Adapt

Mondays training.  Getting my rhythm back.  Train+Adapt+Repeat=WIN

Today in training hitting a 160kg PR snatch from the medium blocks.  My calf is starting to get better, and this old race horse is starting to adapt back to the MR black beard way of training. Lets go mother truckers!!  Johnny Cash lifestyle, train everyday, aint got time for percentages, AC UP WINDOWS DOWN.  Salute   

MDUSA/ATTITUDE NATION/PENDLAY/SHANKLE 2016

Phantom

Coach is back, and Oh are we beat up.  I almost forgot how hard training is under Mr. Black Beard.  I almost forgot how dark this gym can become.  The sky turned red as he entered the gym, while the black birds circle our platforms just waiting to prey upon on any fallen weightlifter.  The black rain forest beard makes his eyes look much whiter than they really are.  Looking close....see, they have this yellow gloss that probably can tell many stories none of us will ever see or hear.  A hidden treasure chest lays deep behind his eyes, a chest with gold cob webs, skeletons that chase blue birds, and sandy hills that reach the sky and beyond.  Climb and keep climbing. I will climb with you coach, side by side to a land of impossible with people who are not waiting for our arrival.  A climb that leaves us with one foot still in the gym, and the other being eaten off by a childhood monster.  His unemotional face melts into liquid tar running down his leg like he just peed himself.  His droopy white eyes turn the black tar into an Oreo filled lake that runs across the gym and into my coffee.  For every sip I take, coach tells me to "make the lift".  I drink coffee all day because of this. I drink what coach says. I trust him more than this coffee I sometimes drop tears into.  The gym is now quiet, and the lifter's faces now whistle a new song, a jail bird song as the freedom we once knew is now gone forever..... or until coach leaves again that is.  Pain has re-entered my life, and frustration follows me wherever I seem to go.  A bomb shelter.... yes, this is what I need.  A mental mind I can escape, my own mind is the cause of the breeze that passes though the gym, not the window Shankle just opened.  I was doing just fine until coach's overwhelming presence shadowed the gym creating shaky legs and sewed shut mouths.  Who am I kidding though?  I wasn't doing fine while he was gone, yes I might have felt fine, but my lifts were gasping for air as I was suffocating them with a pillow.  I chose comfort over strength. I chose painless nights over pain filled nights.  I chose the devil in the red dress, and oh was she lovely.  But before I knew it my lovely flowers have turned black, my legs like fishing poles, and my confidence as weak as cotton.  The pain I left behind wasn't as painful as the pain I gained by leaving pain.  Weak pain is much worse than strong pain.  Coach brought me the one thing my training has been missing, and that is strength pain. Strength pain to gain gold medals.  My body has lost its adaptation to training, and for that I have been lost on the other side of Donny's key chains...... A land called the comfort zone.  I should have known that something was wrong when I actually entered training feeling good.  This is never good.  The day you feel good is the day you aren't training.  This is the day you are cheating yourself.  

Bad dreams while new weightlifters smile with PR's.  High fives between the rookies and coach..... where are my high fives?  Where is my good jobs?  I'm old news at the end of the gym picking berries for the garden of "easy to walk away from" I am growing.  Mr. Black Sheep that has been out casted by everyone in my life.  Fuck em all. I don't need anyone.  I'll train 'til my feet turn to dirt.  Not one meet, not one.  Thank you for this, and thank you for the abandonment you have shown me.  It's always been him over me, since day one.  Fatherless just added another one to the table as the other part of me dies away like the Vodka bottles I use to hug so tight.  Another man over this one.  I am tired of being second place, better yet, I am tired of being hurt from second only wishing I was your first.  Back and forth, back and forth I go growing up as a kid.  From one side of the moon to the other.  And this is my fault?  I am sorry I don't fit into your white picket fenced world.  Live behind your glass house, while I'll look in from my far away cave.  It's okay though. I'm starting to get used to this whole farewell family type trend that seems to haunt me.  Thanks for raising me.  I wish you could have just once seen me lift, just once.  

Thank you Niagara Weightlifting for hosting the 19th Attitude Nation Cert.  Canada is damn awesome and we had a tun of fun.  Please please stay in touch.  Salute.  

