Herrera

Alfredo Herrera is a watchful man. His lips only part in absolute necessity, and 
the words he speak only take the form of Spanish and Russian, with a few 
English phrases thrown in here and there. He is a man of vast experience, a father 
modern weightlifting. He has coached lifters across the globe, and brought the 
Cuban team 5 world records in his first year of duty.  He has also brought gold medals to the Columbian national team, and is an expert in the Soviet weightlifting system, of which he had a huge part in creating.  While others claim depth of experience and concrete knowledge,      their form, their words, their philosophies, all crumble to dust beneath his steely eyes. 

Today, he sat in our small gym and watched me, among other lifters, attempt 
their workouts with great caution, as we all felt his gaze across our bodies.  The gym             eminated thick clouds of unbreakable focus. To say I felt anxious would be a complete and    utter understatement. My only wish was for this little old man, who has coached champions astruly groundbreaking as Pablo Lara, to approve of my attempts, and my discipline to the spor 

Snatch after snatch, jerk after clean, my mind was blank, and my gaze unbroken. 
As the rain poured in record deluge just outside, I knew nothing but the bar. 
Straight and true, I did not miss. I could feel the eyes of the doctor. His 
stare, his sharp mind exploring me, testing me, forcing the best from my 
muscles. 

That day I knew no fatigue, only the bar in my hands

At last, at last the weight was, for the final time that day, perched perfectly 
above my deep split, and deliberately I stood. For a moment I held it there, proud I had not

missed before this god of weightliftng.  It was true.  I had not missed a lift.  They weren't the

heaviest I'd done, nor the most solid, but I had not missed, and I was proud of that.  I brought the bar back to the platform again, and began to unload the plates in silence.  

When I finally worked up the courage to look at Dr. Herrera again, he hadn't moved, and 

somehow expected our eyes to meet.  His lips parted, and for a moment, the world around me dissapeared.

"Good.  Very good."  

My soul jumped from my body.  Approval.  I had gotten approval.  The rain may pour, my 

knees and hips may ache, but I had gotten approval from this god.  

To all who may be interested, I didn't stop there.  Dr. Herrera came and watched my workout the next day too, where I proceeded to solidly snatch 87kg, a Personal Record for me by 2kg.  90 is right around the corner, I can feel it.  Maybe next week, at last, I'll throw more than 

200lbs above my head in one fantastic lift.  

Turn up the Volume

Here in Maine, we lift differently.  While others drop heavy singles forward and behind, over and over, we quietly nail triples and doubles with ease, throwing weight above our head consistantly and with perfect form.  Five hundred repetitions per week?  Bare minimum.  We are always lifting.  We don't wait to fail, unsure of our strength, we build it quickly, effectively, perfectly, with repitition, just as the old Soviets did.  And we obtain the same success, as is evident in every competition we wipe through. We are hardened, prepared, un-phased by the heavy stuff.  It is instinctual, the technique forged in the fire of pure, unfaltering, repetition.

Volume is the name of the game.  I learned that quickly under Ivan's coaching.  We as American weightlifters are flawed in believing that heavy singles are what creates success and confidence under the bar.  Failing heavy weight does not teach you how to lift heavy weight, it only severely taxes the central nervous system and will, undoubtedly, cause injury.  In the words of the famous Coach Rojas, "It doesn't matter how much you lift, but how many times you lift."

And the top weightlifting forces around the world completely agree.  Cuba, the Soviet Union, Germany, and other countries all use similar, if not identical systems as the one we (and I), lift on.  High volume is the only way to guarantee success on the world stages of weightlifting, where every lift determines whether you are a champion, or an absolute nobody.  Volume, reps, and constant, unceasing weightlifting will produce champions.

I remember attending a coach certification class in order to obtain my level 1 weightlifting coaching licence.  This class was obviously run through USA weightlifting, a weakling in the sport compared to countries such as Russia, Bulgaria, Pakistan, Germany, and pretty much anywhere else.  The teacher boasted how our program was such a fantastic piece of work, created by top scientists and guaranteed to produce champions.  Yet we haven't had an Olympic weightlifter who's actually medaled at the Olympics in...well...forever.  We, SUCK.  While I stood there, chuckling at her misplaced confidence, I watched her lifters demonstrate their "prowess."  I watched each and every one of them miss single after heavy single, failing in both technique and overall strength.  It was so futile.  I wanted to scream. This country is doomed to failure on the platform as long as we refuse to adapt a different method of training.  Heavy singles do NOT make champions, at least not with our damn programming.  The Bulgarians might disagree, but hey, we're not Bulgarians.  And they were all busted for drugs anyway.

I'll say it one more time.  Volume...is...key.  High volume creates discipline, rock solid technique, and unbreakable mental strength.  It hardens muscles and builds champions from the ground up.  It is brutal, unforgiving, tiring, and uninspiring.  But it works, oh god does it work.

And at the end of the day, when I drop my final weight, to know I didn't miss any reps, even 85-90% triples, is a fantastic feeling.