Date: Tue, 20 Jan 1998 22:54:14 -0800 From: Jeff Minard Subject: A Day in the Life of a PL Newbie A Day in the Life of a PL Newbie I was lurking in the Strength group one day after the New Year, when I realized I never see any mention of any powerlifting meets in Southern California. So, I looked around on the web, and then I did what any semi-literate ironhead would do, I emailed Andrea Sortwell. She seems organized (befitting her last name) and she replied the next day. There was a meet coming up in my area in two weeks, and here is the phone number. Phoning the organizer, Force One Nutrition, I found out that there was a first-ever Superbowl Powerlifting Championship coming up on the January 17/18 weekend, at a showplace gym and only 10 miles from my house. I asked how much tickets were to watch, and he said why don't I just compete? Well, I am not a performer. An exciting day for me these days is to eat breakfast at the beach, read, work out and maybe see Titanic again. I've lifted and worked out for a few years, but, in case you can't see what I look like, I'm a 49-year old, 180 lb. software consultant who, although trim enough, looks exactly like one of the guys they don't put in "Men's Fitness", because I'm somewhat "follically challenged" and have a wrinkle or two. My idea of a good time is not to stand on a stage collapsing under heavy metal plates. I wanted to watch other people do that. Well, the guy who answered was great and answered even my stupidest questions. Ones like, do lots of people watch, could I just lift in a utility closet, somewhere, with only the judges; you know, normal stuff like that. He said just come on down and we'll take good care of you. I qualified and they had everything I needed. I believed him. So, after a bad week working out and a worse night's sleep, I showed up early. I had shorts, sweats, T-shirt, tennis shoes and my boots, which I like for squats. Also some food. I joined USA Powerlifting on the spot, along with some others, and I got a cool meet T-shirt. The show was in a huge multi-level designer gym in an affluent suburb of Orange County. It was gorgeous. The meet organizer was great, telling me it would be fun--no worries. I had already decided that this would be the case. My basic strategy was simple--lift legally, and don't worry about the weight. Get a minimum of one good attempt for each lift, and have fun. I don't care if I place last, I just want to get some platform time. No guts, no glory, right? Next came the question- do you have a squat suit? Uhhh what's that? I had heard of a bench shirt, but not a squat suit. Besides, I'm lifting raw, I don't use equipment. No, he said, you have to have a squat suit. Two guys looked at each other, then at me, and my new friend said no problem, we'll get you into one of these if it takes an hour. Feeling wonderful at this turn of events, I said do you have some for sale? Sure, over here, and he pointed to some sort of heavy, black lingerie on the table. For other newbies, like me, let me just say that a squat suit is basically a leotard, almost like you'd see in "Victoria Secret". Only for a guy, as well as for the gals. I believe it is made of Kevlar, the stuff that bulletproof vests are made of. In fact, I've heard that the LA Police Chief is thinking of making a squat suit standard equipment for LAPD cops on patrol, because it is cheaper than the vest. Besides the material (and I believe they're coming out with some made of stainless steel) the size of any squat suit is about right to fit a Ken doll. I took the largest one, a size 38 ("the numbers don't mean anything"), for my size 42 chest, height of 5'11". I guess you're supposed to order these custom made, break them in, wear them to bed, and I don't know what all, in order to be ready to lift in one, but I was lucky to purchase one an hour before my first squat. They did all the weight classes up to 181 lb. the first day, and 198-Super Heavy Weights the next day. I asked my new buddy to follow me into the locker room, because I needed a spotter to help get this thing on. So, I daintily stepped into this one-piece glove of black spandex. It hardly expanded, but after some gyrations that would split a lesser garment, I had it up my thighs, crotch tight, and sort of around my waist. He then did an upright row on one side of my suit, pulling my shoulder strap up, and commanded me to drive my arm through the hole. This seemed to work. Plus, since I had the cool meet shirt on, we tucked it into the suit. Another upright row on the other side, drive my arm through the