The World’s Strongest Librarian

  A few months and two thousand dollars later, I was sharing a hardwood basketball court in Minneapolis with martial artists, a Hollywood fight choreographer, personal trainers, high school strength coaches, and more. Some of the brightest strength minds in the world—or so the legend went—were there, including Pavel, the Evil Russian, who had introduced me to kettlebells. The marketing goes like this: In 2001, Pavel swam the ocean with a kettlebell in his mouth, arriving in America to declare war on weakness. He had one goal: to help Americans train with honor, using super-duper secret Russian strength techniques and tools. And quotes:

  “Just do it. The party is always right!”

  “Power to you, naked warrior!”

  “Strength is a skill.”

  Applied to various concepts: “If you have a hard time remembering this…get it tattooed on your arm!”

  Everything was done the “Evil Russian way.”

  This was all shtick. Some of the marketing had to be hyperbole. On the other hand, I’d read many blog posts and articles about how kind and generous and intelligent Pavel was. Those would all prove to be true.

  Pavel isn’t a large man. About six feet tall, maybe 180 pounds. He has thinning hair and a fierce scowl when he wants it. Nobody says, “I want to be built just like Pavel.” But I didn’t care. I wanted in.

  I ate in the hotel’s restaurant on the morning of the certification. Pavel sat nearby, reading a newspaper. Everyone snuck glances at him and worried about how hard the next three days would be. “I actually don’t think it’ll be that bad,” said a big guy who talked nonstop about being in the Marines.

  “Be afraid,” said a deep voice. Pavel, despite his mere seventy-two inches, loomed over us. He walked away. We were afraid. We’d paid to be afraid.

  A bus took most of the candidates to the gym. I was stupid enough to walk the two miles prior to a ten-hour day of brutal workouts.

  Most of the people at the certification were fit. Tank tops must have been on sale somewhere, but I wore a white T-shirt and black sweatpants. We stood in a circle and passed a microphone around as we each introduced ourselves and gave our reasons for attending.

  “My name is Josh Hanagarne…I’m a librarian in Salt Lake City.” There was some laughter, and I laughed too. “I’ve got Tourette Syndrome, and I’ve let it cripple me for the last ten years. I’m here to celebrate getting control of my life. Dragon Door’s been a huge part of that.” My voice shook and everyone clapped. I nearly added, “And I sold my Mark Twain books to get here.”

  The next three days were among the silliest of my life, but I was too much of a zealot to know it. The RKC certification is like fantasy camp for personal trainers. There’s no getting around it: You paid upward of two thousand dollars to learn how to do (and teach) six exercises. You paid to be beaten into the ground with excruciating workouts by enthusiastic instructors who’d forgotten that they’re part of an absurd quasi-militaristic fitness academy. On Day One we were told that we would be “bonding with our kettlebells.” You took a kettlebell everywhere! To the field. To the lunchroom. To the restroom. Failure to comply resulted in punishment for the entire squad: extra swings or burpees, aka squat thrusts. When it was time to listen, an instructor would scream, “Down!” If someone dropped to their belly with insufficient haste…swings or burpees. To teach us to brace or flex our abs, we “comrades” would drop into a plank position (picture a push-up held halfway down) while instructors in khaki pants and black shirts and black shades got to pretend they had evil black hearts while they lightly kicked us in the ribs.

  We poured onto the large grass field for our five-minute snatch test. My comrades were consumed by self-doubt. People seemed to think that they’d fail the snatch test, despite their own admissions that they’d trained for months specifically for said test. A refresher: snatching a weight is moving the weight from the ground to an overhead lockout (meaning you lock it out overhead with your arms straightened) without pressing it. Think about grabbing a dumbbell, swinging it back between your legs, then swinging it forward and up your torso until your arm is straight overhead. That’s a snatch. I had to do one hundred snatches in five minutes with a fifty-three-pound kettlebell. I passed easily, but was surprised to see several people fail the test, including the loud-mouthed Marine. I couldn’t imagine shelling out the money and then coming unprepared. They could send in videos of their passed tests later, but they wouldn’t be certified that weekend.

  People’s hands were shredded into hamburger by one P.M. This was held up as a glorious exhibit of “getting our money’s worth.” After the instruction portion for each exercise, an instructor led us in a brutal workout. These were unnecessarily difficult and arbitrary. For instance, after learning how to squat, we were ordered into the bottom of a squat by an instructor. “Ten!” he shouted. We had to squat at rock bottom, holding a kettlebell to our chests, until the instructor yelled, “Up!” After the tenth squat we did ten kettlebell swings—swinging the weight between our legs, then popping it out in front by snapping our hips. Then: “Nine!” We started over with nine squats and nine swings, and so on. By the end we were screaming our fool heads off. It hurt! I couldn’t decide if I’d gotten any quality practice or not. But as we collapsed on the grass we were delirious with happiness over how much we were “learning.”

  As we practiced, the instructors stalked about, hands clasped behind their backs, eyes invisible behind their shades. “Do it again! Focus!” My team leader was a police officer. Another was a massage therapist. Some of them had their own gyms or worked as personal trainers, but many of them had other jobs. They were there because…well, you’d have to ask them why.