PR BACK SQUAT! As coach said, "It's about gosh dang time"!!  Lol  We have been going after this set of five for almost a year now.  

Stand up 2016

Trap King

Yes, the traps activate.  Yes, they try so hard, and yes they are as worthless as tits on a bore. It's a sad story of how this came to be. A story that drew a tear to my eye, a story that will make any man grab his heart with pain.  But don't feel too bad, for once he was happy, once he stood proud, once he was King.

Chapter One

Once upon a time, in a far away land where the bar wasn't allowed to touch your body, the trap was king.  The trap ruled the weightlifting world with his big stick and his large high crown.  He never got tired of the attention, as a matter of fact, he took in every bit of it like it was Christmas morning.  They talked about him as a legend from coast to coast, as myths and stories began to pile up about his power and strength.  He was conquering world records.  He was winning Gold medals in the Olympics.  He was kicking ass on a daily basis.  Scholars wrote hundreds of books about his efficiency and power.  It was once recorded that he stood 15 feet tall, and could chop down the tallest tree with one swish of his sword. Athletes and coaches spent years trying to mimic his greatness.  Some felt and understood his beauty, and some fell short only to stare hopelessly at the podium.  Others tried to defeat him with different tactics and methods.  He was constantly challenged from others who envied his power.  But they fell short, and nothing seemed to please the King more than victory on the Platform and off. His way was the best way, the only way.  He knew it, and everyone else knew of his glory.  The traps could shrug any bar higher than the eyes could see.  He made weight disappear into the blue sky, only for the birds to enjoy.  The scarecrow some called the king, which fit him well, and explained the position he was always in.  Upright, straight, and elbows high as if the scarecrow was showing a young kid where the sun was.  The crowd went crazy, and the King grew an inch with every lift that was made.  The King was happy, and I am happy for him.

Years went by, decades passed almost with a blink of an eye.  He sat on his silk green thrown growing older and older while the sport grew old with him. They were two peas in a pod, they shared war stories together until the orange afternoon fell dark.  The King had no idea what was about to happen next.  The King was about to be turned upside down. 

"Siar we have a problem, come quick!"  "The Weightlifters are starting to make bar body contact!" "They are breaking the rules, they are going against you Siar!"  The king woke from his gold thrown in a panic, as his crown stumbled into his lap with frantic hands.  He tried everything in his power to stop this craziness, this reluctant rebellion.  But the lifters kept at it. The coaches scratched their heads and talked amongst each other with smiles and approval.  Once the lifters found this new way of throwing the barbell over their head, there was no stopping the ease and joy they got out if this new found relationship with the bar.  The sport was chattering with new ideas. The trees were swaying from the swift change in the air. A monster was being created, and the King was feeling its bite. The chatter from the towns people kept the king up at night, only to fall asleep with his pillow over his head.  Only to find his presence slowly dwindling.  The committee spoke, and the rule of no bar body contact was changed to bar body contact.  A shift in the sport that changed everything, including the King's masterful power over this great sport.  A rule that drew a single tear from the king's face that with ease and patience fell from his right eye and splattered onto his high golden crown. 

Chapter Two

The scarecrow was taken down from its high perch in the middle of the town, and replaced with an arched angel that struck such beauty and rhythm. An image that turned people's head to the side as the sun glazed over her bent body.  A sling shot type movement, a catapult machine the weightlifters turned into.  That same year a record of world records were shattered.  The weight went up, and fast.  The bar had much more color on each side.  The competition grew fierce, as weak lifters were now able to battle with strong lifters.  Mad scientists is what they were, the coaches that is.  Blue prints of how their athlete can move their body to lift more and more weight, even if they had weak legs.  Yes, strength building is always a must, but a new found creature was going to help build the athlete to new heights.  Their arms grew skinny as they hung like cables.  The traps grew smaller as they held less of a purpose.  The back grew bigger and stronger from staying over longer and longer.  The weightlifters moved faster, as their hips drew blood against the bar with a large amount of force and determination.  The weightlifter is now a machine of some sort, and there is no stopping what its capable of performing next.  Who knows, the Arched Angel may someday be replaced with another statue for the towns people to talk over. 

