Back Squats and Squat Cleans

I did back squats earlier this week. They were programmed at the gym where I work out, but I couldn’t get to the gym that day … so I did a few sets in the garage. I hadn’t done back squats for years, maybe not since I broke myself over five and a half years ago.

Back squats scare me now. I’ve been front squatting since the accident with no (psychological) problem. See, if the bar is too heavy during a front squat, you just drop it in front of you. But if the bar is too heavy during a back squat, you have to move quickly to get out of the way when you drop the bar it doesn’t land on your back. And I get worried about injuring my back, especially since I don’t move very quickly or with much agility any longer.

But this week I sucked it up, put some (light) weight on the bar, and did some back squats. Something wasn't quite right, though. So I shot some video of me squatting, and it was ugly. It was obvious that I don’t have the range of motion I once did, and I have almost no strength in the bottom of the squat.

These things were on my mind yesterday when the coach at the gym told us that the cleans in the strength portion of our workout were supposed to be squat cleans. I haven’t done squat cleans for years, probably not since I broke myself over five and a half years ago. I had lost much of the mobility and quickness and explosive strength that’s necessary to do that movement safely.

Back when 60 kilo cleans were easy

So yesterday at the gym I thought, “I’ll do power cleans instead” … until I remembered the ugly squats from earlier in the week and recognized that I won’t ever build up strength and mobility in the bottom of a squat without actually doing the work. So lightweight squat cleans it was. Twelve reps. And three of them, for the tiniest part of the lift, felt almost perfect.

I still wish my current physical limitations would just evaporate, that the injury to my spinal cord would magically heal itself, and that I would be able to move like I used to. I still look with nostalgic envy at other people in the gym when they're lifting as much as I used to lift. But my muscles still don't work the way the should. I still have a hard time placing my feet exactly where I want them to be when I approach the bar. The lifts are still not as smooth as they should be. I still limp when I walk away from the barbell … and everywhere else.

But for those three reps, a tiny part of the movement felt like it did six years ago. I had set up correctly before the lift. The barbell went up smoothly. I found just enough explosiveness from my quads and glutes that I felt it - there was that split second during the third pull when I extended fully, the barbell floated weightless, and I moved almost perfectly under the bar so I could catch it on my shoulders. 

Those three tiny moments, while the bar was weightless as I moved the way I used to, felt really good.

Frustration and Losing Hope ... ???

I was wondering if, or when, it would happen – and it has. I’ve gotten to the point of regularly being frustrated.

I’m not talking about work, or about family, or about politics, or about global warming. While each of those things sometimes is (or can be) frustrating, what I’m thinking about in this moment is physicality and movement.

See, here’s the thing. After I broke myself, when I was laying in an ICU bed, I remember being able to move my left arm, but not my other three limbs. I started at Craig Hospital in a motorized wheelchair. The switched me to a standard wheelchair after a couple days, which I used until I was released. I walked out of the hospital using crutches, and went home with a wheelchair in the car, which gathered dust until I returned it to Craig.

I spent months using one or two crutches to take some weight off of my legs while I was walking – and then moved to hiking poles, because my balance was still pretty bad. I don’t remember specifically when, but there came a time that I could walk without any additional support. I walked awkwardly, and felt like I looked like I was perpetually drunk.

For most of that time I was subconsciously hopeful, and expected that the way I was able to move would continue to improve. And for a long time, that’s what happened – I would regularly notice that some set of muscles was stronger or some movement more fluid than it had been. I subconsciously hoped, and almost expected, that those improvements would continue.

I used to be way more
graceful, less awkward

Recently, though, that subconscious hope seems to have vanished, because it’s been months since I experienced even a hint of physical improvement. And that feeling of frustration was exacerbated when I watched a video from this past weekend of (among other things) me walking – in which I looked almost as awkward as I felt.

Please don’t misunderstand. I am and will remain tremendously grateful that I’ve been gifted with this much improvement in mobility so far. And I intend to continue to try to regain the remainder of what I’ve lost. And simultaneously, it’s tremendously frustrating, when I’m walking up stairs, to have to choose between 1) intentionally being conscious to actively think about which muscles are working and 2) tripping.

