The great Soviet weightlifter Yuri Vlasov.

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Yuri Vlasov and his coach Suren Bogdasarov during training.May 1963.

 

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Yuri Vlasov and his coach Suren Bogdasarov during training.February. 1962.Photo by G.S. Ivanovsky

 

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Yuri Vlasov during training. 1962.Photo by G.S. Ivanovsky

 

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Yuri Vlasov during training. 1962.Photo by G.S. Ivanovsky

 

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“I know — it may sound banal: people are killed when they cannot be persuaded. And not necessarily killed physically. A person can be placed in such conditions that he will either collapse on his own or be ground down, erased in a squalid everyday existence — and that is even worse than outright murder.”
(Yury Vlasov, “The Cold Spell”)

 

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“For as long as I can remember, there has been this parable.
A farmhand saved a landowner, and the latter swore to fulfill any wish of the poor man. For decades the same dream had haunted him: steaming sweet-potato porridge. And so he asked for it to be cooked… seven pots of it. Just once, to eat his fill.
The landowner did not deceive him: he came for the farmhand and took him away. Seven pots of sweet-potato porridge were placed before the poor man. How often he had seen it in his dreams! And yet he could not eat even a small part of it…
So it is in everything. When a life is spent struggling for the right to turn a dream — of words, of music, of colors — into reality, then even when it finally comes true, there is no strength left. The struggle against one’s surroundings has worn it down, destroyed it.
For in this world, only obedience — and colorlessness — are rewarded in time. Colorlessness never threatens anyone. It is like a rag underfoot…”
(Yury Vlasov, “The Cold Spell”)

 

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“In February 1977, while skiing, I broke through the ice up to my shoulders. It crumbled for about ten meters before I managed to roll up sideways onto it with my skis. The ice broke again, splitting into massive slabs, and I was being pulled beneath them. Once more I clawed my way out — and again the ice shattered; I rolled forward — and again it shattered… Only the strength of my arms saved me. The frost was about minus 20°C, and I reached warmth only an hour later.
The flu did not pass. I soon realized it was not the flu at all, but some kind of general weakness of the body. I kept working, pushing my affairs forward, yet the malaise would not go away. By mid-May 1977 I was forced to take to bed — a condition utterly unknown to me. I had always known how to overcome everything on my feet. I was tormented by chills, coughing, and sweating. Doctors prescribed antibiotics. By mid-June I recovered, went out for walks — and fell ill again. Another three weeks of bed rest. Again I recovered and began walking — and again I collapsed with fever and chills. Thus the summer passed. I coughed heavily and painfully. I turned to the local clinic and received the most contradictory advice.
In mid-September, wrapped in a sweater and scarf, I found myself before a renowned physician. From his manner I could tell — he was no less perplexed than I was. He could say nothing definite.
Whether in bed or at the table, I did not interrupt my work on “The Justice of Strength” — a book about supreme athletic power. It revived the past and gave me the strength not to yield to pain. Yet I already saw and felt that if this continued, I was finished.
October came. I worked, and after work I paced all the surrounding streets and parks. I wandered with fever and chills; pain from my spine shot through me with every step; my head spun — yet I stubbornly pressed on. At night I was drenched in sweat, my head squeezed by iron hoops of pain, but in the morning I was back at my desk, and then — in motion again.
Despite all my ailments, I set up weightlifting equipment in my room and began training. Mostly presses — the main one being the incline bench press. It seemed to me that if I could touch the past, I would prevail over all weakness…
…The training brought monstrous headaches. Yet I counted on hardening my body — then the pain would subside. One has to start somewhere. At times I felt like smashing my head against a wall, if only to rid myself of the pain and torment…
…A vague realization came to me: that I was suffering not from some undiagnosed illness, but primarily from the exhaustion of my nervous system and the loss of energy — vital force. That was why even the most modern medications were incapable of curing me. And if there was some determining disease they could not find, it was still not the main thing in my condition.”**
(Yury Vlasov, “A Convergence of Difficult Circumstances”)

 

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Two legends of the USSR: pilot-cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin and the world's strongest man
of the 1960s, weightlifter Yuri Vlasov.

 

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“My law is never to dare waste time.”
(Yury Vlasov, “Red Jacks”)

 

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“Without overcoming oneself, nothing can be achieved. Only those win who are able to renounce self-love, to step over themselves. And one must regret nothing — always strive forward. Any glance backward, any regret over the past, is already an admission of weakness, of the possibility of stopping, an inability to fight with former ferocity, a loss of oneself…”
(Yury Vlasov, “The Justice of Strength”)

 

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“To win, to achieve victory, means to live one’s life in accordance with one’s convictions.
True victory is a life devoted to a beloved calling, the independence to seek that calling — a shared cause — confidence in oneself, and, finally, the preservation of sincerity, that greatest of gifts which protects us from falsehood and from inventing false versions of ourselves…”
(Yury Vlasov, “The Justice of Strength”)

 

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“Had I grown callous, dealing only with ‘iron,’ turning myself into nothing but muscle for years, I would probably not have endured even a tenth of the trials imposed by the iron — and by all the other strains as well.
Each day promises the inevitability of new kilograms; the palms turn into soles from calluses, and the spine aches with abrasion even in sleep…”
(Yury Vlasov, “The Justice of Strength”)

