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- Jul 19, 2005
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Pitbulltank this is the story I mentioned in the other thread.
I wrote this about 6 years ago?? It may have actually been my first one.
Again, I hope you guys enjoy it.
THE LIFTER IS NOT A FICTIONAL CHARACTER.
The lifter walks into the gym his mind like a rusty razor blade cutting on a slate chalk board. A single thought in mind...to take this lift to a place that most mortals dont dare go. This is the moment of impending confrontation, a moment that draws closer and closer with each step closer to the bar. His head down his focus straight ahead the other people around in slow motion as though he has stepped into another dimension. He sees his opponent- an empty bar...seems so benign but in minutes it will be a fierce opponent. He grabs 2 -45's and slides one on each end feeling the cold iron as it slams home against each collar like the door of a prison cell slamming home behind an inmate-there is only one absolution of this crime....pain.
He grips the bar and feels the knurls dig in like old rusty nails into his calloused palms. He looks in the mirror and sees the form in front of him the mismatched outfit, old sneakers, sweatpants with ripped seams, a 4xl shirt that hugs his shoulders and neck, and a black wool hat who's white logo has long since soured with a yellow tinge of sweat and dirt. This form is his demon, telling him that the task ahead is too great and that he will fail. He looks over his shoulder the people still moving in slow motion. Gripping the bar and pushing with his heels he pulls the bar to his midriff, the easy slow motion of the first warm up feels deceivingly easy. He performs one more warm up set and the weight seems to lure him. A third 45 to each end is applied- he reaches in his gym bag and pulls out 2 frayed canvas lifting straps-each one a different brand. He pulls them tight against his wrist like black clothe shackles, he then grabs his leather lifting belt stained with the sweat of a lifetime of workouts, wrapping it around his waist and pulling is snug to the holes with the most wear, then cinching the belt he turns and looks at his opponent, it looks back with the cold un-breaking stare. Thinking to himself that this will be the lift that outdoes all other lifts from before. Crouching above the bar he wraps each strap around the knurls and securing him self to his mindless adversary. Things slow down- now his world is in slow motion the music plays and comes to the point that he knows as the lull before the storm. Looking once more in the mirror his demons ask him "do you really want to do this". He shakes his head and mumbles curses under his breath, the music slows, he breathes deeply and in sync with the rythym of the music. Gripping the bar and feeling its knurls now like an extension of his hand, a bond that cannot be broken, the music slows and the crescendo is near he takes his final breath and spits in defiance to his enemy, and mutters "got this". The music and his body explode simultaneously in one motion is heels digging in and his body pushing upward like a piston- his arms pulling the bar into his midriff. Every fiber of his back contracting like a orchestra of pain. The repetitions lash him like a slave driver each successive one taking another bite of his soul. All the years of pain and injury call out- the minds sense of self preservation saying "STOP!" the lifter feels the surge- the violent eruption of a lifetime of frustration fill his body and he growls "NOT YET!!" as each repetition successively digs into his body and mind begging for him to give up. In his mind he screams NO!!!!-TODAY YOU WILL NOT BEAT ME!!!!" and he pulls the agonizing weight again and again. The lifters battle torn body cries out from 16 years of cummulative trauma "STOP!!!" Sweat beads roll from under his nose and he feels the droplets drip onto his hand, as he squeezes his eyes shut even harder, and grunts "F#CK YOU!!" and pulls the bar closer and closer to his midriff, he opens his eyes to gauge his opponent which screams back for mercy and the veins on his neck twist like a nest of serpents, the color of his face is a shade of purple, and a trickle of blood runs out his nose and onto his chin and shirt. Every muscle shivering with exhaustion he pulls one more time and with a prime evil growl pulls the mighty weight for the 15th time into his abdomen and the right side of his back goes numb, the weight plunges to the floor and with an explosion calls out for mercy. The lifter falls back and leans on a nearby bench thinking to himself this is only the beginning
I wrote this about 6 years ago?? It may have actually been my first one.
Again, I hope you guys enjoy it.
THE LIFTER IS NOT A FICTIONAL CHARACTER.
The lifter walks into the gym his mind like a rusty razor blade cutting on a slate chalk board. A single thought in mind...to take this lift to a place that most mortals dont dare go. This is the moment of impending confrontation, a moment that draws closer and closer with each step closer to the bar. His head down his focus straight ahead the other people around in slow motion as though he has stepped into another dimension. He sees his opponent- an empty bar...seems so benign but in minutes it will be a fierce opponent. He grabs 2 -45's and slides one on each end feeling the cold iron as it slams home against each collar like the door of a prison cell slamming home behind an inmate-there is only one absolution of this crime....pain.
He grips the bar and feels the knurls dig in like old rusty nails into his calloused palms. He looks in the mirror and sees the form in front of him the mismatched outfit, old sneakers, sweatpants with ripped seams, a 4xl shirt that hugs his shoulders and neck, and a black wool hat who's white logo has long since soured with a yellow tinge of sweat and dirt. This form is his demon, telling him that the task ahead is too great and that he will fail. He looks over his shoulder the people still moving in slow motion. Gripping the bar and pushing with his heels he pulls the bar to his midriff, the easy slow motion of the first warm up feels deceivingly easy. He performs one more warm up set and the weight seems to lure him. A third 45 to each end is applied- he reaches in his gym bag and pulls out 2 frayed canvas lifting straps-each one a different brand. He pulls them tight against his wrist like black clothe shackles, he then grabs his leather lifting belt stained with the sweat of a lifetime of workouts, wrapping it around his waist and pulling is snug to the holes with the most wear, then cinching the belt he turns and looks at his opponent, it looks back with the cold un-breaking stare. Thinking to himself that this will be the lift that outdoes all other lifts from before. Crouching above the bar he wraps each strap around the knurls and securing him self to his mindless adversary. Things slow down- now his world is in slow motion the music plays and comes to the point that he knows as the lull before the storm. Looking once more in the mirror his demons ask him "do you really want to do this". He shakes his head and mumbles curses under his breath, the music slows, he breathes deeply and in sync with the rythym of the music. Gripping the bar and feeling its knurls now like an extension of his hand, a bond that cannot be broken, the music slows and the crescendo is near he takes his final breath and spits in defiance to his enemy, and mutters "got this". The music and his body explode simultaneously in one motion is heels digging in and his body pushing upward like a piston- his arms pulling the bar into his midriff. Every fiber of his back contracting like a orchestra of pain. The repetitions lash him like a slave driver each successive one taking another bite of his soul. All the years of pain and injury call out- the minds sense of self preservation saying "STOP!" the lifter feels the surge- the violent eruption of a lifetime of frustration fill his body and he growls "NOT YET!!" as each repetition successively digs into his body and mind begging for him to give up. In his mind he screams NO!!!!-TODAY YOU WILL NOT BEAT ME!!!!" and he pulls the agonizing weight again and again. The lifters battle torn body cries out from 16 years of cummulative trauma "STOP!!!" Sweat beads roll from under his nose and he feels the droplets drip onto his hand, as he squeezes his eyes shut even harder, and grunts "F#CK YOU!!" and pulls the bar closer and closer to his midriff, he opens his eyes to gauge his opponent which screams back for mercy and the veins on his neck twist like a nest of serpents, the color of his face is a shade of purple, and a trickle of blood runs out his nose and onto his chin and shirt. Every muscle shivering with exhaustion he pulls one more time and with a prime evil growl pulls the mighty weight for the 15th time into his abdomen and the right side of his back goes numb, the weight plunges to the floor and with an explosion calls out for mercy. The lifter falls back and leans on a nearby bench thinking to himself this is only the beginning
