A Novel about Powerlifting and the Ukraine

by  Ronald Fernando

Nominee Powerlifting Hall of Fame (CA)

USA Powerlifting 1987-1990

              Introduction:  The White Death

 
 The old man sat straight up on his Akhalteke horse, his life’s pride and joy. He was the tribal chief of the al-Siddiq tribe, a group of ferocious nomadic warriors from the hills of Turkmenistan. He surveyed the long serried lines of horses and tribesmen, the sun glinting from their old fashioned bayonets, each horse laden with a cargo so deadly that the tribal mullah invoked a special prayer before the journey began

“Oh Allah The One the Only, let these holy warriors bring the White Death upon the infidel like snow in the Caucasus. Let the infidel partake of this and yea, verily let the infidel die, and die horribly – so it is written by the beard of the Prophet Mohamed. Let not any of our Mujahadeen be tempted by the White Death, and keep them pure from its unholy grip. Above all, let the eyeballs of our enemies shrivel and their souls roast in hell for their offenses against Islam and the Prophet Insallah… it is written…”

Indeed the cargo was deadly. So deadly that the superstitious tribesmen were afraid to touch the contents, especially having seen one unfortunate teenager die screaming who partook of the poison, thinking it was something normal...which it was decidedly not. The tribesmen took extreme care that their horses, (who they loved like children), weren’t unnecessarily exposed to the cargo by double reinforcing the boxes and insulating them with heavy burlap. This particular cargo, before the final processing was actually toxic to the touch and skin, and terribly so. They had reason to be afraid. The horses somehow sensed the evil within and whinnied pitifully, and it was only the soothing words of their masters that allowed them to combat their fear. The tribesmen loved their horses and they had always loved them.

 Prior to the Russian occupation of 1917, nearly every Turkmen family owned at least one or two horses. With Bolshevism however, came an end to private ownership and the horses were placed in state-owned stud farms. Rather than surrender their beloved horses to such a fate, many tribesmen fled with them to Persia and Afghanistan. When it was then decreed that horses in the stud farms were to be slaughtered for food, breeders released them into the desert, their natural habitat, thereby preventing what may have resulted in the annihilation of the Akhalteke breed within the borders of Turkmenistan. In 1935, fifteen Akhalteke horses and their masters were ridden 3000 kilometers from Ashgabat to Moscow, in 84 days, to demonstrate to Russian dictator Joseph Stalin their formidable strength in the hopes that he would grant his permission for their continued breeding. The campaign was a success.

The old man, whose name was Rashid-al Abwari, was a descendant of the original warlords of the Al-Siddiq.  His father was one of those fabled horsemen who rode nonstop to Stalin, including one deadly stretch of almost 400 kilometers without pause for water. He himself rode a sleek, dappled horse that was whispered to be the descendant of Bucephalus himself, the Great War Horse that had carried Alexander the Great to glory so many centuries before. Probably village legend, but the old man cared not. He loved that horse and wished that the beautiful animal was not burdened by its hellish load, but made him endure it for a far greater need. Now 84 years of age, Rashid was lean as a whipcord and tough as a thousand-year-old rock. He also was a fervent Muslim who believed devoutly in the teachings of the Prophet and hated with all of his soul the United States of America and all that they stood for. His hatred began in the summer of the Great Gulf War, when his eldest son Abdullah, the light of his life, had ridden off to Baghdad to answer a call for help from Saddam Hussein to battle the infidel as they landed on Holy Soil. Abdullah had died in hail of gunfire in the Battle of the Euphrates River when Infidel troopers (the 8^th Armor Battalion) slew to a man his troop, which was riding support for the Hammurabi Division of the Iraqi Republican Guard. His hatred grew like a festering wound, and knew no bounds as he pondered his revenge. Rashid had heard years later of the great mullah Osama bin Laden and the terror he had wrought upon the Great Satan on September 11, 2001 , and wished with all of his heart that he, too, could deliver a similar death blow to not one, but millions, of the infidel…and until two years ago that hatred was but an unfulfilled dream. Now, thanks to the mysterious White Russian called Al-Salil (the Drawn Sword) he was in a position to deliver such a wound to the Great Satan that would make the destruction of the Twin Towers minuscule by comparison. Al-Salil was a soldier, but had converted to Islam when he married the local tribal princess. He showed Rashid how his tribe could be wealthy beyond their wildest dreams and deliver such a blow to the infidel at the same time. Thus, the White Death was born. For centuries the Turkmen tribes had ignored their fields of poppies, swaying gently in the breeze, as they preferred to concentrate on earning a living by plundering, horse trading, or simple farming. Al-Salil was stationed in Turkmenistan several years ago and had taught them a way to develop the poppy into a million dollar a year product – heroin, a special cash crop so hugely profitable it made their heads spin. The added benefit was its intended use… “the eventual poisoning of Western Society and mental enslavement of its youth.” And when the world finally converts to Islam, Allah willing, thought Rashid, then we will put to death by stoning any drug addict, for is it not forbidden under Sharia law…and once and for all avenge our collective grief. There was one problem – Al-Salil was a white man and not a Muslim. He had solved that by marrying the plump but available fourth daughter of Rashid’s fifth wife, and converting to Islam, taking the blood oath of the tribe. That made the bond irrevocable and permanent, even after the girl unfortunately died in a hunting accident with her husband some months later. Al-Salil was and will always be family. It was now time to move the latest load of the White Death to Al-Salil. Rashid made a signal, ”For Allah, Mullah Bin Laden, and the soul of my son Abdullah – move out!”

