Ken Leistner is
an American strength training writer, personal trainer, strength
consultant for the National Football League, and chiropractor.
He is often known as "Dr. Ken". Photo By Kathy Leistner
- Stone by Slaters
Hardware |
|
History
of Powerlifting, Weightlifting and Strength Training - Part
Six
by Dr. Ken Leistner
An Introduction to Equipment.
During the first few years of my training, I had little awareness
of the specific qualities that made equipment “good” or “bad.” My
guideline was whatever I saw within the pages of Strength And
Health, Muscle Power, Mr. America (and Young Mr. America),
and by 1964, Iron Man Magazines. Without knowing it, I had
very serviceable equipment to train with, and it allowed me
to learn and perform the basic result producing exercises.
Of the fellows I knew that began weight training, nearly one-hundred
percent had a basic 110-pound barbell and dumbbell set. Some
used a picnic bench to perform the exercises that were illustrated
in the magazines and one or two had a commercial quality bench.
I was fortunate because from the beginning, I was moved to
provide a means that would allow me to squat and also do presses
without having to clean the bar first. My equipment, though
homemade and crude, was if nothing else, overbuilt and solid
enough to last for decades. Today, in 2008, one of the power
racks I built in my father’s shop is still in use at
my former high school. A surprise “find” was my
original pair of iron horses that had been modified so that
I could squat and do so with a “safety catch” if
I could no longer rise with the weight which was my usual practice,
press, or bench press. My brother was cleaning out a storage
area of his structural steel and ornamental iron shop just
a few years ago and there they were, no worse for wearthan
they were when my father and I had first welded them in the
early 1960’s. In my rudimentary home gym that was constantly
moved between basement and garage dependent upon the whims
and needs of my father and his dictates, I had a sturdy truck
axle, a selection of flywheels and gears that came from a score
of abandoned vehicles, some Nassau County Department Of Public
Works sewer covers, pails of concrete and sand that served
as dumbbells, and as the son of an ironworker, a welded angle-iron
bench with an unpadded wooden top. The modified pair of saw
horses that allowed for the completion of my squats, presses,
and bench presses made me feel as if I was blessed with a truly
complete “professional gym.” With an overhead pipe
for chins and space to do dips between the washer and dryer,
I could and did stick to squats, deadlifts, rows, shrugs, presses,
bench presses, dips, chins, an occasional curl, and infrequent
forays into what to me was the bodybuilding world of lateral
raises, flyes, and front raises. From the age of twelve until
I was approximately sixteen, I will admit that I did not put
the appropriate effort into the “really hard” movements
like the squat or deadlift but I didn’t ignore them either
and if nothing else, I fully and admittedly satisfied the descriptions
of my coaches who referred to me as obsessed with training.
My obsession guaranteed that I was consistent and never, and
I mean never, missed a scheduled workout. Best of all, the
training actually worked.
 |
My
lifting odyssey took me from 125 to 232 pounds. Would
you let this fullback into your backfield or onto your
lifting platform? This look guaranteed few social engagements. |
The weights delivered on their promise which was a tremendous
revelation to a young teenager. My father often told me “Life
isn’t fair, don’t expect it to be fair, assume
you’ll be fucked over, no one is giving you anything.” He
was right but hook, line, and sinker I swallowed the hyperbole
that if one put the consistent effort into lifting weights
the pieces of iron would in fact bring life-altering changes.
I learned that “training is fair; if you do what you’re
supposed to, the weights will deliver their end of the bargain” and
in what we viewed as a dog-eat-dog way of life, this was perhaps
the most major development after the harrowing discovery that
there really wasn’t a Santa Claus! To those who
knew me, the results were obvious. I was short, lean, but one
of those youngsters that the older guys referred to as “a
piece of wire,” and “strong for his size.” Unfortunately,
this was indicative that if I lacked anything, it was size!
It mattered little to me as I knew I could in time, make up
for that.
History
Supplement: Mike Bridges
My neighbor, classmate, and training
partner during the time I attended
Logan College Of Chiropractic in the
late 1970’s was Mike Wittmer.
Mike was a very accomplished Olympic
weightlifter whose son Jeff has been
one of America’s top lifters
for a number of years. Mike had played
high school football in his hometown
of Peoria, Illinois and developed his
interest in weight training as an extension
of that involvement. At Rosa’s
Gym, he came under the tutelage of
Olympic lifters and chose that for
his primary focus, competing well for
quite a few years.
 |
Mike
Wittmer was a superb Olympic
lifter in 1984 |
One of the youngsters who trained
at Rosa’s showed potential for
developing a great deal of strength and
Mike told me about up-and-coming powerlifter
Mike Bridges. Because I had heard a less-than-flattering
reference about a very young Mike Bridges
and I had made mention of it in one of
my monthly columns in Powerlifting USA
Magazine, I was told that I was “on
the list” of some of Mike’s
staunch followers and Rosa’s Gym
members. My first personal observation
of Mike was at the Heart Of America Powerlifting
Contest, an annual event hosted by St.
Louis gym owner and bodybuilder George
Turner. The meet always attracted the
very best lifters in the country and
1978’s version was no exception.
