DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

Earlier this summer I set two strength-training goals for myself. I wanted to bench my body weight, and I wanted to do 10 bar-dips.

The bar-dip goal came and went months ago, just a few weeks after I began training. I briefly considered going for Larry Ellison’s record… but ultimately decided that 12-15 bar dips is all anyone really needs to be able to do.

The bench-press goal has been harder to meet. I’m no longer sure this is even a worthwhile goal — big muscles get in the way of drumming — so you can imagine how dumb I felt this morning when I pinned myself to the bench under 150 lbs of weight.

“One more rep,” I’d thought in a personal Unbreakable moment, “I can do one more!” Ooh, I was wrong. Shoulda had someone spot me.

The thing about my health club is that most of the patrons are a lot older than me. Minus the occasional high-school football player, I am generally the youngest person there, and one of a very small handful who ever uses the bench press. Therefore the room where the freeweights are located is seldom used except by people passing through to the weird contraptions beyond, like the “glute blaster” machine that I always think should be called “All Ass” — so I had a few minutes to contemplate my predicament while I waited for someone to help me.

I wasn’t embarrassed to be stuck. I wasn’t in pain. But I sure as hell couldn’t lift the bar off my chest. I couldn’t even relax my arms, because letting go of the bar would have allowed it to tip off to one side, setting off a chain reaction of weights flying and bar flipping that could have really hurt someone, e.g. me.

Presently someone entered the room. I called, “Excuse me, sir?” He looked around with some alarm; I think he hadn’t noticed me there. He rushed over to help, assuming I was panicked I guess. He grabbed the bar and, from a terribly awkward position — imbalanced, with no leverage — began lifting. I pushed as hard as I could. Between the two of us we barely managed to rack the bar. That was actually scarier than being pinned; if my Samaritan’s arms had given out, I’d have had no strength left to prevent the bar from crashing back down onto my chest.

Then the guy turned around and took off, either in a great rush to work his ass, or embarrassed for my sake. Probably the latter. I now wish I’d stopped him to thank him formally instead of letting that awkward moment stretch out. I also wish I’d had the foresight to suggest that he take some of the plates off the bar, rather than just trying to lift it.

(Epilogue: A few weeks later, I ran into the guy who had helped me, and thanked him. I was happy to hear he had not hurt himself. I suggested that we’d have been smarter to unload the bar rather than trying to lift it; now both of us will carry around that near-useless piece of information forever, on the extremely slim chance that either one of us is ever in a position to help someone, or be helped, out from under a barbell.)