by Adam Knight
I stared down at the bar where it rested on the floor, taunting me. For the first time today I’d hit a point where I physically couldn’t lift the bar for another rep. Sure, it had taken me seven heavy sets to get to this point but at least it had finally happened. The muscles in my back, my hamstrings, my quadriceps and forearms were completely fired up. The muscle bellies full to bursting with extra blood and pumped to the max. Sweat was pouring off my forehead and soaking the front of my sweater, which meant the tank top I had on underneath was drenched as well.
It felt good to be back at this mental point, with this level of focus. The average person tends to believe that weight lifting is all about strength. That it’s just a bunch of grunting meatheads who think with their units and take a lot of pills.
True weightlifting is about belief.
Belief that your body is more than the sum of its sinew and bone. That it is more than blood and sweat and fibre.
Belief that you are unstoppable when you find the right focus.
I had found it this day.
That calm place where everything in the world that was frightening, stressful and otherwise irritating had been shoved into a furnace in the pit of my belly and used as fuel for my lifts. The Neanderthal resting there roared its approval. Taking my anxieties and throwing them upon the bonfire while it hideously danced, shaking its fists skyward.
Life was not going to defeat me; I was going to rule this life.
And I was going to start by ruling this bar.
I didn’t answer Tamara’s question. I just stepped forward and dropped to a half squat, getting my hands in their perfect shoulder width position in the universally preferred deadlift grip – both thumbs facing the same direction. My palms were a bit damp so I fiercely rubbed them on the bar until I could feel the flesh lock into position, sorta like a vacuum seal.
In that position on the floor, my knees up to my chest, and my arms relaxed I took a deep breath.
Then another.
On the third I exploded upwards from the ground and heaved the maxed out bar for my final set.
By the eight repetition I’d had enough and racked the weight before the bar slipped form my grip and crashed to the floor.
Blood rushed through my head, roaring in my ears and through my body. The cool sensation from the back of my head continued its way down my spine, providing energy and reassurance to my fatigued muscles. My breath came in explosive gasps as I stared myself down in the mirror. Totally focused and totally spent.
In the mirror I could see groups of people who had been watching begin talking amongst themselves and moving away. Some of them sneering and making snide comments. Others just with a faintly impressed look.
Tamara stood there with her clipboard jotting down some last figures; her eyes flickering up to me now and again.
“You okay?” she asked.
My stomach gurgled quietly, warning me that I was near the end of my reserves.
“Yeah,” I muttered, pushing off of the bar and wiping my forehead against the hem of my sweater. So much sweat. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
Tightness reigned all along my body, from my calves up to the back of my neck and into my traps. Exactly the way it should feel after a power lifting deadlift day. Swollen and blasted muscles that were pushed to the extreme limits of their abilities. I stood up as tall as I could, reaching my fingertips to the sky to get that full body stretch and breathed in as deeply as possible. When I exhaled and relaxed, the swell in my latissimus muscles was amazing.
“Oh yeah,” I assured her with my small smile, reaching for the loaded protein shake on the ledge next to where she was leaning. I popped the cap and took a long draught from it, enjoying the soothing sensation as the liquid hit my belly and sent the Neanderthal there into hiding for a time. I sighed. “Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt better.”
Tamara blinked up at me, her expression unreadable. The clipboard held close to her body.
“What?”
She shook her head slightly, staring up at me. “You do know how crazy what you’re doing is, right?”
I shrugged slightly, enjoying the tightness in my trapezius as I did so. “What am I supposed to do? Cower in a corner somewhere?”
A touch of humor sparkled behind her librarian style frames. “That would be quite the corner.”
“I know, right?” I took another hit off the protein shake and began to unload the Olympic bar, racking the plates as neatly as possibly on the nearby weight trees. “So how do the numbers look? Anything stand out?”
Tamara blinked at me. “Stand out?”
“Yeah.”
“Beyond the six hundred pound deadlifts you did eight sets of?”
I laughed quietly. “Yeah, beyond that.”
Tamara pursed her lips quietly in thought as she scanned over the notes on her clipboard. I finished replacing the weights, grabbed my hand towel and cleaned up after myself. Wiping down the bar and finally my face once again.
“Honestly, Joe the most remarkable thing is your sheer endurance.” She turned the clipboard around to show me her charts. I stepped in close to read along with her.
