George Frenn—
It’s Hammer Thrower vs. Shot Putter in the Great Power Clean Contest

Excerpted from pages 152-155
West Coast Bodybuilding Scene
by Dick Tyler

Some of the greatest athletic contests take place as impromptu training competitions when two or more outstanding men get together for a workout and decide to have a go at some event or another. I was fortunate enough to witness just such a day at Peanuts West’s.

Photographer Art Zeller and I walked toward Peanuts’ muscle factory to the accompaniment of a familiar sound indicating some very strong men were throwing barbells around. Clank… Wham…Crash…the sounds got louder as we approached.

“Sounds as though the boys are playing,” Art remarked, as we entered.

Sure enough, the boy who was playing at the moment proved to be George Frenn, one of America’s leading hammer throwers and the world record holder for the thirty-five-pound throw. His playground was the concrete driveway in front of Peanuts’ garage gym.

“Dick,” big George greeted me, “today I’m gonna try to power clean 350 pounds.”

“I thought you were strictly a standard powerlift man, George,” I replied. “Are you moving into Olympic-style weightlifting now?”

George just smiled and hauled a warm-up with 255 pounds to his chest.

For the uninitiated, the power clean is one of the best basic strength and power builders, used by competing weightlifters and by athletes in all sports, especially those who require great power. It looks simple enough. The exerciser stands close to a barbell, his feet on a line and extending under the bar so the bar brushes or almost brushes his shins. He bends his legs and leans forward to grasp the bar with an overhand grip, slightly wider than shoulder width. Then he crouches over the weight and pulls from a position with his legs bent, hips lower than his shoulders, and his back flat. With minimal movement of his feet and with no more than a quarter bend of his legs as he catches the weight at his chest, the exerciser hauls the weight up from the floor and whips his elbows forward under it to hold it across his upper chest.

Frenn quickly worked up past 300 pounds, but when he reached 335 it was obvious the load was making him work hard, slowing his powerful upward pull. Still, he made it and finally loaded the bar to 352 pounds. By this time George was sweating profusely from every pore. He paced up and down, psyching himself up to a real hate for that inanimate object, building his determination to lift it. Feeling ready, he approached the weight. He looked down at it, hard, daring it to defy him. He placed his hands carefully and I could see his grip become firm enough for his fingers to pale. George lifted his head and with a roaring grunt powered the weight chest high. But he couldn’t hold it. Unfortunately, he was unable to whip his wrists under and secure the weight against his chest.

Down came the bar, but only to his thighs. Without a pause, Frenn tried to power it up again, but again he failed. Twice more he tried, after resting, and twice more he failed.

Then from a corner of the gym a deep voice rumbled, “Wanna see who can power clean the most, George?”

From such remarks great impromptu contests are born, but seldom do they involve athletes of such national prominence. Frenn looked over at the massive George Woods who had just spoken.

His face lit up. “Sure. Let’s go.”

Just like that we had a match going between two great heavyweight athletes. George Frenn holds the United States powerlift records for the 242-pound class in the squat at 732 pounds and the total for bench press, squat and deadlift at 1900 pounds, holds the world record for the thirty-five-pound weight throw (seventy-three feet, three-and-a-half inches), and had the second-best hammer throw by an American in 1968 at 226 feet, six inches with the sixteen-pound weight.

George Woods can’t match Frenn in total weightlifting experience, but has great agility—he can do a standing back flip—and muscular size, usually weighing from 290 to 300 pounds. Woods was ranked second in the world as a shot putter on the basis of his sixty-eight-foot, quarter-inch put with the sixteen-pound ball at the Olympic trials in September.

The two track and field behemoths began to chalk their hands so their grips wouldn’t slip when they tugged on the barbell. Art Zeller wasn’t going to miss an opportunity like this, so he unlimbered his camera.

“Down at the beach I get sand in the lens,” Art grumbled. “Here it’s chalk.”

Woods stepped up to the barbell for his first attempt with 295 pounds. It zipped up so easily he looked good for double the amount. Next it was Frenn’s turn and he showed the hapless barbell no mercy.

