🏋️AIP 122 Weightlifting Killed Me, And Then It Saved Me

“Ooooooh, fuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkkkkkkkK!” 

That sound did not come from my mouth so much as erupted from the war-torn battleground formerly known as my diaphragm. My arms trembled like leaf blowers on low battery. I gritted my teeth together, the same feeling as chalk against a chalkboard, trying to lift the dumbbells up one more time. The whole bench shook as I strained every muscle in my body. A drop of sweat swam down my forehead and into my left eye. I gasped, swore, and dropped the dumbbells with a crash that probably cracked the basement tile.  

11 reps. One under the 12 personal record I wanted. But then again, in the midst of a two day fast I shouldn’t feel that bad about missing the mark. 

I still did. 

I’d be fine on hunger. Before starting the fast, I made sure to eat two servings of anabolic ice cream; a celestial mixture of PB2 (dehydrated peanut butter), ice cubes (lots of ice cubes), xanthan gum (expanding agent), vanilla protein powder, sugar free maple syrup, and banana. It was very filling, which was great because it tasted like dog shit flavored dog shit. 

I swung up from the bench. A little too fast, almost passed out. God I was tired. But I’d been sleeping fine? The familiar sight of my parents' home gym welcomed me. It was simple. A soft yellow light hung from the ceiling. Bench. Pull-up bar. Dumbbell rack. The leg machine that I never used because what am I fucking gay?

Legends Never Die, from League of Legends blared from the speakers. I tried to play less video games now cause they took so long and I had better things to do—namely workout—but I found the 45 minute games were a great way of passing the time between meals. I let myself hum the nostalgic tunes right until the end. Nice.

Since two years ago, this was my true home. 

The outside world was a clusterfuck of processed food, chaotic routines, confusing women, and more processed food. My homegym bunkered me from all that bullshit. I could go to The Colgate gym but it was always so crowded, and I hated the chaos of having the machine or weight you wanted to use stolen by someone else. Also, the new people never put the weights back. Did I mention processed food?

I let myself have a quick mirror peek. Damn. I looked good. At 150 pounds, on a two day fast, I looked like a Greek Statue that studied under Jordan Peterson. Veins popped out the tops of my biceps like mountains in a valley. Abs shown on my stomach like stones in a river. My jawline could probably cut the chicken salad I would be eating—right, I wouldn’t be eating. 

My high school graduation party was later in the afternoon. And that meant: food. Lots of unhealthy, greasy, high-calorie food. And all sorts of other things too: less sleep, less time to exercise, less time to read self-improvement books, a breaking of routine.

I shivered just thinking about it, walking over and picking up some 25 dumbbells for bicep curls. They were made of iron with the beginnings of rust. We’d gotten them from a local sheep farmer for $50. I felt armored with the familiar weight in my hands. Safe in the rhythm of the curls, my mind quieted. Iron. Repetition. Sanctuary. Of course this lasted for five seconds before I naturally turned to thinking about my favorite topic: calories.

I wouldn’t have eaten after this workout anyways. It was 10:00 a.m. and my meal times were 8:00 a.m., 12:30 p.m., 3:00 p.m., and 6:30 p.m. on the dot. In a day that accounted for around 2,000 calories. Since I hadn’t eaten in two days that meant I was in a 4,000 calorie deficit. I would likely eat around 6,000 calories at the graduation party since everyone else would be. For once I didn’t want to be pestered by my friends. That meant I would need to exercise away 2,000 calories to stay even. Got to stay even. So, combined with the hour and a half long bike ride I did yesterday and the two weight workouts, I should probably do one more bike ride.

Putting the 25s down, I began tying my shoes to go for a bike ride. I finished the left one before noticing I was tying the wrong shoes, so I took them off, and tied the right ones again. Walking into the garage, I noticed it was raining. No matter. I’d wear a rain jacket.

_________________________________________________________

As I walked to The Hellen Newman gym around 9:00 a.m., birds sang their midmorning chorus, soft scattered notes like dandelion fluff on the wind. I giggled, pretending it was just for me. The wind softly tickled my cheeks, and in the distance, I could hear cars passing by the main intersection to central campus; Cornell was waking up too.

I usually go to the gym in the morning, but last night I stayed up way late hanging out with my friend Pallas, walking the gorges, and having ice cream. I felt sleep deprived, unusually full, and a little out of sorts. I smiled. It was worth it.

Opening the gym doors, I got the familiar feeling of entering a different world, something sacred. A lot of the regular goers were still there and I grinned gently at them. But there were some new people as well. They had the “I’m uncertain and don’t feel at home” sort of look. 