  The night before the third day, Adam T. Glass called me. He was, to put it lightly, a disillusioned RKC instructor, well on his way to total apostasy. “Have you figured out that you could have just watched kettlebell videos on YouTube for ten minutes yet?” he said. When I didn’t say anything, he said, “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy it. But do it for fun. Don’t listen when they say you’re going to get strong doing this. It’s fun, and it kind of feels like family when you’re there, but it’s not useful.”

  I passed the course. After the final workout everyone ran around and screamed and hugged. I was as excited as anyone and it was easy to lose sight of the fact that we had all just paid big money for the privilege of having someone blow a whistle and give us light kicks in the ribs so that we could feel like we were preparing for war. Or that we had been to war. Or that we were now martial artists, or ninjas, or black ops specialists. Big dreams. Big nonsense. And yet, I felt as if they’d done me a huge favor, that I owed them some unpayable debt. So I evangelized for them, spreading the good word.

  But I kept studying various systems of strength training. I had to. Progress in strength training gave me control over the rest of my life. More progress meant more control, but I couldn’t spend much time on Dragon Door’s forum without noticing that most comrades weren’t making great progress. To have more control, I needed to follow the people who were the strongest, not those who were simply friendly and willing to discuss strength training.

  “Yes,” said a harsh voice on the phone. There was yelling in the background. Lots of it.

  “Hi, Adam,” I said. “It’s Josh. Josh Hanagarne.”

  No answer.

  “Josh from the librarian blog,” I said. “You called me at the RKC.”

  As enriching as the strength progress was, I couldn’t keep track of it; I’d write down a week’s worth of training and then lose the notebook. After complaining to a friend, he suggested that I “start a free blogger blog” to record my training. I can’t remember why I chose to name the blog World’s Strongest Librarian beyond the fact that it made me smile.

  “I know,” said Adam. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I thought we’d agreed to talk tonight.”

  “We did,” he said. “And now we’re on the phone. I’m out on maneuvers tonigh
t. I don’t have much time. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Uh, okay,” I said. “I guess we’ll just get right to it?”

  He said nothing. Then, to someone in the background: “Hey, asshole! If I have to tell you one more time to—hold on, buddy,” he said to me. Incomprehensible yelling in the background.

  “Okay, it’s sorted,” he said. “Go on.”

  “What happened?” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Someone owed me an apology,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll just get to it.”

  “Yes, so you said.”

  Good grief, he was weird. “Okay, so I’ll—well, look, with the Tourette’s, I just, it’s better if I’m stronger, so I’m saying that—well, I’d like to be able to do some of the strength stuff. Perform. I don’t just want to be strong. I want to be as strong as I can possibly be.”

  Silence.

  “You know, like the stuff you do,” I said.

  “What are you proposing?”

  Before I could backtrack, I said, “Could I come up to Minot and train with you for a week? Have you show me some stuff?”

  I flinched away from the phone, waiting for a bullet to fly through and strike me dead.

  “Yes,” he said. “That would be useful for you. I have some vacation coming up. Book your tickets and I’ll take the time off in September. I’ve got to go. And by the way, good job on your blog. Those Tourette’s people need you. I have some ideas. Your life can change.”

  “Thanks! I—wow, thanks! I—man, you’re not going to be sorry. I’ll work hard, I promise. I’m not one of those guys who asks just so they—”

  I’m not sure when he hung up, but he wasn’t there when I finished thanking him.

  At this point the blog was about five months old. I found that I couldn’t just write my training numbers without putting some commentary in. Soon I was finding reasons to mention H. P. Lovecraft after recording my training. I started writing book reviews and enjoying the resulting conversations with readers. Soon I was writing about anything that interested me because I knew that I’d be able to discuss it with people who were actually reading what I wrote. And that was really the key to it all: the social aspect.

  Misty no longer kept me home from work. I met my obligations, but didn’t have the energy for much socializing after a day of trying to stifle the tics. Being in public was still hard, whether it was on the reference desk or at a friend’s dinner table. The people I was “meeting” online through my blog were becoming my friends. They wanted to discuss ideas and books and questions. I chatted with them way more often than with pals I’d grown up with. I looked forward to the online group every day; I wasn’t lonely.

  Eventually I started writing about Tourette’s. That’s when the comments and e-mails really increased. There were apparently a lot of people out there with Tourette’s, or with Tourette’s in their families.

  We don’t know what to do.

  We don’t know how to help our son or daughter.

  How worried should we be?

  How did your parents handle you? How did they help you?

  I’m afraid my boy will kill himself.

  My daughter keeps running into the restroom to scratch herself. Please help.

  Nobody understands me.

  I hate myself.

  I’m smart and funny but I feel like everyone gets to enjoy my good qualities except me.

  It’s all a show. I’m a lie.

  Do you ever feel like you’re a waste of space?

  I am going to hook my daughter up with you. Thanks for sharing.

  I am excited to learn from you. What can you teach me?

  I want to die.

  Josh, life is easier when you don’t care if people look at you weird. I believe that, even though I can’t make it feel real. This sucks.

