I missed a 181 squat at my last meet (remember, the odd number is due to competition lifts being measured in kilos and coming out to sometimes strange numbers when converted to pounds). A few days ago, I squatted 180, it while it’s probably my max or very close to it (maybe I could have done 185, maybe not), I felt like it moved pretty well. My form in this video is not great, but this is often the case for at-or-near-max lifting efforts for all but very experienced lifters. Problems relatively apparent that the idle armchair YouTube commenter could pick on: knees are coming in a bit and the bar is certainly not traveling in the most level path possible. I also am very close to having a depth issue here, but I believe I’m hitting parallel, which, in powerlifting, is all that is required for depth from a squat. My proportions combined with the recent switch to low-bar positioning have resulted in me needing to redouble my depth-making efforts during squat sessions, but I’m confident that I’m doing relatively well with this.
So, next goal: 190. I’ll be REALLY happy with myself when I get to 200. This has been a more major goal of mine since I started specifically training for powerlifting. I also want a 300 deadlift (goddamn far away, that one, as I’m currently at 254 on that lift) and a 150 paused bench (also extremely far away). As far as a “far away” squat goal goes, I’ll throw out a 230. Adding in knee wraps to the squatting equation may or may not really boost my number in that lift; I’m not planning on doing so for the time being, but perhaps when I get to 200 I’ll revisit the option.
Enough shop talk. I know half of you don’t even know what I mean when I refer to knee wraps. Well, alright, they’re self-explanatory–I’ll revise that to half of you don’t even care about knee wraps. What you care about is scandals in the gym involving frat boys and my ability or lack thereof to control myself when they start talking about their sorority girl-bedding conquests. Apparently I missed an exchange among a small group of bros punctuated with enough male-ego-bravado to stir even the most placid of feminism-advocating individuals. As you may or may not know, I am not the most placid of feminist-minded individuals. I get uppity simply when I get stared at while training: the mental rhetoric in response to this occurrence is some variant of “what the fuck is he/she/are they looking at? What the fuck? I swear, I’m going to fucking go over there and ask them what they’re fucking looking at.” I then grumble this semi-audibly to Kyle, who is usually in his own lifting world and registers my sputtering only faintly. Kyle’s austere concentration during much of each lifting session so contrasts with my own tendency towards sputtering aggressively that it helps me scale back would-be confrontations with bros to almost nonexistence. That said, if I had heard the conversation about bro conquests going on quite near me yesterday as I worked on box squatting, I MIGHT have said something. When bros have these incredibly loud, obnoxious conversations–we’re talking louder than conversational decibel levels–I assume they are basically inviting the reaction of nearby lifters. Right? I mean, if I talk loudly and other people are around, I am relatively certain those people can hear me. I assume that the bros have the same certainty, and when they speak about screwing the entire Phi Alpha Beta ScrewIt Somethingsomething Sorority knowing I can hear them, I’m basically invited to join in on the conversation. I have been informed that I somehow did NOT hear such a conversation held by a few bros lifting near me yesterday, but if I had, I would have gladly joined in the gaiety with effusive expression of my enthusiasm for the idea of bedding sorority girls by the tens–no, the hundreds!
And then I would have eaten those bros.