The Morning Coffee Review

Attitude Nation Weightlifting Seminar Review

Posted: September 2, 2013 in Uncategorized

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Being relatively new to the sport of weightlifting, I am always looking to learn more about technique and the different styles of successful lifters.  This normally means watching endless hours of YouTube videos of my favorite lifters and studying how they move.  One of my favorite YouTube channels for this is The Attitude Nation, which used to chronicle the training of 2011 National Champion Jon North (AKA “The Champ”) and now tracks the progress of his own weightlifting team.  Upon hearing that CrossFit Hail Fire in Orwigsburg, PA would be hosting an Attitude Nation Weightlifting Seminar, I jumped at the opportunity.

A little more about Jon North. He and his wife Jess own The Attitude Nation which was born out of Jon’s incredible passion and excitement for weightlifting.  As he says on his podcast, the AN is for those who “do what they want” and those that raise a middle finger (or two) to society when they try to tell you how to live your life.  Jon is a former national champion in the 94 kg weight class and has represented the US in many international competitions.  He brings an excitement to the sport that is, in my opinion, unmatched.  Coach Dan got me into weightlifting but watching old Cal Strength and MDUSA videos of Jon and Donny Shankle made me want to compete.  Recently, Jon retired from the sport and now coaches a team of weightlifters full time at his gym in NC.  Am I a Jon North fan? Yes. But I will write this review objectively so you know exactly what to expect if you were to take this seminar.  I feel that’s only fair.

To start the day, Jon began by telling his story.  Fueled by an iced black coffee (AKA “Miss Brown Eyes”) he energetically told the group about how he got into weightlifting and why it means so much to him as well as what we were going to learn during the seminar.  Most importantly, Jon stressed that there is no wrong way to lift weights within the rules.  What he would be teaching us is his way; a technique he has developed over the years by pulling from many different coaching influences.  We could then use the “AN Catapult” exclusively or use pieces of it like he has to create our own style of lifting.  This to me was a very important point because all too often, I come across athletes who think there is only one right way to lift.  I personally have tried three different styles of snatching in the past 8 months and have finally settled on one I feel comfortable with.  Everyone is different and Jon understands this.

While speaking, the one thing I noticed from the get-go is Jon’s passion for all things weightlifting.  His excitement for the seminar was genuine and I could tell he wanted this to be a worthwhile experience for all of us.  Along with Jon was his wife, Jessica North who is also a nationally-ranked weightlifter.  Throughout the day, Jon would be describing the movements and the physics behind them while Jess got the enviable duty of demonstrating.  Unbeknownst to her, she also provided some particularly funny moments with her reactions to Jon’s self-described ADD tangents. Especially when Jon said that anyone who took his Level 2 seminar could stay at his house.

With the intro complete we moved on to the snatch portion of the seminar.  Since the snatch is such a technical lift, Jon and Jess broke it down into many small pieces.  I won’t detail each step here because that is what you take the seminar for.  After each technical instruction and subsequent demonstration, the group grabbed a bar and drilled the movement.  The entire time, Jon and Jess walked the room and made sure that every athlete was doing it correctly before moving on to the next step.

On occasion, Jon would tell everyone to rest except one person that he saw was having some trouble with a particular drill.  He would then have that person repeat the skill until it was correct, the whole time giving the athlete different cues to help it click in his or her head.  It really was a neat moment because two things were happening.  The athlete was perfecting the movement and those of us who are coaches or aspire to coach one day were learning several effective ways of teaching the lift.  With Jon and Jess’s help each athlete would quickly demonstrate proficiency of the movement, often to the supportive applause from the rest of us.

A group shot of us working on the catch

Once we learned and drilled the AN Catapult technique for the snatch it was time to max out.  Up to this point, all work was with done with an empty bar so this was a welcome change.  Weights were quickly loaded and the blissful sounds of bars crashing to the ground filled the room.  Jon and Jess again walked around the room to watch lifts and offer form critiques.  Some PRed and some did not but that is to be expected when we just learned a new style.  20 minutes later the session wrapped and we were off to lunch.

