A Chat With Train

Episode Three of Weightlifting talk, brought to you by a planet called "I slam bars".  Salute!

The New MDUSA video below!  I did not train Friday afternoon because of an odd and scary lower back pain that my coach and the trainers are working on.  They say I should be back on the horse killing weights monday morning, thank the good Lord, I am having withdraws!!! 

My wife Jessica not only makes a killer cup of coffee, but awesome videos, just like this one. 2016

Wanderlust

A meeting with a zombie. A Wanderlust mind that directs your feet away from the herd. A sit down with another type of person. A cold and lonely stage is where you eat dinner tonight, and the skeletons you have put away for so many years seem to have joined you at the long wooden table that sits a family of thousands in the empty center of the Dark Orchestra. This is what I find fascinating. Just as fascinating as dedicating your life to something that you cant see or feel. 

Your green hill has now turned dark red from the sky that crept up behind you. The sky that looks down upon you so proudly, as the black birds guide you to......well you. Yes proud, where others see the red threat as doom. This is where they are wrong, this is where their feet should walk, this is where the comfort zone starts, and their world ends. Bold steps towards what you want. This is what Shankle speaks of so passionately. Steps of chance, followed by steps of courage, can cure anything and anyone. Steps that will eventually get you face to face with a zombie, or lead you to a small town where you could meet your new best friend. Steps that make your hand bleed from the double edged sword you hold so tightly. You must take a chance; I must take the bold steps to achieve what I want. We must leave ourselves back home at the kitchen table, and walk to a new outlook, a new adventure, and a new life.  We must walk in the dark, or else we will live in the white light called the comfort zone. A world where so many live and die.  A blanket of comfort and satisfaction that people walk around with in public. A world where so many dream day and night, for they can only dream, because dream is all they have. They are too scared to make it reality. They are prisoners of their own self-doubt. 

A gamblers rush of losing intrigues me.  A rush that reminds he or she that they are still alive. This amazes me that a gambler could be the same as a weightlifter, they both have the disease of Wanderlust, and it seems they are both chasing the unknown. Even losing is a win in many ways. A win of living and taking chances. A win of trying. A sit down with a zombie could be good, who knows. Over the hill could be heaven, or just the red hell that seems to still hang over you. See in my opinion hell is a place that lives within us. Hell is a comfort zone, a prison cell that keeps us from being.....well, us. Don’t listen to anyone. Close this blog down now. My words are nothing but talk, they are not walk. You must walk; you must eat dinner by yourself. You must ride the rides at the carnival with no one around. Find out what will happen, and how you will react to such unknown. Find out who you are, and what you are capable of. 

A bloody hand only means a well sought off person. An individual who will sleep well at night, for they have fought for their dreams, win or lose. But there is no lose, because the journey itself in a win. A double edged sword is a win-win, even though your hand drips with blood. There is no such thing as a win-lose, only a lose-lose.  A lose-lose is the world of comfort and sought after acceptance from others. The sheep will never know who they really are. I find myself at ease when I am on the edge. I find the darkest corners of life so intriguing,  so comfortable, as if they were my childhood home lit up like the month of December.  Wanderlust is what my buddy Adam Hall told me it was called, as I so despretly explained to him one day about this odd feeling I constatnly encounter, I didnt even realize it had a name. I am so drawn to the unknown, at times I catch myself just driving, just walking, and just looking out through the Starbucks window for no apparent reason. What the hell is out there? Maybe this is why I couldn’t stand sitting in a class room; I was too busy itching for the bell to ring so I could explore the sea I could not see. I am addicted to wanderlust like I am addicted to this coffee. Do you ever have the feeling of getting in your car and driving with known destination in sight? What if I just walked for three days straight, where would it take me? What would it bring me? What would I find? 

Shit, the more I think about it, the more I am realizing that everything up to this point in my life has been driven by wanderlust. This is how I met my Wife, this is how I met you, and by sitting here writing is just another way of breaking free. I guess Wanderlust is really the unknown, because I have no idea what the hell I am talking about, and where I am going with this. I am just taking bold steps forward. I am just writing to you in the ever so confused dream world called the Dark Orchestra.  

Here is the brand new MDUSA video below. Salute.

The Dark Orchestra 2016



Team MDUSA

The Very First Muscle Driver USA video!  The craziness starts all over, so lock your doors, hide the kids, and prepare for the madness that this awful sport has to offer.  Fists may fly, chairs may be thrown, and the rookies will cry in defeat......shit, here we go agin.  Americans 5 months out.  Salute.

MDUSA 2016

Weightlifting Talk Ep 2

The Second Episode went much better.  We finally got the big Rush Limbaugh mic to work.  Moved the episode to an hour and half for more time, and just had a better flow on air.  Shankle and I were much more comfortable, we really did get lost in the conversations.  We are both excited to continue our chats every Friday at 1:00 eastern time.  Don't forget to tune in next week at blogtalkradio.com and call in to say hi.  Salute!

Rush 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

I'm Back

The song I banged these little black keys to.  Fuck the doubters, and fight to the death.

