen minutes and another beer later, it was clear that it was not a victory beer. When the five final competitors were finished, two had completed the course and another had passed my mark by mere inches.

As the top three finishers left the shade of the tent to accept their spoils in the awards ceremony, it dawned on me how well I'd actually done. Not only did I go from mediocre (at best) in my first two contests to fifth place in the state championships, but I did it competing against guys who were normally in a higher weight class, two of whom I defeated handily.

As I looked at the final results, I saw that I finished one measly point out of fourth place. Had I pressed the first log one second sooner or if I hadn't dropped the yoke twice, I would have picked up that point and walked away with fourth place and an invitation to the Midwest Championships. Instead of a lack of sheer strength keeping me out of the top spot, I realized, it was the minutia of competition, which could easily be improved. No longer was I the novice trying to gain acceptance in a subculture of freaks, I was a peer.

I was a strongman.

Posted by Ben Hanson at 6:00 AM

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