Spud Speaks
by Marc Bartley
This has been one year I wish I could
totally wipe off the resume. I guess it could’ve gone otherwise,
but what lessons would I have learned? In my quest to finish the
job I started, I forgot a lot of the important things that I had
learned over the last eight or nine years. The whole plan had
been to escape powerlifting without any injuries, but as you
know, it seems as though things weren’t meant to go that way
at all. Powerlifting is one mean bitch, and when she gets
pissed, hell hath no fury - and she unleashed it all on me. I
asked for it though, so I accept full responsibility for the
unleashing of Sybil upon my once powerful powerlifting
person.
I rolled into '07 with a tricep tendon tear from a retarded
accident, and from some general buffoonism. As most of you know,
this was only a partial tear, but it required surgery because
the bone spur that came off with the tendon was lodged in the
tricep. Looking back, I probably could have carried on, but I
really wanted to get that first surgery under my belt. As
everyone knows, scars make the storytelling that much better,
and they tend to validate any and all claims of superhero
status. I threw the spur away, but I should’ve kept it because
it would have been the most awesome keepsake ever - a family
heirloom to be passed down through generations, if only there
were some generations to pass it to. Right now, my brother is
the only one to have a legacy, and I think his wife is going to
overshadow that if you know what I mean, so I couldn’t have
passed it on to him. Besides, they can't understand powerlifting
anyway. Most regular people can’t understand it. Their brains
just cannot grasp why a dude would ever want to try putting 1200
lbs on his back, or 800-1000 lbs in his hands.
The rehab was forced and quick on the elbow, as I tried to get
to the Arnold - which turned out to be the last one for the WPO
anyhow. Great. Three years of almost there, and then
poof. Gone, totally. Watching the meet was sort of hard, at
least during the squats. After that, as happens in all my meets,
I lost interest and just zoned out the rest of the day. That
night was fun. The UFC fights were in town, and Dave held a
great party - only I don't remember very much of it after the
first hour or two. I didn't eat, plus the frustration of the
Arnold and of just being a spectator fueled my alcohol
consumption, and my Vicodin numbed me up very well.
Apparently, I was very social and as The
Thinker put it, I was drunk out of my mind but one of those
drunks who don't really bother anybody, so it was okay. I messed
with everyone I came in contact with. Dave said I was going
around the party asking people if they wanted to get strong, and
if they answered yes, I would then say, "Then grab my balls."
I’m not sure if I really said this, but knowing my drunk self, I
probably did. I think I cornered Shannon Hartnett and aggravated
her for a hour or two while Wendler and The Thinker talked to
Sue abut how much they liked to give anal pleasure to chicks -
at least I think it was chicks. I’ll have to ask Sue about that
again. I then demanded my keys to drive home, f'ed out of my
mind. Of course, I was denied the man pleasure of driving home
drunk and telling everyone how much better I drive when I drink
a lot.
After the party and a long, hung-over trip home, I went back to
work on a quest to finish the job I started. Two weeks later, I
got big man raw-itis and tried to max effort pull on my light
day. Some days you’ve got it, and some days you just have to tap
out. I guess I thought I was Royce Gracie and would rather have
my elbow broken than to tap out. I went up to 665x1 RAW - but
with a belt - and then tried 715 and missed, but rather than
quit knowing I was tapped out for that particular day, I went
for it one more time with a ping up my ass cheek - which wasn't
hemorrhoids (had them before) - and earned a long hard summer
for myself and pretty much for the rest of my life (my hammy-ass
still has not healed). Basically, that was two out of two
instances where the air raid alarms to quit went off loud and
clear, but for some reason I thought they were only practice
drills. If your guts are screaming out to you, listen. They know
what they are talking about. Your brain DOES NOT. My butt
infrastructure is now damaged forever…
Oh, I forgot - rewind the tape. Another great moment on the path
to injure-ment (my story of enlightenment). Right before
the elbow incident, while benching of all things – and, to top
it off, a raw-dog (noshirtery) hardcore moment at the end
of a training session when I was already done - I did one more
set with 500 or so (I think for 3 or 4 reps), shoved too hard on
my feet and sprained (in actuality, tore) the quad tendon
slightly. Of course, I kept squatting and pulling on it - and
yeah, benching - like the rocket scientist I am. The squatting
was fine and didn't bother me too much. Pulling was good, too,
until the asshammy meltdown.
