Dateline: Austin, Texas
April 27-30, 2007

Our Texas Bash 2007 hosts, Steve, Linda and Alison, ordered up a spectacular weekend in the midst of the violence of tornadoes, gold-ball-size hail and flash flooding. Concern was warranted, considering the Texas sky dumped buckets on Wednesday and started up again on Monday, but the days between were perfect, dawn (er, so I was told) to dusk. Our clan began collecting on Thursday, folks drifting in from Alaska to Mexico, California to Jersey by way of Florida and all points between. Camping, bunking out in the barn, sleeping in cars, the Motel 6, cozy bed and breakfasts, the youth hostel and uptown Austin hotels, we ran the gambit last weekend. Even the Masterson’s Wanderlodge traveling house bus wheeled on down to settle in at Fat Horse Farm,
Dripping Springs, Texas.

By mid-day Friday, we zeroed in on the first stop of our itinerary, a visit with Jan and Terry Todd at their Todd-McLean Physical Culture Collection situated in the heart of the University of Texas, Austin, an assemblage of written material, documents, books, photos, magazines, scrapbooks and personal notes unparalleled across the globe. Currently jammed into about a thousand square feet, with the upcoming move to their new facility in November 2008, they’ll occupy 27,000 square feet, holding over 150,000 printed items, a reading lounge, library, storage areas and archival workspace.

Quite unbelievable, really; their material spans over 125 years of written material documenting the history of barbells and musclebuilding, in addition to holding the largest gathering of sports and alternative medicine books, including one written in 1569 and recently donated by Highland Games authority and historian David Webster. Three hours there, and we barely snooped a single aisle of a dozen, and only just poked a nose into the storage room for the fun of it.


Next on the agenda was a group workout at the Bee Caves Gold’s Gym, but someone else will have to tell that story because after 24 hours of frustration with my faulty new handheld GPS tool, once Tom “Rambo” Paulson fiddled with it and scored my elation at its “satellite captured” tone, I couldn’t help playing with the thing. We’d been in the Library for hours, and a few of us wanted food over workouts, so we headed for Ruby’s BBQ as per this now-operational new toy that throws out restaurant suggestions like mini-Snickers off of Halloween serving trays.
Unfortunately, I misread the thing and the crew trucking along behind me (Dave, Barb, Charlie, Bill, Cajin and Corey) tired of my searching for a new satellite to re-calibrate after several block-long treks in the wrong direction, so we ate at the next diner we passed. Luckily, it was highly recommended by Barb, our agreeable Friday tour guide, and we enjoyed the food at Kerbey Lane Cafe almost as much as the companionship.
Word has it across town at Gold’s our strongwoman competitor, Miss Michelle, hit a PR deadlift of 275 to an earsplitting round of IOL applause.
After our sidetrip, we set off to see the bats on Congress — about a million and a half of them; can you spell Hitchcock? — but by the time we sorted out the complicated instructions that bought our freedom from the parking garage, we were a few minutes from late to Threadgill’s, the fabulously friendly Eddie Wilson’s joint, where Supperman stood at the front door to greet his old pal, Bomber.
At Threadgill’s, our split groups reunited and met with late arrivals, along with locals Dave Goodin (aka the Texas Shredder), Koley Porter, Austin’s country finest, Mike Graham and Carol Finsrud, whom you’ll hear more of later in the weekend, and our hosts from the Collection, Terry and Jan Todd, all of us crowding two long tables and dominating a major dining room at the center of the cafeteria, at one point the laughter and conversations so boisterous as to render the room deafening.
Hours later and a few dozen plates served, our server carted out a strawberry rhubarb pie, compliments of Eddie. We wondered about declining, saying no, thanks, that this group wouldn’t eat dessert, but hey, that’d be rude, so we gracefully accepted the monstrosity (unsurprisingly, they make pies BIG in Texas), sliced it into a couple dozen slivers and scarfed it away clean.
Here’s another sweet treat — next week on the Threadgill’s menu: Bomber Cake, a new recipe using no sugar that Eddie created in Dave’s honor. Sweet beans!
Now, on Saturday Dave did have a slice of Linda’s Southern Pecan Pie. Normally I don’t tell that part of the story, but I happen to know our pal Kris, who drove all the way up from central Mexico with his dojo partner, Dave, caught this unusual occasion on film. So… I think to myself… why keep silent? Let that headline out!
As I look back, considering the days and events to report, I see I was far too distracted by the IronOnline companionship at dinner, renewing friendships and gaining new ones, so much so that I missed the opportunity to scour the walls of Eddie’s priceless collection, photos of his musician friends, although the real thing — good ole boy music — blasted us from the beer garden on exit, and we all grooved to the beat of Bob Schneider’s Texas Bluegrass.
That grooving’ got the Jersey boys amped (’cept for Dave, but hey, he’s still in post-surgical mode, making that no reflection on Jersey energy), so Ed and Pete dragged along Laurie and Janey and hitched off to Austin’s famous 6th Street for dancing in the streets.
Tired, the rest of us splintered off quickly, knowing we were to meet up again after daybreak.
Under clear skies, with BBQ smoke already wafting into the farmhouse, the early birds re-grouped for a hearty breakfast. Headlining the menu at the Farm Saturday, and again Sunday, were Steve’s secret recipe sourdough pancakes, set off by our Leo Rio’s fresh roasted coffee, a beloved IOL treat.
Eager to work off a rancher’s breakfast, the gang tromped outside to push and pull, lift and carry under the supervision of Bryan, a true Texas Strongman, and, later, to learn to shoot under the guiding touch of Bill “Wicked Willie” Peel.
Check out this list of implements: oblong rocks and rounded smooth stones, all a hundred to perhaps three hundred pounds of heft, to lug the circle or hoist overhead, tractor tires to flip, a 600-pound backhoe attachment to pull, kettlebells to snatch, a sled to tug, a caber pole to turn, 45s to pinch, and nails and bolts to bend. See anything missing? If you do, it’s only because I’ve forgotten an item or two from the list.

