The Iron Never Lies

I've been strength training for almost 40 years and competing for 30. Somewhere along the line, I heard someone use the expression "the iron doesn't lie,"recently popularized by Henry Rollins. I have no idea who he is, but I understand what he's saying.

At my age, I've grown accustomed to perceptions. Someone else, again I don't know who, has said that perception is reality. I call Shenanigans. Perceptions are not objective. I see myself and my accomplishments in a certain light; others see me and my accomplishments through a different set of filters. What's more, everyone sees themselves through a set of filters and I see through them through my filters. Finally, I use one set of filters for viewing myself and my accomplishments, and a different set of filters for viewing others and their accomplishments. Confused yet? Understandable.

Life is complex...period. We try to simplify it using generalizations, metaphors, and object lessons. We try to understand animal behaviors by assigning human traits to them and try to simplify complex concepts for our children. We have created technologies that we love and have demoted friends and family to things we use.

Getting back to strength training, I like lifting weights. In particular, I enjoy doing the back squat and, to a lesser extent, the deadlift. I despise the bench press because I suck (speaking subjectively). I hold some records at the state, national, and world level -- based on the rules of several different organizations of which I pay for membership. I own weightlifting equipment that takes up space in my garage. I can bench, squat, and pull to my heart's content.

But the weights scare me. That's the truth. The reason I'm scared of the weights is because the weight is the objective reality. My weight plates are accurate to within 10 grams of the amount printed on the plate. That means that when the weight on the bar adds up to 100 kilograms, it's 100 kilograms. I can say it's 110 kilograms, but it's not. I can say it's 90 kilograms, but it's not. I can even have friends or registered officials tell me that it's not 100 kilograms, but it is 100 kilograms. Confronted with this blatant objective reality, there's nothing to do but lift it...or not. If I pick up that 100 kilogram bar and weights, I will either fail or succeed. It's that simple. 

I have been competing in the sport of powerlifting since the fall of 1986. I'm not really that good (subjective), but I compete because there are three officials who determine whether or not I have successfully completed a squat, bench, or deadlift, based on the rules of performance of their organization. Judges, in theory, make the sport less subjective, but there are three refs, so two of three determine my success.

What's my point? I like standards of performance. I like standards as a way of measuring success. In a job interview, I want to tell a prospective employer that I accomplished this or that. I also like standards as a benchmark for personal growth. I'm not as interested in perfection (I see imperfection in the mirror every morning) as I am improvement. Standards allow me to measure growth. Standards also provide me with the opportunity to rest. I have already accomplished some of my goals; I have goals yet to be accomplished. But today, I want to take a nap. As long as I understand that the standards will be there when I wake up, I don't have to worry about not completing everything...because there's always something else.

The iron never lies...and there's always more iron to put on the bar. The road goes ever, ever on.