Powerful words
B’s fingers tapped out a staccato beat at his side as he eyed the 160-pound kettlebell on the floor.
At 59, the challenges remain obstacles to overcome for Glenn Buechlein, AKA Power B or simply B. The bell had to be lifted—rowed, more appropriately.
‘Tears of the Dragon’ played in the basement gym of B’s Sweet Gum neighborhood home on this Saturday morning, as he seemed to draw power from the quickened guitar tempo and fast-paced drumline that hits about three minutes into the song by Bruce Dickinson of Iron Maiden fame.
B hosts a few folks each Saturday morning. In years past, many high schoolers would stop by to take part in a legendary workout led by the teacher-turned-assistant principal at Jasper High School. Today’s group is mainly older guys who have been his friends for years, some of whom he trained when they were in high school, now adults with children and others who are retired but still ready to take on whatever workout B plans to throw at them.
B bought the 160-pound kettlebell when the company offered free shipping. The delivery guy struggled getting the small package out of the truck and had to bring it up to the house on a dolly.
Wrapping his hand around the handle of the bell, B leans on the bench with one straight arm and pulls the 160 pounds up into his lower ribcage for the required ten reps before switching hands and doing it again.
The workouts are never the same and are designed to be challenging. Built on an appreciation for hard work and a passion for pushing limits, the power of B’s gym lies in the confidence and camaraderie it instills in those who visit, those who listen, those who learn and those who return.
But “The walls I built are crumbling, I’m slipping away,” as Bruce Dickinson sings.
Time is catching up to B. Holding national records for bench pressing 725 pounds, taking on odd challenges like vertically jumping from inside a 55-gallon barrel, dragging hundreds of pounds through his neighborhood and completing obscene amounts of movement tied to dates, movies or whatever he can imagine. How about 214 pushups for Valentine’s Day (February 14)? That 214 is a goal for most invited along, but B is shooting for a thousand in an hour. Or how about bodyweight squats for 33 minutes because that’s how long the music playlist is, and he likes 33 because it is Larry Bird’s jersey number.
All take a toll on a body formed around physical and emotional impacts. Those impacts shaped B as he sought power over his life in a childhood marked by its own layers of trouble.
“I’ve said it many times. In my life, there is a tiger around every corner,” he explained.
Metaphorical tigers crouching around every corner can’t be controlled, so you dive into what can be controlled. Your strength. Your knowledge.
With injuries seen as slight impediments until they became sidelining, he had continually pushed himself beyond any perceived challenger. With a mix of heightened competitiveness and an overwhelming need for control, he excelled at lifting heavy things. Continually overcoming his own personal bests while keeping his eyes on any up-and-coming competition.
Even those invited into his own gym. He always expected to be the strongest.
“In my mind, I’m going to do something that is easy, because I’m going to beat you by a 100 pounds,” B explained.
He was Power B.
But the people who continued showing up at B’s gym weren’t there because of his records. He’s built a network of true friends because, as the waters of his personal pond rise, he ensures every ship rises as well, offering advice, personal wisdom and anecdotes to his fellow crewmembers. A crew made up of former students, formerly troubled teens and close friends and family.
They come away better. They also carry that connection to B.
A connection that leads to lifelong friendship and continued correspondence.
B wants to help, and he has his reasons.
“I’m never going to please myself. I will never be satisfied with myself,” he said.
It drives his pursuit to define himself. A pursuit that he likens to chasing ghosts.
Is he the scholar B, seeking out a wealth of knowledge, reading everything?
Is he Power B, always the most powerful?
Ghosts, he says, that can’t be caught.
But he can impact others.
“I just decided that I’m going to serve others. I’m going to please others,” B said. “I’m going to make life better for everyone else.”
He does so by inviting them to join him in pursuing personal excellence in his passions.
T.S. Eliot wrote that “Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.” The quote is one of many plastered haphazardly on a wall in the midst of B’s basement gym. It is a layered work of art dedicated to knowledge and certain mindsets, mixed with humor and encouragement, disguised as sharp goading.
It challenges you if you accept what it says.
Many times, B has risked going too far. His body bears the scars of doing so.
For four decades, B has raged against those tigers. He compensated. He accommodated. Aging, he’ll tell you, isn’t linear; the body tends to fall in precipitous drops rather than gentle slopes.
“When I was 50, I was still fine,” he said. “At 55, I had a pretty significant drop in strength. I would even say vitality. Confidence.”
He fought it the only way he knew how, until fighting it stopped making sense. Training with guys half his age, he could still hang — but the recovery cost him the rest of the week. The toll spread beyond the gym. Something had to give.
“When you used to be called Power B, well, you got to be kind of powerful, right?” he explained. “I don’t regret any of it. It isn’t worth regretting it. But I’ve paid, I mean, I’ve paid the price, and I’ve earned my stuff.”
The toll is apparent. The ghosts that haunt him are now real, and their names are Pain and Hindrance.
He has had to acquiesce to a new reality. He’s started doing things he used to make fun of. Breathing work. Percussion therapy. Walking — something he had always called human locomotion, not exercise. He lost the bench press. He lost the overhand throw.
He let go of Power B, at least partly, introducing himself these days simply as Glenn. It hasn’t been easy.
“You feel like you’re losing a part of yourself,” he said.
The workouts changed. B still challenges himself and the crew, but he has to be more strategic. Otherwise, his wife, Kelly, is helping him into his shirt in the morning when he can’t raise his arm.
He worried that he would lose his crew. The friends who had continued to show up for his Saturday morning workouts. He also worried that the young blood would stop coming.
“They knew when I did train that I was a strong old guy who likes really hard music and everything,” he said about the high school and college kids who still come to work out with him.
His trophies aren’t on display anywhere. They didn’t know his history like the older guys and some of his Jasper classmates. A point driven home when a student mentioned his father had told him about B’s accomplishments and records.
“He said, ‘We didn’t know you did all that,'” B said. “And then it just struck me, these kids that come there that really respected me and really like me; it wasn’t anything about that other stuff.”
It wasn’t about Power B.
“It’s part of who I am. I was made from that, but I still thought I had to own that, and that was the majority of what I was,” he said. “It’s not, it wasn’t that at all.”
“So, I let it go,” he said.
The ghost he spent decades chasing, he has come to understand, never existed in the first place.
Through these accomplishments, injuries and life experiences, B has published a book on what he has learned.
Save You the Trouble: What 40+ Years of Lifting Taught Me about Strength, Pain, Longevity is the culmination of over four decades of lessons learned, often the hard way, by B. The book is part memoir, part manual — a candid look at the physical and personal costs of relentless pursuit, and the wisdom that only comes from experience. He covers everything from training and recovery to mindset and purpose, offering direction for anyone who wants to stay strong and healthy for the long haul, not just the next competition.
“I wrote the book for myself,” he said, but its lessons are a gift to anyone willing to learn from someone who’s already made the mistakes so you don’t have to.
