All day long I am training.
In my head, I am squeezing the bar, feeling
the good drag across the thighs
the sock-it-to-me dig into the ribcage
and then the explosion
nipped quick, ass to grass.
The push.
I lean back and shrug
in my office chair
while we’re talking,
so slight you cannot see,
but it’s the movement
the pattern
the neurokinetic pathways
I’m paving as we speak.
I am thinking of how the bar feels
in my hands.
I am hearing the swell of music
from my speakers
when I drive under the bar.
A chunk of day down.
I’m making the money
that will pay my coach
and pay for the airline ticket
to the big meet
and buy more chalk.
Keyboard clicking,
inbox filling,
to-do list with bullet points.
I glance at my palm and it centers me.
It’s my hands that bear witness to my inner life,
the calluses and torn blisters,
the strange brown marks set in over time.
Steal a moment on the computer
to watch lifters like me
bend under the bar,
throw up the weight
tumble or triumph
and teach.
A chunk of day down.
I am eating to make sure
I will have energy at 5:30.
I am drinking water
So my body will be ready.
As I straighten my collar in the mirror,
I plan what will happen tonight
in the gym,
rehearse the movement I need to learn
replay the words
I need to hear
from fellow lifters
from my coach.
Replay the emotion
I let him see,
that somehow he understood.
Know I scraped the ground
and he helped me back up.
This struggle
this inner life,
it is comfortable alone
it is vulnerable revealed
and from this, growth can come.
This inner life
intensely private,
intensely shared,
intensity breeding intensity
Drives me.
Drives lifters like me.
There is lifting,
there is thinking about lifting,
and there is interruption in-between.
Weight over my head
This is life. This is real life.
One-hundred pounds
is always one-hundred pounds.
When the house is quiet
I like to turn off the TV
and go to bed early
to be in the dark,
lost in the lifting,
the gym,
the lifting talk
from the day
from last week
from what is to come
and what is to be.
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