Bridges was one of many record holders
or top level men that included Marvin
Phillips, Bill Kazmaier, Charlie Perkins,
and local Jay Rosciglione. I was impressed
with Mike’s world class lifting
and poise as was the entire audience
but I was particularly impressed with
his toughness. On a record squat attempt,
Mike fought the lift, diarrhea running
down his thighs, until the squat was
successfully completed. He took it all
in stride, smiling and waving to the
cheering audience. This prompted Turner
to jump onto the stage and yell out, “That
was the greatest effort I’ve ever
seen. Mike Bridges can shit all over
my platform any time he tries a World
Record!”
 |
Dr.
Ken attends to Mike’s hand
injury following a battle with
a soda can |
Shortly thereafter, Mike and I met,
talked, resolved any differences between
us, and became good friends. He moved
first to the Dayton, Ohio area to train
and compete with Larry Pacifico’s
crew, then to Alabama as part of the
Terry Todd “research group” of
lifters that trained with Kaz at Auburn
University. Mike returned to Peoria and
trained with his brother Bob who was
one of the world’s best deadlifters.
For years Mike was the dominant performer
on the national and international scenes
and it was almost a “given” that
he would win any meet he entered. Forget
being the best lifter “pound-for-pound” because
in his heyday and across three or four
weight classes, Mike Bridges was truly
the world’s greatest lifter. Despite
the fact that many claimed to “advise
Mike” or “train Bridges,” he
was one of the rare instinctive athletes
who needed little input from anyone.
I was fortunate to handle Mike at national
and world competitions, making sure his
warm-ups were timed properly, the projected
lifts from his warm-ups were properly
chosen, and his focus was optimal. This
was a duty I performed for the men and
women I trained, trained with, wrote
programs for, or would take on just for
the major meets in any year. Of all of
them, no one demonstrated the relaxed
and confident air that Mike had. He was
never hurried, always smiling, and not
for a moment had a doubt that he would
fall short of his expected goals of winning
and/or setting records. When he was injured,
I was flattered that he would ask for
rehabilitation advice but the simplicity
of Mike’s approach to training,
his knowledge of his body and its needs,
and the absolute confidence he had in
his abilities set him apart and made
any solicited or unsolicited advice from
anyone totally unnecessary. To this day,
Mike is competing. Despite having a full
plate of family responsibilities and
the job of managing and maintaining his
custom home building business, Mike decided
to return to competition and of course,
did so in 2008 while setting numerous
records. Though his older records have
been broken, Mike was truly a legendary
lifter and shattered barriers that others
did not approach until years afterward.
Lifters and devotees of the sport can
argue long and loudly about “Who
is the best lifter” and certainly
other legends like Kaz and Ed Coan as
the most obvious examples have their
supporters but hands-down and with no
disrespect to the aforementioned greats,
Mike Bridges for the lifts he made, the
manner in which he approached his lifting
and competitions, for his longevity,
and for the attention he brought to the
sport as a gracious and most sportsmanlike
winner, remains my choice.
Of course, no Mike Bridges piece would
be complete without a bit of discussion
about the “incident” that
occurred at the 1982 World Powerlifting
Championship in Munich, Germany. Mike
and I still laugh and place the blame
upon Jay Rosciglione but for those who
don’t know the story… The “little
guys” completed their lifting during
the first two days of the championships,
held at the site of the 1972 Olympic
Games. Lamar Gant, the great 132-pound
multi-time world champion, was known
to have a good time socially, whenever
and wherever he competed and Munich was
no exception. He came to Mike, Jay, and
me and invited us to “a really
hot club” and though Mike and Lamar
were the only single gentlemen in the
group, Jay’s wife thought we should
all go out and enjoy ourselves. Joined
by Rickey Crain and his beautiful wife
Kim, we walked into a subterranean club
behind Lamar, through a thick curtain
of tobacco and perhaps a significant
amount of marijuana smoke. As a native
New Yorker, it took me less than five
seconds to size up our situation, one
that I realized could become precarious.
The “hot and swinging club” was
a hangout for U.S. servicemen, all of
them African-American. The only Caucasians
in the club were German prostitutes,
obvious to me at least, their pimps,
and a few local drug dealers that were
camped at the back of the immense bar.
For those who saw the movie “Animal
House,” our entrance rivaled the
scene where the white frat boys entered
the obviously tough and all Black bar,
shouting out “Otis, my man!” as
a deafening silence fell on the establishment.
Things lightened up a bit as Lamar spread
the word that “the guys are part
of the US team” and quite a few
of the soldiers and Air Force personnel
made it a point to come over, offer to
buy drinks, and thanked us for our participation
in representing the United States as
we in turn thanked them for their service
to our country. Mike, in part because
he was from Peoria, did not quite understand
that the pay-for-play ladies at the bar
were not going to dance with him because
he was good-looking, powerful, and full
of personality but he tried and for his
persistence, earned the ire of one of
the pimps with whom I had a pointed and
semi-physical conversation as Mike instead
engaged Jay’s wife on the dance
floor. After a while, we decided to leave
though Lamar was intent on staying through
the night, and found our way blocked
at the stairway to the exit door by a
large group of German wannabe tough guys.
