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Monday, August 26, 2013

Human Clay

The three meets below are a timeline of evolved techniques
First National Meet. (I am a few lifters in)  No body contact.  Classic pull. etc

Qualified for Nationals for the first time. Slightly more superman pull, lower start, low thigh contact.

AN Catapult

The song I wrote this blog to

The swoosh of the bar passed my body like a train to a nearby landmark.  Fast and furious, loud and violent, triple with extension.  A no wrong way to lift hill, grassy and tall, as millions of paths of different ways climb the rocky banks, and the sharp corners of doom.  I pull like the wind, with a whistle from my coach and a buzz from the buzzer, the athlete must react like a horse out of gate, or better yet, like creasy bear shooting the gun to go, swim and fast, with proper training and believing she will win her first race, while his black shades and his alcoholic lips wait at the finish line. Proud and stubborn, egotistic and cocky a weightlifter must be, that's how I was at my first American second meet ever.  The break through of who is this, and why is he so crazy.  The golf clap turned oddly shaped as critics type on the forums of hate. I slam the bar with my old style of technique, to show the world that Coach Jackie Mah might coach different than I do now, but her methods work while others fail.  I lift blindly for that's how I should, listen to your coach young athlete, for then you will be good.  There is no such thing as technique young lad, just who will lift the most weight, and who will be the one holding the gold. A lever system of different, a melting pot of hers, that I took from her to only mold my own later down the road.  I am a thief, this is what I am.  I have stolen different techniques for years I have, a thief in the night my hands have meshed those who have stolen techniques of their own.  Accused of the same crime, we are all walking this jail house line, melting pots of hot, mixed with our own thoughts that leak to others in passing or plot.  You stole from him, and I stole from her, we create what we think works the best, while the athletes we teach end up winning the golds, reaping all the benefits of these stolen concepts.  Fights rage, as N.O. Explode gets drunk, somewhat like my farther, but mostly like my strut.  Walk with energy, lift with passion, my triple extension technique is the best thing that has ever happened.  No wrong, and no right, my way now is just as right as the train passes my body in the midnight night.  My way of under is just as right as pull 'til you see the thunder.  A shrug under is what I coach, but back in this video a shrug high is what got gave me a great meet, PR's over my feet, and a crying coach of joy, as we hug with a mission accomplished by a young rookie and her ideas of long.  Who can lift the most weight?  Who can get under what seems to be impossible by marching sheep of white, as they live in their comfort zones tucked in all so tight.  A million ways to lift, my way is only one, is my way the best? Abso-fucken-lutely you son of a gun.  

I catch and stand, slam and cheer, a fist pump follows as my future is clear.  A young rookie I was, and now I coach, just like Jackie Mah, my very first coach.  Great success, in many other methods, lever systems that turn, and bodies that deliver a simple message.  Win, fight, and keep the gold PR's in sight.    I was skinny but boy was I right....for dropping out of school and giving this sport all of my might was the correct path to go down, even though others said different.  Thank you Matt for sending me this song, as I listen I can remember the feelings I had, at my first national meet with a corner full of support.  Butch Curry helping, as Paul Doherty was cheering. The audience clapping, as I yelled Arnold and smashed my meth pipe.  Watching the smoke circle up my skinny shaved legs, no more drugs will I be your slave. I have found Arnold and this Asian coach named Jackie, this sport is my new life and you my friend are a smoke filled mirror that will live in my past.  I will put you in a closet and write about you here, in the Dark Orchestra where tears fill the stage full of many that lay near.  You the reader, what style do you use?  I know you have smashed something on that stage of might, your chest out proud as you crush the demons that bite.  We are new, we are fresh, lifting young with many blood stains on our chests.  We must lift, we must coach, no matter how we get the bar above our heads we must lift more weight than ever before.  Beat the man next to you and breathe in success, for handwork got you here, and this style of technique is the best.

Move on I did, after punching a man in the face, I was kicked out of my old club, and now training in a new space.  By myself, at the Rock House Gym, no coach but the YouTube videos in the background.  I felt the bar brush one evening day, I looked at my wife, and she asked me if I was ok.  I laughed and smiled with confusion on my face, a new way of lifting must have made its way.  A slice from the thigh, as skin pealed like an orange, still very triple extension, as the bar never made a noise.  Coaches approved, as I shrugged high, the older more classic way of lifting was still in full effect.  Homeless and coach-less, living in a car, to bar slamming hopeless dreams at times.  One day become a National Champion was a dream filled with steam.  The Bulgarians entered my life with their catapult ways, the bar made so much noise that my ears rang for days.  What is this odd creature I asked, for these men had a weird bar path.  My technique before this was changing by the day, morphing into its own before even this day.  But this was something new, fresh and alien, the way the bar met the body made me think again.  Max Aita and Martin, Shankle and Dave, these lifters made my melting pot stir for days.  My mind thought and discovered, evaluated and soon surrendered.  My brush over time was met by a hit, above my ouch bone was bruised like a son of a bitch.  To peak the bar in this way, the bar path moved in a whole different way.  The start was funny for the ass was low, the shoulders moved in a line that threw me for a loop, the double knee bend was more delayed than my career getting started, if it wasn't for the meth pipe I've might already been a champion, now I just watched and learned at this odd looking finish, was she arched not straight, and why was this? These Cal Strength guys are so different than most, a fight club of some sort that makes me want to join.  Run the streets at night steeling fat to make soap, human bodies moving around the bar like we weren't supposed to talk about it.  The leader Dave, stood tall by Shankle, for the arm bend on this man while lifted I have never read in an article.  I began to lift, like these athletes I followed. I peed blood for months, as a clean athlete on a Bulgarian training system was buried deep six feet down, and so were they.  Dead and tired, no rest days and max out sessions that never seemed to end.  I was still a young rookie that was hoping for rest around the bend.  I kept my mouth shut, and my eyes wide open, for in the dark I stole from them, when they were not looking.  Now I have multiple coaching techniques, Jackie Mah's hand book, mixed with Paul Doherty's philosophies. A Bulgarian system with catapult technique, laying in front of me I could hardly sleep.  Like legos they laid, a puzzle to solve, a concept to build and a technique to stand tall.  How and what, when and how, which lever goes where, and for how long? Silly putty I played, as water made my thoughts move, dreams to achieve, and past memories that won't remove.  The start of something new and great, that started from the Jackie Mah's lift.  Technique doesn't matter nor exist, only who is going to lift the most weight. 

What is your melting pot like?  And how will it morph?  Will you steal from mine or keep it all?  I hope you steal from mine to build your own.  Create your ship and sail home.  Salute.  

Melting Pot 2016 

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