The weight sits there in judgment of the quick and the dead. Nine hundred and forty pounds, what the juggernaut Konstantīns Konstantinovs pulled without a belt before shuffling off this mortal coil at the age of 40. The biggest and best men pay early with their lives. That's the deal in powerlifting.
They found him dead in 2018, this Russian giant who worked as a bodyguard between setting world records. He knew the price of size. "Tomorrow may never come," he told fellow powerlifting legend Kirill Sarychev in his last interview. "If you have the strength to make a record, never leave it for tomorrow."
Konstantinovs lived by those words. Three hundred twenty kilos in the squat, 265 on bench, 426 pulling deadlift Numbers that read like fiction even to experienced lifters. He won world titles while working security to pay the bills. Too early for big-money sponsorships or genuine Instagram fame—just raw power, raw lifts, and a premature demise.
The gyms fill with his kind, men chasing size through chalk dust and sweat. They run programs with names like Smolov, believing enough sets, reps, steaks, and steroids transform human, all-too-human bodies into superhuman legends. Most quit when joints start crying. Smart ones—some might call them cowards—listen. Heroes push until their heart filament burns out.
Mark Bell warned about such dangers when I interviewed him. He ripped his pec benching and turned that injury into millions, selling shirts to help lifters move more weight. "Every serious bencher tears his pec eventually," he said. "Just time and physics." Bell renounced his childhood pursuit of size and began chasing the God almighty dollar.
I learned this lesson the hard way. I was well under 430 pounds, going for a second paused bench press rep in my basement gym. The bar felt right until it didn't. My left pec spasmed like lightning on the way back up, muscle trying to separate from bone. Twenty-five years of pushing had finally pushed back. The weights crashed down as I dumped the bar and then sat there grabbing my chest, wondering what a breadwinner like myself does next after such a stupid, self-inflicted wound.
The surgeon spoke at length about trainees who did this, usually while posting up in wrestling or pushing from the ground or against the barbell. Different from breaking toes or blowing out knees. This kind of injury takes muscle off bone. My bruise spread purple-black across my chest, testament to dreams outsizing biology.
The MRI showed mercy—moderate tear, no tendon damage and no surgery needed. Just four to six weeks of healing, then a cautious return to overhead work. The surgeon talked about "lingering dull pain" like a life sentence. B. Brian Blair, the former WWF star, messaged that I should wear that bruise proudly. Beau Hightower, the Instagram-famous chiropractor, shared how his own tear ended his competitive benching days.
Konstantinovs understood the iron game better than most. He built himself a massive temple of a body, dominated his 308-pound weight class, and set records that stood or will stand for years. But the clock runs down on everyone. Size costs more than supplements, steroids, and gym fees. It demands your future. That temple of a body eventually becomes a tomb for your bones and guts.
Some men, like Konstantinovs, willingly pay the full price for size. Others learn to live smaller, finding peace with the size they have instead of the size they wanted. The iron keeps its promises and collects its debts. Under that 430-pound bar, I finally heard what it had been telling me all along. “Quit while you’re ahead, you dumb son of a bitch,” it said. I heeded its exhortation and lived to write the tale. Konstantinovs did not and died a demigod.