Next the group learned how to apply the AN Catapult technique to the clean.  Not surprisingly, all the drilling we did earlier in the day made this transition pretty seamless.  In no time at all, we were all completing the entire clean movement with light weight.

Before we all maxed out again, Jon and Jess gave us some instruction on the jerk.  With the jerk being the least technical of the movements there wasn’t nearly as much info as the other two portions.  That being said, Jon and Jess did a provide valuable information in the form of an effective drill we could all do in our own gyms as well as some trade secrets they have learned over the 14 combined years in the sport.  Admittedly, I watch almost every YouTube training vid out there and had not seen or heard any of these tips so I thought that was really cool.

Time to max out again.  I had a question about my clean grip so I pulled Jon aside.  He quickly helped me adjust my feet at the set up which made an immediate difference in my second pull. I could feel a distinct difference in the “pop” off of my thighs with the AN Catapult technique compared to the technique I had been using.  Weights I used to struggle to get under seemed to float, giving me plenty of time to catch with a straight back and high elbows.  I was no longer chasing the bar and catching it with the weight on my toes.  This had been a struggle of mine for some time so it was nice to see some progress.  I personally did not PR due to some nagging injuries but plenty of people did as evidenced by the copious amount of yelling, encouraging and celebratory screams.  Outside of the person setting a PR, no one was more excited than Jon and Jess.  They truly love this sport.

The seminar was supposed to go from 9-5 but we ended up finishing close to 6, not because anything was dragged out but because there was so much information to review and practice.  Never did I feel bored and Jon and Jess kept the whole thing pretty fast-paced.  The only thing I would change about the day is the lunch hour.  Lunch wasn’t until 3PM and took place after we maxed our snatches.  I would have preferred it to be either before we maxed our snatches or right around 12-1PM.  That being said, there were plenty of shorts breaks along the way so people who had snacks could have refueled but some did not bring any food with them and I imagine they would have been quite hungry.

So who would I recommend this seminar to? This seminar would be very beneficial to weightlifters and CrossFitters of all skill levels.  Even for those who have been competing for a long time.  I think the AN Catapult style will appeal especially to CrossFitters because of how efficiently the technique allows you to lift heavier weights.  This would obviously translate to less energy used and faster WOD times.

I would also say this seminar is for those athletes looking to be inspired.  Jon’s story is one that would fit perfectly in an E:60 segment.   The guy has overcome some real adversity and has used those low points in his life to fuel his fire for success.  His weightlifting journey is essentially an analog for life itself; how you have the ability to rise above a bad situation by changing your attitude.  If you want something bad enough, stop making excuses and go get it.  Like a bar-slamming Phoenix rising from the ashes of despair, Jon has left his checked past behind and is now a great role model for those looking to do the same.

At lunch, one participant told me how she listened to “Weightlifting Talk” (Jon’s podcast) the whole way from New Jersey.  She even told me that she had tears in her eyes listening to Jon’s intro speech.  It occurred to me then that the AN seminar is more than just about weightlifting for some people.  It is a chance to connect to a person who has beaten the odds; possibly the same odds you yourself are facing.  Those who have been “shunned by society” have a champion in Jon North.  For some, that can be worth more than weightlifting ever will be.

“Love Your Life or Change It”.  That has become the slogan for the Attitude Nation and was emblazoned across the back of Jon’s t-shirt.  He has certainly changed his own life.  Through this seminar, I have the feeling he will change many more.

Salute.

Sweat Bank

Bringing Him To Life Once Again Next Week.  