I love that look. 

It reminds me of when I first came to the gym, intimidated by the people who’d been there for three, four, five, ten years. Now I've been going for five. One of my favorite things to do is ask to work in with the newer folk. The look on their face when I actually recognized them for being there was always so funny. I made sure to put the weight back to what they were using each time: this was a new home for them after all. 

Someone was using the chest fly station I was going to start with that day, but it was fine—I started with chest press instead. I sat down, adjusted the pin, placed my hands on the handles, and breathed. As I warmed up, I imagined my consciousness inside the muscles I was using. With every few concentric movements (lifting phase) I breathed out, making sure to breathe in on the next eccentric movement (letting down phase). Pretty soon I was in the rhythmic flow I loved so much about weightlifting, my mind a composer to my muscular instruments which flowed together in a meditative trance.

The breathing wasn’t just for the gym. Sure I wouldn’t be doing concentric, eccentric, movements outside, but I would be breathing. Whenever I lost awareness, I went back to the breath. The gym wasn’t my meditation, life was.

It was the start of my periodization program so I didn’t go that hard, stopping three or four reps short of failure. I’m trying to microtear my muscles not bludgeon them with a whale. I hadn’t gone for a personal record in a while. Every time I injured myself in the gym it was doing one of those. 

I try not to listen to music or an audible book while weightlifting (though sometimes I do). Not that I think it’s wrong. I simply find the music of my muscles more than enough, as if hearing something else would take away their magic. I try not to respond to texts or do work while weightlifting either (though I’m only human). Weightlifting for me, is the one time during the day, where I let myself be completely unobligated to do anything. It’s my most sacred form of leisure.

Not leisure in the sense of relaxation, or having fun, or any of the other things our culture has unfortunately dumbed it down to. Leisure as an existential relationship with myself, others, and the world of flowing with what is, not resisting what’s not. It’s hard to describe fully, but while weightlifting I don’t do anything. I’ve been going for so long, it’s as if my body moves of its own accord. I watch as an awareness, reveling in the feelings which go through my body and appreciating the reality of being alive.

Finishing my first exercise, I walk over to the dumbbell station to do some lateral raises. I don’t look in the mirror on the way over. It may surprise you, but after 21 years of existing with myself I know what I look like.

It’s not that I’m against appreciating one’s body; it’s my remembrance of what appreciation can turn into. Any value taken to the extreme becomes God. I’m atheist, but by that logic, I’ve only been so for four years.

Instead of 150 pounds, 8% body fat, I’m 175, 15% body fat, but I feel much more than 7% better across every area of my life. Perhaps it was .25% more after the night with Pallas. Honestly, I don’t know, and don’t really care. I haven’t counted calories in years. I could run it off, but, well… I’m lazy.  

Oh sure, one might say I look good after five years of going to the gym. But I value the inside changes much more. We spend our lives sprinting on the external treadmill not realizing it’s the internal changes which turn the speed dial.

I picked up the 35s for lateral raises, the same weight I’d been using for months now. That used to bother me. Now I kind of liked it. Once you’ve been weightlifting for five years, you begin measuring progress by months and years rather than days and weeks. I have other hobbies to get the dopamine rush of rapid improvement from; like climbing. What I loved about the gym was the slow burn, literally. If I spend a year just to add ten pounds to my bench press, then I can do anything. 

Between lateral raise sets I walked around, admiring the way the sunlight beamed through the window, and watching the other gym goers, so many bodies so many journeys. Each one of them was doing a different routine, and yet we were all using the same weights and machines. There was a connection I felt in that. As if each weight I picked up held the left over spirit of the tens of thousands which had touched it before. Outside we’ll all go back to the craziness of our lives. But here, we’re all engaged in a shared mission.

I noticed one of my fellow gym goers was doing lateral raises dangerously. They kept ebbing back and forth, using the momentum to lift the much too high 25s. That’s the type of thing which slowly builds up and coalesces in the “strange lower back pain you can’t explain.” I walked over and showed them the correct form. Not pretentiously. Like setting a plant closer to the sunlight. 

She nodded. I nodded. No words needed.

I went back to doing my lateral raises. Slowly raising them up, then down, then up again. After the set I lightly set them down on the ground, staring at the trees outside as I waited for the next set. I couldn’t wait to do more.

I love this piece so much, I feel like the poetry slows it down so much. Instead of just information constantly being given to you, it’s worked in indirectly and calmly. And the imagery! Oh man I love it so much. This is a very personal piece I can tell and I love how much it feels like it.