              CHAPTER ONE:  THE BET

 Sergiy Arhipov woke up to the noise of the morning factory whistle, as yet another gray, gloomy winter day belched forth in the grimy factory town of Donetsk the Ukraine, once part of the sprawling Empire known as the Soviet Union, now just another country beset by economic and political problems. He bustled about the tiny kitchen rustling up a makeshift breakfast of tea and bread with a couple of slices of cheese and salami (for the protein, he reckoned). His mother had already gone to work at the glassware factory and his Babushka (grandmother) was still sleeping. Sergiy’s father Viktor was a conscript who met his unfortunate fate at the hands of the Mujahadeen in Afghanistan, in that now long ago abortion of a conflict that tore apart the then mighty Soviet Union, ruined the 1980 Summer Olympic Games, and killed many young men like Viktor. Rumor was that his MIL-1 chopper was one of the first brought down by the American-made Stinger Missiles. As a war widow, Mrs. Arkhipova received a meager pension every month from the government, but it was not enough even to keep the lights on. His medals and fading corporal’s picture still occupied a place of honor on the mantle. Sergiy was only a year old when his father left for war, and had no reminders of him other than the constant, grinding poverty they all lived with. Sergiy lived with his mother and grandmother in on of the sprawling, post-War Stalinist block-type apartments, this one being almost 30 stories high. Problem was, his apartment was on the very first floor, and as the construction was minimalist, the Arkhipovs could hear every curse, argument, and bodily noise in the entire building. They slept very little, and what sleep they had was always interrupted. Life in general was an abomination, and this was a gross understatement..