His sweat has turned from warm to cold as the cool air turned his skin into a leopard like coat of goose bumps that shot up his spine and down his arms.  The drastic change in weather from inside the gym to out has made the once river of sweat die in its tracks and stick to his body like a hook grip to a bar.  The wind left him breathless as he began to walk to his humble apartment that rested just a few blocks from the gym that he has been training at for the last year.  His walk brought him an awkward silence, but a well needed time to himself he valued deeply.  Echoes of yelling, cheering, and bar slamming played over and over in his head every step he took.  The echoes and recent memories began to drown turning into vapor as the mist of the cold day and car horns took over a new reality, a peaceful one that every athlete must have at least once a day.  Boston was his home, and Boston would always be his home.  He knew the back streets like a champ, cutting at least 10 minutes off his walk home, where only a native of this empty, but huge town would know.  The bottom half of his long black coat rested over his gym bag as it occasionally hit his right knee, causing him to switch hands from time to time.  The collar on his coat was popped up past his ears while his chin stayed tucked downward.  A place where deep thoughts are born and then thought about.  Church bells rang aloud off in the distance, and a light rain met him half way home.  The cars' break lights started to stand out more, as they became not only brighter but more blurry.  The sounds of the street only intrigued him, just like the sounds of the gym. "Ears and eyes always open," his dad would preach to him before being tucked into bed. "See, hear, understand, and then create," his dad would say before turning off the lights and cracking the door just slightly so the monsters wouldn't come out to play. The Boston native never forgot, one memory that stuck with him, and so many other memories he wished he could forget.  The walking signal flashed go, and before he knew it, he was stopped by the first step leading up to his apartment.  He was home after a long day of training.

The hot water burned his skin like squats to his legs.  Long days call for an extra long shower, and the harder the training, the more the small arrow leans to the H on the shower knob. Every workout has to go somewhere, right?  He thought to himself while watching the water by his feet swirl in circles down the drain.  His shoulders hurt from missing too many snatches in front, so he turned the shower head to a more powerful setting, giving his shoulders a light massage.  He has been training for three months straight, preparing for his first local meet in weightlifting.  His coach has been proud of him as he has been making great gains.  His boss on the other hand, has a different take in his awesome job, his marketing boss that pays him a very nice salary every month wants him at the office more rather than taking time to rep curls at 24 Hour Fitness.  Little did his boss know what he was really doing, or little did he care.  The Boston native was baited and hooked to weightlifting, and the disease was too late and deep to try and leave this great sport he stumbled across on YouTube months ago.  His shower door was cracked open, maybe from child hood stability, or just because the baseball game was playing in the background, and a few peeks out the shower door was part of his cleaning process.  The confusing thought of when he would get all of his training back plus more for a reward, grabbed his attention from the ball game, and swirled his head back under the hot water.  A Weightlifter's Bank is what he needed and wished he could walk into it.  A Sweat Bank that allowed an athlete to deposit and withdraw every drop of sweat he or she worked for.  A place where an athlete can see how much sweat he or she has put into any sport.  His forehead started to wrinkle, as his eyebrows drew down like window drapes. If our bodies lie to us and play tricks on us as athletes.....then how do we really know how much better we are getting.  Where does all the sweat go?  He thought to himself while now brushing his teeth dramatically like he was playing the violin as the hot water now came punching down upon his back.  He then froze in complete stillness.  The water from the shower head became motionless while the baseball game was put on pause mid pitch.  All of Boston stopped.

Let me, as the writer, stop the story for just a sec and talk to you, the reader, about the Sweat Bank before we pick back up on the story about the man from Boston.  Don't worry he will be fine.  He is not dead or alive right now.  The world he knows has just stopped for a brief while, while we chat about his interesting idea and theory.  Let's face it, I can stop his world anytime I want, because I am the one making the world he is living in real.  I am the writer, the creator.  Without me he wouldn't exist.  He wouldn't be in the shower nor a weightlifter.  He only knows Boston because I placed him there.  His whole life has been created with a single cup of coffee.  A Sweat Bank does exist!  When you wash your cloths in the washing machine, all of the sweat accumulated in your clothes drains down deep into a factory run and managed by your Ego.  There is an entrance to this factory in every one's home.  You just have to look for it.  You have to believe in your sweat one hundred percent.  Your ego lives under your feet while taking a hot shower.  The sweat living on your body from a hard day's work runs down your body hitting the shower floor and finding its way in the drain only to be met by your ego wearing a bright see through poker hat while smoking a cigar.  Your ego is tall and lanky, slimy and multi-colored.  Three arms, two for your ego, and one for your ego's ego.  An ego has many egos in itself which make the factory of your hard work sweat run efficient and fast.  So many workers working hard on your hard work makes this land down under your feet confident and prideful.  Your ego is not always confident, it takes much support and encouragement from hundreds of your egos egos egos and so forth to stay secure.  Your ego is insecure, that's why it is an ego in the first place.  Giving off the impression of confidence when not being confident at all.  The more sweat the ego contains from your hard work in the life above, the better your ego feels down under.  Down under in the dark the egos work.  A small light reflecting green from their see through visors swing back and forth from your movement above.  But your ego stays hard at work preparing for the day you want to cash out.  Or what they call, sweat out.  You don't know your ego at all, you know it's there, you know how it acts, but you and I and this character that we created all have no idea who it is or what it is.  All we know is that its presence is known.  But what we didn't know, is that our ego is our sweat's undertaker, our sweat's master.  Character from Boston......come back alive my friend.

