Strength is a Greedy and Seductive Mistress - Kevin Iskierski (1987)

 Powerlifting USA October 1987

Thanks to Howard Menkes for providing the article!  My eyes and fingers appreciate the break from typing up this stuff

It began for me about twelve years ago. I still remember it as a scene of triumph and a place of wounded pride. Strangely enough it was a place where, despite being an avid fitness buff, I had not been in the past. Thus, I found myself studying and surveying, as if struck by mild surprise, its countryside setting. I felt the appeal of its inviting layout amidst small rolling hills and stands of trees. 

I also felt a gripping determination grow inside me. I would, I believe, run one mile, with no problem. So what if it happened to be a muggy mid-summer afternoon in early August. So what if the air hung heavy and motionless, as if suspended in time. I decided I wouldn’t let these factors discourage me. As I stretched and loosened, I remember how my father and I used to watch track and field on Saturday afternoon television. I recalled remarking on how the milers ran with obvious speed, but only for a mile, which I didn’t consider a long distance. 

So, I had a goodly amount of confidence and youthful exuberance, you might say, but, to my astonishment, when I failed to even complete a mile on that sunny day some dozen years ago, a great deal of disappointment and frustration as well. 

It was, since high school, my first serious attempt at running.  I was young, just 22 at the time, and in generally good shape at a bodyweight of slightly under 150 pounds. I had stayed trim and fit through weight training and neither smoked or drank. Drugs had no place in my life; in fact, despite their growing popularity at the time, I was turned off by them. 

I favored the pursuit of my own passions and enthusiasms. Twice in high school, I set some sort of endurance record by doing first one thousand and then thirteen hundred consecutive sit-ups. The second time, as a 16 year old sophomore, the only reason I stopped was literally because the kid holding my ankles got tired of counting and wanted to go to lunch. Six years later, I certainly was in no hurry to admit to being out of shape. 

The passing of that summer, and the beginning of fall and winter, did not diminish the hurt to my self-esteem. I carried with me the weight of that August day’s failure like a wounded animal burdened by a hunter’s bullet. The pain prodded me, a dull but persistent ache, which felt like emptiness growing inside. 

The following spring I set about addressing that empty feeling. I started slowly, of course, working on basic conditioning and the establishment of a set schedule. My aim was to develop running power sufficient enough to assist my strength training with weights. My heart leaned towards running; my head still loved the sensations of power and strength that accompany lifting heavy weights. 

I settled on running three times a week. This, I reasoned, would build stamina without detracting too much from strength. I determined it best that I attempt two miles and seek to reduce my time. 

My first complete two mile jaunt clocked out at a hardly respectable 14 minutes. But, as Spring wore on, and it’s wonderful and welcome warmth brought forth the usual hopeful surge of enthusiasm. I found myself actually looking forward to heading out to that high school track. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, and also on Saturday morning, I’d be there, rain or shine. 

For three months, I maintained this routine. Eventually I established a groove and I was subtracting a full ten seconds from the preceding week’s best time. This went on for twelve consecutive weeks and culminated one sweltering July morning, appropriately enough, in a best ever time of 11 minutes and 57 seconds. 

I wonder how much better I might have become, had I pursued running. However, as I indicated, running was not so much a substitute as a supplement, a sideline. It gave me stamina, to be sure, but unlike my father, who was once a runner-up in the state cross country high school championships, I found myself pursuing feats of strength rather than fleet feet. 

I did nothing fancy – just basic power movements. My goal was not to be big like a bodybuilder, or swift and graceful as an Olympic weightlifter. All I wanted was to get myself stronger. Thus, I naturally turned to the power lifts, the lifts that directly tax most of the body’s major muscle groups: the hips and thighs in the squat; the shoulders, chest and arms in the bench press; the back and legs in the deadlift (my favorite). They are generally regarded by strength coaches and trainers as being the best overall barometer and builder of size and strength. 

For me, they became something more. The lifts I practiced and over time assumed added significance beyond the mere weights and movements involved. Going to the gym was no longer simply an act of repetition; it became an exercise in physical and mental self-control. I found myself taking the ancient mind over matter aspect of lifting and turning it into a quest for physical and mental sharpness. I also found, in the process of handling heavy weights, new meanings and definitions in the terms physical commitment and emotional involvement. 

Eventually, my commitment and involvement took me into competition itself. The sport of powerlifting back then, in 1978, was starting to expand, and getting in on the ground floor was easy enough. It was time to challenge my private exertions and efforts. 

At first, I just wanted to lift a total of seven times my own weight, which never exceeded 149 pounds in competition, but, as one often notes in the sport’s ranks, strength is a greedy and seductive mistress; she frequently finds ways of grabbing hold and urging you on. 

Gradually, I pushed and pulled myself a little higher. First I achieved a total of 1050, then, 1100, 1150, and finally, 1200 pounds. This last result, done in May, 1981, represents personal record lifts of 418 squat, 270 bench press, and 512 deadlift.

The latter lifts, as well as all those done before and since, were done through my natural strength, nothing else. The sickening scourge of some professional and amateur sports, steroids and other tissue building drugs, never got to me. They never seriously tempted me, in fact. 

One reason, I suppose, relates to my apparent inability to quell personal and private fears. I could never comfortably juxtapose my health concerns with the fears that steroid use inspired. The thought of dripping needles and glistening vials of “juice” always seemed to leave me with a bitter taste. I’d inevitably find myself recalling the wise words of an anonymous trainer: “Health is a stage through which the serious athlete passes on the way to excellence.”

Another reason I spurned steroids is because I recognized early the teeming conflicts and contradictions inherent in sports competition. I saw too many competitors caught up in a web of ego and worry about meeting or exceeding future demands. This tendency to seek achievement at all costs – the exaltation of excellence – I found too costly. To me, winning at all costs tends to reduce a moment’s immediacy; it too often exchanges basic enjoyment for efficiency and the attainment of efforts. It’s a process by which people become prone to ignore or overlook the simple and sheer joys and satisfactions of physical movement and athletic activity. 

I personally resolved not to be overtaken by this process. I imagined myself holding steady, like an acrobat on a tightrope. Above I sensed wholeness and equilibrium. Below rested the powerful twin divisive forces of ego drives and competition’s demands. 

The trick was, and is, to balance this precarious perch successfully. And success, for me, comes by simply maintaining a feeling of command and control over the weights I lift.