The numbers were frankly staggering. In the three weeks since being shot I had returned with ease to the peak numbers of my previous lifts. But instead of going for one or two explosive power lifts, I was able to score high numbers of repetitions each time around with very little rest time in between.
My stomach growled loudly.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, draining the last of my shake.
Tamara stared up at me again, her face thoughtful. “Have you thought about seeing a specialist, Joe? Someone who might be able to do better testing than a simple how much ya bench?”
She was awful close to me.
I forced another small chuckle and took a half step back to create some space. “Sure. Just … not right now.”
“Why not?”
Why not indeed.
“I just …” How do you explain something like this? I scratched at my head briefly, the classic expression of a big man thinking. “I don’t want any more poking and prodding. And I don’t want to be a lab rat.”
“Joe …”
“Look, I’ve always been a fast healer. I’ve never really been sick in my whole life. Just because I seem to have gone all Wolverine lately doesn’t mean I need to subject myself to the medical community does it?”
Tamara looked uncomfortable.
“What?”
“I get you wanting your privacy, Joe. And I get that you’re scared about losing it.” Tamara took a look around the weight pit where a few people were still shooting glances my way and talking amongst themselves. “But if you’re want to maintain that privacy, you’re going to have to be a little more discreet about our testing sessions.”
I grimaced. “I know, this was an exception.”
“Right. You have a thing.”
“An important thing.” I shot a glance up at the clock on the wall and felt my stomach drop away from me. “A thing that I’m gonna be late for if I don’t hit the showers.” I scrubbed at my face again with my towel for a second. “Did I seriously do deadlifts for over an hour?”
Tamara nodded, consulting her clipboard. “Fifteen warm up sets until you started getting into the big weight lifts. Even with short breaks that takes a bit of time.”
“Fuck,” I grumbled, tossing my towel down next to my gym back and quickly shucked off my bulky gray sweater, taking a moment to cool off in my sodden tank top as I rummaged in the bag for another pre-loaded shaker cup. Finding one I jammed the drenched sweater loosely in the bag and stood up. Bag in one hand and the cup in the other as I started towards the staircase. “Okay, time to get moving. Thanks for everything, Tamara. I owe you lunch tomorrow.”
“Huh?’ Tamara’s distracted voice asked from off behind me.
I frowned and stopped, letting two overly dressed post-work businessmen pass me by as I turned slightly and
glanced back over my shoulder. Tamara’s expression was unreadable, the clipboard held cross armed in front of her body once again. Her eyes staring after me.
“Lunch?” I repeated quizzically. “Tomorrow? I owe you. After my workout?”
Tamara blinked rapidly and adjusted her glasses, a slight flush creeping up her cheeks. “Right. Tomorrow. Sure.” She made a shooing motion. “Go shower. Your thing. The important one.”
What the hell?
“You okay?”
“Yup.” Seriously, that’s a blush right? Is there a hole in my track pants or something? I felt around as subtly as I could for one. “Get going, mister. Don’t want to be late.”
Nope. No holes.
Weird.
I gave Tamara a quick salute with my shaker cup and trotted down the stairs only stopping at the water fountain on the way out.
Weaving my way down the hallway to the locker room is never fun at that time of day. Never mind the people coming in to train or heading away to shower, there’s always an inordinate number of people who just seem to be loitering around engaging in gossip and shop talk. Hey, I get people wanting a social life but do they have to do it in my way?
The younger kids that Tamara had sent home earlier were just stepping out of the changing room door as I reached it, now dressed in appropriate gym attire; track pants, tee shirts and hats. They still looked like little hip hop thugs straight out of a Jay-Z video, but at least they were following the rules. They gave me a wide eyed berth as I approached.
Odd that. I gave them a quick nod and kept going.
Found a spare locker as near to the showers as possible and jammed my gear bag in, rummaging around until my towel and protein shake were free. Took two steps away and scanned for a clock, saw it right over the big wall length mirror and froze.
No, I still had almost twenty minutes.
I froze staring at the unfamiliar figure in front of me.
The figure had my face and my hair, but even that wasn’t quite right. My cheeks were usually rounded, complete with a slight double chin, though not jowly. Sure, the face was still soft, but I had a definite jawline going on.
