Over the top

My head felt like it was going to explode.

That’s what happens when your body is under an enormous amount of strain. My friend “Zippy” and I had been locked in an arm wrestling battle for what felt like an hour and a half, and it occurred to me that if I reached any deeper into my remaining energy supply I’d probably burst a vessel and collapse in a bloody mess. Zippy would have a kitchen to clean, several phone calls to make, and I’d have lost the match. This would not have been a favorable scenario for anyone involved. At least he would have gotten an epic story out of it: The time he killed his friend with the sheer force of his biceps.

Maybe that thought occurred to me in the moment, maybe it didn’t. I don’t really remember much except the fiery pain pulsing through the right side of my torso, the kind that usually signifies either a catastrophic heart attack or an especially greasy burrito. All I know is that our epic stalemate had to end, and if that involved my capitulation, well, I’d just have to live with it. Better than a compound fracture.

Relief washed over both our faces when I finally laid my hand down. We’d been arm wrestling for far longer than is normal, minute after excruciating minute, and the veins in our temples were throbbing alarmingly, seeming to communicate to each other in some weird biological Morse code: Stop it fellas, you’re being ridiculous.

It was the first and only time I’d ever hugged my opponent after an arm wrestling match. Usually when someone wins one of those things there’s a lot of macho posturing, a cavalcade of high-fives and fist bumps and testosterone-drenched grunts. Then someone cracks a celebratory beer or eats a slab of beef or something. Not this time. We bonded like locker room athletes or men at war, stronger as friends because we had survived something together, a test of wills. There may have been tears. Manly tears. Very very manly.

But that’s the problem with arm wrestling. It’s way more manly than any casual activity should be.

At some point, some guy -- I’m assuming it was a guy -- decided that this chest-pounding test of strength would actually be an acceptable way to pass the time. Apparently this guy was Egyptian; according to the Ultimate Armwresting League, paintings depicting a type of arm wrestling were discovered in Egyptian tombs dating to about 2000 B.C. So people have been doing this for a super long time, which may explain why it’s still so popular in frat houses and basement rec rooms. People are tapping into a primal need to pit their strength against someone else, to brag and flex and preen like a ’roided-out peacock.

Unfortunately, most of the people who engage in the sport recreationally fit a certain description: Young, drunk, and with fewer brain cells in their skull than there are Quakers at the North Pole. It’d be interesting to see statistics on how many emergency room visits are caused by arm wrestling-related injuries, although I imagine most of the people waiting to see a doctor have concocted some cover story that makes them seem less foolish. “It was the darndest thing, doc, I was rescuing a dog from a burning building and my humerus just snapped! It was a big dog -- German Shepherd. I swear!”

Not everyone’s like that, though. As the existence of the Ultimate Armwrestling League would suggest, it’s an actual sport, and its athletes take it pretty seriously. That’s where things get interesting. These aren’t college kids. They’re serious adults who train rigorously for these events, I assume by repeatedly lifting refrigerators filled with steel ball bearings.

A couple of years ago I used my privilege as a journalist to cover a regional armwrestling event that took place in Biddeford. Ostensibly this was for a story, but part of me was just curious, expecting to see some kind of circus-level freak show. Imagine my surprise when I saw a regulation table, pinstriped referees and a throng of amped-up female competitors, many of whom looked like they could have gone head-to-head with the men. This wasn’t a halfhearted throwdown in some dude’s kitchen. Add some stadium seating and a few spotlights and this could have been broadcast on ESPN, complete with its own theme music. Something heavy and fast, with a singer who sounds like he regularly bites the heads off live chickens.

It’s consistently amazing to me that so many alternate worlds run parallel to ours. While the rest of us commute to our office jobs and walk in parks and watch “Survivor,” there’s a whole universe out there in which hard-charging men and women do endless bicep curls at the gym so they can squash their opponents at regional semi-pro armwrestling events. I assume these people also eat a lot of steak. You don’t get muscles like that by eating Skittles.

Events like that put my cute little rivalry with Zippy into perspective. At the Biddeford event I saw what arm wrestling, in an ideal world, should be: a rigorous athletic competition in a bar that serves killer cocktails. There was nothing athletic or noble about what Zippy and I did. Our private showdown wasn’t about competition, it was about burning off excess testosterone and staking a claim to virility. Afterward we both felt a little foolish. Aside from hurting ourselves and flirting with serious injury, we hadn’t really accomplished anything of value. Without a trophy on the line the whole endeavor was a waste of both our times.

Besides, everyone knows the true test of manhood is premature balding and a foul mouth. Your move, Zippy. Your move.