The massive shot putter loaded the bar to 315 and made another nice success. Frenn shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow. He chalked his hands, then decided to add five pounds, bringing the total weight to 320.

“You can do it, George. You can do it,” he told himself, thinking aloud positively. Everyone quieted to watch him try.

Frenn gripped the bar tightly, threw his head back and pulled with a tremendous explosion of power. He tore the weight from the floor—but not quite to his chest. It dropped back to his thighs, where he held it in the completed deadlift position.

Still holding the weight, Frenn looked at Woods. “Can I try again?” he asked.

“Right,” Woods answered. “Any way you like, as long as you get it up.”

Without lowering the weight, Frenn tried to clean it from the dead-hang position across his thighs. No go. It was evident that his earlier efforts to clean 352 had drained off a lot of power.

It was Woods’ turn again. He chalked his hands carefully, stepped up to the barbell, gripped it and pulled powerfully. Almost—but not quite. He was so close that a three-inch dip of his knees would have fixed the weight at his chest.

This was just the encouragement Frenn needed. This time his power would not be denied and he took a five-pound lead. Not interested in a tie, Woods loaded the barbell to 325. He pulled…and missed. The weight crashed down, almost through the cement of the driveway.

Frenn had won—this time.

Some of the most exciting athletic contests and greatest feats of strength are performed just this way, on the spur of the moment. Art and I had been lucky enough to be present for this one.

As we were leaving, Woods was telling Frenn, “I’d like to press 450 pounds on the incline. That’s the best Dallas Long was able to do when he held the world shot put record. My best so far is 395.”

“I’ve done 400 myself,” Frenn stated, “and so has Joe DeMarco.”

It sounded as though another contest might be in the offing, but hearing about all those heavy weights was making even my ears tired, so Art and I kept walking.

And... Excerpted from pages 358-359

I’ve heard it said truth is more exciting than fiction. Over a period of years I’ve sometimes had cause to doubt that saying, but an incident which recently occurred at Gold’s Gym makes me wonder. It all happened one night not long ago when the gym was packed with its usual muscle denizens. One of the boys really digs the incline bench and had worked his way up to quite a sizable poundage. He was able to get the poundage up rapidly because he would bring the bar to the chest with incredible force. He wouldn’t just let the bar drop to the chest, he’d literally pull the weight to himself until he could almost bend the Olympic bar from the force. I suppose he felt it was some kind of a super bounce. He was warned by almost everyone that what he was doing to get the weight up might cause him a great deal of trouble as the weights got heavier. He wouldn’t listen and continued pulling the bar into his chest with great force.

This particular night he finished a set and got up to walk away. Suddenly he began to sway. Before anyone could help, he tumbled to the floor as if he’d been pole-axed. His head hit the cement floor like a piece of lead shot. In fact it literally bounced. People ran over to help him up. He didn’t move. His eyes were closed and his lips parted. Something’s was wrong—seriously wrong.

George Frenn elbowed his way through the crowd that had gathered.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

By this time the young lifter’s mouth was turning blue.

“He’s not breathing,” Frenn yelped as he leapt forward and started to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Thus began the battle to save a human life. George worked until the sweat was pouring from his brow. Still the bodybuilder didn’t respond as his face started to turn blue. George started to pound on his chest hoping to stimulate any heart action that might have ceased.

“Breathe, breathe!” he yelled frantically.

The young lifter’s face was turning ranker by the second. In desperation Frenn lifted the man in his arms and started squeezing him around the chest to force his lungs to work. At last there was a gasp for air and a man’s life was saved because of the efforts of George, who wouldn’t let death win. The young man was taken, unconscious, to the hospital. The following week he came back to the gym. Everyone seemed astonished to see him walking around.

“How do you feel?” someone asked.

“Fine. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Don’t you remember what happened?”

“Yeah, I heard I got a little faint.”

“A little faint! Man, you nearly cashed in your chips and went to that great gym in the sky!”

“Are you kidding?” said the young lifter.

Everyone just stared as he loaded up the bar and prepared to do his incline presses.

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