Veins tracked down my neck and along to my shoulders down into my biceps. There was clear separation for the first time in my entire life between my chest and my belly. I still had flab, don’t misunderstand. But there wasn’t any doubt in my mind that I wouldn’t have a gut for much longer.
Every muscle that I could feel tightness in was swollen to the max. From back and shoulders down to my forearms and calves.
I was stunned.
After a few awkward moments of silence and staring, one of the downtown YMCA’s elder statesmen walked by muttering “Someone get this guy a room so he can be alone with himself.”
I flushed crimson and stalked to the showers. I still had fifteen minutes.
Chapter 29
“Okay, where’s your real car?” Cathy asked, one brow raised quizzically as she stood at the curb in front of the TV studio.
I held one hand over my heart in mock agony as Cathy gave the stink eye to my rusty beauty, taking a lap around it as she did so. Her eyes widening at the busted out back window that I had … uhm … “repaired” by duct taping sheet metal over the gap and sealing the inside with some kitchen grade saran wrap.
“You’re gonna hurt my feelings, miss.”
“Seriously? What a piece of junk!”
“She may not look like much, but she’s got it where it counts.”
Cathy rolled her eyes dramatically. “Really? A Star Wars quote?”
“You started it,” I said with my small smile. “If it makes you feel any better I can assure you that I didn’t make any special modifications myself. I leave that to my mechanic.”
“Whatever,” she huffed, gathering up her oversized purse and stepping over to my beat up old Windstar. I came around to meet her all gentlemanly and even opened the passenger door. She smiled slightly at the gesture then paused while climbing up into the passenger seat, giving me an odd look.
“What?” I asked worriedly.
“You look different.”
“Uhm … Beg pardon?”
“Not bad different,” Cathy clarified as she looked me in the eyes, her face in thought. “Just … “
I shuffled my feet self-consciously, a slight flush creeping up my cheeks. Suddenly the fact that all of my clothes were fitting differently made a lot of sense to me. So naturally I felt like a schmuck with my too large jeans now belted uncomfortably tight, my plain black tee-shirt that fit me like a tent and my oversized, ratty leather bomber jacket.
“Just what?”
She shook her head, dismissing whatever it was that caught her mind. “Nothing, never mind. Let’s get going. It’s chilly out tonight.”
I obliged.
Cathy provided a destination located in the North End as I fired my baby to life, so I cranked the wheel and piloted her away from the TV station. We headed through downtown and up towards the Salter Bridge overpass.
The roads were slick in the darkening streets. Despite daylight savings times kicking in the days were in no hurry to start getting longer. So the sun hadn’t quite set on Winnipeg as I drove towards one of the oldest areas of town. Much like any major city, the places with the most history and heritage often end up being populated by the more poverty stricken and hard luck members of society as time moves along. Younger more affluent folks want newer things and better amenities. Others got stuck with what was left over.
A shame really. Some of the houses in this neighborhood were true classics that with a minimum of effort and work could really be made to shine again.
Provided you didn’t mind the shenanigans going on with the neighbors.
A young lady of disputable age waved at me invitingly as I drove past her spot at the base of the Salter Overpass. I shook my head sadly as we rolled on, cruising over the huge rail yard that was the lifeblood of so many people and businesses in Central Canada.
“Just another statistic” Cathy muttered sadly from the passenger seat, looking over at the street walker.
I grunted softly in agreement. “Wonder if anyone’ll notice if she ends up going missing too?”
“I’ll notice,” Cathy said determinedly, her voice firm.
A hard promise to keep.
Likely impossible.
I didn’t call her on it.
“So, what’ve you got for me?” I said, clearing my throat to get us back on point.
Cathy shook out of her reverie and consulted her ever present notepad. “According to police reports this is Keimac Cleghorn’s last known address. No mention if it’s a gang hideout or a family residence. I was surprised doing my search about how little they had on this guy given his rather impressive rap sheet. You’d think there’d be more information about his whereabouts, known associates and so on. But given how his juvenile record’s been sealed since he turned eighteen I figure he’s just gotten smarter about things.” Cathy pursed her lips in a frown, dimples flowering as she did so. “I know it’s not much, but … “
“It’s a good place to start,” I said encouragingly. Confidently “Thanks.”
“Regardless, I still think this is a terrible idea, Joe.”