The King is still with us today, he is still a part of this great sport.  The King will never leave.  Every part of the body plays a part in this great fight.  All parts of the body belong and serve a purpose.  The athlete must not think, just do.  Letting the body perform such elegance and strength. "What foot do you step forward with in the jerk?"  A question that cannot be answered, a question that only the athlete must do without thinking, for then he or she will find out themselves.  In my opinion, this is how the bar body contact was born.  An athlete just moved, just lifted, and then found a comfort that worked in unusual ways compared to the norm back then.  The sport is always growing, and the King will live on forever.  He might now smile as big and bright as before.  The King may not stand 15 feet tall anymore, but he is still proud of what he created, and proud to see lifters achieve greatness to this day.  Long live the King, and welcome to the new and possible ideas of a weightlifter.

The King 2016

Low Bar Demon

I have competed, lifted, conducted attitude seminars, and helped with many Pendlay seminars all over the world, and I have never once seen anyone perform the "low bar squat".  Actually, I didn't even find out what it was until a few months back when someone asked me if they should do high bar or low bar for the squats I just prescribed them.  I am still in shock that athletes actually perform such a "nails on a chalk board" lift, especially for a weightlifter that should make the bottom position their home.  The number one problem I see with beginner weightlifters is their depth, or lack there of.  Watching a weightlifter low bar squat makes me want to take the elevator to the highest floor, and then jump.  Low bar squatting is just as bad as a beginner doing power snatch and power clean more than the full lifts.  Both of these weightlifting killers create incorrect movement patterns, horrible rhythm, awful consistency, and do not increase the novice weightlifter's flexibility.  The low bar squat is not just ugly and painful to watch, but teaches you to move slower than a turtle that just drank two bottles of nyquil.

 Brand new client, brand new dreams of becoming an Olympic weightlifter, in a brand new sport where the sky is the limit. We work on catching the bar in the hole over and over for hours. After catching a lift in the hole, I would have him sit down there and get comfy.  I would throw him a bag of popcorn and tell him to watch a movie down there.  I would tell him to bounce like tigger over and over to create stability, balance, and for the great practice of at times having to catch that second or third bounce to stand up with a heavy weight.  I introduced him to his new home.  He then started to make progress in the lifts, especially after I told him never to do a power snatch or power clean again, until he became a champion at the "full" lifts.  A fist pump followed by a smile is the action and emotion that he got when he was able to lift more weight by receiving the bar as low as he could.  I dropped out of physics, but I have the innate ability to understand that weightlifting is nothing more than a race against gravity.  I get excited for him; I get excited for his new PR. We slap hands and drink more coffee, going over how the training went and what we both want in the near and far future.  I think he thought the training session was over because he started to take his Pendlay shoes off.  I then laughed and told him that the fire in Hell was still burning bright and high, and now we had to squat.  Tired but still motivated, he took another sip of miss brown eyes, and began to slap the big bearded man's shoes back on.  Back squats, 5 sets of 2, lets go.  I had to take a number one from all the coffee that has been poured down my throat since I woke about 7 hours ago.  In a full on sprint to the bathroom I yelled without looking behind me, "Get warmed up!".  As I slowly started walking back from one of the best things God himself ever invented, I heard a bunch of little kids crying and screaming for their mothers.  People everywhere where running past me to the door like the building was on fire.  Coach Pendlay stood up and yelled for someone to call 911, and then he walked fast....not ran, because everyone knows that Coach never runs....well unless he is imitating my teammate Kevin Cornell.  As I was spinning in circles trying to comprehend what was happening in the quiet town of San Ramon, Donny bumped into me spilling my coffee all over my deep v Attitude Nation shirt.  He told me that a red fire breathing demon with sharp fangs and dinosaur scales dripping down its greasy back was killing people by its grotesque image alone.  I pushed through the panicking crowd and to my horror......I saw my client doing low bar back squats.

The world ended hours later.