The baseball game didn't skip a beat, but something was off.  He got out of the shower butt naked and walked out into his room where the TV now showed a monster home run and the crowd going crazy.  The TV was loud, but he was quiet.  His eyes traveled the room as if someone was watching his every move.  Something wasn't right.  He threw his covers off his bed looking for his alarm clock that would show him the time.  He felt as if there was a sudden pause or black out that occurred from the point of entering the shower and getting out.  The time was correct, therefore putting his theory in doubt.  His body was freezing from the water building little dots and villages from his head to toe.  The cool air reminded him of walking back from the gym as he preformed the naked scurry back to the shower that we all do from time to time.  He started to think about the Sweat Bank again, and how cool it would be to cash out a hard week's work in sweat dollars.  He became nervous about his first meet coming up, as his mind became focused on normalcy again.  What numbers should I open with, and what kind of jumps should I take?  All these, questions that clustered his mind, steering away his odd thoughts of Sweat Banks and watching eyes.

He dried off in his room with his dark green and red towel covered in swirls and stars.  It was a present from his parents that he never liked, but one of those gifts that he ended up putting to good use.  He dried himself off the same way as always, how that ritual came about he never knew.  One of those mysteries of life he guessed.  He smiled at all the pictures in his college-like room filled with friends and family.  He took pride in one thing that the people in the pictures always said about him.  "Jason doesn't have an ego, he is such a humble man".  He loved that about himself, and how others took him for it.

"Hey, Jason!"  He looked all around the room in panic as if someone just broke in wearing a scream mask.  "My name is Jon North, and I am writing about you."  He grabbed the phone as if he was about to eat a piece of food for the first time in 10 days.  His back hunched over as the outline of his spine came pointing out his back.  "Stop, its ok my friend.  I will not write anything bad about you, you will be ok.  I just want you to know that you do have an ego, a very big ego at that.  Your ego has not come out yet, for it waits for you in the Sweat Bank under your feet and behind your washer for the day you compete. The day you do compete your ego will shoot out of your last shower before competition covering you with all your built up sweat from the past three months.  Your sweat is your ego, Jason.  Your ego will soak into your skin and help you achieve your goals in your first meet.  All of your sweat has been accounted for my very good character friend.  Your ego has not lost your hard work.  It works long hours just as you do."

"Jason, are you there?"  "Yes I am, what is happening?"  "You are a creation from my keyboard covered in coffee.  You are a mix of emotion from my past splashed with thousands of readers all from different outlooks on you.  I view you one way, but the person reading this might see you in a different way."  "So then who am I really?"  "You are a 28 year old guy from Boston that loves his family, the gym, the community you train in, and the peaceful time you spend alone.  But I must end this blog now because I myself have to go train,  for you will one day live again."  "But how?  If you stop typing this blog, then I will die!"   "No Jason, you will only be on pause, because I will come back later and write you again, picking right back up where we left off.  You won't even know what happened, or that time was paused.  Say 'hi' to the readers Jason, they have gotten to know you well over the last 10 minutes."  "Hello, readers please don't leave me, I have a meet to compete in, and I have been training for three solid months."  "I promise on everything Jason that the readers and I will be back to watch your lifting soon!  We will cheer you on and root for you all the way!  I know you won't remember any of this, but ego is in all of us.  Learn how to find it, then use it to your benefit.  Ego is a scary thing, and can't be taken lightly.  You can use it in a wrong way, just like anything in life.  Next time I write you, we will both train crazy hard getting closer to your first meet.  We will slam bars!"