I had not committed to any meets at this point, and Louie was
calling me once a week or so to get me in the Cincy Pro-Am in
August. I kept putting it off because I hate summer meets. I’ve
only had one good one and that was my first 2400 total at the
Senior Nationals in Baton Rouge in 2004. We had a small bench
meet in April, and I had to ask to borrow a competition bench
from Williams Strength. They didn't have one, but I asked Double
Whopper Don if we could use the physical therapy's competition
bench. I haven't figured that one out yet. I didn't know a rehab
joint needed a $1300 bench. I didn't even think doctors approved
of benching, but there it was.
I hadn't really seen Don de Don Don in
about a year since the Bay of Strongpigs Crisis, so it was a
strange moment of awkwardness for both of us. I guess if you
found out you had a brother somewhere after twenty years, only
it was on the Jerry Springer show, this would have been that
moment - only without the audience booing and talking shit.
Anyway, we got through the moment, exchanged pleasantries, and
he said he was going to Louie's meet because of the whole WPO
falling apart thing at the time. He suggested I go, that it
would be a good meet, and that real money would change hands -
not just the thought or mirage of money. I still hadn't made up
my mind, but a little later I said “What the f%*#?” and sent my
money in. I knew deep down I didn’t want to do it, but that
little bastard came out and called me lots of not so nice names
- like chicken, p*&&&#, quitter, etc…
I then began my preparation plan, because the meet wasn't that
far off. I had been doing lots of ridiculous raw and light brief
stuff up to that point. It did not go well at all. I had to wrap
something up almost every day I trained. Either the knee hurt,
or the asshammy fired off. Pulling sucked - four plates was hard
on speed day - so I did very little real pulling except some
rack here and there - but even they sucked because I had to go
conventional most of the time. The encouraging part was that I
totally revamped my bench training, taking a little from Big
Iron and some from Scott Yard. I also got a Bash shirt, which is
a great shirt once you figure how to jack it up. I did a lot of
one board and hit 800 off the two board, so I was pleased with
that. Squatting was really good. I hit 1135 with a reverse band
and briefs, 1080 in full gear for one, and 1045x2, 1005x2 in the
same session, so things were encouraging on those two fronts.
I got to the meet and was pissed the whole time - a large
premonition or cloud, you might say, was hanging over me the
entire time. The food was bad, the venue tight, and the mood
everywhere - at least in my opinion - not that great for a big
meet. Definitely not the same camaraderie as usual. It seemed
like a job we all just did, but hated it because we had too. No
offense to Louie or anyone else – it’s just the way I felt and
the vibe I got from most.
We all know the rest. My leg go boom and
I fall down. Just at that moment. Not in the back with 990,
or the many attempts at the gym at above a grand, and not on my
opener of 1135. Just on 1205 - the attempt I did not want to do.
This was either a strange twist of fate, or maybe Rod Serling
was there and it was the Twilight Zone for me that day.
The only guys that came by after the accident where and Chad and
Evan and his wife. I guess fear or not wanting to get my bad
voodoo kept everyone else away. I might have smelled bad, or the
lingering stench of powerlifting death could be the other
reason. I guess Monty Python comes to mind – the scene where
he’s carrying the cart full of people dead from the Black
Plague, yelling "Bring out your dead," and I wake up and say,
"I'm not dead yet.”
I got lots of calls when I got home. I guess I’m a safe distance
from everyone else and it's okay now. Surgery went well. It was
a complete mess in there, and I know it will probably have to be
worked on in fifteen or twenty years, but it ain't now. I pissed
in a jug, took Demerol every two hours for a week, and become
symbiotic with my recliner chair for three or four weeks with
regular sponge baths. The only thing I was lacking to complete
the vegetative state was a feeding tube.