  I had no answers. My responses usually included something trite like “Hang in there. Let me know if you’d like to talk.”

  I didn’t even know where to look or what questions to ask. My brain didn’t know what to think.

  But someone else’s brain did. Someone whose brain couldn’t think like anyone else’s. That brain was being carted around inside of a damaged skull on an air force base in Minot, North Dakota.

  * Thanks to the sublime Annoyed Librarian for the analogy: blog.libraryjournal.com/annoyedlibrarian.

  * In 2012, I would speak at a camp for kids with Tourette’s in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. You could literally watch the tics jump from kid to kid. Really weird. This is one reason I try to keep my tics from Max: I have a fear that he’ll start having tics just because he sees me having them, and then suddenly he’ll have Tourette’s too.

  CHAPTER 11

  612.82—Neuroplasticity

  306—Peace—Psychological Aspects

  616—Pain

  “Sir, can I ask you something?”

  It’s closing time. Hopefully this won’t take long. “Of course. Please, call me Josh.”

  The man drags a massive green duffel bag. His beard is chest length, red and gray. “Thank you,” he says. “I know how this looks. I’m homeless. I won’t deny it.” His speech is slurred. Alcohol on his breath. But he’s nice and I hope he’ll ask for something that I can help with. “I’ve got to ask you…are you looking for a training partner? I mean, I can tell you work out. I was in a wreck a couple of years ago and I’ve got terrible pain. I’m losing my strength. Hurts to move. I could work out with you two or three times a week, as long as it could be at your house. I don’t have the money for a membership.” Then he stumbled forward and hugged me. Then he wouldn’t let go. I patted his back. He patted my back.

  “I usually train alone,” I say. “And I live in West Valley. But we can talk whenever you want. Just come see me and I’ll always give you as long as I can.”

  We close at six o’clock. I am still trying to get out of the hug at six oh five.

  I waited on the curb outside the Bismarck airport, shifting my weight from foot to foot. Despite our many phone conversations and online interactions, I didn’t know Adam. And our conversations were so abrupt and odd that I was nervous.

  A Chrysler Magnum pulled up. A massive forearm beckoned from within. I stowed my bag in the now-open trunk and hurried into the passenger seat.

  Adam didn’t look at me. Or at least, he didn’t turn his head. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.”

  We left Bismarck. He didn’t say anything else.

  I’m not used to feeling small around people, but Adam had a presence that felt heavy. Like if you knew how to look, you’d see space bending around him. He’s not tall compared to me, maybe six-two, but he was thick and broad. His arms stretched out a blue T-shirt that would have billowed off me like a windsock. His hair was clipped short. He was pale. I surreptitiously studied his tattoos. Either flames or thorny vines crept out of his left sleeve.

  I’d never paid attention to anyone’s forearms before. Probably because most people’s forearms just look like the typical real estate between the elbow and hand, just holding things together. Adam’s forearms were about all I could see. They were as big as my biceps.

  If you hired a master sculptor to create a statue of the most intense face imaginable, when the dust settled, you’d be looking at Adam. When he stares through a windshield, you think it’s going to shatter. I held him responsible for every pothole on the road.

  I’ve seen a lot of serial killer movies where the initially friendly killer offers the hapless victim a ride. After ten or fifteen silent minutes, when we reached the grassy plains, the city behind us, I felt like we were at the point where the victim would say, “Hey, you just passed my turn.” But he’d get no response and then he’d get massacred with a claw hammer.

  At last Adam spoke. “There are more nuclear weapons under these innocent little acres than just about anywhere else in the world,” he said. “What do you think
when you think about North Dakota?”

  “I don’t really think about it,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said. A small airplane zipped by and dwindled ahead of us. “You know where that plane’s going?”

  “Back to the base?” I said. “Isn’t your base out past Minot?”

  “Afghanistan,” he said. “With a load of bombs. He’ll be back later tomorrow. They’re fast.”

  There was nothing left of the plane but the vapor trail.

  “So tell me about your Tourette’s,” he said.

  As I recapped my life with Misty, he interrupted: “No, we’ll fix this. You’re not seeing it. Let me guess, your doctors are all about managing it, right? I suppose nobody’s ever suggested that you could reverse it?”

  “No.”

  “We will discuss it,” he said, before lapsing into another lengthy silence.

  We eventually pulled into the driveway of a small gray house. The house next door was bright pink. “Ha! Too bad you don’t live in the pink one!” I said.

  “Why is that too bad?” he asked.

  “No reason,” I said.

  He stared at me. “I’m going to change, we’ll grab Casey, and then we’ll go eat,” he said.

  Dinner with Adam and Casey, his tiny blond wife, was a nightmare. Every time I touched my fork my hand got squirrelly with tics. I’d stick the fork into my food and then have to psyche myself up for the brief trip up to my mouth as my fist gripped the fork tighter and tighter until my whole forearm shook and the fork tried to dart around. When the fork was two inches from my mouth, I’d have to either rush it into my mouth, trusting that it wouldn’t accelerate too much, smashing into my mouth or cheek, or I’d set it down and regroup for another bite.