High bar 2016

Arched Angel

The way she bends makes you want to get under her...and fast.  Her black wings open wide and her body stretches out as if she was being raised by God himself.  A sudden pause in the gym occurs, a half second pause of beauty.  A gust of wind hits the wide eyed watchers as they gaze upon her remarkable bent shaped arch.  She rises higher and higher onto her toes as her hips come through like a 3D movie.  Her shoulders are so far back that a cup could balance on her chest without spilling.  Somehow, her eyes are still staring straight ahead, even though her body would tell you different.  What a remarkable position. What a great athlete.  A site that is kind on the eye, and would make a grown man cry from the beauty she holds.  She is the Michael Jordan of weightlifting. Her finish is greater than Lance Armstrong finishing his race.  Her arch is more famous than the golden arch we know so well from our childhood.  

Her wings are now black from the hell she has been through, before weightlifting they were diamond white.  Before weightlifting she could fly, now her back hurts so she only leaves the platform for a split second. Some call this (Ali Feet), and others say imprisonment.  Every time the angel tries to fly home, the weight pulls her back down, like the Godfather trying to get out, but they keep pulling him back in. 

Yes Caleb Ward's video below shows he is Married to her, but me.........I am married WITH KIDS! ha!  Get off me Caleb.  Pause around 26 seconds.  Oh, and I almost got kicked out of this meet for "exiting from the front of the platform".  I replied, "Johnny Cash". 

A kiss and leave relationship.  How long do you kiss before unlocking lips?  This is impossible for me to answer, only you and her can figure this out.  We need her; the Attitude Nation must have her to succeed. We need her in this sport to achieve greatness. Without love she would die, I would die.  She plays the part of my step mother, beautiful eyes and a Julia Roberts smile.  Hugs that smell like new car and a laugh that dulls pain.  She misses her old life with other angles, but now she finds herself in a love web.  One day she can fly home, but not yet.  First the Nation needs to make the Olympics; we need her grace and her beauty to guide us to the “finish”.  We need her strength and her confidence to catch the bar perfectly in the pit of unsure.  Her name is the Arched Angel, and she is in all of us, even if you haven't met her yet.  She will guide you to the land of Pr's, especially for the weaker lifters who need her most.  Weak legged lifters like myself need as much torque, bend, momentum, and lever as possible.....without it we would be nobody, without her the weight would win.  She is that half second of peace in your life before you leave her all alone to venture in the land down under, called the “catch”.  You miss her so dearly, like your mother dropping you off at summer camp.  Her black wings reverse her body as she flies away, higher and higher still keeping her eyes locked onto yours.  Its not sweat, its her tears that have fallen.  This is what the audience doesn't understand.  A bond with a lift goes unseen by the judges, a love that is un judge able.  The flapping gusts of wind from her calloused wings moves the hair on your head around like a rain storm, and your eyes pierce with concentration from the harsh reminder that you must move on, you must stand up.  The Arched Angel is not the fastest, nor the strongest, but the smoothest and most talented.  Getting on your toes in the finish with 166kg takes a guardian with wings.  Someone who understands you, just as much you understand her.  Sometimes she will help you; and sometimes she is on her lunch break. 

If you haven’t seen her yet, then you are probably seeing the scare crow.  The scare crow is mean and unforgiving.  He will make you miss everything in front, and slow is his middle name.  I call him the evil V, V for vertical.  He has no idea what explosive means, he has no clue how to put on the Ali boxing gloves.  V is also very old.  He was used way back in the day when a weightlifter wasn’t allowed to have any bar body contact.  Yes the V works great for that, but the sport has changed, and the Arched Angel has arrived. 

Her elbows point back as she lies wrapped on your lap feeding you grapes.  Her lips move across your face like a water skier on glass.  Her lips were once apple red and smooth like life before weightlifting.  But the very own Weightlifting that created her, is the one killing her. The masked two faced sport has turned her lips to more of a red whine than summer apple red, and her smooth fresh silk sheet lips are now dry desert mountains, cracked and bumpy.  Forehead to forehead you gaze in each others eyes with that half smile that speaks laughter and happiness.  The hard part about this dream world relationship is the unknowing that awaits for you after the grapes are all eaten.  Will you stand tall with weight?  Or will you stand tall empty handed?

