You Ain’t Been Squattin’

A couple weeks ago, I was on the road for work, and I stumbled upon an amazing local gym in the middle of nowhere New Jersey. My Holiday Inn didn’t even have the usual generic hotel dumbbell/treadmill/elliptical/staph-infected yoga mat fitness center, but the front desk girl told me that hotel guests could get into this nearby local gym for free just by showing a room key. A quick Google search revealed that the gym was less than two miles away and at least had some squat racks, so I grabbed my keys and drove over thinking I might have the place to myself when it opened at 0500. When I found the parking lot, I realized I was late to the party and lucky to even get a space. The gym was already packed and full of energy as some dedicated Jersey diehards got a pump and sweat before going about the rest of their day. It wasn’t hard to spot some of the classic gym characters floating around the weight room. There was the blonde bombshell with big fake boobs falling out of her sports bra, the upper body only guy doing curls in one of the squat racks, the grandpa showing his disinterested grandson from one machine to the next, the fitness waif giving the StairMaster a workout, the jacked bodybuilder couple whose discipline and dedication to their craft showed in their sculpted physiques. Basically, the place was fucking awesome.

A knee surgery and hip issue forced me to take a decent layoff from squatting, but it seems lately I’ve been able to squat without feeling torn up for ten days hence. I made my way over to one of the open squat racks and noticed it had a solid York barbell with rough knurling, perfect for some front squats. Next to my rack was a deadlift platform and some emergency exit doors with a sign containing my favorite poem. I remember seeing this poem back in 2012, and it still gives me goosebumps every time I read it. The weights I’m using right now are laughably light, but being able to squat again just makes me feel so freaking alive.