On shooting with Wicked Willie: most of us shot a clever 22; Dave a rowdy 45 ’cause his forefinger was too huge to fit the trigger of the little starter pistol. Bill’s a teaching pro, a fact that will surprise no one from IOL, and step by precise step, he got us all on the target by round number four. At least two tinny pings on the metal piglet rewarded the ears and pride of each shooter.
So, what were ya jumping for, Vicki? You pulled the trigger and knew what was coming. All in good fun, her two pings clanged against the metal, just like mine. We’re bad now. Wicked’s wife, Michele, aka Felicity Shameless, was proclaimed top shooter that day, with Double D nipping at her heels.

A quick shout out to my gal pals, if I may (fair enough, since Felicity beat out the menfolk at shooting): Michelle, so agreeable, sunny and friendly — and oh so strong — always first up to help, followed closely by Betsy (a Texas jewel), and Susan (my Santa Cruz bud, now a Texas transplant, who hauled along her husband, Jim), Colleen (wish you lived closer), Laurie (Fit in Pink, who lived up to her handle, let there be no doubt), Michele II (the giggly Felicity), Linda (shoulda put her first since she organized this whole thing!), Alison, her gorgeous daughter, Vicki (eagerasanirshsetter, which the IOL forum regulars will get and the other readers will be tempted to write to tell me of the typo) and Janey, the better half of Pete’s dancing duo… I sure enjoyed spending Saturday afternoon with y’all.

If we’d have had another afternoon we could have gotten a self-defense class from experts Kris and Dave from Aikido Seikikai in San Luis Potosi, Mexico. Can you believe the assortment of talent collected in Dripping Springs that day?

After shooting, strongman lifting, pulling and pushing, Steve and Linda’s neighbors — pro BBQ competitors, as if we could be any luckier — hollered the old Texas yell: Comin getit!
And we were treated to the heady smells and succulent tastes of slow-smoked chicken, sausage, beef brisket and pork ribs, along with coleslaw, Texas pinto beans and potato salad made just like my mom taught me, probably just like her mom taught her (and so on). Oh, very yum!
Stuffed to the gills, we sat, wandered, talked and sat again. At one point a line formed near Corey Pavitt, his audacious twinkle charming us right along with his big, easy grin. It wasn’t his grin that captured the attention this time, though; instead it was his magic fingers. You see, Corey’s a chiropractor who, along with Bill Frazee, has made an appearance at all seven of the IronOnline bashes, which is saying something, considering his
gym and chiropractic office is in Juneau, Alaska. I must admit, each year we begin taking advantage of Corey’s skills as soon as he arrives.

One who really needed Corey’s smooth medicine: Al, known in IOL as Uncle Al, but, dripping from melting ice packs covering every joint, I’m going to have to go with Arthritis Al. Beat up joints didn’t dampen his competitive spirit, though, when rocks — heavy ones — need to be shifted from one end of the circuit to the other as his turn at the track came ’round. Without Corey’s ministrations, Al would have been sidelined for certain.
Winding down, the cushy seats down near the barn drew us in. Calm, dazed even, most of us sat and watched as the bold tested their mettle against nail and bolts that defied bending. Grippin’ Greg brought his case of bending goodies, along with his extensive know-how, happy to share (he also brought along his great family — wife, Angie, and daughters Kaylee and Mattie).

