Windsor Colorado Contest Report - July 3, 2008

by Ben Hanson

We were southbound on I-25, battling fierce winds and driving rain, trying to make the last 40 miles from Deadwood, SD to Cheyenne, WY when my cell phone rang. It was my dad.

"Where are you right now?" he said.
"About half hour north of Cheyenne. Why?"
"I just heard that Windsor, Colorado was hit hard by a tornado. Wasn't that where you were supposed to be competing this weekend?"

I thanked my dad and hung up to concentrate on driving As we approached the northern outskirts of Cheyenne, my girlfriend turned on the radio. The first clear station the seek button found informed us that a tornado had just touched down on the southern edge of Cheyenne. Cheyenne isn't a very large city and I took the next exit to seek refuge in a convenience store.

The next hour was spent staring out a plate glass window and listening to weather report after weather report while waiting for the storms to pass so we could finish the last five miles of our journey.

When we finally made it into Chyenne, my first call was to North American Strongman, Inc president, Willie Wessels. Not only hadn't he heard if the contest was still a go, he hadn't even heard there was a tornado! He thanked me for calling him and let me know that he'd try contacting the contest promoter and let me know what he found out. Around 8:00 pm, the power went out, so we went outside to enjoy the view from the wrap-around deck on our cabin and this is what we saw.

When we awoke the next morning, we turned on the news to find that another tornado had hit Cheyenne just about the time the power went out. Still unsure of whether or not the contest was going to be held, we checked out of our cabin and headed to Rocky Mountain National Park en route to our hotel near the contest site. I was worried about making weight and I was starving, so I called a few friends to see if they knew anything about the status of the contest. The bathroom scale I'd brought weighed me in at 230 lbs on the nuts, which is much too close for comfort. If the contest was going to be canceled, I wanted to partake in the bounty of ham sandwiches, summer sausage, and wine that we packed while viewing the majesty of the Rocky Mountains.

On the way from the mountains to our hotel, I got the message that I'd been waiting for: The contest was still on. Instead of being held at the original location in Windsor, however, it was being held in nearby Loveland. After checking into the hotel, we decided to drive by the address we were given to see if it was the right place. After all, the address we were given looked to be residential. When we arrived at 1702 W. 8th Street, all we saw was an older home with a gravel driveway and a pair of RVs in their rather small back yard. Double and triple checking the address (at least the one I'd written down) confirmed that we were at the right house.

"What are they going to do, have the contest on the sidewalk?" my girlfriend asked.
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe they got permission from the cops to block off the street."

My first thought was that they were going to have to change some of the events. There was no way we could have a keg toss on the street, and truck pull on the upward sloping gravel driveway would be impossible for even the great Bill Kazmaier. I honestly had no idea what to expect. Was it going to resemble an old school training day in someone's front yard or was the street going to be blocked off with bleachers full of hungry fans? I didn't even know how many competitors to expect.

The next morning, we left early in case we had the wrong address but there was no need to worry.There was a sheet of plywood with "N.A.S., Inc" painted boldly across the top and "1702" spray painted just below it. The little girl standing near the sign directed us to "drive down the driveway, cross the homemade bridge, and park anywhere."

And after all that worry about making weight, I weighed in at a scant 223 lbs. I brought my cooler full of cheese, ham sandwiches, beer, and pedialyte over to the contest site and made camp with my girlfriend under the awning of one of the RVs. I surveyed the patch of dry dirt encircling an island of tall grass, cut logs, dirt piles, and trees that we were going to be using for the events. It was ghetto. It was hard-fucking core. I instantly loved it. And because of the flying dust, all of the events would be much harder. All of my practice had been on dry pavement under ideal conditions but one of the traits of a great athlete is the ability to adapt and this day's circumstances were certainly going to highlight the best all-around athletes in the group.

After an understandably delayed start while everyone got their bearings, we got underway with the first event: The tire flip and stone load medley. We lightweights were charged with flipping a 600 lb tire for three flips, then loading a 245 lb stone onto an oil barrel. This would repeat three times.

