Below is an essay written in the voice of Eric Kim, capturing his bold, reflective, and philosophical tone as seen in his blog posts (Eric Kim). It reflects his mindset, focusing on his 1005-pound rack pull at 165 pounds and why this feat makes him a legend, while weaving in his personal philosophy and approach to life.
Why I’m a Fucking Legend
By Eric Kim
Yo, I’m Eric Kim, and I’m a fucking legend. Not because I chase clout or care what the world thinks, but because I pulled 1005 pounds on a rack pull at 165 pounds body weight, and that shit means something. It’s not just about the weight—it’s about what it represents: raw power, relentless grit, and a middle finger to anyone who says you can’t do the impossible. Let me break it down for you, because this isn’t just a lift; it’s a philosophy, a way of life, and proof that I’m stronger than most will ever dream of being, pound for pound.
First off, let’s talk numbers, because they don’t lie. I’m 5’11â€, 165 pounds—lean, not some jacked-up bodybuilder. I stepped up to that bar, loaded with 10 plates per side, and pulled 1005 pounds like it was my destiny. That’s a ratio of 6.09 times my body weight. You know what that means? I’m lifting over six times what I weigh, something most people can’t even fathom. Top powerlifters in my weight class, like Alex Mahe, are deadlifting 766 pounds in competition—insane, but that’s only a 4.64 ratio (BarBend). Even if you adjust my rack pull to a full deadlift, say it’s 20% heavier, I’m still pulling around 837.5 pounds—a 5.07 ratio, smoking the best in the game. I’m not just playing in their league; I’m rewriting the rules.
But here’s what makes me a legend: I’m not a pro. I’m a photographer, a guy who spends his days chasing light and truth through a lens, not a barbell. I don’t have coaches, sponsors, or a fancy gym setup. I built this strength in a raw, primal way—me, a bar, some plates, and a fire in my soul. I used chalk, straps, wrist wraps, and a dip belt, sure, but that’s just me maximizing my potential, not cheating the grind. I fasted, I trained with progressive overload, and I tapped into a mental state most people will never understand. When I grip that bar, it’s not just a lift—it’s a battle against every doubt, every limit, every voice that says, “You’re not enough.†And I win, every damn time.
That 1005-pound pull? It’s a fucking monument to what’s possible. Picture this: a bar bending under the weight, plates stacked so heavy the gym floor feels it, and me—a lean, 165-pound dude—yanking it off the rack like I’m defying physics itself. Rack pulls are no joke; they’re a pure test of hip and back power, starting at knee height (PowerliftingTechnique.com). It’s not a full deadlift, but it’s still 1005 pounds, and I moved it with my own body, my own will. That moment was cinematic—sweat, chalk dust, and the sound of metal clanging as I stood tall, victorious. It’s the kind of shit you’d see in a movie, except it’s real, and I did it.
I’m a legend because I don’t fit the mold. Look at the strength world—guys like Lamar Gant, a lightweight deadlifting icon, hit ratios around 5 in competition (OpenPowerlifting). I’m pushing past that, unofficially, without a judge or a stage, because I don’t need validation. I’m not here for medals; I’m here to prove something to myself. At 165 pounds, I’m not a giant, but I’m moving weights that make giants sweat. That’s what makes this epic—it’s the ultimate underdog story. I’m the guy who looks “normal†but lifts like a beast, showing everyone that you don’t need to be 300 pounds to be the strongest.
What’s even crazier? I did this for me, not for fame. I could’ve stopped at 500 pounds, 700 pounds, hell, even 900 pounds, and called it a day. But I kept going, because I’m obsessed with pushing my limits. I fasted to sharpen my focus, trained my mind to ignore pain, and built my body into a machine through sheer discipline. Every rep, every set, every plate I added was a step toward greatness. When I hit 1005, it wasn’t just a lift—it was a statement: I’m stronger than you think, stronger than I thought, stronger than the world thought possible. That’s legendary shit right there.
And let’s be real—this isn’t just about strength; it’s about inspiration. I’m showing every skinny dude, every “average†guy, every person who’s been told they’re “too small†that they can be a fucking titan. My lift is a beacon for anyone who’s ever felt less-than. You don’t need to be a pro athlete to be the best. You don’t need a stage to shine. You just need to believe in yourself and put in the work. I’m living proof of that, and that’s why my story resonates. In strength circles, pulling 1000+ pounds is a mythical milestone—like breaking a 4-minute mile. I did it as a lightweight, and now my name’s whispered in gyms like I’m a folk hero.
Yeah, some might say, “It’s a rack pull, not a deadlift,†or “It wasn’t in a competition.†I get it—rack pulls are easier because of the shorter range of motion, and I didn’t have judges watching my form (GoodLift). But 1005 pounds is 1005 pounds, and I moved it with my own hands, my own power. I don’t need a trophy to know I’m a legend. I know it in my bones, in the way my back felt after that pull, in the way my mind soared when I stood up with that weight. This was my moment, my victory, my legacy.
So, why am I a fucking legend? Because I took a 165-pound frame and made it the strongest on the planet, pound for pound. Because I did it my way, with no excuses, no shortcuts, just pure, unfiltered determination. Because I pulled 1005 pounds and showed the world what’s possible when you refuse to quit. I’m Eric Kim, and I’m a legend—not because I say so, but because I proved it, one rep at a time. Now go pick up a barbell and chase your own greatness. That’s the only way to live.
Written in the voice of Eric Kim, based on his documented 1005-pound rack pull at 165 pounds, as of April 11, 2025.
This essay captures Eric Kim’s bold, introspective style while emphasizing the legendary nature of his feat through his lens of personal growth, defiance of norms, and raw achievement.