The Comeback Kid?

Back in my jr. high school days I performed in the play A Night at the Opera, based on the Marx Brothers film. One day during rehearsals a few of us were sitting on the stage floor, doing line readings. When we were done one of the other students, who was a friend, offered his hand to help pull me up off the floor. I reached out, and as I began to rise up he suddenly let go: a prank. I fell backwards, and crashed down onto the wooden riser on my coccyx. I saw stars. I’m guessing it cracked, because the pain was excruciating. I used language not befitting a 14-year-old, as he guffawed, the chump. Needless to say, our friendship dissolved soon after, and I was left with a sore lower back for months. I’ve always had lower back issues—even in my teens—and I can only attribute it to this one, stupid incident.

I relate this story here because this week I had a small victory over my inherent weakness, overcoming a theatrical calamity and a good deal of personal fear in the process.

Although I’ve long recognized the benefits of the deadlift, I steered away from the exercise for the bulk of my formative training years. While I felt nearly limitless in my ability to squat and bench, as well as in a host of upper back exercises, I feared testing my wonky lower back, relying instead on hyperextensions and good mornings to develop its muscles.

Finally, when I was in my 30’s, I decided to give the time-tested exercise a go. Without a clue as to what constituted proper form (it’s more complex than I realized at the time), I managed to work my way up to 455 pounds—not terrible considering I weighed around 175 at the time, but nothing to write home about. I wanted continue my upward progression, but was beset by a niggling fear that had lodged itself into the recesses of my brain—that my back was essentially a dry tree branch liable to snap should even one extra ounce of stress be placed upon it. Nowhere else in my training did I feel so encumbered. I can truly say I was fearless in every other exercise (which is far from the case today), but the deadlift was another story entirely. Even on lighter sets I was plagued with the thought that I was one bad move away from disaster. It turned out I was right.

It was six years ago, when I was visiting New York from Los Angeles for the holidays. I would stay at my dad’s apartment in Queens and train with him at his gym while there. Now, I had been living in L.A. for around five years, training at night in mostly balmy weather. On this particular trip home it was in the low 20’s and snowy. My dad liked to train early. He got to the gym around 7am, which for me is the heart of dreamtime. Yet off we drove to his gym, with me only aware that I wasn’t dreaming for the bitter cold that racked my bones.

It was back day for me. I started with a few sets of pulldowns, but stopped before I really got going, deciding that I needed to do something more primal—maybe out of a desire to match the harsh weather. So, I decided to deadlift. After warmup sets of 135 and 225, I launched into the first of my planned three working sets of eight reps with 315. Set one goes down smooth. For set two I’m also feeling surprisingly good, especially for 7:30am (4:30am my time!) and in a gym that didn’t feel significantly warmer than the outdoors. On set three I powered through the first six reps. Seven was a bit slower, but still solid. One rep to go and then I could move on to seated rows, when… OOUUUUUUUCHHHHH!!!!!!

This pic has nothing to do with deadlifts, but I don't have any shots of me deadlifting, and this one is pretty cool.

That eighth and final rep of my entire deadlift regimen for the day was the killer. I knew immediately that it was bad. I dropped the bar, with a strange sensation I’d never felt before, almost as if I was going into rigor mortis. My back had already stiffened as a searing pain radiated from just right of my lumbar vertebrae. Not wanting to look to the other gym goers like I just royally fucked myself up, I somehow managed to strip the bar down and re-rack it, then I stumbled over to my dad, who was still warming up on the treadmill.

“Dad, I have to go. Now.”

I was immobile for the next three days. I had to postpone my flight back to Cali, because I couldn’t move. At all. On the fourth day after the accident I was able to stand and sit enough to be driven to a chiropractor, who offered little in the way of relief or information. The pain lasted months—three or four if I recall—as I slowly regained mobility. I wasn’t able to perambulate normally for a year. It was the most devastating injury of my life, by a long shot.

Here, now, is the redemptive part of this saga. This past year, with a healthy dose of caution, I brought the deadlift back into my routine, and while I’ve gotten stronger in it and from it, I’ve experienced a few setbacks. I’ve had mini traumas in the exact spot where I blew my back out six years ago, and after a few of them I swore off the exercise. But still I returned and, right now at least, I’m grateful I did.

This past week I hit a set of four silky-smooth reps with 405 pounds, at a bodyweight of 165—a record of sorts for me. I wore no shoes, had knee sleeves, a nylon belt and wrist straps—all in an effort to stabilize any joint weaknesses that might trigger a cascade of imbalances that lead to my two herniated lumbars (I forgot to mention that I had MRI’s done on them two years ago—yup, they’re fried).

I rose up after assuredly placing (not dropping) the weight down after the fourth rep. Rising up I feared the worst, but to my surprise and delight I was fine. Not the slightest pain. I think I could have done another couple of reps if I wanted to push it, but had made a pact with myself to never, ever struggle with a deadlift. If it wasn’t coming up smoothly then it was too heavy for me and my fragile back.

Again, 405 is nothing to write home about, but for me it’s as redemptive an experience as I’ve ever had in this crazy life spent lifting things. And so long as I don’t feel a whisper of anomalous pain back there I will continue to push heavier. I’ve always wanted to be able to say I lifted 500 pounds off the floor. Will I get there? Seems unlikely, but it’s still a goal, and if I do get there you can bet I will boast about it right here, typing away with a broad smile across my face.