Carpal Tunnel

The Doctor asked me what was wrong.  I replied with a slight sigh, "I don't know, maybe weightlifting?"  The thin crisp paper I was sitting on created a crackle and swoosh from my body leaning to the side as my hand now supported my weight as if I just sat up out of bed tired and foggy from the morning dew and sandman eyes.  The doctor asked about my sleep.  I replied, "Not a lot", for my legs are alive at night as they twitch like the morning sprinkler slices through the sheets as I lay half asleep, both eye lids closed, while both eyes wide open.  Tired legs have a pattern of moving at night when training gets hard, as if the cool breeze from my half cracked window sways them from the simple force and power of mother nature. "Carpal tunnel in your wrists is why your arms and hands are constantly falling asleep," the blond curly haired Doctor said while pushing her thumbs into the back of my wrists to pin point the location where the problem has manifested.  What she didn't know is how good the pressure felt against my wrists. My callused hands laid turned over upright, as if a cowboy in the western days was shot in the chest and fell backwards over a saloon balcony.

Wrist splints is what she gave me.  I put them on and felt like the character slowly turning into an alien from District 9.  "Wear them day and night except when you go to the gym," the Doc told me with an upbeat voice as if everything was going to be okay, or better yet, feel better.   I should be wearing them now as I write this blog, but I am not, due to the fact I couldn't catch a certain rhythm in my typing in order to keep up with the movie reel in my head.  She asked if there was anything else. Oh boy... only if she knew the can of worms she could have opened if my body wanted to speak, and my mouth allowed so. I paused, dropped my head and grabbed the back of my neck with my chalk stained palm, slowly brushed my hair while my eyes found my wife holding my baby boy in the chair across from me, I replied... "No".

3 weeks back in the sport, and I'm welcomed accordingly, like I should, and like it has to be.  Skeletons of my past seem to reappear in my mind, making my stomach turn and my emotions run high but not away.  Old injuries and wounds seem to deepen day by day, as me knees hurt and my back screams.  I almost took for granted how hard this sport truly was as the ride home rings calm and quiet as my baby boy sleeps in the back.  My wife smiles at me and guides my hand into her lap, not knowing how bad my shoulder hurt when rotated a certain way.  I of course smiled, and continued driving.  Being away from Weightlifting takes you away from the pain a weightlifter must endure to become Champion.  One will forget this when the comfort of life takes over, making it easy for those to comment on YouTube or write mean tweets.  Only if they knew what the weathered mind and the achy body must live with on a daily basis in order to create a base for strength to build upon.  Easy is only a word that the weak understand, for the strong only know hard, and hard is the only way to success.  For success is the true measure of power, power from temptation and power amongst the weak minded we are surrounded with from sunrise to sun fall.  Power not only in body, but in mind. One must learn to shut off normalcy to turn on personal pursuit of happiness. Happiness lies within strength, because to be happy in the hardest most demanding program known to mankind.  It takes hard work and time, constant pursuit and self reflection.  Reluctant goals some might call crazy or out of this world, are well within reach to some, but you must first reach, and reach high.

The car ride home is slow, but the trees pass my window fast.  Blurry but more clear than ever.  Yes older, but more mature than before.  Outrageous on the outside, but calm inside.  Rap music blended with upbeat house music blasts through the speakers in training, but the deep bellied low notes and painful high pitches of opera music seem to fill my head throughout the most wildest of training sessions. Why this? Why such beauty in a sport so ruthless and extreme? Why does poetry in words resonate with myself and you the reader, when technique articles and program discussions rain king in our field?  My guess...? It's the romantic passion laying side by side with something so simple but so hard, something so addicting but demanding, something so loving but so heart breaking... the constant pursuit in lifting big fucken weight.

10 years and counting....

2020