The Song of the Whooping Crane
April 1, 2003

Cartoon from Mad Magazine, July 1966

I’m sitting on the end of a bench facing the loaded bar. The loaded bar lying still in the center of the lifting platform is facing me. It’s a standoff and neither one of us is moving. The fact is the bar will not move unless I move it, one of the rules of the game I often have a problem with. I chalk up, wrestle with the odds and plan my attack.

The activity on the gym floor is light, a condition that could change momentarily, though I doubt it. The weather is fine, it’s early afternoon and the young spring days are lengthening and showing promise. Promise has been missing from the general constitution of daily life lately. Too many in neighborhoods across the lands have come to live on squeezed-dry hope, cheap jokes, sugar and cynicism. I won’t mention the fear, anxiety, sadness and anger. Why bother? I reach for my lifting belt and throw it around my waist.

Every step we take is defined by gravity, but the deadlift, pulling the bar before you from the floor to an upright hanging position, takes you inside the physics of the phenomenon and makes you one with it. That’s how I think as I approach the silent and lifeless creature, the heartless, breathless, cold and hard thing lying in wait -- crouched, really -- on the black rubber mat. No one cares, no one notices and the hair dryer blows in the women’s locker room, the toilet flushes in the men’s, the music plays on and the phone rings at the front counter.

“Draper, it’s for you. Someone from Gymdollars.com sez they can double your membership sales in 14 days.”

For a minute I wonder, “What membership, what sales?” and remember I’m standing in a gym I’ve owned for 15 years. The rude interruption is dealt with easily by a cheery “No thanks” from my loyal desk-dude and I’m back to reality. Move that iron, lift that steel.

There’s a lot at stake. Well, not really, it either comes up or it doesn’t. What’s the big deal? The big deal is this; it doesn’t come up, you’re on a bummer. That’s bad. It comes up and you’re a cheerful and generous person who smiles and doesn’t yell at people, throw things and glare. Laree can always tell how my workout went. Seldom do they go bad.

I’m standing close to the bar and gathering my thoughts. Maximum concentration is necessary. Thinking must be crisp and correct. The success of the lift is directly proportionate to the depth of concentration and clarity of thought. I bend at the waist and bend at the knees almost equally and grasp the bar as I shuffle into position. Focus hasn’t been fully achieved, but it’s imperative that its peak is imminent. The final tugs on the bar and the setting of the feet and hips allow the critical moment to “occur,” when the might of the back and the legs is transferred through the arms and hands at the instant command of the brain and its exact and thoroughly positive thoughts. The legs must work hard from a deep starting point and the back must not lag behind unwilling. The tug is often long and slow and never ceasing. Directions are given, adjustments are made. Somewhere between the floor and the full upright stance the bar seems impossible and foreign, but the motion continues. Strange. No sound in this world. A moment of truth at the speed of light asks if damage is near, do you care, may you continue and then you are erect, fully and completely, and you can hold the loaded bar and breathe and perceive and put it down where it once lay. No glaring today.

I remain bent over as I regain my balance and focal point. An oxygen deprived brain spins like a top. Back on the planet I remove the belt and consider my next playful step. Water is the drink of the day and I find myself seated on the same bench alternately sipping and gulping. These are the times I rethink bulking up, getting huge and doing reps with that dinky pile of iron. Never satisfied for long, I catch myself and thank God for the good lift. Wonder if I aroused some GH and will I get a growth spurt in the middle of the night? I’m 100 years old and still greedy. Surely I will be fatigued, especially after the remainder of the workout. I’ll knock off some lighter sets for reps and superset them with pullovers to restore the oxygen inventory. Me and my crazy uneducated logic.

A night like this will not be complete without five sets of Farmers walks around the gym. Start with 100 pounders and work my way up 125s and go for 60 paces of whatever length in whichever direction is clear. They’re a smile. I can polish some mirrors between sets to maintain a rhythm, sustain the heart rate and accomplish my chores. That sitting around between big movements is like waiting for a bus at a country crossroads.

The gym is beginning to fill up and somebody has an eye on the bench upon which I sit -- me and my paraphernalia, a collection of grubby straps, my belt looped over an empty bar on the uprights, a liter of water, a roll of paper towels for my runny nose, foam grips and my personal pair of quick-release collars. Stuff. What would life be without stuff? I gather everything together and like a gypsy migrate to a step-box in the corner where no one will venture. The remaining deadlifts will require heart and lungs and good form, but I will not need to dig deep to unbury the ultimate fortitude previously required for a one-rep max. I will be able to think, carefully form the repetitions, define the exertion of the muscles and savor the outpouring of strength. I will breathe hungrily and enjoy the grand pump.

Look out! A bright young lady is heading this way with a 15-pound dumbbell in each hand. She is without expression and she is walking and lunging the length of the gym with reasonable balance and spectacular determination. Whoops, whoops, whoop… like one of those ungainly birds you see strutting the wet sand at the beach digging for tiny sea creatures with their beaks. She knows she looks funny but shows no sign of admitting it. I guess if you keep it a secret, no one will notice. She passes by (whoops) and I smile carefully. Good thing I got my recent most killer deadlift or I’d have said something silly or stuck out my foot (whoops). Looks like a good exercise -- glutes, hamstrings and quads pulsing -- though I’m sure squats are a lot better. One man’s opinion.

I strain with pain to gain yet not in vain. With the deadlifts behind me and the pullovers under my belt, I prepare for the mighty grip-makers, the trap-tugging, leg-slugging, back-flogging, mind-boggling, sweat-sogging Farmer’s Walks. Wonder if I look as terrific as the female athlete who loped by a few minutes ago, I, stumbling around the gym in different directions neck craning as if I was lost? “Excuse me, ma’m, have you seen my bench? I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”

Wow! I’m alive. Every fiber of my body is tingling. FWs are demanding, fatiguing, absolutely basic and almost silly, a stout exercise that challenges at once the whole mind and the whole body. Everything is working and burning and giving out and you can’t let go till it’s over. These are the times that try the souls of men and women. We must be in shape, alert and hopeful.

There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, like the completion of a workout well executed: the relief, the release, the fulfillment, the purge, the surge and the identification with the player next to you who knows what you know -- the dear pain, the calming fatigue and the settling muscular throb. Who can buy this, how much is it worth? For the heart and the lungs and the miles of capillaries it is priceless. The muscles you are born with rejoice and thank you for your care, your thoughtfulness. Energy and endurance are your payment for a job well done. Trim, lean, strong, shapely, youthful, these lovely characteristics are somewhere in your sights. And have you discovered how much fun exercise is? And eating right is a piece of cake… er… a slug of your favorite Bomber Blend.

Smile, be happy. Take her up and cut her loose and go with God… DD

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