 This indeed was Donetsk, once a thriving metropolis, now an area riddled with poverty, corruption, and tentacled in the horrible vise-like grip of the Donetsk Mafiya. Indeed the entire country, if not all of the former Soviet Union, was suffering in one way or another, from the lowest peasant on the Central Asian steppes, right to the shined shoes of leaders like Putin, Lusachenko, and others. Sergiy's problems were far too basic for him to concern himself with the big shots in Kiev or the Kremlin. He could have cared less about President George Bush's downward-spiraling approval rating, the economic mess in which the world was mired, Al-Jazeera’s crazy rants on local TV, or even his local Mafiya chieftains worries. Iraq? Let the “ragheads,” as the Americans say, handle their own problems. He shrugged at the high gas prices because he had no personal car, only the one he drove for his boss. “Let the Starets (old men in Russian) deal with all of this shit, I have my own work to do…" The work – Sergiy had to train for the Eastern European Powerlifting Championships in Kiev later on that year and he HAD to win  or place high if he was to keep his meager $200 USD a month food allowance by the government and worse, his $800 a month salary as driver/bodyguard/part-time extortionist to Ruslan, his overboss in the local Donetsk Mafiya. The problem was that facing him like an immovable wall was the great three times World and six Times Euro Champion Olexandr “Iron Sasha” Kutcher who, now a full 90 kilos, was primed for a 2,600-lb. total. “Bastards got that new stuff from Great Britain plus all of the new Titan gear,” thought Sergiy. “While all I have is this used crap from three years ago that is barely holding together. The coaches were not investing one thin Grivna in him,” he thought, “because all the bookies are putting big money on Iron Sasha. But, if I have a bit of luck and that little prick comes in over-trained, I’ll get him in the deadlift. Fuck him anyway. He thinks he has a strong back…we will see.” The consequences were grim if he lost, as he would be demoted to the grunt brigade, lose any special privileges, and be treated like any expendable round in an AK-47. If he won, however, or even came close to the great Kutcher, he would be sent to the USA for the Worlds and given a host of new privileges, including his own small “book” in the local betting circles. He could then finally marry Tanya, his seamstress girlfriend. “I win, the first thing I’m going to do is marry Tanya. The second thing is beat the shit out her old man for making my life so damn miserable these past two years…” Maybe I can go live in the US,” mused Sergiy, “…train with Louie Simmons at Westside, or even Ernie Frantz in Chicago, provided he was still alive.…” Powerlifting. A simple sport, almost too simple, involved three very basic movements that were, in Sergiy’s opinion, the ultimate test of strength, will power, and most of all courage. The other weight disciplines paled to Powerlifting in sheer weight hoisted, and indeed produced an unusual brand of athlete, one that sneered at pain, indeed, one that actually welcomed it. Powerlifting also spanned generations, genders, economic classes, and even cultures. Sergiy thought most Americans fat, lazy, and effete, but had great admiration, almost affection, for their Powerlifters. He had memorized the routines of the Great Ones, as he called the American World Champions – Estep, Anello, Pacifico, Bridges, Hatfield, all of the Westside and Big Iron Lifters, especially Iron Bulldog Chuck Vogelpohl and his personal favorite, All-time World Recordholder Shawn Frankl. Sergiy had cried unashamedly when he heard of Roger Estep’s untimely death from a virulent brain tumor. Even the Great Ones were not invincible, he had mused. He looked at most young women as objects of desire and lust, as most young men of his class, but if they were a Powerlifter, treated them with almost knight-like respect and chivalry. His most fervent dream was to be selected to the Ukrainian International Elite Squad and travel to the USA to rub shoulders with the likes of Louie Simmons, Scot Mendelssohn, Ryan Kennelly and others. He wanted to go to the Arnold Classic and see the Big Guy himself welcome the crowd. Now there was talk about some huge money meets in the Ukraine of all things, and that would indeed be a dream come true for him.

But….training for an extreme sport like Powerlifting costs money – a lot of money. What with the special foods, supplements, ultra-special equipment – specially made lifting suits and bench press shirts which, when combined with the other more basic necessities like wraps, shoes, belts, and warm-up attire, brought the “investment” for Sergey to compete at well over two years of his salary. Where on earth did he have that sort of money? And of course, this did not even count the drugs. Sergey hadn’t (yet) dipped his toe into that murky little pool, being afraid not of some soft-bellied doping official, but of the issues regarding health. “I mean, who cares how much you lifted if your nuts wind up looking like a couple of raisins…?” Still he knew that he was under increasing pressure to “Step on the Gas” as his coach said, or forget about any more promotions. But as always, there was the issue of money. Equipment cost money. Food cost money. Drugs, especially the type and quantity that he was being pushed to use cost HUGE money…money he didn’t have and would never earn given his present financial circumstances. He refused to lower himself and rob people or sell heroin and even though he worked in the Mafiya, he considered himself above that sort of alleyway shit. He was natural, and was proud of it.

He did make the mistake, however, of telling this to his coach, a man not known for his tact.  “You can take your ‘natural’ pride and shove it up your holy ass,” his coach had spat at him. “Rumor is that the Old Man (the Main Mafiya Chief in the entire country) was in cahoots with the biggest Oil Baron in the Ukraine, who somehow had developed an affinity for the sport (actually his current mistress was a budding lifter) and was planning a Pro Meet with over $1M in prize money next year. Is your pride going to keep your ass from being evicted? Is your pride going to prevent your poor old mother from freezing her ass off this winter? Is your fucking PRIDE going to keep you walking, or taking the bus like some derelict while everyone else is driving a car, never mind a decent car like a Mercedes or a BMW? Huh?”  “Listen,” the coach had said, “Gas up, win your money, then pack it in after a few years. Start a business, go to America, marry that nice girl. But WIN FIRST.”