It may or may not be true that Jay used
profane language and perhaps one of us
may or may not have snatched one of a
dozen German loudmouths who were pointedly
telling us how much they hated the United
States and watched him and the crutches
he was supporting himself on tumble down
the stairs. Once on the street, we of
course, were guilty as charged when the
growing group of bullies continued to
orally excoriate the U.S. of A but only
because Jay decided he had listened to
enough. I can recall Jay muttering, “I’ve
had it with this shit” and as jacket
collars and throats were grabbed, the
funniest line came from one of the recalcitrant
Germans who realized that his group had
started with the wrong crew of Americans
and were seriously overmatched. He gagged
out, “No, no, I love America, I
love Willie Mays!” Say what? We
were angry but even with the violence
beginning to take off, looked at each
other and began to crack up laughing
because we had obviously defused this
group of punks. As Jay and his wife and
Mr. and Mrs. Crain got into a waiting
cab, we were informed that “in
this zone, only four to a taxi” so
Mike and I decided to walk the two or
three miles back to the hotel. When we
entered the lobby, we found Jay waiting
for us, wanting to insure that we were
safe. Was there blood on Mike’s
jacket? Yes, I believe blood was in fact
present on both of us. Did the blood
come from the previous altercation or
one in which, as stories circulated through
the lifting hall the next day, from the
beat down Mike and I delivered to an
ever growing horde of foreign bad guys?
Was it six guys or fifteen who had followed
us and tried an ambush a few blocks from
the club? Did we breeze home unharmed,
or had we shot our adrenaline in a classic
movie-style dustup trying to get out
of the area and to the safety of our
hotel unmarked? Was it true that Mike,
known as a gentle soul, might have personally
decked a half dozen antagonists? As perfect
representatives of the United States,
it will remain a matter of speculation
and a source of riotous laughter for
those of us who were present but the
answer certainly remains that the 1982
World Championship was one more that
Mike won handily.
|
 |
Equipment typical of
the 1960’s yet we used this to
bench press 400-500 pounds.
|
At Tony Pandolfo’s storefront, it was
only with a retrospective of a number of years
that I realized that despite the “homemade” quality
and appearance of much of the equipment, it
was not only useable, it was excellent. Because
Tony set the pace as one of New York City’s
best physiques, a fact that was somewhat hidden
for years because he did not place high in
a number of his earlier contests nor win a
Mr. America level contest until the mid-1970’s,
the equipment he needed to use had to be heavy
duty. We had legitimate, drug free trainees
who frequently topped 400, 450, 500, and 550
in a number of exercises and those who did
twenty rep squat sets with 400 pounds more
than once per week during specific periods
of their training. The squat racks, and that
was “racks” plural as in more than
one because the squat was such an important
exercise to every trainee who walked through
the door, the benches which included flat,
incline, and decline varieties, and the pulleys
that were mounted into the ceiling and walls
and ran with uncoated steel cables over steel
pulleys with free-swinging weight baskets,
served their purpose. These were instruments
of stimulation, allowing for increases in both
strength and muscle tissue. In that era, men
came to barbell training to get muscularly
stronger and larger. No one’s stated
goal was “six-pack abs” or a “peaked
biceps.” One may have aspired to bodybuilding
greatness and Tony’s certainly had a
number of world class bodybuilders on the floor
as regulars, complete with those peaked biceps,
but they too were there to get as absolutely
huge and strong as possible with the additional
feature of also being “cut to ribbons.”
 |
At
Dr. Ken’s garage its still about
getting “huge and strong.” Representing
the NY Giants and
Texas A&M are Frank Ferrara, John
Sullivan, and Mike Barrow with Doc. |
The Hollywoodesque, pretty-boy, Stallone-like
ideal had not yet been born and even those
who believed that it was “just fine” to
fully develop the upper body without sufficient
attention to the lower extremities maintained
a goal of striving for an upper body of tremendous,
other worldly proportions. “Getting
bigger” and “getting stronger” were
the names of the game. Because everyone trained
on the basic multi-joint exercises, anyone
who was consistent in their training was relatively
strong if they hung in there long enough. When
one was deemed “strong enough” he
was encouraged to accept a gym challenge to
achieve a certain weight in a specific exercise
or enter what we called, Odd Lift Contests.
When Tony approached me as one of a group of
our gym members, to join him as representatives
of Bodybuilding Incorporated, the rather high-sounding
moniker for our Spartan surroundings, I was
flattered, thrilled, and a bit frightened.
I did the bulk of my training at home and only
occasionally or for sporadic short periods
trained at the storefront although I too was
afforded my very own key so that I could use
the gym as my schedule allowed. When home from
college for the summers, my training partner
Jack and I found that we could receive additional
emotional stimulation from having bigger and
stronger men training around us and there was
always some advice that made us more efficient,
especially if Tony was giving that advice.
With the prospect of an Odd Lift Contest, the
only thought I had was “Wow.”
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