In the Soviet Union - I'm not talking politics - pictures of top people always include weightlifters, because the athlete contributes as much to society as the nuclear scientist. They know that there.
- Doug Hepburn
Awaiting Charles Smith's reply was the most anxious time I have ever sweated through, including the time spent at strength competitions awaiting my turn to lift.
At competitions I knew what to expect. If all went well, I collected my trophy, knew that my training program was on track and prepared for the next meet. If all went less than expected, I ferreted out the reason and initiated a grueling correction procedure.
Waiting for Charles Smith's evaluation was something else. Here was a professional in his field who had studied and evaluated most of the strength and lifting legends of the era: from John Davis, the world and Olympic weightlifting champion at that time, to Steve Stanko, Mr. America in 1944 and a former member of the U.S. Olympic team and the first lifter in the world to total over 1,000 pounds in the three Olympic lifts, to Jules Bacon, Mr. America in 1943, to my idol John Grimek, a strongman and professional bodybuilder, and to a host of others.
If anyone could make Canada stand up and take notice of who I was and what I was trying to do, it was this learned professional.
Would he? Seconds turned into days and days into months. Knowing that I had to stop thinking about it or risk going insane, I threw myself into my training. Perhaps I would get the respect I was searching for without Mr. Smith's intervention.
I didn't.
On May 28, 1950, I won the British Columbia Open Weightlifting Championship in Vancouver and set an unofficial world record clean-and-press of 339.5 pounds - unofficial because the weightlifting division of the CAAU in Montreal had not yet officially recognized it. The meet was conducted under strict Canadian AAU guidelines and officiated by Harry Hickman, Russ Lewendon and Harry Brown.
The results were sent to Montreal for official verification, prompting the familiar response from the CAAU that since their best lifter could only do 280 pounds it could not have been done correctly.
Three times the results were sent to the CAAU, accompanied by the written testimonies of the three BCWA representatives. Three times the CAAU refused to give Doug credit for the lift.
When I asked Mr. Hickman, Mr. Lewendon and Mr. Brown what they planned to do about it, their response was also familiar: "What can we do about it? Montreal has the final say!"
I was crushed. Was I destined to be shunned by eastern Canada for my entire career, no matter how much I lifted or how many medals I was capable of winning for my country, simply because I had been born in western Canada?
At this point, in the interest of fairness, it should be pointed out that the Vancouver media might have been reluctant to become involved because they weren't sure if my record presses had been done correctly. Yes, weightlifting experts from Vancouver were certifying my lifts in writing, but, since equally creditable experts in Montreal were refusing to on the grounds of bad form, who could be sure who was right?
I knew the lifts were good, however, and was fast becoming enraged at the CAAU's refusal to give me the recognition that I had clearly earned.
To offset the depression that was fast flooding over me, I increased the hours I spent lifting in the gym and bouncing in bars. The less time I had to stew about my lack of recognition, the better.
As it turned out, ignoring the trouble was the right thing to do. My lifting ability steadily increased and the time I spent in the bars was always more pleasure than work. Friends like Little Johnny, Leo, Mike, Eileen and many other showed up from time to time and we would joke, sing and soon be the center of attention.
When Johnny and I felt particularly impish, we would perform our favorite gag, to the delight of the bar. Johnny and I would fake an argument, with Johnny shouting and threatening to hit me as I acted fearful. At the end of the scene, he would grab me by the scruff of the neck and run me the length of the bar. He would then roll me through the front door out onto the street, where I would lie cowering and gasping. More than one observer was shocked to the point of staring and Johnny would tuck his thumbs into his belt and snarl, "Wanna be next?" The bar would then burst into applause and it would be free beer for Johnny, myself and whoever was with us for the rest of the night. Our little skit became so famous that many people came to the bar for the sole purpose of watching.
I enjoyed bouncing because I rarely had problems. Everyone knew that I was nonviolent and treated me more as a friend than an employee. The odd time I earned my money, however, and two instances deserve mention. Once, while I was at the Fraser Arms hotel in Vancouver . . .
. . . discussing my non-recognition problem with a couple of inebriated customers, a couple of 200-pounders got into an argument that escalated into a wrestling match. Not wanting it to get out of hand, I rushed over, grabbed the top wrestler by his arm and leg and yanked up as though I was "cleaning" a heavy barbell.
What happened next shocked everyone, including myself. The man flew up over my head and landed on a table ten to fifteen feet behind me. I had been practicing this movement with 400 pounds and the 200-pounder flew like Superman.
Another time at the Devonshire hotel in Vancouver . . .
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. . . a smallish, inebriated man with large feet and ears sitting by himself in the corner suddenly jumped up and shouted, "I'm looking for a fight!"
Wondering what had set him off, I started towards him.
"You'll do!" he shouted and charged me, swinging like a windmill.
Not wanting to hurt him, I put him in a headlock, lifted him off the floor and headed for the door. This caused him to quit swinging and to grab at anything he could get his hands and feet around to slow me down. By the time we were outside he was attached to two chairs and a coat rack still laden with coats and hats. We sat on the chairs to catch our breath and had quite a chat before I returned to the bar and he stumbled off to find someone else to tackle.
But no matter how busy I kept myself, Charles Smith was always looming in the back of my mind. Why hadn't he written? Would he? What would he say when he did? What if there was nothing to say?
Then, in one clang of an opening mailbox, one whoop of elation on a hot sunny day May 29th in 1950, an answer was before me. The great Charles A., the benevolent lifegiving Charles had answered my cry for help!
Ripping the single sheet of paper from its envelope, I scanned the crisply formed, hand-penned words:
My Dear Mr. Hepburn,
Let me first say that, given your formidable dimensions and lifting ability, you have a tremendous future as a world-class weightlifter and strongman. If your fellow Canadians are reluctant to get fully behind you in this regard, rest assured that the fault lies with them and not with you. True and noble desire fortified by God-inspired faith and determination can have no fault. It can only be pure.
My eyes welled with tears of relief and admiration. Finally . . . here was someone who understood, someone who could guide me and keep me sane among all who sought to impede and misdirect me.
The rest of Mr. Smith's letter told me exactly how to proceed: concentrate on my all-around strongman feats to develop trademark capabilities that would set me apart from and above ordinary weightlifters; become adept at the Olympic snatch and the Olympic clean & jerk as well as the Olympic clean & press so that my naturally superior pressing power would make me unbeatable in any weightlifting competition; become adept at the "quick" phase of the three Olympic lifts (where the lifter drops beneath the rising bar) to ensure that my advantage of superior shoulder power was not offset by poor balance.
Once I became truly unbeatable in world competition, the world (including the weightlifting division of the CAAU) would be forced to recognize my abilities. It was so simple that I wondered why I hadn't thought of it myself. I felt such a surge of renewed hope, power and determination that I rushed straight to my weights and trained with a vengeance.
Up before the roosters the following morning, I set out to further master the three Olympic lifts.
Enjoy Your Lifting!