If any event was going to be particularly difficult due to the dusty conditions, this would be it. Getting a decent grip on a tire is tough enough under ideal conditions, but the inevitable dust cloud would make the second and third flips a nightmare. To even think about getting a decent grip on the stone is asinine.

As I watched the first two competitors fail to complete all 9 flips and 3 stone loads, I noticed a common problem. They weren't able to load the stone after the dust had accumulated on their arms. I figured that I could get around this though. Just before being called out to lift, I took off my shirt and dabbed a tacky cloth (the same kind you use for staining woodwork) all over my chest and arms. When I was finished with that, I stuck the sticky rag in my pocket in case I needed it again.

I stepped onto the dusty expanse and took my grip on the tire in preparation. When the judge gave me the signal, I flipped the tire the first three times quick enough to pace the field. On those three flips alone, the dust had already covered my arms. I didn't have any trouble getting a good grip on the tire because there were some good treads on the bottom, but loading that stone was going to be a bitch. Jogging over to the stone, I reached into my pocket and grabbed my tacky towel, not so much to make my hands and forearms sticky, but more to try and capture the dirt had collected on them during the tire flip. The stone went up to the platform without issue and I headed back to the tire I left behind to continue the grueling medley without my tacky rag.

It was during the 5th flip of the tire that something hit me. Like someone walked up and socked me in the gut. My legs were turning to rubber and I was suddenly out of gas and I was only half way through the event! I finished the 5th and 6th flips of the tire my lungs and legs burning and painfully loaded the stone for the second time.

By the time I got to the final set of tire flips, my body was screaming at me to quit. I couldn't breath, my knees were on the verge of buckling, and my ears were anticipating the imminent blowing of the final whistle. I managed to finish all nine flips of the tire before I heard the judge say "You're done. Good job." I hadn't gotten the chance to try the final stone load and I could only guess that I'd run out of time.

Still, my performance was good enough to place me in the lead. But that was short-lived as I watched all five of the remaining competitors complete the course in the allotted time while I struggled to regain my breath.

The second event was the farmers walk for maximum distance. Normally, farmers walk is a pretty good event for me because I'm fast and athletic. However, when a farmer's walk is for max distance, it's as much of a test of grip strength as it is of speed. A fast guy with poor grip will usually under perform against a slow guy with a great grip. It's no secret that my grip strength is suspect, so my strategy was to be the fastest dude out there and hope that a few others had a bad day.

When I went to pick up the implements, I noticed something alarming: While the handles were heavily and freshly knurled, they were also a lot fatter than most farmers handles. Most of the time, they're about the diameter of a standard lifting bar, but these bastards were just plain fat. I'd have to go fast and hope for the best.

I picked up each 230 lb implement quickly and began to sprint toward the tire 50 feet down course. (If you don't believe me, check out the dust cloud I kicked up). About 10 feet from the tire, I slowed my step to prepare for the turn and I headed back the other way. As I made the turn around the tire in the starting position, I knew that I had to make it at least half way to the next tire to place respectably. The turn around the second tire was smooth, but as I approached the ¼ way mark, I began to lose the grip in my left hand. I quickened my step to make sure every inch counted and ended up dropping the load at 113 feet, 4 inches. Normally, I'd be hopping mad about a performance that poor, but with handles that fat and the encompassing dust cloud, I was somewhat happy with a 4th place finish.

Going into the third event, I really had no idea what to expect. Originally, we were supposed to be carrying heavy plastic barrels (just like in the 2007 World's Strongest Man) and loading them onto a platform. That is the event I'd trained for, and had we done that at the advertised weights, no one would have even come close to me. In training, I was sprinting with water-filled barrels 50 lbs heavier than the contest weights. Alas, the "Events are subject to change without notice" Gods, as well as the tornado Gods were in full effect. Instead of having to pick barrels of challenging weights off the ground and carry them to a waiting flat bed truck, we had to pick light plastic barrels off a flatbed truck, carry them around a tire 20 feet away, and replace them on the trailer.