hole, and I was wedged into this thing like a knockwurst in a casing, ready to pop its juices. Speaking of which, it all reminded me of being a kid in upstate New York in the wintertime, when my Mom would pack me in a snowsuit, layer by layer, seal it off with galoshes, open the door to say "have fun" and I'd look up and announce "I gotta pee". Well, I did. But, the sporting life builds character, right? So the show must go on. On the way upstairs, I asked what the commands were going to be, from the judges. I discovered that this is almost more important than what weight you lift. Don't forget the command sequence, and don't move a hair without permission or you're toast. Lots of people, including me, were to find out just who was running this show. I had earlier given one organizer my starting weights. To be sure of lifting cleanly, I started with 135 lb. squat, since that's what I do 20 breathing reps with a couple times a week. He thought I meant kilograms. Then I realized we were doing some new math here. When I said "no, pounds" he stopped for a second, and then grinned, "OK". We converted it, and went on to 100 pound bench and 185 pound deadlift. Like I said, I wanted to lift good form, first, not worry about how much. Gotta start somewhere. When we got back upstairs, I was on next for the squat. Approach the bar, plant my feet, no one complained about my boots, stand under the bar, lift it off when you're ready, and stand straight, head high, look at the judge and wait for the word. Squat! he boomed as he dropped his hand. I almost planted my keester on the floor and snapped to attention again, gaze fixed on the old guy. Rack, and it was over. Cool beans! People even clapped, and I walked over and sat down. By the third attempt, I did 225 successfully, since it was the most I did for reps, raw in the gym. I didn't plan to go higher, but doing the 225 was so--I hate to say it--easy, that I think I could have done 100 more, no problem, with that flight suit on. Boy, that thing really launches you out of the hole. Now I see what you folks are on about, with those suits. I'll use the suit next time I have to move a refrigerator up some stairs. For the bench, I left the suit on. I did the first lift fine, for 100, but blew the next two because I kept forgetting not to rack the bar until the dude in the jacket with the buttons says "rack!" So that's how I learned what those red lights are for. I will therefore be forever stigmatized by a 100 lb. bench in my first PL meet. The deadlifts were after lunch, and by now, I really had to pee. I raced downstairs and worked the armor down inch by inch, and finally freed Willy, seconds before blowing a hole through the fabric. I left the suit hanging on, put a shirt over it, and ate some lunch. After that break, I was pumped for the deadlift. You see, the interesting thing that was happening was that some lifters were going for too much weight on their second or third lifts, and were slipping, faltering, or even dropping the weights. Red lights were going off everywhere. As I walked past the judges after lunch, one of them actually said to me "You are winning your weight class." I looked around to see who he was talking to. I had not been paying any attention, really, to standings, and I almost fell over. It was true. For the DL, I opened with only 135, since it was comfortable. My third lift was 275, and, again, it was the easiest 275 I ever lifted. That was my usual top in the gym, for reps. Maybe it was the suit again--I had it hitched up, and I just had those old tennis shoes. Once again, some of the other lifters were going too heavy, but they wouldn't let you drop the weight, you had to lower the bar. Right after the deads, we were done, and they presented the awards. Well, you guessed it. I won my weight/age group but that was because I happened to be the only one in it. Afterwards some guys my age who were only watching regretted not competing. But, I had also won my entire weight class, because the other guys failed enough that they didn't beat my total. So, for a modest 600 lb. total I got a trophy. I have a choice now, as I see it, between two alternatives. I can quit while I'm ahead, top man in my division at the Superbowl Powerlifting Championship. Trophy to prove it. Wait for the babes to start pounding at my door. Get an agent. Go on tour. Do a benefit. Get invited to the Oscars. Have steak and a martini with Cindy Crawford. Or, I can go to the next meet and lift more. Much more. Wait for my rule book to come in the mail. I'm already checking my calendar.