Chapter 11
IT TURNS OUT, I CANNOT get myself up in time for a five a.m. class.
Not because of the objectively inhumane hour, but because when my alarm goes off at four thirty, I find that my body is exclusively a host for muscle soreness.
Glutes, hamstrings, quads, biceps, and all the other groups I don’t know the name of scream in protest at the simplest movement.
It’s awesome.
“There’s just so many places that ache!” I marvel, and wince at the complaints from my hammies as I take my seat at the front desk. There’s less discomfort since I’ve been hobbling around for a few hours, but I’m still keenly aware of every overworked muscle. I earned this!
“As your body gets used to the exercise, it will be more of a two-day turnaround on the soreness,” Ian tells me, his smile bemused.
I grin back, doing a little happy dance in my seat.
There had been no trace of yesterday’s hostility when I came in, and he’s been genuinely sympathetic of my muscle pain, which made his suggestion that I knock out today’s WOD at eight thirty seem more like confidence in my resilience and less like a revenge scheme.
And while most of the chalk marking the rise in the flooring has been wiped away, the spot is also more level today; perhaps there is room for subtle improvements after all.
He laughs at my celebratory wriggling, treating me to a view of the canines I’m now confident I mentioned on Friday night. Heat rises in my cheeks, and I look away, busying myself with the sign-ins.
I googled him.
I’d been curious after the guys’ infodump and threw myself down an Ian Hammond rabbit hole.
Even for someone with zero frame of reference, it was clear to me that the man was and, given how often and recently he’s been written about, continues to be a big deal in the industry.
At his peak as a professional athlete, he had too many sponsorships to count.
I’ve been spotting the remnants of them all over the gym, like a name-brand scavenger hunt: the plyo boxes, his shoes, even the big fridge in the corner of the pro shop are all from companies that sought him out to represent their brands.
These days, multiple professional sports teams contract with him for their lifting and conditioning programming, and he’s regularly tapped to contribute workouts for training publications.
There was a ton of video of his glory days.
A lot of amateur footage taken on phones at gyms, as well as official clips from competitions.
Seeing him perform the lifts with such ease and control was breathtaking.
Again, I know nothing about any of this, but he was hefting huge amounts of weight and making it look like a breeze.
Even when he was straining, veins bulging and face red with exertion, it was compelling.
Real-time documentation of an athlete committing to his performance.
And then: the photos.
The videos I could view somewhat objectively. The focus was on the motion and power on display. The spectacle took precedence over the shape of the individual performing them. Looking through the photos was…different.
Most were harmless. Ian on a tiered podium, holding up a trophy.
Ian in a shoe campaign. Ian captured at the top of a pull-up.
That shot must have been taken after Grant moved in with him, because the teenaged junior Hammond is in the photo as well, his grin latticed with braces as he dangles one bar over on the rig they share.
Ian profiled in a men’s magazine, demonstrating proper snatch form.
Ian examining the contents of a ready-made meal kit.
College Ian, still an amateur; Ian as a professional.
Ian as a guest coach at gyms across the US.
Ian as a guest coach in gyms abroad. Impressive.
Competent. Appealing, but not inherently lust-inducing.
But the top hit had been a nude.
Evidently, there is a tradition of athletes being photographed free of the clothing that would otherwise prevent a viewer from fully appreciating the extent of their fitness. I had not been aware of this practice until last night and feel that I might be entitled to financial compensation.
Ian was posed in what the caption informed me was a split jerk; a high lunge stance with a loaded barbell held overhead, forward leg, mercifully, intentionally, blocking the camera from capturing his assets.
It wasn’t sexual. It was something to be admired; a testament to what the human body is capable of.
A physical state honed over years of dedication and commitment, every line of muscle earned. It was art.
And he was fuzzy. I’ve never had much of an opinion on chest hair, so long as it isn’t completely absent or alarmingly excessive, but to see the expanse of his impressive torso capped with a dark dusting of hair was a revelation. I liked it.
He also appeared to be roaring. Mouth open wide, teeth bared, those feral canines of his brought into striking relief.
That’s what tipped the image into sexyland.
Now I have questions. Is roaring a standard part of his lifting routine?