Around this time, I got a call from Barry,
one of the team. I already knew what he was going to say. He
informs me that he and Karl are going back to the Double Whopper
Don powerlifting-to-go compound while I heal up, and that
they’ll be back when I’m ready to squat again. Stunned because
that is all I could be at the moment, I accept it because I
don't have a choice. I understand that people have to do what
they have to do to be successful, and I would never stop that or
get in the way, but it still ain't the best week ever for me or
for the team.
The gym carries on, and everyone is so supportive. People from
all over have chipped in, brought food, relieved Sue so she
could come home to check on me, called, or come by to keep me
company during my hallucinating TV watching periods where I
watched the entire TV universe daily like a zombie. Four weeks
later I was back at the gym, but we had gotten behind the
eight-ball financially while I was out. Everyone does the best
they can under the circumstances, but it was a situation that
would take three months to get out of and back to having our
heads above water a little. Up shit’s creek without a paddle is
about right. Now, I like it tough and hardcore but come on…can I
have a breather, please?
During this whole time, I had assumed I tore my rear delt during
the contest. In fact, it broke before the quad did - or at least
it seemed so at the time. And no, I did not quit when I felt it
rip on the way down during the squat. I kept going like a
dumbass because that is, as Forrest would say (and I hope
I’m using it right), "A stupid is as a stupid does," and I just
wanted to rip my quad off. I would find after a nerve test that
the axillary nerve either ruptured or was severely strained, so
basically what I felt was the power-line being cut and my delt
falling down lifeless and sagging like a old boob. Nice.
The only thing the docs could say was that it would be a wait
and see thing. It could come back in 3-6 months, or not at all.
Thus far, it's not at all.
I have another nerve test coming up to see
if anything has come back. To help you understand this, stick
pins with wires attached to them all around the area and then
send signals to see if there is any action. It's like tuning
your radio. if there is no station - or nerve in this case -
it's static and hissing sounds. If the nerve is working, you get
a hum or the station you like is played. Right now, I don’t care
what station I get, as long as I actually get a station to play,
but that is a couple of weeks away.
As usual, when I got my nerve study appointment, I didn’t think
much of it until a couple of weeks later, right before
Christmas, when I found out I’d be paying my third out-of-pocket
expense because it would be my third operation in a different
year. Yay again for me. I tried to reschedule, but my
doctor was out of town.
Along the way I decided to get "lean," and
picked the perfect time of the year to do it - right around the
holidays. But since the year was FUBAR anyway, what the hell?
Shelby Starnes at Troponin Nutrition has been helping me out.
Justin Harris has a good crew there, and Shelby has been very
patient with me. Honestly, though, I could blow Sam's Club up
right now. I eat, breathe, fart and, if you were to cut me,
bleed mesquite grilled chicken. I am thinking eight or ten more
weeks of this is all I can take, so hopefully I can get where I
need to be by then.
I am so hungry now all the time that I
notice stuff hidden in cabinets and drawers, where I’d normally
never notice them - Reece’s hidden behind cans of vegetables,
semi-sweet baking chocolate so far back in the pantry that only
a Ranger with night-vision goggles could see it. I see things
that aren't food or carbs and pretend in my head that they’re
cookies and dream about eating them. This is paying off
though – I’d say about 50 lbs off so far and only 20-30 lbs more
to go.
Thank God this year is gone. If you think you’ve had a bad year,
then think again and be thankful for all that you have. Things
can go wrong, but they’re just things that can be replaced or
fixed with time. I just got mine all at once. I am going to make
a pact with God: give me my lumps now, and I’ll take care of
them as they come. It's easier to deal with them one at a
time than all at once, but I guess that was the way it had to
go, at least for me.
Enjoy the new year, and take the time to
have fun in your life. We only get one go-round, so make the
time count and remember - anything is better than 2007: the not
so Year of the Spud.
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