I'm back.  I'm sorry.  I have missed drinking coffee with you in the dark orchestra.  I have missed chatting with you, venting to you, and entering unforgiving worlds of imaginations and familiar experiences of hard training followed with tears of pain with you.  Tears of pain from the hell we live in. Paths that lead to demonds and anglels. Yes, I am back.  Yes, we are still alive and well.  Together holding hands in the blazing fires of weightlifting, side by side, shaky hands and pissed off haters, we stand.  A society that shunned us from the norm, who call us freaks, who don't understand.  The sport that will take your soul and swallow you whole.  A sport that will leave you with nothing unless you achieve something.  Unless you man or women the fuck up and attack the devil in a red dress everyday. Never take her hand, leave her beauty for "him".  A move across the Country chasing a dream is why these moving boxes smile at me.  The plates chatter with talk of never again.  The title will never be yours my kitchen tables explained to me, as I chewed on its wooden side showing it my strength and the power of my bite.  Everyone I have beat in this sport knows my bite, so now it's the kitchen table's turn.  Why chase something you can't see?  My world is not in America, it's with you in this empty hallway that echoes sounds of an orchestra playing our sad song, a song that we are familiar with.  "Why sad?," asks the new member to this blog.  I will tell you why, no.... we will tell you why.  Listen closely my soft handed friend, because there are more bad days than good days in this sport.  99 bad days and one good day.  99 days of doubt dragging behind one maybe "I can" day.  Just one "yes" day.  Maybe I will keep opening my garage door, turning up my music, and training by my mother fucken self.  Maybe one day I will slam this bar and shatter everyone who ever doubted me.  Maybe I will climb to the top of the world and raise my hand high as I disperse into a chalky cloud that hangs over all who tried to tell me to roll my windows up when the AC was on. 

She followed me here, Miss Brown Eyes that is.  She has been waiting for me as I drove my car across Country, chugging red bulls with my hand tight around the wheel, imagining thoughts of me representing this great Country again.  On stage, with TV cameras following me around again like last year at the games.  Oh, did I go crazy, yes I did, and people hated me for it.  Yes.  Complete. Thank you.  Thank you for putting this black coat on me, this black shirt on me, and these black pants on me.  Thank you for putting this guitar in my hands and letting me sing to the world through this blog.  She tasted slightly different from the heat and humidity, but her kiss are the same.  Her touch is the same, and the feeling of hope and happiness throughout all my trials and errors in this life is the same.  We are back.  The Attitude Nation is back, well....we never left, Just busy is all.  But now all settled in, now finally time to write.  Miss Brown Eyes is back, the team is back.  We together will achieve greatness in this lifetime, whether it's through weightlifting or family.  Whether it's bettering ourselves as people, or getting better grades in school. We are one, we are the best, we are a family which the flames cannot touch. 

The new radio show is exciting.  But there is something missing.  It's not the same as writing.  I feel we connect much better through this black key board.  I feel more alive when writing to you.  I feel we have a certain understanding, more so than when I talk through the mic. The mic cages my true emotions from being nervous and not letting my fingers do the talking.  My soul types and the coffee directs.  Talking is just the surface. Yes it's fun, yes it's great to chat and hear your voice, but the connection is just not there.  Writing is a powerful feeling that cannot be explained.  I am going to start writing everyday, not every other day, but everyday.  I will never leave for that long again.  I will never leave the Nation alone while you stand over the bar with your war paint splattered on your face.  Your chalky white hands look as if you are a mime, the only difference is the blood from your wounds has crept through the dry cracks of your hand, and are now dripping one by one onto the platform.  You smile, but you really aren't smiling.  We never really smile.  We are great actors, for pain and discomfort is always casted upon us.   I must fight with you.  I must die by your side in this fucken hell we live in.  The strength of many, that's how I will win Americans.  That's how I will break these American records.  The strength of the lone garage weightlifter. Salute to you, the soldier who fights with no one around to push him.  The soldier who trains hard, even though little gremlins tell myths about over training.  Salute to us, who turn our back to rest.

Fight 2016

Weightlifting-Talk

Yes, tomorrow is the big day.  Tomorrow at 12:30 my team mate Donny Shankle and I drink coffee, talk weightlifting, and take callers with any questions they might have on our very first Podcast called WEIGHTLIFTING-TALK.  you can find the show at  www.blogtalkradio.com just type in Weightlifting-Talk.  Please call the show and chat with Shankle and myself about Weightlifting, training, programing, or anything outside of Weightlifting.  The number to call the show tomorrow is (646)-652-4173  no scrips, no planning, no boring bullshit talk, just a lot of coffee, a lot of Shankle, and a whole lot of awesomeness.  Hope to here from you tomorrow.  Salute!

PS:  My wife and I made it to SC safe and sound.  A long journey has come to a close.  One that will never be forgotten. We trained hard yesterday and today, but tomorrow is the first day of the real Practice, tomorrow is the first day of hell.  So don't miss the live feed either.  Practice starts at 3 our time.  Kaleb Whitby is getting a little too confident, I might have to put him in his place tomorrow!

Weightlifting-Talk 2016