The Iron Paradise

I used to go “workout” when I was younger, maybe about 10 or 12 years old, thinking that I could have ripped washboard abs and be as strong as Goliath, but eventually, as school started to get serious, I was playing more sports, and a lot was going on in life. The gym started to be an everyday thing; then it was three times a week, then two times a month, and then never. I can’t figure out why I stopped when I was younger. Almost two years go by without touching that cool, icy door handle that leads into paradise.

I started back at the gym with one small boost of motivation. On Saturday night of September 2021, I was at Ethan's house along with Jake and George, as it was tradition for us to hang out after a well-fought victory and indulge in pizza and soda, as our team was undefeated. We huddled around Ethan's computer, crammed into each other like angry wasps stuck in a trap, fighting over the mouse to see the pictures Mr. Jezak, our history teacher and the sports photographer, took of us while playing. Some of the pictures were unbelievable; Autumn leaves in the background, fans caught mid-scream cheering the Pinewood Panthers on, limbs suspended in the air, war paint on faces to show how devoted one would be to a team. It couldn’t get much better than American high school football. We steadily scrolled the mouse wheel, feeling every tactile click, switching between photos, mashing the computer screen with our fingers, and pointing out our photos until I realized I wasn’t involved. I had no photos. None of the focus was on me. Out of all of the 236 photos that were taken, Mr. Jezaks's lens never grazed me. Even though I wasn’t a starter or got any significant playing time, there at least had to be one, right? I found one photo. It was a picture of Ethan, one of our star receivers and one of my best friends, running the ball, and on the sideline, I stood watching. I couldn’t help but feel it. Jealousy. The mental cancer swarmed my brain. How could all of my friends get photos and playtime, but I couldn’t? How was I so underdeveloped as a person and player that I could barely be included in the 236 photos taken? Could I have applied myself better in practice? Was there something that Coach Kim, head coach of the team, had against me? There had to be a reasonable explanation, but there wasn’t. I just wasn't good enough. It happened every Saturday after we had a game. I had no photos, but everyone else did. Everyone could post on their Instagram, everyone could show their parents, and everyone could boast about playing time. I couldn’t. I was the runner-up. How could I play football if I wasn’t strong or fast? After all, all football players have bulging muscles that their jerseys can’t contain, But I didn’t. The jersey engulfed the skinny kid that wished to be on the field.

There needed to be changed. I couldn’t feel sorry for myself. I had to feel empowered. I had to take control and be the authority of my own life. I started going to the iron paradise after football practice every day, taking copious amounts of caffeine just to stay alive there. That hour and a half of pain and strain were beautiful. It was euphoric. You couldn’t convince me that there was anything better than gripping dumbbells, barbells, and machine handles, cheese grating your hands down to raw skin. It wasn’t only callusing my hands, but callusing my mind. I drank the Kool-Aid. I found something that nobody could take away from me. You couldn’t strip that barbell from my hands, or the dumbbell, or the leg press handle, or the v-grip. Nobody was taking pictures or pointing fingers or talking about it. I found therapy. I was hooked. White knuckles, heavy breathing, music piercing and decimating my ears, and suffering. I couldn’t imagine anything better on a Thursday night after football practice. My life was in the gym. The iron paradise. I watched videos, watched experienced gym rats, trying to teach myself new ways to get that bicep bigger or make my legs look like tree trunks or arms the size of bowling balls. It was a process. I force-fed myself, stomach swelling up like an anaconda after feasting. Until I focused on one thing and one thing only. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds. Two forty-fives. Two plates. Two cakes. The epitome of lifting weights: a two hundred and twenty-five-pound bench press. It was holy. It was at the top of the great ziggurat of weightlifting. Something unimaginable, almost unobtainable; at least, I thought. I could never guess when I first started back at the gym that I would be able to achieve it. I wanted it. Motivation turned into discipline. Throughout winter, I never missed a day trying to set a personal best on the bench press on every chest day I had. One hundred and fifty, one hundred and sixty-five, one hundred and eighty-five, two hundred, two hundred and fifteen, two hundred and twenty: They all were conquered. It was now summer, and I had gained a total of fifty pounds. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds of hard work. It all came down to this moment. On August 4th, 2022, I made my caffeinated drink, chugging it down, ignoring the tingly sensation. I grabbed that cool, icy steel handle of the gym door and yanked it open, overwhelmed by the cool air conditioning that seemed to pierce and perforate my sweatshirt. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds. I gazed up at the young Asian woman working the front desk, and she greeted me with a melodramatic smile, welcoming me back into the iron paradise. It felt surreal. I entered the gym knowing that day I had to push two hundred and twenty-five pounds off my chest. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds. I fumbled around my pocket for my key card and hovered it over the machine that entered me into the hour and a half of pain and torture. I couldn’t be happier. I walked over the squeaky vinyl and sticky floor to my locker, piled all my stuff inside, and pulled out my headphones. I could feel tingling in my skin, from my arms to my toes, from the pre-workout; beta-alanine was coursing through me. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds. I walked across the iron paradise, looking at the specific bench rack I wanted to complete my lift. Of course, it was occupied. I patiently waited around the paradise, warming up my shoulders for two hundred and twenty-five pounds. Finally, the man moved from my rightful place in the gym. I loaded up two forty-five’s, totaling one hundred and thirty-five pounds. I could throw this weight. I grabbed the stippling part of the bar, little pieces of metal cutting and sawing into my skin, only creating mountainous calluses on my hands. I moved the weight across the air, the metal plates cutting through that cold gym air. It was moving. I loaded up more weight. I jumped straight to one hundred eighty-five pounds, eager not to tire myself for the main show. I once again grabbed the stippling that made little boys into men and started pushing myself. Five reps of one hundred eighty-five, and it had never felt better. I could feel it now. It was almost palpable. Blood was rushing into my chest, the L-citrulline moving my blood into my chest and shoulders. They seemed to overflow, like the stomach of a mosquito when feeding. I sat up, mind rushing from the abundance of caffeine in my system, and I put on two cakes. Two plates. Two forty-fives. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds! It looked bigger and horrendous. It was like the jump from an easy two hundred and twenty, now felt like and looked like twenty more pounds. I'm rattled and confused. I sit and wait, recovering from the last set I had. I was sure that it moved easily, right? Am I ready for this? What happens if I can’t, and the weight crushes my sternum, humiliating me in front of the other ten gym goers? Should I ask for a spotter? Will it decrease my chances of lifting it? What if he touches the bar too soon? I couldn’t think about it now. When it all boils down to nothing, it's me fighting the man in the mirror. We were about to go to war. I grabbed my phone, making sure to set up a video to capture one of the greatest moments of my life: two hundred and twenty-five pounds. I grabbed my belt, strapping it on so tight I couldn't feel my rib cage. I grabbed the stippling with such force I wanted to crush it like a soda can; I arched my back and put my butt down on the bench. It was my moment. All that working in silence, all those times grabbing that cool icy handle, all those times I walked into that cool gym air: paradise when no one else was. No one saw it at all. Everybody wanted to have a bench like two hundred twenty-five or a squat of three hundred and fifteen. Still, nobody wanted the lonely nights in paradise, the stippling of dumbbells and barbells nagging and shredding your skin, and the double workouts after basketball. Everybody wanted it, but nobody wanted to lift the weight. Nobody wanted to lift the social anxieties, self-hate, jealousy, and pride. There is no cheating in weightlifting. You have to lift that bar whether you like it or not. Well, I wanted to lift it. I wanted to lift my self-doubt, hatred, and jealousy off my chest with pride.

