9 July 2016, 7.45 p.m.
World Deadlift Championship, First Direct Arena, Leeds
‘Fifteen minutes to go, Eddie.’
‘Yeah, all right. Fuck off, will you?’
‘Is there anything you need?’
‘Yeah, there is: for you to fuck off. Don’t worry, dickhead. I’ll be ready.’
This is one of the few occasions when swearing doesn’t get me into a shit load of trouble. They know what I’m like backstage at a competition and so it’s water off a duck’s back. I’ll still apologise later. It’s at the end of the night when the fines start being dished out and it’s usually because somebody’s been daft enough to stick a microphone in front of me.
‘So, Eddie. How do you feel about winning Britain’s Strongest Man?’
‘Fucking excellent, brother.’
‘CUT!’
I’ve already been in trouble once tonight. A few minutes ago I pulled 465kg (1,025 lb), which, although just a stepping stone to the main event, is still a new world record. After the lift the presenter, Colin Bryce, asked me what I was going to do next. ‘Unleash the beast,’ was what I meant to say, but when I opened my mouth and started speaking, a word beginning with F found its way into the sentence. The crowd also know what I’m like and they thought it was hilarious.
I don’t do it to impress anybody or to piss anybody off. I do it because, rightly or wrongly, it’s part of who I am and it’s almost impossible for me to deviate from that. There is no ‘Eddie Zero’, I’m afraid. No low-calorie alternative. I’m full fat, mate, and – much to my mum’s regret and embarrassment – another word beginning with F.
In fifteen minutes’ time, at precisely 8 p.m., I will pull 500kg (1,102 lb) in front of 10,000 people and in doing so become the first human being in the history of the world to lift half a tonne. Let me say that again, boys and girls: half a tonne. That’s about the same weight as an overfed racehorse.
Notice I’ve left out the words ‘attempt to’, by the way. The definition of the word attempt is ‘to make an effort to achieve’, which means there is always a possibility of failure. Not tonight. Not here. This, my friend, is history in the making and ensuring such occurrences take place is the reason I have been put on this earth. Some people are here to build houses and work in banks, and some people are here to change the world.
Being a foul-mouthed history-making cheeky behemoth does come at a cost, however. Ever since agreeing to do the lift I have had to virtually ignore my wife and kids and over the last six months I have spent no more than a few hours in their company. That in itself has obviously been a massive sacrifice for all of us, but in truth it’s just the tip of the iceberg. My daily routine has been to eat, sleep, train, recover and repeat, and in addition to a couple of short but extremely severe bouts of depression, which I think were triggered by stress and isolation, I have gradually become less mobile. This is because, in order to lift such a massive weight, I have had to put on an extra 15kg (33 lb) in weight and right now I am just over thirty-one stone. My God, it’s been hard though. I have suffered all kinds of pain over the years but preparing for this has been a different kind of hell and even now I am in a very, very dark place.
As I sit quietly in the dressing room I suddenly belch, and am reminded of what I had for my dinner – or lunch, if you’re posh. Whilst everyone else will have been tucking into sandwiches or burgers, I was in a restaurant ordering a mouth-watering lump of fat taken straight from a massive joint of gammon. In terms of taste it was probably one of the most disgusting meals I’ve ever eaten, but in terms of calories, it was the dog’s. About 4,000, all told.
You see, to me, when it comes to milestones, the half-tonne deadlift is right up there with the four-minute mile and if anybody ever manages to break the record once I’ve smashed it – and they will – it will be my record they’re breaking. Let’s face it, nobody gives a damn who holds the current record for running a mile, and why would they? Whoever holds the record is simply clinging to the coattails of greatness. The only name that matters when it comes to running the mile is Roger Bannister, and why? Because he proved the naysayers wrong and did what everyone said was impossible. He became – and remains – the benchmark and regardless of the fact that the record he set is now slow in comparison to today’s athletes, it is the only one we really care about. He walks (or runs) on a higher plane to the rest and in a few minutes’ time he’ll have to make some room – quite a bit of room, actually – for me.
The reason this is relevant now is because the only person in this entire arena who thinks I’m going to pull this lift is me. Some of my mates probably think I have a chance, but the bookies are offering odds of 25/1 and so have me down as a complete no-hoper. That’s fine though. Other people’s doubt is my biggest motivation and the fact that the no’s are unanimous makes it a forgone conclusion as far as I’m concerned.
‘OK, we’re ready for you, Eddie.’
‘Come on then, fucker, lead the way.’
After a quick detour to a disabled toilet, which I’ll explain later, my three-man entourage and I make our way to the stage. As we pass the other athletes one or two of them shout, ‘Good luck, Ed,’ but I know not one of them thinks I can do it. Seeing them all staring at me is like a last-minute shot of adrenalin.
One man not staring at me from the pool of athletes, but whose words echo through my mind, is four-time World’s Strongest Man, Brian Shaw. Brian should be here, but he pulled out of the event announcing that 500kg was ridiculous. In fact, the current World’s Strongest Man had publicly proclaimed that 480kg (1,058 lb) was the absolute max he thought was doable by anyone.
As we walk on I over Žydrūnas Savickas – arguably the strongest men in history – voicing his concerns about the feat I’m about to attempt. ‘What happens to the human body at such a weight,’ he says. ‘I am not sure we are designed to handle that amount. It is a little dangerous but we shall see.’
I respect both men but I will make them eat their words.
We’re almost at the stage now and I can hear the MC warming up the crowd. This is supposed to be the support event for Europe’s Strongest Man but it should be the other way around. Whoever wins that title won’t be making history. They won’t be on Roger Bannister’s higher plane.
As I walk through the curtain onto the stage the first thing I see is the crowd, all 10,000 of them. The biggest audience ever for a strongman event. A hit of smelling salts brings that familiar wild, yet strangely pleasurable pain burning through my skull. I gesture to the crowd to make some noise and they respond with a deafening roar. This, right now, is the deepest, darkest moment of my life.
Over the past twenty years only 9kg (20 lb) has been added to the world deadlift record. What am I going to add? 35kg (77 lb)? Bloody hell.
As I bend down and put the straps around my hands everything goes quiet. I’m locked in now. I am in the zone, as they say. I’ve visualised this moment a thousand times and I’ve practiced it a thousand more. Rep after rep of drills, hour after hour of training in the gym has led me to this moment. I’ll hear the crowd again once I’ve locked my back out, but for the next ten seconds or so it’s just me and the bar.
As I find my grip, I see, just fleetingly, a picture of my family in my mind’s eye. It’s a quick but important reminder of exactly why I’m doing this.
I’m happy with the grip now, so am ready to go.
OK, Roger. Shove up a bit, mate. It’s time to make some history.