By Christian Thibaudeau
The gym smelled like iron and chalk. Not the scented kind they pump into the commercial places. Real chalk. The kind that clings to your palms and leaves a ghost on your shirt after a set. The kind that says men had been working in here long before you showed up, and they’d be working in here long after you left.
Coach Christian Thibaudeau stood by the squat rack with his arms crossed. He looked like something forged in a blacksmith’s shop—bald head shining under the overhead lights, shoulders that spread like the wings of a building, and traps so big they looked like a mountain range on either side of his neck. You didn’t look at Coach’s traps. You stared at them, the way you stare at Niagara Falls.
The Kid shuffled over. Nervous little fellow, hair still neat, hands soft from a lifetime of pulling machine handles instead of iron. He’d come from one of those places with chrome dumbbells and TVs bolted to the walls. He was still trying to figure out why every man in this gym walked out looking like a tank while he still looked like a boy with a membership card.
The Kid cleared his throat. “Coach, can I ask you something?”
Coach turned. His traps rippled when he moved. You could swear they flexed just from him breathing.
“Go ahead,” he said.
The Kid licked his lips. “I want to build my traps. Big traps. The kind you see from across the street. Should I do dumbbell shrugs or machine shrugs?”
The room went silent. Even the barbell clatter seemed to pause, like the gym itself was holding its breath.
Big Charles, the powerlifter, let out a laugh that rattled the plates on his belt. He lumbered over, still chewing on what looked like half a chicken breast. Big Charles was the kind of man who ate like it was a second sport. He didn’t just lift heavy; he lived heavy. His traps were buried under so much beef that you wondered if there was muscle under there or just prime rib.
“Dumbbell shrugs or machine shrugs?” Charles repeated, wiping grease from his chin.
“That’s like asking if you should dig a well with a teaspoon or a soup spoon.”
The Kid flushed red. “Well… I just thought—”
Skinny Pete materialized out of the corner, notebook in hand. He had the kind of body you’d expect if a librarian wandered into a weight room. Long neck, narrow shoulders, and not a trap in sight. He’d been training for years, but his idea of training was reading studies and sipping protein shakes like they were martinis.
“Actually,” Pete said, adjusting his glasses, “shrugs are proven effective in EMG activity. I read a paper just the other day that—”
Charles groaned. “Pete, the only thing you ever build with those papers is papercuts. Show me a study that says you can out-deadlift me.”
Pete’s mouth worked like a fish trying to breathe air. “Well, technically—”
“Shut it,” Charles said, flexing his hand. “You want traps, you pull iron, not paragraphs.”
The Kid looked back at Coach, desperate for an answer. “So? Which shrug, Coach?”
Coach tilted his head, the traps rolling like boulders under his skin. He didn’t say anything at first. He just walked over to the barbell platform, bent down, and pulled a loaded barbell off the ground like it was a stick. His traps flared up and turned his shoulders into a mountain range. He held it for a second, then set it back down with a boom that shook the chalk from the rafters.
He turned. “You want traps like that?”
The Kid nodded, wide-eyed.
“Then forget the machines. Shrugs are fine, but traps like these—” he slapped his own slabs of muscle with a meaty thud “—they don’t come from toys. They come from big lifts. Snatch-grip high pulls from the blocks. From the hang. Rows so heavy your eyes water. Farmer’s walks until your hands scream. Deadlifts that make the barbell cry. That’s what builds traps.”
The Kid blinked. “So… shrugs don’t work?”
“They work,” Coach said. “They’re the polish. But polish doesn’t build a house. Big lifts build the foundation.”
Charles nodded, looking smug. “See? That’s why my traps block the sun when I walk by.”
Pete scribbled something in his notebook, probably “look up EMG on farmer’s walks.”
Coach kept going. “You can even bias your training. Zercher squats. Power cleans. Any lift that drags those traps into the fight. Every time you pick up something heavy and move it with power, your traps get the message.”
The Kid scratched his head. “But what about hypertrophy? I heard shorter rest times…”
Coach raised a hand. “Hypertrophy comes when you make the muscle do its job, not when you count seconds. Strong lifters need longer rest between reps to take advantage of potentiation. Otherwise, fatigue drowns out the signal.
Big Charles’s Lesson in Eating
Charles wasn’t done. He loved moments like this—moments where he could preach his gospel: eating.
“You know what else you need, kid?” Charles said, pointing a chicken-stained finger. “Food. You don’t build traps on air. You need steak, eggs, potatoes, milk—hell, anything that once had a heartbeat or grew in the ground. You think these traps—” he flexed, and it looked like a bull had crawled under his skin “—came from kale smoothies? I eat like a lumberjack on payday, and it shows.”
Pete wrinkled his nose. “That’s not evidence-based.”
Charles grinned. “Neither are your shoulders.”
The Kid chuckled despite himself. He was starting to see it. Training wasn’t about gadgets or magic angles. It was about moving iron and eating to grow.
Coach’s Old Story
Coach leaned back against the squat rack, eyes distant like he was remembering.
“I trained a lifter once,” he said slowly. “Big guy. Strong as a bull. But his traps were nothing. He wanted that yoked look. So I put him on high pulls. Snatch grip. From the hang. He cursed me every session. Said it felt like someone was tearing his shoulders off. But after three months, he had traps that made his neck disappear. His wife complained he couldn’t wear dress shirts anymore.”
He paused. “That’s the price of admission. You want traps, you pay with iron. Always.”
The Kid Decides
The Kid looked at Coach, then at Charles, then at Pete. He took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll do it. High pulls. Rows. Farmer’s walks. Deadlifts. I’ll train like you say.”
Coach nodded once. Approval was rare from him, but when you got it, it felt like you’d been knighted.
“Good,” he said. “And don’t come back asking about machines again. You want traps? Then stop nibbling at the edges. You’ve got to eat the whole damn steak.”
Charles laughed so hard he almost spilled his shake. Pete muttered something about recovery volume. But The Kid didn’t hear them. He was already walking toward the platform, chalking his hands. For the first time, he wasn’t thinking about machines. He was thinking about pulling iron off the floor until his traps screamed for mercy.
The Gospel of Traps
Coach watched him go, then turned back to the rest of us. His voice dropped low, almost like he was telling a secret.
“Listen close. Traps aren’t built by shrugging at the world. They’re built by lifting it. Every rep of every big lift is a vote for those mountains on your shoulders. And if you keep voting, day after day, the traps will come. That’s the only evidence that matters.”
