The Last Rep

The bar strained under the plates like it was cemented to the floor. The world record for deadlift stood at 1,104.5 pounds. At 1,105 pounds, it was enough to destroy the spine and even destroy Stacey Maxwell. “This is Stacey’s final attempt to break the world record,” the announcer said. As Stacey applied chalk to his hands, he wasn’t listening to anything around him. He blocked out the crowd and music minutes ago. This lift would define his career. This was for his legacy. Stacey has imagined this moment a hundred times. The bar, the chalk, the crowd, and most importantly, the lift. Thousands of hours of training all led to these next few minutes.

He settled into his stance, lined up his feet, and put his heels under his hips with his toes forward. Chalk dust burst from his hands as he slapped them together one final time. Stacey reached down with his left hand, settling into an overhand grip, and his right hand tightened on the bar in an underhand grip. There were no straps, just raw grit, grip, and power. He could feel the bar biting into his callused hands, built from years under the bar.

Every morning at 3 AM, he would be at the gym, just him and the weights. His music was the lights’ buzz and the plates’ metal clanking. This was his symphony. Stacey always enjoyed his time alone. He felt most productive during these times, with no idle chitchat or distractions. Nobody staring mindlessly at their phones, continuously scrolling while they block machines. Those types would eventually show up around 5 AM, dragging ass, yawning, and half awake. Pathetic. By then, Stacey had already pushed past his limits and put his body through hell. His shirt would be soaked with sweat, calluses torn open, and maybe a nosebleed if the Trenbolone, the steroid he injected like clockwork, was hitting him wrong. Around him, he would see half-ass attempts and lousy technique. He’d nod as he left, they would train for aesthetics, and he would train to win.

The bar inched upward as Stacey pulled, and the adrenaline rush coursed through him. His muscles coiled like a snake waiting to strike under the immense weight, and his veins bulged across his neck and arms. Steel scraped against his shins, and he knew he was going to give up blood on this one. The bar sliced across his shins, leaving skin on the bar, and blood dripped down to his socks. With his hands shaking, he slowly raised the bar.

He remembered his hands shaking when he jabbed Tren into his thigh for the first time. “Everybody is taking something,” his coach told him. “Do you want to be average or be remembered?” Stacey stared at the needle for a moment, weighing the consequences of the decision. Then he drove it in, and with the needle burning in his thigh and the juice flowing through him, he knew there was no turning back. This was it, no plan B. This was war.

His knees wobbled under the pressure, and the bar stalled below his knees. The crowd stood with excitement, cheering. Stacey could feel his heart beating faster. He squeezed harder, and his back screamed. The crowd noise disappeared around him, and his vision narrowed. Pulling through the pain, the bar reached his thighs. He leaned back and stood as straight as he could. His arms were straight, his shoulders back, and he knew this was it, he had it. The crowd exploded as the judge said, “Down!”

Feeling the immense pressure of the weight, Stacey guided the bar down to the mat. When the bar came to a controlled crash on the mat, Stacey felt off, something wasn’t right. He stood there for half a second, his chest tightened, and his eyes were focused straight ahead. The crowd’s normal deafening roar now sounded more muffled, almost silenced. He tried to smile. Tried to raise a fist. The three white lights illuminated, indicating it was a clean lift. “Stacey has done it, he has broken the world-“, the announcer was cut short as Stacey took one unsteady step backwards and collapsed to the ground like a ton of bricks. His head bounced off the mat, and he was out.

The crowd gasped in unison and then stood in silence as the medics rushed to the stage. Once the shock wore off, some in the crowd started taking their phones out and recording. One of the medics started CPR, counting chest compressions as another readied a defibrillator. “Stacey, can you hear me?” said the medic. “He’s not breathing,” said the other medic. Placing the paddles on his chest, the medic said, “Clear!” A shock jolted through Stacey’s chest. After a few seconds, nothing. The medics tried a couple more shocks, but they knew what the final outcome would be. Stacey Maxwell, the man who lifted more weight than anyone had ever lifted, lay there not moving.

In the crowd, a young boy who had dreams of lifting sat motionless. Moments ago, the young boy was pumping his fists in the air, screaming for Stacey. He idolized Stacey, watched every lift online, and mimicked his form in his garage gym. Now, his dad sat next to him and tried to get him to stop looking at his fallen idol. His dad broke the silence and said, “We train smart son. We don’t push the limits, we let our bodies give us signals on when to pull back.” The boy didn’t answer. He just kept looking at the stage as the medics now covering the body that had just lifted 1,105 pounds, with a white sheet.

Some in the crowd were still crying, and most were walking towards the exits in disbelief at what they had just seen, a world record shattered and a man broken with it. Stacey Maxwell had done it, he broke the world record in the deadlift, but no interviews were given, no trophies were passed out, and the champion did not get a chance to wave in victory. He had made history and gave everything to do it.