Scar_Lit
02-10-2008, 09:13 AM
Since this whole temp board feels like a fresh start (in a perverse sort of way - like New Orleans and Katrina), I'm somewhat less intimidated and slightly more inclined to post something other than a random picture or a teeny comment. Also, I'd like to contribute in the resurrection (awww, because you guys are the best).. thus, I'd like to share something I wrote for one of my creative/fiction intensive classes...
So long as the CynicalSimian (Misanthro-Monkey) gallery plays nice.. I mean it, one camouflaged caustic peep out of you and your wheels are being posted all OVER the place, bro. :D <3
The Gullet of a Dungeon
Krems isn’t supposed to be cold this time of the year, but I’m forced to shove my hands into my pockets against the biting air and quicken my pace across the parking lot toward a low building. The sky is gray, the street is gray, even the scant few cars in the lot seem to be covered with a dingy film. I hesitate upon reaching the door, shifting my bag on my shoulder and eyeing the crooked handle. There’s no flashy sign outside the front, in fact it just looks like small, rundown bunker of sorts, the architecture reminiscent of unworthy, new-age design experiments in an otherwise beautifully historic little alpine town… must be the place. Dad told me it was buried in a corner of the city, blending in with not so much as a word whispered to denote its name or purpose – incredibly easy to overlook. You had to be tipped off about this place, or to know it intimately already. I suppose one could stumble in on accident… and instantly regret having done so.
I teeter for a moment on the edge of entering, the cold wind whipping the tail of my tied-back hair around my ears, and with a sudden audacious rush I leap over the cliff; wrenching the door open I find myself in a dark, empty hallway that seems to lead straight down into the bowels of the Earth. I tread cautiously on a path worn in the middle of the ruddy carpet, my sweatpants swishing, and with every step away from the door the air grows warmer, wetter as if I’ve been swallowed by a great beast. A distant grumbling noise coupled with a certain pungent odor hanging in the air makes my stomach churn… and suddenly the hallway spits me into a single, large room with concrete walls and dim warehouse lighting.
This is an old, underground powerlifting gym – the very gym in which my father began his bodybuilding career. And now here I am, visiting my European roots and loaded with every reason to be rejected permission to train here, including the top two: my youth and my gender. But the blood in my veins carries my father’s genetic mark, where the sport of lifting is ingrained. If I am rejected today, I’ll be back tomorrow. Dad was right though, this is not a normal place to “workout”. This is a powerlifting gym. And the prefix “power” carries with it a whole different level of mass-moving-mass than traditional weightlifting. It centers on the demonstration of a prowess in strength for three events: the squat, the bench press, and my personal favorite, the deadlift. Serious powerlifters often seek out these special gyms due to their frightening, unconventional methods of training. And me – standing stupidly in the doorway and squinting around the room, my senses overloaded – I feel like a serious newborn.
Commercial gyms and large fitness center chains are often well-kept, clean and organized so as to attract customers from all walks of life. Such is not the case in this place… conventional gym machinery is generally useless, expensive and would simply end up broken. And there is no such thing as “cardio” here – taking up space with those brainless treadmills and stationary bikes is out of the question. Instead, slightly bent barbells lean against the walls and dumbbells are scattered amongst stacks of massive iron plates. Thick chains are piled on the floor like rusting serpents and swaybacked flat benches with cracked leather padding dot the room. Underneath the equipment, dirty rubber mats lie askew, and all around are the men… the men, with their broad backs huddled together in preparation for the next big lift, or their massive chests and shoulders doubled-over, gasping in recovery of the last. Weightlifting belts of all breeds – leather, suede, double-buckled, single-buckled, padded, tapered, and hooked – are strewn at their feet, while every other pair of knees or elbows are striped with tight support wraps. The very heat of their bodies hits like a moist breath from the throat of a dragon, slowly peeling the paint from the concrete walls. An overwhelming, animal stench of hormones and sweat stagnates in the air, chemically saturated with analgesic heat rub and ammonia caps. The roaring echo of death metal cuts through the powdery dust of grip chalk held by the stand in the corner whose long legs are lost amongst a stockpile of scuffed kettlebells – black, castiron cannonballs with handles.
Each piece of equipment has been used and reused, beaten and thrown about so that not a single one lies unchipped, unripped or unscraped. But it isn’t as though the bars and plates and bells are tired or disenchanted with their jobs; they act as one, existing only to be heavy, faceless, silent, and constant. Simply setting foot in a torture chamber like this is a rite of passage.