Are there other outlets for roaring? Could I make him roar?
I elicited some groans on Friday, and a low, rumbling sound similar to recordings of a jungle cat’s purr. But a roar? That would be gratifying.
“Did the computer freeze up?” Ian asks, rousing me from my fuzz-appreciating reverie. How long have I been sitting in front of the monitor?
“Nope! Just noticed a new sore spot.” And thinking about your man-fuzz. Is it soft?
I’m adding myself to the upcoming class when a familiar voice says, “Good morning.” I smile to see Babs in the open garage bay, a vision in her signature hue.
“Barbara,” Ian grumbles.
She ignores him, instead leaning a not-so-casual elbow onto the counter above me. “Ellie, will you be joining the eight thirty class again?”
“I just signed up.”
“Excellent. We’ll partner for the back squats.” She winks. “Plenty of time to chat.”
The WOD is divided into two parts, focusing on back squats first, and finishing with a cardio session.
We warm up as a group, then gather at the rig as Ian goes over the fundamentals of the lift.
For something that amounts to not quite sitting and then standing back up, there’s a lot to think about.
Don’t pitch forward. Don’t let your knees shift toward one another.
Don’t stare at the profile of your employer’s splendid backside, which you can now visualize bare, the hollows and lines defined in tasteful shades of black, white, and gray, as the muscles engage and release throughout his demonstration.
Do not make eye contact with your new friend Babs at any point during these proceedings, and certainly don’t respond to the eyebrow raise she shoots you.
Later, Babs stands with me as the third member of our group, Helen, does her squats. The three of us are close enough in height that we won’t have to change the position of the j-hooks in the rig, where the barbell sits between sets.
“Helen was part of the initial swarm of women who showed up when word got out that there was an eligible bachelor running the show,” Babs explains.
Helen laughs, pausing as the top of her squat. “Let’s not forget that I was eighteen months postpartum and still trying to recover my pelvic floor.” She resumes her squatting. “Jump rope’s still a problem. Gravity always wins in the end.”
“Try giving it another thirty years,” Babs gripes.
“I was recruited by an old sorority sister,” Helen continues.
“But Marcia only made it a month. She’s more barre than barbell, and Ian wasn’t receptive to her wiles.
” She reracks the bar, and I step in to remove a twenty-five-pound plate from the nearest end of the bar, while Helen removes one from the other side.
We might be matched for height, but Helen is way stronger than either of us.
“That ended up being the case for most of— Do you mind?” Babs complains as Ian approaches. He’s been monitoring the class, giving feedback and correcting form. Hot.
He looks to me. “You comfortable with this weight?”
“I got up to 95 on the first set, and that felt fine,” I say. “115 seems reasonable.”
“Let’s see your setup.”
I find the correct placement for my hands on the bar, then duck beneath it, positioning it on the more muscled part of my shoulders, as Ian had on his considerably more developed “meat shelf,” mindful not to let the bar press against the top of my spine.
I straighten and step back from the rig, standing with my feet shoulder width apart.
“Good. Take in a breath, brace, and get down to parallel,” he instructs, and I follow along, performing each step as directed. “Up—don’t let your knees come toward each other.”
When I’m back in a standing position, he nods.
“Go ahead and finish the set.” I do, my awareness of the weight on the bar increasing with each repetition, but never to the point of discomfort…
beyond the soreness I started with. It’s actually kind of helpful; I am keenly aware of every tortured muscle participating in the lift.
“Good. One thought,” he says, as I rerack. “You’re coming forward onto your toes. Keep your weight in all four corners of your feet. Think about digging in with your whole foot. Don’t put too much pressure on a single area.”
“Sure,” I say, as “competence boner” bounces in my brain in time with my elevated heart rate.
“Are you finished?” Babs asks him, approaching the bar for herself.
“No. Ellie, add another twenty pounds next round. You made that look easy.”
“Fine, fine.” Babs shoos him away. “Off with you. We’re bonding.”
“Of course you are,” he says, resigned, and moves on to the group a few spaces down.
Babs watches him go. “Helen, have you ever made anything ‘look easy’?”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the words.”
Babs raises her brows at me, conveying a silent intrigue.