"Good bye, Jason."  "Good bye, Jon."  "Oh wait, Jon! " "Yea, what's up?"  "Will you tell Shankle that I am a big fan and that I say, hi."  "Hell yea, I will.  I will write Shankle into your reality next time.  I will have him train with you before your weightlifting meet.  Salute."

Pause.............

Boston 2016

Eat, Sleep, Train

Team AN 

New video. Wednesdays training.  

Last week of our hang block. 

Join the ANW Program at theattitudenation.com 

Green Monster 2016

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 Open.....my 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 

The Overall Man

Ripped overalls with pockets full of broke.  Brown bag full of sorrows, and hopes full of let downs.  Banned from society, outcast from the world.  You the dreamer no longer dream, but only hope to find where this old dirt road leads.  You walk with pride, as your knees fucken scream with pain.  Holes in your shoes like holes in your heart, shot from the gun of loved ones and sprayed by the machine gun of life.  You still stand, I still write, we still walk, we still carry on as our blood shot eyes fill with dirt and our hair with exhaust from passing trucks. The smell from the black fumes reminds us of home. It reminds us of hiding spots while parents fought, closets full of coats and umbrellas that came alive and comforted us as a crying child.  The dark is safe, the light is open.  A cigarette brings back James Dean, as the 3 legged dog morphs into a strutting cheetah.  Messy hair from falling fast, soon combs back like a wet comb as we fall forward.  A chip off the old black that could get a cargo ship lost in its depth.  A middle finger cold and frozen, stuck high from seeing so many stuck up.  Red knuckles and permanent damage from fist to wall, hate to self-pain, and frustration to must figure something out or else.  No money to spend, but a fuck load to gain.  No future, but a hope to one day look back at the past.  A dying want, with nothing to feel, a fight deep down, that seems to only roll in the belly of hunger and a mind of dizzy as the lack of sleep drains your thoughts.  Homeless with no home, loneliness with no one, empty and ready to fill the void that is restless within you. 

An old abandoned warehouse lies in ruins at the end of this dirt road.  The green grass slowly turned into burnt rubber, while the smell rose dark and the backward town seemed hidden but visible from where he was standing.  The once blue sky turned yellow, as black clouds traced through like arrows being shot by a thousand gladiators.  The graffiti on the walls of the broken warehouse dripped like tears, while the windows closed like fear.  A street sign that reads welcome, as the five-story warehouse quietly whispers turn around.  Wind that talked, and weeds that grew so high they wrapped around the man's ankles.   His cigarette burnt his fingers, making him jump and say, "ouch!" a necessary reaction.  He whipped his hands against his orphaned overalls, while his head turned like a spinning top trying to figure out what and where his windy dirt path had taken him.  A small child appeared randomly by the front door of the warehouse entrance.  Probably 4'9 and 180 pounds of muscle.  She was strong and confident, wide-eyed and alive.  A tall and skinny man walked up behind her with his eyes never unlocking from the overall scavenger that found himself now surrounded by at least two dozen men, women and children.  A complete circle was formed, smooth and fast, out of the dark shadows they appeared.  A few more from the warehouse, even a handful climbing down the black trees that were bent and fallen but perfect for climbing and tree forts.  The dirt below his feet was grey ash that slowly fell from the sky as if winter time during Christmas.  Memories of the once good times in his life passed over his face, before realizing they were and have been dead for many years.  His overalls slapped back and forth from the wind that swooped up and over the cliff in front of him.  It seemed as if the world literally ended 100 feet from the broken warehouse.  He started to lean his head up and to the side as if he was a kid in a car seat trying to see out the windshield in front of him.  He was suddenly awakened from his thoughts and curious adventure, a mental adventure on top of a real life adventure.  It was hard to faze the man that walked the dirt road with torn cloths and eyes filled with abandonment.  His chip held a lack of surprise, while a tender and sensitive feeling of sadness created a shock wave of constant depression.  But this......this gingerbread house in the middle of the black forest made his heart beat for the first time in years.  His lungs filled back up with air, and then the silence broke.  

