The Iron
The rotten smell of puke and sweat, a familiar blend that is as comforting to a gym rat as it is repulsive to one that doesn’t live with the iron in hand. Not as if I enjoy the actual fragrance but it’s my way of knowing that I know I’m in my sanctuary, and those are the stenches of sacrifice for a better you, a stronger you. I walk in the doorway and look to my right, above the hundreds of trophies that are the last reminisce of success achieved by those who have entered before myself, I read a familiar passage.
The Iron never lies to you. You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get told that you're a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the real deal. The Iron is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver. Always there like a beacon in the pitch black. I have found the Iron to be my greatest friend. It never freaks out on me, never runs. Friends may come and go. But two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds (Quoted by Henry Rollins: The Iron never Lies).
As I sip on the bitter tasting, rather tart failed attempt of watermelon flavor amphetamine they call pre-workout, I manage to work my way to the locker room and sit down. I become trapped in my thought about my body full of pain, the cost of my sport. And I ask myself, “Why am I here?” But I hear those familiar words in my head again and that sound, my favorite sound… The iron clanking, the sound of those 45 lb circles of steel smacking against each other as a man underneath the bar squats up and down. His feet pitted in the concrete with 700lbs on his back. Those are the noises I live for, and that man, the same one with hellish screams coming out of this mouth along with the red splatters of blood and spit, that is the man I was to become.
I was all healed up, free of injury but not pain, free of sickness, and unfortunetly free of muscle. Ecoli with a host of other teammates diminished me to 150 lb stickman months before, and to someone like me that is the worst. I am constantly told “Power lifting is dangerous” having my attitude on life I respond with “You know what is dangerous? Fear and weakness is dangerous.” Once again on this saturday morning at 6:00 AM I find myself here. While most of my peers just went to bed an hour ago after destroying their ambition a beer at a time the previous night. I am here, chucks on my feet, wraps on my knees, and my Inzer squat briefs. Girls complain about heels being uncomfortable, well they have never had a squat suit on, for those who know nothing about our world it takes a team of two world class power lifters to hoist this singlet style suit on that is so constricting the first time I wore it I passed out cold. As I start stacking on the weight, I smile. Yes getting your ass to touch your calves with 400lbs plus on your back is hell, but I love it. With every rep I know I am reaching goals I never thought were possible. I can think back to my first day in a gym. I was a small cocky shit who was in need of a humbling experience. That hour at powershack was what I needed. For some reason my senses were please by the atmosphere created by people desiring to reach alpha male status. That day brought me to where I am now, another day under the rack. Under the rack is my therapy, its my sanity, its my heaven and my hell. Without a constant presence of this feeling in my life I resemble an addict without his fix. My need for the iron in my grip, is as real as my need for the iron in my blood. Weakness is no option, weakness is settling for less than your potential, and for that there is no excuse. In this world there are wolves and sheep, and the wolf at the top eats when he wants to. I will be on the top.