 

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“…I strapped 130 kilograms to my legs and performed dips on the parallel bars several times, in three or four sets. At the same time, a highly beneficial spinal traction took place. Thanks to this work, within a single Olympic year I increased the USSR record in the bench press four times — and by far more than mere 500 grams each time.
My performance in Milan provoked criticism — dull and unjust, yet inevitable after every failure. Such criticism always contains something of poor quality. Indeed, while you are strong and unshaken, you are praised as a brilliant ‘technician,’ a superb tournament fighter, a master of records…
I was promptly relegated to the category of mediocre ‘technicians.’ Formally, the critics were right, but in essence I had failed in training to truly master the new strength; I had not provided sufficient rest for my muscles and nervous system. The reduction in workload came far too late and was carried out with erroneous weights.
Thus, once again, everything ahead lay unknown. Yet this is the destiny of great athletes — to confront the unknown, to transform it into the clarity of the familiar and the controlled.
Yes, life is, after all, an act of will!”
(Yury Vlasov, “The Justice of Strength”)

 

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“The organism is a highly inert system. As such, it strives to preserve its existing state whenever possible. It responds very reluctantly to serious changes, even when those changes are unquestionably beneficial. Therefore, training is almost always a process of overcoming the organism’s resistance. At the same time, there is the danger of causing it harm. In essence, it is on this very edge that a great athlete constantly balances.”
(Yury Vlasov, “The Justice of Strength”)

 

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“The title of the strongest man in the world…
In relation to me, it began to be used in 1959. On April 22, at the Armed Forces Championship in Leningrad, I set world records for the first time: I broke Medvedev’s record in the snatch and Anderson’s record in the clean and jerk.
At the time of setting those records, I weighed 113 kilograms — 52 kilograms lighter than Anderson.
On October 4 of the same year, in Warsaw, I won the World Championship for the first time, increasing my own world record in the snatch by one and a half kilograms.
However, the title of “the strongest man in the world” became firmly associated with me after my victory at the XVII Olympic Games in Rome. There I shattered the most formidable of Paul Anderson’s records — his unofficial record in the total of the three lifts (533 kg). I totaled 537.5 kilograms. From that moment on, the title of “the strongest in the world” was закрепed to me. Even after losing the Olympic champion’s title in Tokyo, I to some extent retained the title of the strongest. My record in the total remained unbeaten until June 18, 1967.
It is a mistake to believe that records were achieved more easily in the past. The price paid for them is, in essence, always the same. That is why they are invariably called records. A record weight always feels truly maximal. At that moment, it is the limit. It tears at the arms just the same, drains strength from muscles and nerves alike. For the famed Hackenschmidt, a record demanded no less exertion than it does from athletes of our own time.”**
(Yury Vlasov, “The Justice of Strength”)

 

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Yuri Vlasov doing exercises. Photo: Robert Maksimov/TASS

 

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“At competitions, when I myself was still not confident enough in controlling myself, the coach’s behavior served as a support. In his eyes, gestures, and voice I read his feelings: was there hope for victory, would I take the weight? At that time, I did not yet know how to fight when doubt lived inside you.
In the early years of training, that faith brought me back onto the platform after injuries and study-related breaks that lasted for months.
And injuries branded me mercilessly in those years. In the autumn of 1954, at the Moscow Championship, I attempted the standard of the second sports category in the snatch. I was very strong — far stronger than the weights I was about to lift. But in “technique” I was helpless. I easily snatched the required weight, yet it twisted me around my axis. I braced myself, trying to hold the barbell, but it literally wrenched my shoulder out of its socket. Only when the pain burned through me to the last nerve did I release the weight. For two months I could not dress without someone else’s help. And even six months later, the shoulder struck back with pain whenever the joint was fully engaged.
I returned to training after three weeks, when the swelling began to subside. I drove the barbell into the fixation position with the joint fully locked, and my vision darkened from pain. A year later, attempting a snatch weight five kilograms below the Master of Sports standard, I suffered an unpleasant groin injury. For about five weeks I limped with a cane. Then followed knee injuries — annoying and dangerous ones. For a long time I could not understand what the matter was.
The answer came of its own accord. The ligaments had not yet strengthened; they were still childishly weak, while in the muscles a great adult strength was already maturing. It became necessary to change the technique of the clean movement in order to soften the dynamic impact in the ‘squat’ when receiving the weight on the chest. But that work we carried out later with a new coach — Suren Petrovich Bogdasarov.”
(Yury Vlasov, “The Justice of Strength”)

 

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“In order not to let a new pain in, I clearly and deliberately repeat to myself:
‘Even if I am capable of losing control over myself, even then I will not say: I am defeated. I will never consent to anyone’s power over me.’
A new pain tightens its grip. Why am I inventing another trial? A record? Why? Run. Drop everything…
I stand as if on the platform before a record attempt. My arms are relaxed. My feet are set exactly shoulder-width apart. Balance in every joint. Vast reserves of life in my muscles.
A whisper scorches my lips:
‘No one has power over me! Muscles may lose — I never will! I will not yield myself! I will not yield!’
A broken, greedy whisper…”
(Yury Vlasov, “Salty Joys”)