[Ed's note: The videos are in order of their reference point within the story.]
After it slowly yawns open like the jaw of a shark, Pat Povilaitis slides his arm inside the two sets of metallic teeth and lets the bear trap snap down on his right wrist. Before I can think to dial 911, three hundred pairs of beefy hands clap. Animal activists consider this foothold trap inhumane for bears, but no one races to Povilaitis's rescue. He grimaces but then waves his left hand to let everyone know he's okay. Then, he reaches down to a muscle car's 300-pound engine block on the floor. He squats, threads his left arm through the engine block and stands up straight, posing, smiling, squeezing out cheers. Then he gently lays down the engine block and patiently waits for his assistant to unsnap the trap—a feat of strength in itself. Povilaitis shows everyone that his wrist hasn't been shredded like the cucumber used in an earlier demonstration.
I'm waiting for an advisory from the emcee: Please don't try this at home. Looking around, I realize I might be the only one here who hasn't tried this at home. Or something like it.
Every summer some very strong men get together for a reunion put on by the Association of Oldetime Barbell & Strongmen—former weightlifting champs with AARP cards. Most fascinating are the sideshow performers like Povilaitis. This summer the AOBS came together at the Newark Airport Marriott for their 25th anniversary dinner.
Strength gets a bad rap these days. With every positive steroid test in the NFL, MLB and the Olympics, brute force takes a hit. But this new skepticism doesn't fray these old school guys. The oldest of the bunch is Joe Rolino, a 103-year-old former Coney Island strongman who at his peak only weighed 140 pounds but once lifted 450 pounds…with his teeth.
"The traditions are cultural history that could be lost," says Dennis Rogers, a 52-year-old Houston minister who straightens horseshoes like paperclips and drives nails bare-fisted through 2-by-4s (or through a frying pan for an added degree of difficulty).
Rogers keeps tradition alive one bent spike at a time. He founded Oldtime Strongman University, an online study group. Provilaitis (a.k.a. The Human Vice) is one young strongman who trains with Rogers. but Aaron (Mighty Mac) McKenzie also works under Rogers. Literally. At the banquet Mighty Mac bends a thick nail while holding a neck bridge with Rogers standing on his chest.
Though Rogers preaches Christian principles—"Muscles with a Message"—an earthly icon inspires his students: Lawrence Farman (a.k.a. Slim The Hammerman), a 74-year-old cancer survivor from Pottsdown, Pa. Farman, six-feet-six and 215-pounds of pure sinew, has spent more time on the business end of a sledgehammer than any man alive, punching the clock at the local quarry for 50 years until mandatory retirement. "Ten hours a day, ten tons an hour," he says. "Never missed a shift."
Thirty years ago, a show with Farman and his mentor, Joe Greenstein (a.k.a. The Mighty Atom) drew 18,000 to Madison Square Garden. Today, it's the Hercules Hold, a classic strongman move—but with a twist: Farman is using 18-lb sledgehammers.
First: With his arms extended straight in front of him, Farman holds the hammers parallel to the floor. With a slow flexing of his wrists, he moves the hammers in an arc so that they stop just short of his nose, like a clock's minute hand moving from quarter to the hour to quarter after. He holds the hammers there, waits for applause and then slowly returns them to the starting position.
Next: With arms straight out from his sides, Farman again holds the hammers parallel to the floor, an Iron Cross with extra hardware. Flexing his wrists but not bending his arms, he slowly moves the hammers in a full arc so that their shiny heads look like they'll bust his nose. Again the heads come within a quarter inch of Farman's beak and he holds them there.
The applause comes.
"Failure isn't an option," the Hammerman says later. "If you try something and don't pull it off, you better not be able to walk off the stage."