COLUMN: The weight room

I will never forget the memory, no matter how hard I try or how much “Mental Floss” I use.  

This past week I spent some time visiting weightlifting/workout rooms at some of the bi-counties (that would be Sanders and Mineral, aka, “Sanderal"), seeing how things are these days in the world of summer workouts. 

I’m happy to report the basics are the same. I plan on visiting a few more weight rooms in this high school sports void known as Summer. 

I was once a weight room junkie myself. I could not get enough time on the bench press bench, or at the curl rack, etc.  As a disciple of the thought that “curls for the girls” was a good thing, I work hard on the “guns.”

But back to the moment I won’t be able to shake. I was in my mid 20s and was nearing the zenith of strength for me. I never tried for a “six-pack” abdomen...this Norwegian body was designed to pack around a keg. 

At any rate...I was on the bench with just under 400 pounds loaded on the metal bar (which itself usually weighs 45 pounds) and was straining to make the final push to complete a “legal” lift. 

I had a spotter, the title for the person who stands behind the bench presser and makes sure nothing bad happens, like the lifter failing to complete the lift and winding up with 400 pounds on his neck. 

That would not be good. 

As I was straining, veins popping out on my neck and my face taking on a bright crimson tone, I committed the ultimate bad timing thing....I passed gas. 

And it was loud enough to turn all the heads in the gym, many of whom were watching to see if I could get 400 up!  That set off a hilarious, and at the same time dangerous, chain of events. 

First, I started laughing, not something you should do with 400 pounds in your hands.  The whole event caused my “spotter” to crack up, rendering him useless in his role. 

All I could do was let the bar and metal plates rest on my chest while everyone in the room had the laugh of their life.   

“Yo, dudes and dudettes, the guy over here with the now purple face could use a hand.”

A pair of lifters, who were finally able to stop laughing, ran over and helped pull the weight off me. 

A weight room standing ovation broke out as I sat up, embarrassed but alive. 

I had been in many weight rooms to that point and this was not the first gas-passing incident I witnessed.  At least two folks doing pull-ups, one of them female, released the dreaded “toot” during their efforts.  All they had to do was let go and land on their feet. 

It was the worst of many lifting incidents in my time in the iron rooms. I eventually topped out at 415 pounds as my bench maximum. Part of that was natural limits, part of it was the haunting memory of the bench press blast. I think I had a fear in my mind that if I strained any harder it may have been worse than gas. 

I would go on to split several pairs of gym shorts during “squat” lifts and more than a couple times experience the absolutely helpless feeling of the bench press bar going up unevenly, causing plates from one side to slide off the bar, followed by the other side’s plates finishing the show. 

Now I am older and 400 pounds is a memory. I’m sure I’m not the only guy who cranked one while lifting. Maybe I could start a recovery service. 

“My name is Chuck and I tooted while lifting.”