My good friend and once team mate Caleb Ward not only has a relationship with the Arched Angel, but he is damn married to her!!  Pause around 1:02  I thought he was going to do a back flip! In my opinion Caleb Ward as top 5 best technique in the world.  He takes the spot for best athlete I have ever seen up close and personal.  You can't teach his rhythm, speed, and power.  

Caleb Ward 2016

Our Violin

Sad faced keys look up at me, as my fingers infect them with my thoughts.  Keys that stretch into violin strings that echo loudly throughout the Dark Orchestra, as I play with my head down and Shankle to my side.  Some days I wish I would have never met him, and other days I am thankful for his leading hand guiding me into this fucked up life.  A man that can barely walk, or hardly talk from the mind games that cheer and boo loudly in his science project head.  A still calm face is what we see, but behind the blinds of piercing lion killer eyes, holds a storm that can create much force into the bar when needed.  Turning off this storm is never possible. Driving home can leave you drenched and gasping for air.  Sleeping is training of its own, as this sport has its side effects. Side effects that will leave you rocking back and forth in the chair you sleep in because a bed hurts your broken neck and back.  Rocking because your body has been trained to move.  Rocking to the image of a white wall that might as well be the property of a hospital.  Knee wraps are like coffee, they help dull the pain.  Walking has come harder over the years, and my mind seems to play tricks on me as I catch myself drooling while picking out cereal in the store.  Join me on YouTube, but then leave me.  Turn off the computer and go, leave me with me, a person I do not know off the platform. Leave me as I am stuck in this video forever.  No one is rooting for me while driving home, this is when depression kicks in.  I smile when training, I smile when you watch the live feed, I welcome you with open arms, but I am sad to see you go.  I am fucken depressed once you leave and I can't figure out how to pump my own car full of gas.  I am lost when I am not a weightlifter. I am lost when I have to take a driving test that I still cannot pass.  I am a fucken loser, don't you see?  I'm only special on the platform, on YouTube, or at a meet.  I am alive and well when lifting, but sleeping is a nightmare.  How can I be so confident on the platform, but so insecure off?  You leave me everyday like my dad left me, like my step mom left me, and my step sisters that I used to call family.  Family has left me like someday this sport will, and then what?

Shankle sits across from me, still there, still with me.  Thank God for my weightlifting family, a cult that makes me feel needed, necessary, and valued.  Nothing else has brought me so much passion.  I spent many nights sleeping on a bench outside living homeless, thinking where I would be now.  Who knew I would be here.  Who knew the path I took in life would lead me to this.  Life is funny that way.  The talking to myself issue has put me in the chair facing a therapist.  Ideas that run through my head have to be dealt with and organized.  I see technique that confuses most coaches, and sometimes myself.  I dig too deep into the philosophy of weightlifting, finding things that shouldn't be found.  I am falling deeper into a state of wanderlust and ideas that I am afraid might take me prisoner for good one day.  I am still getting to know this new Jon North, a man that lights his fire and cooks his dinner behind the screen of youtube.  A puppet that Pendlay pulls the strings on.  A freak with coffee that some despise and hate.  A mental head case that if directed properly can work in your blessing.  What most don't know is the influence my father has had on me, good and bad.  Let's just say my mind works and has been trained from a very, very young age to see situations and move them without anyone knowing.  Rooms spin while my head stays facing straight.  Couches and chairs move from one end of the room to the other.  My next move is crucial, what shall I do?  Stop Jon! Just be you the people very close to me say!  But how, when all I know is the Godfather lines and techniques my father drilled into me, while dumping me into social situations where they were looked at win or lose, and then discussed in depth afterwords.  Rave parties, high on ecstasy when I was 12, only to sharpen up my social skills and adapt to life experiences.  I might as well have been in school. A confused kid with an innocent heart, but scared by the talent of seeing situations not just people.  I have come a long way in finding myself, and just being me, even though it has been a very hard challenge to shut that side of my mind off, and turn on the side of pure reactions and feelings.  Yes we all have skeletons, these are just a few of mine that I don't mind sharing.  I find this subject fascinating.  My dad is a genius.  But his genius he took too far, his so called powers are what killed him in the end.  In the end his own strategies turned upon himself and locked him away in his own mind.  The minute he used his powers on his own family, is the day the muddy bank gave way, and crashed into a million pieces.  The first steps in breaking this curse is admitting and talking about the curse, then I will find who I really am.    

