‘How many can you do? I bet you can do a lot.’
Tarasov frowned. ‘Fifteen. Twenty.’
Shepherd could tell from the uncertainty in the man’s voice that pull-ups didn’t form part of his regular exercise regime. He grinned. ‘I bet I can do more than you,’ he said. Shepherd knew that he was taking a risk, but it was clear from Tarasov’s build that he was better suited to lifting heavy weights with his legs than he was to lifting his own body weight with his arms. It was all down to power–weight ratios and Shepherd was pretty sure that while he didn’t have the muscles of the big Russian, he did have the advantage when it came to stamina.
‘A bet?’ said Tarasov. ‘For money?’
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’ll make it interesting. For every pull-up I do more than you, you give me ten pounds. Or for every one you do more than me, I’ll give you ten pounds.’
Tarasov frowned in confusion so Popov explained in Russian. Tarasov nodded enthusiastically. ‘Deal,’ he said.
Shepherd waved at the machine. ‘Why don’t you go first?’
Tarasov nodded and then began flexing his arms and wiggling his fingers. He walked up and down, his face impassive.
‘Leo is strong,’ said Popov.
‘I can see that,’ said Shepherd.
‘How many can you do?’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, it’s been a while.’
Tarasov bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and then got into position. He grunted, then jumped up and grabbed the bar above his head. He grunted again and began to lift his chin towards the bar.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Shepherd, holding up his hand. ‘What are you doing?
Tarasov let go and dropped down on the floor. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘That wasn’t a pull-up. That was a chin-up.’
Tarasov looked over at Popov. Popov nodded. ‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘With a pull-up, you have the palms facing away as you do the lift. Your palms were facing you. That’s a chin-up.’ Tarasov still didn’t understand so Popov explained again in Russian and demonstrated the different grips with his hands.
Tarasov looked a little less confident now. With the palms facing away, pull-ups were more to do with using the back muscles than the biceps. He took several deep breaths and psyched himself up with a few deep grunts, then he stood under the overhead grips, jumped up and grabbed them. He began lifting himself. In a smooth motion until his chin was just above the bar. He grinned and let himself down in another smooth motion. He had a steady rhythm, and grunted at the top of each lift. He pumped the first five quickly but then began to slow down. By the time he’d reached eight his face was red and he was bathed in sweat. The muscles in his arms were pumped up and he was gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles had turned white. After the tenth pull-up he hung for several seconds before starting the eleventh. Shepherd knew that meant he didn’t have many left in him. Once you lost the rhythm the muscles became much less efficient. Tarasov’s grunts had become more like bellows and his whole body shook as he strained to lift his body weight. He made the eleventh, but on the twelfth barely managed to get his chin above the bar. He dropped down too quickly and grunted in pain as he stressed his elbows. He growled as he strained to make a thirteenth lift but all his strength had gone. His growl turned into a howl of rage and then he let go and dropped back to the floor, his chest heaving.
‘Twelve,’ said Popov.
‘I can do more than twelve,’ sneered Tarasov.
‘Not today you can’t,’ said Popov.
Tarasov ran his right hand up and down his left bicep and glared at it as if it had failed him.
‘Your turn,’ Popov said to Shepherd.
Shepherd took off his jacket and draped it over a bench. He took his gun out of its holster and placed it on a bench, then rolled up his shirtsleeves and took off his shoes. He tucked his tie into his shirt, flexed his fingers, took a couple of slow, deep breaths, then stood under the bar, rotating his shoulders. Pull-ups were about muscle strength, but they were also about stamina and determination. Once the muscles started to burn the brain instinctively tried to get the body to stop what it was doing so that it wouldn’t get damaged. The trick was to override the brain’s instructions and to keep on going. Shepherd smiled to himself, knowing that was easier said than done.
He took another deep breath and then jumped up to grab the bar, making sure that his grip locked it in close to his fingers. He crossed his legs at the ankles, took a big breath, squeezed his glutes and pulled himself up in one smooth motion, leading with his chest and keeping his shoulders back. He kept his eyes fixed on the bar, ignoring the pain in his arms and back. As soon as his chin crested the bar he began to exhale, and kept breathing all the way down.
As soon as his arms were fully extended he took another deep breath and hauled himself up. He stayed focused on the bar but he could feel Popov, Tarasov and Serov watching his every move. He ignored them and concentrated on maintaining his rhythm. Up. Down. Up. Down. He did the first five in exactly five seconds. The muscles in his back and shoulders were burning but he ignored the pain. Up. Down. Up. Down. Breathing in at the bottom, breathing out at the top. The second five were a little slower than the first, but he still had a comfortable rhythm. His brain was telling him to stop but he kept his rhythm and powered through another five.
Shepherd heard Popov laugh. ‘Fifteen!’ he said. Shepherd stayed focused. He was tired now and his biceps felt as if they were on fire but he ignored the pain. It was the brain trying to fool him, he knew that. His muscles still had maybe half their energy reserves left but the brain was trying to get him to pack it in before he did himself serious damage. It was the same with running – if you ran hard and fast you hit a wall where you thought you couldn’t go any farther but if you forced yourself on your brain would eventually realise that it wasn’t fooling anyone and stop complaining. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. His arms felt like lead but he knew he had more left, it was just a question of forcing his brain to issue the necessary instructions. He took a deep breath, squeezed his glutes hard to lock his legs and forced himself up, staring at the bar all the time. His chin crested the bar and he exhaled.
‘Nineteen!’ said Popov.
Someone grunted contemptuously, probably Tarasov, but all Shepherd’s energy was focused on the bar. He lowered himself down. Every fibre of his being wanted to let go of the bar and drop to the floor but he was determined to do at least another one. It wasn’t about beating Tarasov – he’d already done that – it was about proving to himself that he could do twenty. He took two deep breaths, ignored the burning pain in his arms and back and forced himself up. He began to groan through gritted teeth and almost stopped short of the bar but then he kicked out with his legs and managed to gain another couple of inches. He held his chin above the bar for a full two seconds and then dropped down.
Popov clapped him on the back. ‘Twenty!’ he said. ‘You’re the man.’
Serov patted Shepherd on the shoulder and even Tarasov flashed him a thumbs-up. ‘I’ll pay you later,’ said Tarasov.
Popov pointed at him. ‘Sixty pounds,’ he said. ‘Don’t you forget.’
‘I won’t,’ said Tarasov. He turned and walked over to a set of free weights and picked up two twenty-kilo dumbbells. And began pumping them into the air.
Shepherd pulled out his tie, put on his shoes and rolled down his shirtsleeves before holstering his Glock and pulling on his jacket. Popov was still chuckling and he put his arm around Shepherd’s shoulder as he guided him out of the gym. ‘You’re stronger than you look,’ said the Russian.