More Ballet than Monster Truck: The Music of the Deadlift

I have been a semi-serious amateur powerlifter for ten years. It has changed my life.

There is a part of my brain that I think is further proof, if I needed any, that I am among the best preserved of the Neanderthals’ descendants.

When I walk up to a heavy object, I want to pick it up.

I’m obviously not alone in this. Powerlifting has grown as a sport since its early days in the middle of the 20^th century, riding the same wave as other kinds of specialized fitness. And it has almost nothing to do with body aesthetics. Unlike its twisted cousin bodybuilding, the physiques of record holders in powerlifting – that is, the squat, bench press, and deadlift – are not exactly ready for their magazine covers (unless that’s a powerlifting magazine).

I don’t blame some of my friends, colleagues, and students who think my passion for this sport reflects a mental defect of toxic masculinity or worry about my overconsumption of protein.

Today, though, let me make the case that powerlifting is in fact more art than science, more ballet than monster truck, more spiritual than Neanderthal. (I’ll focus today’s post on the deadlift, but many of the same ideas apply to the other two lifts as well.)

More art than science, more ballet than monster truck

One of the surest ways I can tell whether a fitness “influencer” is a hack is the certainty and universality of their advice. The truth is that the state of health science is based on a lot of junk studies, with tiny samples, and poor research design. There are some terrific athletes who go to great pains to explain these limitations and explore what we do know – Jeff Nippard is my favorite  – but they are in the minority.

That isn’t to say that there is no science here. Strength training is very good for building bone density, combating heart disease, and even (perhaps) helping manage mental illness. Compound lifts accomplish may accomplish these tasks, at the margin, better than what are called isolation exercises, which puts powerlifters at the health advantage over bodybuilders.

Much more science than this is hard to offer.

There is an art to this, though. When I deadlift with perfect form, at the edge of my strength, I have a similar reaction to what happens when I am soloing the blues or playing the classical guitar. It feels creative in a way that other forms of exercise simply do not.

The key to this artistic sensibility is form. The basic form of the deadlift is about bringing the bar to the body so that the single hoist reinforces hamstring, glutes, shoulders, and back muscles, with some crucial support from the core, lower back, and hip flexors.

There is no universal description of the accurate deadlift for every body type, given the huge variety of body shapes and sizes. I have an absurdly long torso, for example, relative to the length of my stubby legs and arms. As a result, the deadlift for me has much more in common with a squat than would be the case for a long-limbed lifter (who probably lifts in a sumo stance, which is well-nigh impossible for me).

What is common is the setup and hoist, which are essential to avoid injury. The deadlifter drags the bar across her shins – literally drags, one reason why some lifters (myself included) use shin guards  – and starts from a position with a flat (as opposed to rounded) back. A rounded back puts the tension on the auxiliary muscles – the lower back and the hips – where the flat back engaged the key muscles in the legs, back, and shoulders.

After each rep, I reset, check my mirrors, and lift again. It doesn’t matter the ultimate weight that I lift, although I love chasing the 600 lb deadlift. What matters is that I am creating something that I haven’t done exactly that way before.

That perfectly executed deadlift is elegant, not brutal. It is also injury prevention. A poorly-executed deadlift is the opposite. I have had many lower back strains because my ego drove the lift, much more monster truck than ballet. I have never left even my heaviest lifts with any kind of injury when I focus on the ballet of it all.

More spiritual than Neanderthal

Even though I am convinced that I have more than your average Neanderthal DNA – it’s the sloping forehead that gives it away – weightlifting to me is a very spiritual affair. I spend about 6 hours a week training my lifts, in four 90 minute sessions. Sometimes I lift with a friend who is as serious about powerlifting as I am. Often I am alone. And while from time to time I will have nutrition-free reality TV on in the background – Love is Blind is my guiltiest of hate-watching pleasures – often I lift in complete silence.

To complete five sets on the deadlift takes me 20-30 minutes. During that time, I am almost always in constant prayer. These aren’t petitionary prayers, the theology of which I find somewhat dubious, but meditative prayer. The lift itself becomes a kind of prayer, enhancing my ability to feel almost every part of my physical self while I am integrating it to my thoughts and hopes for the day and beyond.

There are sessions that don’t end well, where my sleep was off or my nutrition was or my ego showed up in a way that interfered with my lifts. But those are the exceptions. Most times I leave the gym with a sense of reverence and gratitude.

A year ago, I came to the realization that powerlifting, despite my love for it, was not enough. In future weekend posts I’ll explain why I have added endurance training to this mix, even though I still regard endurance training as more science than art, more monster trucks than ballet, more Neanderthal than spiritual.