I pushed the initial weight off the bar and braced myself for war. I took a deep breath in, filling my stomach with as much air as possible, expanding it like the Michelin man from Ghost Busters. I started lowering. My shoulders and chest were under immense pressure and pain. The bar touched and pressed my sternum in. I pressed. I pressed for my life. For my sanity, I knew if I didn’t get this bar up, it would drive me to the cliff's edge. I couldn’t have done all this work just to fail with only five more pounds on two hundred and twenty. Just five more pounds. I pushed. It felt like an eternity under the stippling. Knuckles started to become white, chest and shoulders flushed with blood, hamstrings, and toes cramping up under immense pressure. My whole body was in a fight with the bar. My whole body was fighting itself! I had to stand up for myself. For my pride and passion. Countless Friday nights on the sidelines, countless Saturday nights not being able to point at the computer, countless nights not being able to talk to my dad about the game because I didn’t play. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds felt so heavy, all my self-doubts weighing it down, self-hatred was weighing it down, jealousy was weighing it down. It moved inch by inch. Until finally, I felt the pressure go away. My elbows locked out. I was now at the top of the great ziggurat of weightlifting. Two plates. Two cakes. Two forty-fives. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds. But there was no catharsis. I didn’t feel any better about myself. Yes, maybe I could boast to my friends about hitting two hundred and twenty-five pounds, but what about two hundred and thirty pounds? What about two hundred and thirty-five pounds? There was nothing successful about this day because my work wasn’t done. You can always accomplish more. You will never reach the top of the great ziggurat of weightlifting because there isn’t one. You can always push more weight and more reps. I sat up, and all the blood from my head surged into my hands. I looked at myself in the mirror and realized I had unfinished business. It was daunting how much work I had to do. I started doing other exercises and other machines. I didn’t feel accomplished at all. How could I think I had reached the top when the first level was barely fractured?

I realized now that this was only the beginning. I was only seven months in. Imagine what I could do in a year. I wanted to work. I wanted to keep going. I will forever and ever keep yanking that cool icy door handle and persisting through the chilly gym air, all because little me had a thought one day: What if I could bench two hundred and twenty-five pounds? What if I could lift off and push away all my insecurities? I know I accomplished my goals. I defeated my Goliath of self-hatred, self-doubt, and jealousy. I played every high school game in my junior year and almost every snap of every game. I was now able to talk with my dad about that game. I could participate in conversations about the game with my friends and coaches. I was a part of  Pinewood Football. Coach Kim trusted me to give my all every time I stepped on that field: And now, I had almost been in every picture in Mr. Jezak’s camera roll. I could now point myself out on Saturday nights.