The World’s Strongest Librarian: A Memoir of Tourette’s, Faith, Strength, and the Power of Family

by Josh Hanagarne

  One night when I got home from work I asked Janette to come talk to me in the backyard while I threw. It was dark.

  I spun once, released the twenty-five-pound kettlebell, and knew it had gone wrong. It was too dark to see where it was going to land.

  It landed on the roof with a fantastic crash. Janette was not pleased. But other than that night she was completely supportive. On the morning of the competition she said:

  “Spin around. Let me see how pretty you are.”

  “No,” I said. “Let’s just go.”

  “Come on. Twirl!”

  I gave her one small twirl because I knew she’d never stop. The gray-green-and-black kilt that hung to just above my knees flared out, then settled onto my thighs again. It cost seventy dollars from Sportkilt.com.

  Janette, Max, and I got in the car and drove sixty miles to the Payson Scottish Festival. A Highland Games is like a combination of a track meet and a fair. When we arrived at the park, we wended our way through a series of booths, vendors, bagpipe bands, and concession stands before finding the grass field where the throwers competed.

  Everyone but me seemed to be eating funnel cake, which is kind of like a spongy French fry with powdered sugar.

  “Should we get Max a funnel cake?” I said.

  Janette snorted. “I’ll get you some when you’re done.”

  On the field, a group of men in kilts stretched, warmed up, yelled, and grunted as they threw the odd-shaped weights. I checked in, got my T-shirt (purchased with my registration fee), and tried to look like I knew what I was doing as I walked onto the field and introduced myself. I’d registered for the C class, the lowliest of the three amateur divisions. My goals: to not place last in every event and to find people who could teach me some technique.

  The first event for C class was called “weight for height,” or “weight over the bar.” Here’s how it works: The group agrees on what the starting height will be. A bar on a pole-vault-type apparatus is set to that height. Then each competitor, swinging a weight on a handle—forty-two pounds for our division—tries to throw it over the bar with one hand. If you clear the bar, you advance to the next round. If you miss, you get two more attempts at that height. If you miss those attempts, you have to watch everyone else continue while you sit there and wonder what might have been.

  I was surprised that I won the event. Thousands of reps swinging a kettlebell and ripping heavy weights off the ground, not to mention my height, had given me an advantage. I faced the cheering crowd—seated on bleachers ten feet away—and took a bow. When I stood, I convulsed briefly, all at once, as if shocked. I clucked my tongue and let out a mild “Woo!” before rejoining my group.

  Misty had followed us.

  “That’s my dad!” shouted Max from the bleachers.

  That settled it. I wanted to win.

  For the next seven hours, I threw with my group. I’d expected a group of big, strutting Scots with haggis dripping from their beards, everyone hoping the others would mess up, or scratch, or fall down, so that they could win instead. But everyone was encouraging. I was surprised a couple of times when athletes from the top class approached to give pointers to me and the other newbies. One man said that I’d do better if I wore cleats that would dig into the grass, and then insisted that I go get his extra set out of his car.

  Everyone cheered. Everyone helped. Everyone improved.

  Max and Janette disappeared a few times so that he could go play on the playground. Once when he reappeared he had a plateful of funnel cake for me. I sat on the grass with him during lunch and as we watched a flock of birds eat some spilled popcorn, Max blinked his eyes constantly, rapidly.

  “Max, do you have something in your eye?” I asked, annoyed at my accelerating heartbeat.

  “No, I’m good,” he said.

  “He’s fine,” said Janette. “You heard him.”

  I threw hammers. I pitched a burlap sack full of straw over a bar. I tried to toss the caber, an eighteen-foot metal pole for our class, and failed miserably. I heaved stones for distance. And finally, at the end of the day, it was time for the weight-for-distance event.

  Picture a bowling ball on a twelve-inch length of chain. Your goal is to throw it as far as you can. The problem is that the bowling ball weighs forty-two pounds if you’re in the C class, and fifty-six pounds for everyone else. No matter how awkward you think this sounds, it’s more awkward than that. All day I’d been watching the other classes attempting this event. I’d seen people fall down and get flat out dragged from the box as the weight threw them, not the other way around. No other event had generated more grunting and screaming from the athletes.

  When it was my turn, I looked at the crowd. Max stood on the other side of the yellow “caution” tape, but now he had put on my shoes, Converse Chuck Taylors that were twelve sizes too big for him. “Throw it far!” he yelled.

  I tried, but somehow, when the weight spun around me, it tore off my kilt and dragged me three feet outside of the throwing zone. I had shorts on underneath, but still…the goal was not to tear off your kilt and scratch and get a distance of not even one inch. I’d seen guys eighty pounds lighter than I was throwing this weight for incredible distances. How were they doing it?

  I wasn’t sure I understood the scoring system, but I knew I had more second-place finishes in the events than anyone else in my group. I thought I could still place if I could get at least one substantial throw.

  The next time up, I managed to keep my skirt on and get a decent throw in. I focused on being smooth, not trying to horse it up and muscle it out there.