Winning – the all powerful, ever present desire for victory. He won, doors would open to him. He lost, he could remain where he was and worse. Sergiy was the Donetsk Regional Champion and had come in 3^rd to Kutcher and Dimitry Soloviov twice. Soloviov was getting on, pushing 40, but still in superb condition…Iron Sasha was just hitting his stride. He was getting impatient and had redoubled his training.  Today was the day he would test himself in his best lift, the Squat. He had a BIG number in mind. He had heard some fabulous lifts from the latest American squatting sensation from Georgia, Sam Byrd, and he was determined to match these lifts or better yet, smash them. But, Sergiy had his own non-lifting issues to contend with. His coach’s rantings weren’t the only thing on his mind…lately his girlfriend had been, well, nagging him to get married. “Sergiy darling, we’ve been seeing each other for two years now…I’m going to be 28 soon…. I hope you don’t think I’m like those stupid whores you drive around for your boss….besides ….I want kids, dammit, so when are we getting married? When? It had better be soon, or....and don’t think we are going to some drunken judge friend of yours and sign papers. I want a proper wedding  and Red Sea Vacation  just like my sister….”

 “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” thought Sergiy. “Marriage? Wedding?”  Damned girl will want a dress and reception and all of that crap, not to mention a diamond ring! And why stop there? Lets go to America for our honeymoon and stop off at Disney World on the way to Las Vegas, why don’t we, he thought evilly “Shit, it’ll be cheaper to die at this rate,” he mused dejectedly…“Ill be damned if I’m going to resort to pushing dope or stealing just so Tanya can brag to her damned friends at the dress shop.” More and more worries, why couldn’t they just LET HIM LIFT?

 
 So, worries hanging over his head like a rain cloud, Sergiy bundled himself up for the one and a half hour ride to the gym, headed to the bus stop carrying his backpack containing his most precious possessions – his Powerlifting gear, an old but serviceable Titan squat suit, one set of Super Wraps, an Inzer HPD Blast Shirt, and a relic Bob Morris belt from of all places, Southern California. Not that Sergiy had ever been to the Golden State, he had never even left the Ukraine. He had simply taken the short cut in this very special acquisition by copping a full house (aces-high) two years ago against Ruslan’s friend from Moscow, who fancied himself a Powerlifter. The friend had bought this belt in LA years ago whilst on one of his many drug smuggling runs. Even today Sergiy smiled at the way he had marked the cards with his fingernail to win the hand, and hence the belt. “Stupid jerk couldn’t squat 150 kilos with five suits on, anyway, no need for a belt.” Indeed, Sergiy was brutally strong, and at a compact 5 foot 7 inches, his 205 lbs was bursting with hard won muscle. He could squat close to 900 with just a belt using only a sweat suit and a pair of old lifting boots and tattered knee wraps, which looked like they were World War battlefield remnants. With specialized gear, which he was simply too poor to afford, he reckoned he could lift much more. A 455 kilo squat (1,000-lbs.) would have been easy for him, and as he had heard of the greats in America at his weight routinely destroying this weight using all of this hyper-special gear, which before was deemed to be borderline crazy for someone weighing under 200-lbs. Not that Sergiy was crazy, he wanted desperately to be able to get all of the latest gear, supplements, and use the best equipment, but then he remembered one important thing… “This is shithole Donetsk, the Ukraine, not Beverly Hills or even Columbus, Ohio!” Ha! Ha! Ha!” His fiendish laughter woke up a drunk at the front of the bus who had finished his morning’s ration of pepper vodka and whose snores could have insulted a dead man. The drunk looked around, farted, and promptly fell back asleep.

