Around 15 years ago, at Metroflex Gym in Arlington, Tx, there were some rough-looking cats that loitered around the parking lot. These roughnecks would pass the time by drinking Olde English 40s at the mechanic shop next door to the gym.
The group included a 70-year-old mechanic from Vietnam named Mr. Hip (RIP, brother), a retired Dallas homicide detective that cooked sausage gumbo, a wayward Pentecostal preacher that spoke in tongues, a couple of old heads with face tattoos that were all eighty-sixed from the local Latino Bars, and a cornfed-looking white dude they called “Choctaw County.”
Late one night I came into the gym to deadlift and after exchanging greetings with Mr. Hip’s crew that was looking straight out of a Fellini Film, I was ready for heavy deadlifts!
Hip’s crew decided to join the fun. They brought their malt liquor in the gym and cheered me onto a deficit deadlift PR.
One of the dudes that looked straight out of “Blood In Blood Out” raised his 40 oz to me in a sign of respect. I didn’t know this guy’s history, but dollars to donuts says he has probably been in knife fights in Juarez’s toughest cantinas. He looked at me with a semi-inebriated, yet aware, gaze and said, “This shit is real carnal.”
Deadlifting is real, a true primoradial experience!