We Went Bowling

We went bowling the other day. The weather wasn't ideal for being outside, so we went to the bowling alley (there was also an arcade, laser tag, a restaurant, and a bar). 

I enjoyed bowling back in the day. I remember going bowling a couple times with my family, and I went with my friends at least a few times when I was in high school. It was fun. I was never actually very good, and never cared that I wasn't. No, that's not true. I wished that I was good, but not enough to even want to think about spending a bunch of time getting good. I was good enough to almost always throw at least one strike every ten frames, and good enough to bowl 185 this one time. 

I always felt like my technique was decent, that I was in control of how I moved, where I stepped, and how aggressively I sent the ball down the lane. We went bowling once fairly soon after I got out of the hospital. I was ridiculously weak, had really bad balance, and was nowhere close to being comfortable with the new way my legs moved. So I used that ramp-thing that little kids use. But the other day I didn't use that ramp-thing. 

I bowled all on my own, assuming (without thinking about it) that I would be able to bowl just like I had done when I was young. Except when I took the first approach I was at least a foot and a half too far back. So I started my approach a little forward of where I always used to. And then I fell down. Twice. 

And I realized that I'm not able to bowl like I used to, My approach was much shorter than it used to be, my footwork was awkward and halting, and my arm swing was uncertain. So I had to figure out how to be better. So I slowed down, picked up a lighter ball, focused on the placement of my feet and my arm swing, and tried to replicate what I had been able to do before the accident. 

After a few frames that were mentally exhausting because I was focusing so much energy on which muscles move in which ways, I bowled a strike! I was briefly excited. But obviously I can't be satisfied with one singular strike for more than a couple seconds. So immediately after I bowled a strike I thought, "Well, if I can bowl one strike, then I can bowl two." So I did. 

After the second strike I thought, "Cool. Also, I've never bowled a Turkey (three strikes in a row). I wonder if there's any way under heaven that I would be able to bowl another strike right now." And I did. 

First ever Turkey. On the same day that I was struggling because I can't bowl like I used to be able to. 

So once again I was face to face with the reality that I'm physically different after the accident than I was before. And also I was confronted with the truth that I actually am able to work with or through my altered physicality to do new things, or to do old things in new ways. 

Which means, I suppose, that I'll continue trying to get better and stronger and more physically adept at whatever I try to do. 

Not Dead Yet Day

Yesterday we celebrated Not Dead Yet Day, the anniversary of the date I sustained a spinal cord injury. Yesterday was five years since I broke myself on the side of a mountain. We celebrated by skiing at Eldora, the same resort where I hurt myself. It was a beautiful bluebird day, and we were skiing on good snow that had fallen a couple days before. 

As we were driving down the mountain after skiing, I realized that we were traveling at probably the exact same time as I had traveled from the mountain to the hospital five years ago - this time we took the trip in a car instead of a helicopter. 

It was a good day because of the company. It was a good day because of the snow conditions. It was a good day because I'm still able to ski. It was a good day because I'm not dead. Yet.

My amazing wife took a couple photos of me skiing yesterday. The run I was on felt challenging while I was skiing. I made it down without wiping out, which I felt pretty good about. 

After we got home, I looked at the photos. That run looks really easy, and I look really hesitant. I don't look like someone who's taken on a challenging route, and navigated it successfully. I look like a beginner who's relatively uncomfortable in their body. 

Which, I suppose, is accurate. Not only while I'm skiing. Awkward and hesitant is how I feel most of the time while I'm skiing. It's also how I feel most of the time when I try to do almost anything involving my legs. Climbing stairs, turning a corner while walking, putting my shoes on - these things all take intentional conscious thought, and feel awkward.  

Yesterday though (for maybe the first time in the past five years), a couple of the runs we took were really good. The turns felt smooth, I felt like I had control of both legs, and I was pretty sure I could have stopped when I needed to. I felt like I was skiing; I felt like I remember feeling on skis before the accident.

Those moments were fleeting. I went right back to feeling awkward and hesitant. But I'm gonna do my best to remember the good runs instead of dwelling on the others.