The bus rolled to a stop and Sergiy got out. “Time for some, what do the Americans call it? Gee Pee Pee Conditioning as he broke out into a jog to make it in time to the local power gym before he was too late. The Gym, affectionately dubbed the “Iron Factory” by its denizens. was about a half mile away down the main thoroughfare and nestled in an alley. Small food shops and rundown businesses surrounded it. To an average American used to mirrors, chrome, and glitz, the Iron Factory would have seemed like a horrible dungeon – dark, no attention to décor, reeking of stale body odor and cigarette smoke…an absolute dump, a step below the weight pen at the prison. Instead of an attractive receptionist at the door, there was a decidedly unattractive Wolfhound, constantly scratching fleas. The dog also made no attempt to curb his intestinal desires, either. What it lacked in décor and ambiance it made up for in iron – tons of it. Rusting, yes. Misshapen, yes. But enough to test the strongest in the Ukraine and hence the world. Bars, some bent, some perfect. Plates of all sizes, from heavy rubber Eleiko Bumper Plates to plain old iron ‘pancakes’ that looked dredged out of a factory’s garbage dump. In the corner sat the ubiquitous set of Kettlebells, some over 100 years old. Its one permanent inhabitant was “The Coach.” The coach, an ancient Russian, was notorious for locking the gym door at 10 a.m. to thwart the “Americanized and lazy” as he was fond of saying. You did not fuck with the Coach if you wanted to train. Sergiy had felt the man’s wrath on more than one occasion, and wanted to keep well under his evil eye. Problem is, he was late and he didn’t want to suffer the ignominy of being barred out. Not today of all days, when he would try for a personal – possible WORLD – Squat record. Sergiy had to hurry, “Move aside old man, for the next World Powerlifting Champion,” Sergiy said as he rushed past the snoring old drunk

 'Fucking kids, no respect for a Stalingrad vet, must be high on drugs or something,” mumbled the drunk, as he eased back into a vodka-induced slumber… Sergiy jumped off of the bus straight into a thick snowdrift. He climbed out and laboriously made his way to the icy path by the road. Once there he started to run as hard as he could, knowing full well the consequences of tardiness.

 The gym was crowded, one could almost feel the tension. This was not your usual Friday morning at Bally’s or Lifetime in the States. This was serious, almost deadly business. There was an auspicious absence of canned music and fresh air in the gym. Instead, an old ghetto blaster spewed out Russian hip-hop and the latest electronic dance club offerings, which all sounded like shit to Sergiy. Most of the lifters smoked, and no one cared if they smoked in the gym. Sergiy had heard of this ridiculous custom in America of going outside  to smoke and wondered how in the hell this would work in the freezing weather here in Donestk. The gym was divided into three sections – one for the squat, another for the bench press, and the third for the deadlift. Lifters took their turn and waited to attempt a weight. In the meanwhile they spotted and encouraged, all the while being cursed by the Coach. The team was warming up for the squat as Sergey sprinted in exactly at 9:59. The Coach’s evil visage swiveled like an anti-aircraft battery and homed in on Sergiy.  “So, what we have in our presence is none other than the great Sergiy, soon to be next Ukrainian champion,” yelled the coach. “Please to give him much applause!” The room erupted with hoots and catcalls from the rest of the team. Sergiy bowed and gave everyone the finger. “It is humbly advised to the Great Sergiy by this worthless old man to get his equipment on or go back to digging potatoes like his stinking peasant ancestors!…” Ignoring the stream of curses and invectives that poured from the old coach, Sergiy changed in the spare dressing room, quickly warmed up, and remembered that today was the ‘pridika’ or single attempt max that would determine the last of the regional team placing for the championships…lifters here were from all walks of life. Over there was Andrei, an aspiring 165-lb. lifter who (and everyone knew this) was a flaming homosexual. No one cared as long as he left his pink life at the door. Walking around, stamping his feet to keep warm was Vitali, rumored to be a Mafiya hit man recently relocated from Odessa. People kept well clear of Vitali, especially after it was confirmed that he took out a rival with a particularly nasty car bomb that killed the rival and his family…but Sergiy respected his world-class bench press ability. There were lots of women too, and even a little dwarf. It didn’t matter if they came to the Iron Factory in a shiny Mercedes Benz like Vitali did, or on a rickety old bicycle like most did. They were all brothers and sisters of the Iron Factory.......

TO BE CONTINUED