A little girl broke the circle and sprinted towards the man's leg.  Her mother ran after her with her arms out as if trying to catch a chicken.  A panic took over the mother, but soon came to ease as she saw the little girl and the man talking to each other in a safe an ancient whisper.  The little girl said, "Hello", and the man said, "Well, hi".  He looked down at her glassy brown eyes and asked what her name was.  She responded by not answering the question, but instead saying "Their are many bad days in this forest where the dirt path meets, but my mom says that if we keep training hard we can make it to the promise land".  He looked up to the mother who stood a respectable distance away, while still being motherly.  She looked back at the man with no emotion, only her hair in the wind, and the men behind her who looked like monsters with beards of strength and legs of trees.  The women looked like lions, fast and furious, strong and hard working.  These people didn't look like the normal folk, they looked as if they.......well........they looked like him.  Holey clothes with ripped hands.  Sad faces with hungry souls.  Dry marks from tears, under a brain full of motivation.  The only difference from the man in the middle of the circle in the burnt black forest on the edge of the world and the strong people is that they looked like they had found something to be motivated for, while he stood empty handed.  He looked down at his hands with his forehead crinkled tight, while his eyes pierced down looking for something that should be resting like home in the palms of his hands.  But nothing, for the people around them had something.  The little girl tugged on his overalls that looked as if they were going to rip at any minute. She said, "Follow me sir, I want to show you something".  They started to walk to the front door of the abandoned warehouse where the tall man with the red beard still stood, eyes locked like an eye to a target.  He seemed like the leader, but then again... they all seemed like the leader.  The man looked back at the mother to see if she had any problem with the new plot of the situation.  The mother nodded her head, walked fast and then joined them by grabbing her little girl's hand.  

Inside the warehouse laid 30 to 40 medal cots.  Side by side, dream by dream, wall to wall they sat with medal feet, bodies of blankets, and faces made of pillows.  The little girl jumped on one of the beds out of either excitement from a new visitor, or just because she was a freak athlete, and that's what athletes do, they move, they jump, and they test the limits.  She was defiantly testing the limits of her mother, because she was soon told to get down.  The man entered the next room and to his surprise found something that would change his life forever.  It was a large bar that stood 30 feet tall, and at least as round and wide as the whole warehouse.  How he didn't see the massive metal behind the house seemed impossible.  It was shinny and long, dense and strong, alien like was an understatement.  The overall man reached out and touched the bar as if touching his first-born's face.  There was a moment of complete silence while he tried to gather his thoughts, and control his emotions.  He had so many questions, but stayed quiet.  Besides the little girl, no one had spoken yet.  Just look, expressions, and gestures were being used thus far.  The only noises were coming from the wind that had now died down, and the footsteps that had now stopped while admiring the pure shock this lost man was in.  Wings..........wings he thought, with his hand leaned against the bar and his head down with thought.  He looked up at the man with the red beard and asked.....wings?  The tall cold man who seemed to take the leadership roll nodded his head as to say, "Yes".  "Wings to fly," the little girl said as excited as possible.  "If we lift the bar hard enough everyday, my daddy says the bar will someday fly us away to the land of bright."  She said this while pulling each finger down as if she has rehearsed it a million times, and once finished she looked back up and followed with a jump and a clap out of excitement for nailing the plan the tribe had in front of them.  The man looked fast to the bearded man with a look of excitement as well.  The beard of the man nodded up, then down.  

The wings on the bar spread at least 100 feet wide on each side.  On one side of the bar the wing hovered over the black forest that covered the warehouse and the people who lived in it.  The other wing spread out past the end of the world, or what really was the cliff that led to the land of bright, where the trees grew tall, grass grew green, and the ash was replaced by rays of sun and wind of warmth.  The mother of the little girl finally spoke.  Her voice was soft like an angel, as her brown hair now fell straight down on the side of her face from the wind dying down.  "There is only one way to get to the land of gold and bright, green and happy, cabins of wood and water of clear."  She then looked at the bar......he followed her eyes to the bar.......the quiet stood for a while as he felt at home, as he felt alive for the first time, as he felt a part of something, as he felt he finally had something to feel, grab and lay in the palm of his hands.  He looked back at the mother with a smile on his face.  The black ash started to fall from the sky, and the bad day started to come to night.  His eyes wide, his heart beating fast.  