  “You made that look easy,” one of my group members said. “It’s nice to see someone with that much control.”

  I screamed and bit my tongue.

  He stepped back. “What was that? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “And thank you.” And that was it.

  “So how’d you get into this?” he asked, gesturing at the field.

  There was no short explanation for that one, so I just said, “A friend thought I would like it.”

  “You’re a strong guy,” he said. “Do you work in construction or something?”

  “I’m a librarian.”

  “Oh. Wait, what—like in a library?”

  Then it was my final throw of the day. I blew Max a kiss, walked to the throwing zone, and hefted the weight. The chain clinked as it grew taut. I got low, dropping into a more powerful position. I tried to ignore the noisy crowd, the droning of the bagpipe bands, and to feel nothing but the pressure of the weight in my hand. To feel the brief control I had over my body. Then I realized my lips were moving, that I was actually speaking. I started laughing way harder than made sense to anyone else, stood up straight, set the weight down, and asked, “Am I allowed to reset?”

  “Yes,” said the judge.

  Janette shouted, “What’s so funny?”

  I raised my palms and shook them at her: It doesn’t matter.

  I noticed that Max was holding one of my shoelaces in his hand. He had taken it out of my shoe and Janette had tied it around a rock. He was ready to throw.

  Janette never asked me what I’d been laughing about. But if she had, I’d have told her that in the seconds before that throw, I’d caught myself praying.

  Oh please oh please help me help me help me.

  It wasn’t directed to anyone in particular, but I was pleading for help, praying for a way to win.

  I dropped into a crouch, spun, and threw, with a scream that had nothing to do with Misty. The weight soared from my hands, beyond my reach, up and up as the crowd cheered, and as I watched its trajectory, my arms outstretched to the sky, I could only hope that I’d done enough.

  * Adapted from a brilliant book by the same name.

  * Now, this makes me stronger than people who don’t train, and I’m at the high end of the intermediate level, but these numbers would get me laughed out of a powerlifting gym. There are guys in my weight class w
ho can double my numbers, or more.

  * My theory is that if I do any lift for too long, the involved musculature gets too rigid, and rigidity is strongly associated to my tics. All of the heavy, slow lifting I’d been doing had tightened me up more than I realized. Moving a weight quickly through a safe range of motion—throwing—was loosening the tissue back up.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When I finished reading the final version of this book, I thought, “This is a really weird story.” The blame must lie with me, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t provide a list of the other guilty parties.

  First, my wife, Janette. I’ll never be able to say what you mean to me well enough, but I’ll show you.

  My son, Max. Keep asking. I’ll do my best to help you find answers.

  Mom and Dad. People involved in the editing of this book kept saying, “It’s just so refreshing to see someone write lovingly about their parents.” What else could I have done? And you’re still coming to my games after thirty-five years.

  Megan, Kyle, Lindsey, and Sydney. I’m proud to be your big brother and uncle.

  My in-laws. I got just as lucky with all of you as I did with my own family.

  Spencer Throssell. Thanks for the call. I missed you.

  Adam T. Glass, man of one thousand scowls. You gave me my best shot at a normal life, which is all I ever wanted. Keep that claw hammer close.

  My agent, Lisa Dimona, who loved the tree that oinks. It took four years, but we got there. I just realized that I still owe you 1,500 bucks.

  My deadlifting editor, Megan Newman, who held me to a standard I didn’t know I was capable of. And who stopped me from including something highly inappropriate about bonobos. Megan, did you ever suspect that sometimes I wrote crap just to annoy you and get your fiery reaction?

  My publisher, William “the Legend” Shinker, who promised that my book cover would incorporate a kettlebell, a temple, and Mitt Romney. And who then backed out like a chicken.

  Lisa Johnson, you probably don’t know it, but you put me at ease during that first meeting when I was terrified that my tics were going to wreck the book deal.

  Gigi Campo, who understands casual references to Never Give an Inch.

  Beth Parker and Lindsay Gordon, who helped people find this story.

  Frankie Faires, who understands pain and desperation. Come down from the mountaintop, you brilliant weirdo—people need to know about you.

  All the children with Tourette’s who have written to me. You’re stronger than you think. Keep marching forward.

  For the parents of children with Tourette’s. They’ll be fine. And if you ever think I can help you with anything, please ask.

  The staff and patrons of the Salt Lake City Public Library.

  The inimitable editor Betsy Rapoport, who once looked into my eyes and said, “Well, excuse my effrontery, bitch.” I love you. No joke.

  Readers of my blog.

  Seth Godin, who, after seeing one of my tics, said: “Wow! This is like writer’s block that you can see!” You were under no obligation to change my life, but I’m glad you did.

  Chuck Palahniuk. “Wow, you should write,” said your letter. I did. Thanks for the power panda and the switchblade comb.

  Every author, reader, and librarian.

  And finally, a very special thank-you to Stephen King. Your books gave me some close calls, but I’d read them all again. In fact, I’m going to start right now.