40 Kilos to 166 Kilos has taught me a lot.  Understanding that training with pain is okay, and losing is part of winning.  This blog is far from motivational, more of a diary on journey within ourselves and what great things come of sports.  A blog on how a coach can change not only your technique, but life.  How someone like Shankle took a chance with me when no one else would.  Yes, I can't read nor do math.  Yes, I can't pass a simple driving test, nor understand how to work an ATM, but I do know how to slam bars and kill PR's.  Thank you for listening to my violin.

Weightlifting 2016

Coach Hard

The 18th Attitude Nation Certification rained PR's! Thank you Crossfit Chicago for having us.  It was super fun and great to meet all of you! Congrats on all your success and future success, and please please stay in touch!!  Wow, I feel I just got out of a Weightlifting war zone, It was intense.  I have a coaching hangover from coffee, yelling, celebrating, and coaching. Salute. 

Now its time to hide away and train hard in a far away cabin away from the world.  sleep, eat, train, repeat.  Clear the mind from travel and Coaching before getting ready for the 19th Attitude Cert next Sunday in Canada.  Slam bars kill PR's 

 George  

(coach Pendlays favorite blog ) .....lol!!  One of my favorites and it couldn't be more true. 

Mr. High Hang is a tall man with dark hair and a curvy long black mustache. Mr. Hang has actually named the creature above his upper lip, and he takes much pride in the grooming, smell, shape, and overall relationship he has with it.  His name is George, and George is constantly smiling at you even if Hang isn’t.  Now that we have gotten the mustache out of the way, let’s chat about the gunslinger himself. His hands move dramatically when he talks, his eyes never blink much, but his forehead moves up and down like a pogo stick pretty much at all times. His big white eyes open as wide as an alligator’s mouth when he is talking about a matter that has importance to him, or better yet when he is lifting weights, a sport he has been doing for many years now. His nick name is the finisher, because he has the strongest finish around. His finish is faster than most, and some say his explosion is more powerful than the A bomb. There are actually many storys of Mr. Hang breaking logs in half to build his cabin out in the hills of Oregon. He is an impatient human that curses anything that takes longer than his liking. For example, long bus rides, waiting for the bus, and then waiting for people to exit and enter the bus from the horrible stops it makes throughout his long impatient ride in the bus. The worst of them all is the dreaded pull in weightlifting that now some underground army is calling the superman pull, aka B.O.B, or better yet "the set up". He can’t stand it! I watched him snatch once and right in the middle of the pull he became bored so he dropped the bar and started playing his 1997 Nintendo game boy that I think was Mortal Combat by the slamming of buttons and mouth expressions that were happening in his chair behind the platform. This struck me in an odd way considering this happened just a few days ago, and I haven’t seen one of those bad boys since…..well, 1997.

The old hip slinger, the smoking hips, the bar breaker, the lady’s man, and the last but not least, the tree cutting pickle jar opening nail gun shooting slug hammer house plowing hips attacker. Yes people, these were only a few of his nick names, and the last one is my favorite. Mr. Hang and his fuzzy snake friend George only snatched from the high hang. They would compete in meets but never put up a total because they would stand tall and then go from the high hang right above the knee. Some people said “give it to them, that lift right there is even harder than the full snatch”! But most people, including myself, said "no way Jose, that right there is illegal". But they didn’t care, training or meet they went from above the knee where there is hardly any momentum, and a very small pull, which some called the room 2 pull or the special pull, a pull that never really completed its full potential.

Here is a video of Mr. Hang and George completing their high hang snatch with 140kg!! Oh, and by the way, after chatting with them both, I soon found out they are a part of the ATTITUDE NATION! Salute and see you guys tomorrow.

Hang snatches are hard 2016