She looked at her bloody hands and then smiled at her beautiful daughter looking up at the overall stranger.  She then said in the most calm and soothing voice he had ever heard in his whole life.  

"To train everyday."  

Wings 2016 

The Fog



A grey sky on a cold day. The gym door closed, but unlocked and open for the world.  The loading dock door rattles open as I use my body to pull, my butt as a lever, and my arms like cables. Watching the chain beside me slither like a snake, guiding the flexible door past my head and peaking high above the gym roof.  A breeze from the outside fog falls to my feet, gasping its last swirl before falling to its death.  My Adidas sweat suit acts as armor, keeping me safe and warm, focused and protected.  A fanny pack full of the same dreams, just located in a new pocket. The zipper cold from the gym air.  My hands shaky with nerves, as the smell from left over knee wraps causes pain to my nose, and a slight twitch to the face.  A familiar smell in an all too familiar world.  Standing with new shoes, on a path of old, leading to a platform of new.  A cold gym is the best, for cold makes sweat dry, making the bar stick well on the athlete's throat, keeping the athlete's elbows raised for gold, and out of reach from injury. The cold gym makes the hot coffee fresh, cooling down yesterday's struggles, and focusing on today's goals.  My sweatpants low on my waist, as I look forward to them rising higher and higher, as the years move on, and the time ticks round.  Hopefully one day my pants will be covering my head, as I poke two holes to see my athlete's achieve more than I ever did.

Small chatter as the coffee machine in the front room drips, some stretch, while others sit.  A room full of rookie athletes ready to bleed experience, some stretching and rolling, some doing nothing but drinking coffee while all are reflecting on the journey ahead.  Reflecting is the best warm up an athlete can do. Leaving behind the past, and focusing on the future is a champion's best asset.  A mental warm up is what comes in handy, when a hard training session lays quietly in front.  Calm and collect, deadly and destructive, all while being necessary and life changing.  I watch the minds of the young roll like hills. The grassy meadows they still have to climb, the burnt forests they will get to know. Side by side, platform by platform, resting bench to resting bench, coach's eye, to a weightlifter's feet, a rhythm lifter amongst a strength lifter, all fill the cold foggy gym with different philosophies amongst millions of ideas.  One must choose why they are lifting before becoming a champion, once this is established, the athlete will grow and grow fast, running full sprint to the bar in front of them, ready to meet hell before achieving heaven. 

I cross the gym floor with a limp, as I make my way to the fan, facing its wide circular back to the outside mist.  A white world surrounding a dusty gym full of broken hearts, and broken bars.  I turn the fan on even though the cold makes my finger tips numb.  A fan must be turned on at all times no matter what the weather may be.  The sound of the fan alone eases a person's mood, humming soft sounds of comfort, as the skeletons lay to sleep.  A turning fan is water to skin, as the cold moves swiftly around your body, as the athlete moves fast around the bar.  I turn the fan on for comfort, white noise, to feel the outside world as I live in the inside of a gym. 

This gym is cold this morning, and first practice is always painful, but once the athletes get moving, everything makes complete sense. 

Cold Gym 2016 

The Beginning

Hand prints from my fist ever athlete Andrew Jester after qualifying for school age Nationals, one of the biggest highlights of my life. This was the moment that sparked my true love for coaching.  Andrew went on to become a National Bronze medalist a few months later.  

I want to say thank you to my Attitude Nation family for all of your love and support. I am excited to start a new chapter in my life as a full time coach. I am eager to take my love and passion for the sport of weightlifting and pass it on to others. Being a coach, I now have the unique ability to win more medals and make more teams, than being an athlete alone. The past 7 years, weightlifting has been my life as an athlete. Now it is time for weightlifting to be my life as a coach. I am still hungry and more passionate than ever. The journey is not over, it has just begun...

Weightlifting 2016