Mz Kitty has finally succumbed to the pleading of the Olympic Games organisers and bought tickets ... to the +105 kg weightlifting. Don't blame Dingo Baby. I talked him into it. I know it's wrong. It's like watching Game of Thrones. I can't help myself. Big blokes lifting weights until they throw up is exciting.
I can't remember when or why it started but it has something to do with Christmas. There is one thing above all others that I look forward to at that time of year (apart from mini champagne puds from the Co-op) ... the World's Strongest Man competition. This has become as much a part of the annual festivities as 'It's a Wonderful Life' and the 'Dr Who' Christmas special.
I have reached such a state of groupie-dom that I found myself making running commentary on Travis Ortmayer's form this year (had to pull out of the qualifiers - had a shocker). Where else would you hear sporting terminology such as 'jacking it up his thighs', or see grown men, very grown, running 100 metres while carrying a car, or eyes popping and noses bleeding in the deadlift (also involving a car).
I admire their absolute dedication to lifting, carrying, pulling and loading ridiculous amounts of weight. Biological limits are overcome and forced to endure by a mind that exposes the body's nature as merely a vessel of blood, muscles, nerves and chemicals. It's a beautiful thing ... like kavadi's hooks in bear flesh, saddhus bathing in glacial waters, and the bloodied feet of endurance runners.