Susan, Michelle, Wicked, Steve, Kris, Corey and Rambo jumped in to practice this old-time skill. Alex (Yeti), he with the deceptive strength, Robbie and T.W., two truly terrific young Texans and John MacMullin, photographer extraordinaire, unfortunately left before the impromptu bending seminar began; these guys would have loved it.
While watching the bending, wouldn’t you know it — food was hauled out again. The choice this time, an Italian meat tray hand selected and flown in by Laurie from her Florida corner deli. Delightful! The pepperoni was a huge hit, but I was stuck on the most unusual and meaty salami, and, to the pleasure of my two closets neighbors who were also chowing down on the savory goodies, I neglected the spicy pepperoni treats.
Parked around a bonfire at Fat Horse Farms, the Percheron draft horses clomping around the corral, peacocks squawking over the ridge, mellowed with food and activity and friendship, we put the wraps on Saturday.

Breakfast Sunday was a repeat of Saturday that wound its way from 8am to noon, and, as far as I heard, only Tom went away unfed seeing that he hit the dusty trail long before dawn. Corey did a re-do of his chiropractic duties, then we were off to eat again, this time at Nutty Brown’s amphitheater, with the backdrop of live music under the trees out behind the joint.
Do you have the impression we ate often? That’s about how it went; you’ve got a good read on things if that’s what you were thinking.
Now about this time on Sunday afternoon, our group begins to dwindle. Each lively segment from Saturday on, a few more travelers make the break, and by now — stalling, unwilling to say goodbye for another year or perhaps longer — we bid farewell to another dozen and are down to the remaining nine hangers-on who plan re-group the following morning.
Monday breakfast became lunch when we discovered our diner choice wasn’t open for breakfast after our five cars collected in the parking lot — far too late to ferret out a secondary breakfast site. Stepping over the old County Courthouse building threshold that now houses the highly recommended Hill’s Café, where Rachel Welch (I’m told this is true, but did not see it for myself) is the marquee image in the men’s room, and, among a hundred other such photos, the spotlight in the women’s room focuses your eye on a Gulf Coast beach shot displaying the huge backside of a guy in a 10-gallon hat strolling hand in hand with a beautiful bikini-clad chicklet, captioned, “How to Spot a Texas Oil Man.” Ya gotta love it.
Fed again, we set off, trucking down US 183 toward Lockhart, Texas, along with CJ
“I’m moving to Lockhart” Baron, CB, Ed, Laurie, Bill, Vicki and Pete, where we were to train at
Mike Graham’s Old Texas Barbell Company.

And we did… train, that is, but twixt it all, we snooped around the dusty corners, past Carol Finsrud’s kazillion World Championship throwing medals, in search of old treasures. What’s this? A circus sledgehammer block?
And next to it, what’s that? Oh. My. Why, that’s a Peary Rader Magic Circle.
Nope, not kidding around. It was indeed a Magic Circle. Now, I know a whole bunch of you remember seeing that contraption on the sidebar of an ancient IronMan 6×9, but how many do you really think they sold? And how many of those are still collecting dust? What a bolt from the blue that was, one that held us enthralled for half an hour as we hauled it from behind the back door and over the shoulders of our pal, Charlie Barber, who’s spiffy black tee shirt suffered under the decade of dust we neglected to hose off first.



After a couple hours of free rein of the place, 3pm rolled around, the locals clamored in, and it was time to take our leave, but not before Vicki and Pete, traveling, while not exactly hippie style, in a bus obligation-free and fanciful, decided on the extended stay option and ponied up the bucks for a month’s membership at the Barbell Company. Since that includes personal training from Mike, a 50-year weight-lifting veteran, that’s whatcha call priceless.

Anyway, the original plan was to walk next door, but we’d caught a whiff of
Kreuz Barbeque out on 183 on the way by, then a bit of local gossip confirmed the location switch. Kreuz it was to be, no question.
BBQ Texas style looks like this: butcher paper = plate; fingers = fork. BBQ in Texas is sauce-less. Did you know that? Slow smoked, no sugar, no goo. Sometimes fatty, sometimes dry, usually peppercoated. At Kreuz’ you point to the meat you want, guide the slicer’s knife to the cut size that looks right, and pay by the pound. There’s a wash basin coming in; wash basin going out. Afterwards, Bluebell ice cream for the bold.
And now, finally, our group of nine foot-draggers dwindles to seven; next to five; four, until Dave and I stand alone in the enormous parking lot fronting the barn, bidding farewell to another fabulous IronOnline vacation.