Setting foot is exactly what I’ve done. Instantly the atmosphere changes; the entire building holds its breath, tensing ever so slightly as the men realize my presence. They look up from their training logs and glance sideways in the middle of a swig from their gallon water jugs. Someone sniffs loudly, possibly due to chalk in his nostrils, but all other banging and clanging has ceased and the iron seems to wait, vibrating together with the rumbling music.
This is a place for powerlifters, not clueless, scrawny adolescents or estrogenic wimps who whine at the first hint of soreness… and certainly not women. This will take some acting and finesse, but oh, I am determined. Keeping my eyes low, showing a combination of just enough intimidation and confidence to establish my respect and dedication to lifting, I find a small collection of mismatched chairs loitering at one end of the room where spectators in the underground scene can watch the local lifting competitions. Setting down my gym bag and pulling off my jacket and sweatpants, I expose my muscular legs and less-than-dainty shoulders. I can feel their eyes on me, or trying not to be. Then, with a thunderous rumbling into my peripheral comes a boulder of a man, and I contain the urge to pull an Indiana Jones.
“You liftin’?” he asks with gruff intent.
“Yeah,” I reply, barely concealing the hint of a pleading tone.
“Don’t get cocky, don’t get in the way, don’t misuse the equipment,” he counts off on his fat fingers. I’m taken by surprise as his hand, meaty and raw with calluses thick as elephant hide, extends toward me, “and don’t hesitate to ask for a spot.” I exhale as he thumps back to his squat rack.
These breathing walls have seen its share of failed lifts – burst blood vessels, dislocated joints, torn muscles, and crushed ligaments, but it has also seen records set, men screaming to lock-in their place among the warriors, only to pick up the next day in pursuit of the ultimate goal: lifting more. Power is the end, the beginning, and every pain and pleasure in between here.
I’ve awoken to a strange realization... as monstrous as they become upon entering this place, they are men. Men with families and careers and divorce settlements; men with insecurities, political ideals, genetic predispositions, favorite flavors, traumatic pasts, religious devotions, racist cousins, tattoos, furry pets, sleeplessness and libido problems… my father’s men.
A forty-five pound plate cracks like violent thunder against a wall and I suddenly feel quite at home – among giants.
So long as the CynicalSimian (Misanthro-Monkey) gallery plays nice.. I mean it, one camouflaged caustic peep out of you and your wheels are being posted all OVER the place, bro. :D <3
The Gullet of a Dungeon
Krems isn’t supposed to be cold this time of the year, but I’m forced to shove my hands into my pockets against the biting air and quicken my pace across the parking lot toward a low building. The sky is gray, the street is gray, even the scant few cars in the lot seem to be covered with a dingy film. I hesitate upon reaching the door, shifting my bag on my shoulder and eyeing the crooked handle. There’s no flashy sign outside the front, in fact it just looks like small, rundown bunker of sorts, the architecture reminiscent of unworthy, new-age design experiments in an otherwise beautifully historic little alpine town… must be the place. Dad told me it was buried in a corner of the city, blending in with not so much as a word whispered to denote its name or purpose – incredibly easy to overlook. You had to be tipped off about this place, or to know it intimately already. I suppose one could stumble in on accident… and instantly regret having done so.
I teeter for a moment on the edge of entering, the cold wind whipping the tail of my tied-back hair around my ears, and with a sudden audacious rush I leap over the cliff; wrenching the door open I find myself in a dark, empty hallway that seems to lead straight down into the bowels of the Earth. I tread cautiously on a path worn in the middle of the ruddy carpet, my sweatpants swishing, and with every step away from the door the air grows warmer, wetter as if I’ve been swallowed by a great beast. A distant grumbling noise coupled with a certain pungent odor hanging in the air makes my stomach churn… and suddenly the hallway spits me into a single, large room with concrete walls and dim warehouse lighting.
