Beyond the realm of the pretty boys chrome
dwell the men of the Squat...
It's a quarter past three in the afternoon
the gym is silent and one man stands alone.
He, the victor, steps up to the challenge.
Placing one heavy boot upon the creaking platform
he cinches his belt one last time.
Chalk snows down upon the black mat as he clasps his thick hands.
With determination and unwavering courage he charges for the rack.
Dips under the bar and assumes his rightful place.
With a grip of steel and traps set high he balances the
cambered bar across his back.
Three set up breaths he stands up and walks out.
Feet exactly placed in the perfect stance,
This ain't nothin'
It's second nature.
Now focused, eyes locked, he slowly descends.
The plates rattle, the bar quivers, bowing on his back.
Far below parallel, timing his breath he explodes out of the bottom.
One long, loud growl, a sneer and every muscle quakes.
With sweat in his eyes he locks it out.
The bar bouncing, plates sliding, pushing the collars grip.
With jerky steps he walks to the rack, sets the bar down and backs out.
Stepping off the platform he turns, looking back at the loaded set.
He lived to beat the Squat again that day.
One man, a rack and fully loaded bar...
Beyond the realm of the pretty boys chrome dwell the men of the Squat.
Heather Jeffries