After finishing half way through the pack on the farmers walk, I had the dubious pleasure of going behind some guys who were kind enough to drop the water-filled barrels in the dust. After watching some of the other guys go, I can confidently say that technique had very little to do with the outcome of the event. For the guys in contention for the lightweight title, the best course of action was to grab it and run. While I knew that I was faster than all but one or two of the guys in the lightweights, I chose to stick with the method I'd trained with on the heavy barrels back in Minnesota. Instead of putting one hand on the bottom lip and one hand on the top lip like most of the competitors before me, I stuck with my training and stuck a firm hand on the bottom rim of the barrel while cradling the top with my other arm.

For the first three barrels, it worked. The fourth, 125 lb barrel (50 lbs less than what I trained with back home) fell victim to the failings of the competitor before me. Had he not dropped the last barrel during his run and rolled it back and forth through the loose dirt, I'd have had a clean barrel to grab. Instead, I grabbed the final barrel of my run and immediately felt it slipping out of my grasp. If I didn't slow down, this barrel would meet the same fate as on the previous carrier. As I crossed the finish line, I heard the score keeper tell me my time of about 45 seconds. For the moment, it was good enough for the lead in the event, but it wouldn't stand. As I walked over to bust on heavyweight pro and 2008 World's Strongest Man qualifier, Brian Shaw for tearing up his finger earlier that morning, I saw only two other competitors complete the course faster than me.

Heading into the fourth event, the seated truck pull, I was a little worried. I knew I needed a good finish or I could kiss my chances of finishing on the podium goodbye. Unfortunately, seated truck pull has been one of my worst events.

When I saw them setting up for the truck pull, I was a bit confused. All of the previous seated truck pulls that I've done have been on a plywood platform with a sturdy foot rest. This setup, however, was much different; we were given a tire to sit in and pull from. Though seated truck pull was perhaps my worst event yet, I'd never pulled a vehicle from a tire before. I looked at the apparatus and made the quick decision that this was going to be all about arms and upper back, rather than the standard deep, low back row with leg assist. A few of the competitors ahead of me finished the pull in well under the allotted 60 seconds, so if I wanted to finish high, I was going to have to concentrate on pulling fast and keeping the slack out of the line.

As I stood in the tire, grasping tightly to the rope and staring down the lifted Duramax diesel truck, I made a pact with myself that I wouldn't let the rope touch the ground, no matter how much the altitude made me want to stop. By the time the truck had crossed the line, my grip had been reduced to shreds as the 10,000 lb truck covered 80' across the barren terrain. While I felt like chopping my hands off and donating them to handless children to relieve the pain, I'd achieved my goal of not letting the rope touch the ground and took 5th place in an event I usually bomb.

Going into the final event, I honestly had no clue where I stood. Due to the remote location and lack of computers, the scoring wasn't exactly up-to-date and all previous event standings were up to interpretation. All I knew was that the upcoming keg toss event was my forte.

A few weeks before this contest, I'd trained specifically for the keg toss with Dave Ostlund and Brian Shaw. The difference between training with Dave and Brian and competing in Colorado was huge. In Minnesota, Dave, Brian, and I were all throwing kegs over a 16' bar. After a few throws, I became comfortable with hurling the 40 lb chunks of steel over a 5 meter bar while Dave and Brian made it look like a slow-moving jump rope. In Colorado, I had to throw 5 kegs over a 10 foot bar.

Earlier in the week, I practiced my keg toss to see exactly how high and how far I could whip them. According to the ten foot fence at the tennis court in my HOA, I could comfortably toss an empty keg from twelve steps away. When I finally got the go-ahead to toss the kegs, I walked my 12 steps from the crossbar and drew a line in the dirt with my shoe. I knew that if I pulled each keg back to that line and tossed it, I'd have no trouble.

My first three keg tosses were flawless and overly powerful. Had I been listening, I'd have heard the guys in the crowd telling me to throw the kegs from the original marking spot. Had I heard them and followed their advice, I may have saved myself 3 or 4 seconds from the final tally, but I wasn't going to beat the guy who won it. I ended up taking second in the event, but the dude who won it already had the big trophy locked up. Nothing I could have done in the keg toss could have put a bigger trophy on my mantle.

At the end of the day, I walked away with a third place trophy and the anticipation of a 14 hour drive through Nebraska and Iowa on the way home.

Posted by Ben Hanson at 6:40 PM

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