This is an old, underground powerlifting gym – the very gym in which my father began his bodybuilding career. And now here I am, visiting my European roots and loaded with every reason to be rejected permission to train here, including the top two: my youth and my gender. But the blood in my veins carries my father’s genetic mark, where the sport of lifting is ingrained. If I am rejected today, I’ll be back tomorrow. Dad was right though, this is not a normal place to “workout”. This is a powerlifting gym. And the prefix “power” carries with it a whole different level of mass-moving-mass than traditional weightlifting. It centers on the demonstration of a prowess in strength for three events: the squat, the bench press, and my personal favorite, the deadlift. Serious powerlifters often seek out these special gyms due to their frightening, unconventional methods of training. And me – standing stupidly in the doorway and squinting around the room, my senses overloaded – I feel like a serious newborn.
Commercial gyms and large fitness center chains are often well-kept, clean and organized so as to attract customers from all walks of life. Such is not the case in this place… conventional gym machinery is generally useless, expensive and would simply end up broken. And there is no such thing as “cardio” here – taking up space with those brainless treadmills and stationary bikes is out of the question. Instead, slightly bent barbells lean against the walls and dumbbells are scattered amongst stacks of massive iron plates. Thick chains are piled on the floor like rusting serpents and swaybacked flat benches with cracked leather padding dot the room. Underneath the equipment, dirty rubber mats lie askew, and all around are the men… the men, with their broad backs huddled together in preparation for the next big lift, or their massive chests and shoulders doubled-over, gasping in recovery of the last. Weightlifting belts of all breeds – leather, suede, double-buckled, single-buckled, padded, tapered, and hooked – are strewn at their feet, while every other pair of knees or elbows are striped with tight support wraps. The very heat of their bodies hits like a moist breath from the throat of a dragon, slowly peeling the paint from the concrete walls. An overwhelming, animal stench of hormones and sweat stagnates in the air, chemically saturated with analgesic heat rub and ammonia caps. The roaring echo of death metal cuts through the powdery dust of grip chalk held by the stand in the corner whose long legs are lost amongst a stockpile of scuffed kettlebells – black, castiron cannonballs with handles.
Each piece of equipment has been used and reused, beaten and thrown about so that not a single one lies unchipped, unripped or unscraped. But it isn’t as though the bars and plates and bells are tired or disenchanted with their jobs; they act as one, existing only to be heavy, faceless, silent, and constant. Simply setting foot in a torture chamber like this is a rite of passage.
Setting foot is exactly what I’ve done. Instantly the atmosphere changes; the entire building holds its breath, tensing ever so slightly as the men realize my presence. They look up from their training logs and glance sideways in the middle of a swig from their gallon water jugs. Someone sniffs loudly, possibly due to chalk in his nostrils, but all other banging and clanging has ceased and the iron seems to wait, vibrating together with the rumbling music.
This is a place for powerlifters, not clueless, scrawny adolescents or estrogenic wimps who whine at the first hint of soreness… and certainly not women. This will take some acting and finesse, but oh, I am determined. Keeping my eyes low, showing a combination of just enough intimidation and confidence to establish my respect and dedication to lifting, I find a small collection of mismatched chairs loitering at one end of the room where spectators in the underground scene can watch the local lifting competitions. Setting down my gym bag and pulling off my jacket and sweatpants, I expose my muscular legs and less-than-dainty shoulders. I can feel their eyes on me, or trying not to be. Then, with a thunderous rumbling into my peripheral comes a boulder of a man, and I contain the urge to pull an Indiana Jones.
“You liftin’?” he asks with gruff intent.
“Yeah,” I reply, barely concealing the hint of a pleading tone.
“Don’t get cocky, don’t get in the way, don’t misuse the equipment,” he counts off on his fat fingers. I’m taken by surprise as his hand, meaty and raw with calluses thick as elephant hide, extends toward me, “and don’t hesitate to ask for a spot.” I exhale as he thumps back to his squat rack.
These breathing walls have seen its share of failed lifts – burst blood vessels, dislocated joints, torn muscles, and crushed ligaments, but it has also seen records set, men screaming to lock-in their place among the warriors, only to pick up the next day in pursuit of the ultimate goal: lifting more. Power is the end, the beginning, and every pain and pleasure in between here.
I’ve awoken to a strange realization... as monstrous as they become upon entering this place, they are men. Men with families and careers and divorce settlements; men with insecurities, political ideals, genetic predispositions, favorite flavors, traumatic pasts, religious devotions, racist cousins, tattoos, furry pets, sleeplessness and libido problems… my father’s men.
A forty-five pound plate cracks like violent thunder against a wall and I suddenly feel quite at home – among giants.