So, our coach, Dean Christenson, was 6’ 6” 260 pounds, in shape, huge fucker. This takes us back by Ontario, Oregon again. [1]

I was qualifying to wrestle in Portland, for the Oregon heavyweight title. I never could touch Dean and it was 220 and up—I was wrestling up, because our man at 180 pounds could beat anybody—National Champion. That’s how you could make money if you were good enough, win at your weight, then wrestle up and win at the next weight, with a prize of $250, that could get you $500 bucks. It generally didn’t pay to travel too far out of your region. But to wrestle in Portland I had to qualify out of state—arm wrestling is with the pegs, double elimination, wrist wrestling is locking hands under and single elimination. Some guys would also wrestle left handed and right handed.

The Portland Championship was the only one I ever won. But I placed in Boise, Idaho to qualify for it. [2]

But to get there, we are driving east through Ontario and Dean hits a cow—fuggin’ thing came through the windshield. Not only were we fucked, with a totaled car [Writer forgets what make, but it was a nice car, spoken of with some reverence.] but Ranger Rick is on the scene. The Sheriff rolls up and informs us that we were driving through open range, and if you hit it, you pay for it. We had to scrape money together, write a note to the rancher, and leave it for him. We were lucky we weren’t broke or we would have been in the county jail. It was funny, the look on the sheriff’s face—who was a guy like your size—when Dean stood up! So, we go into Ontario, not a thing there, really. But we did find an old rusted out beater that we bought with the rest of our cash and got us to Boise.

In Eugene, we took a bus down and cleaned house. The company that sponsored us was a beer promoter and they had a belly bouncing contest—I won All Valley in belly bouncing, this was about the time I got maced up here at the bar. There was beer can stacking, which led to actual fighting, because those boys from Eugene did not appreciate us arrogant fuggers coming to their town and winning everything. So they’d come over and kick the table and knock your beer can stack down. The company would strap a keg to a seat and we would drink going down, in town while competing and all the way back!

[Redacted first name] Whacker, which was her real last name, and fit. What a whore—never was a better whore in the world. She would be on the bus blowing guys down and back. At the event she’d be behind the bus bent over between two men. Once, when we were in this small town in Washington, with a bus load of arm wrestlers and a couple of whores drinking, the shitter in the back of the bus got backed up. That would not do. So, Kimo, who was this really cool, big Polynesian driver, he backs the bus up and releases the tank over a sewer grate, well, in this pretty nice part of town.

What a mess. The drainage was already failing there, with the rains, I guess, and the sewer did not immediately conceal our unlawful discharge of waste water. You think you get in trouble for pissing in an alley! This was a big deal. We were sweating it, and then Whacker takes it to a whole nother level!

So, there are these church ladies that call the cops and have the bus stopped. Well, them whores weren’t going to stand for that. Whacker, gets up and presses her pussy against a window for these Christian people to see. So, not only does the bus company refuse to shuttle us anymore, but we are looking at an indecency charge. The cop says to Dean, “You need to tell us which one of the women exposed herself.”

Now, he’s standing right there and points to the bus and says, “Have the lady’s look at the bus, and I’ll have all the girls press their pussies against the windows and the nice ladies here can pick out the one it was.”

[laughter]

That was some stand up shit. So the cop was like, “Get out of our town and don’t come back!”

Dean was the best leader we could have, we had a national champion in multiple weight classes and we had the best whores in Southeast Portland for groupies. Problem was, I worked 60 hours a week. I didn’t get down to working four tens until I was in my forties. So, winning an arm wrestling event was great, even placing. But then, like after the Eugene ruckus, someone handed me a beer in my left hand and my arm is so numb I drop it. Then I have someone put a beer in my right hand and I can’t hold on to that—and Monday morning, there I am at 2:00 AM having to pull 16 pallets off a truck with a hand jack.

Actually, the fighting, the smokers, the karate, even choking a dude out while his girl is spraying bear mace in your eyes, all that stuff was easy compared to arm wrestling.

…

Notes

-1. Sturgis: In These Parts #14

-2. This will be covered in Arm Wrestling Competition

In These Parts #9, with #8 focusing on international events.