The most fascinating aspect of the super heavyweight discipline in weightlifting is not so much the ogres that grunt and steam their way to raising truly absurd weights skywards, but those who watch them do it.

It was standing room only down at Darling Harbour on Tuesday night as the scary looking giants of this unfathomable sport put on a record-breaking show.

Weightlifting took a bit of an image battering last week with the temporary expulsion of the Romanian team after two of their members tested positive for drugs. But watching these men strain and groan and virtually explode in their efforts to lift things which, at best, are bad for their backs, it was impossible not to consider that the whole shooting range of them should be administered some form of drug, and fast.

There has always been a heartbreaking nobility about the big men of the weightlifting world. No matter where the Olympics are held, they always seem to be stuck in the same venue - a cavernous, remote old shack that you imagine to be as far away as possible from the streamlined athletes. They live in a parallel universe to that of the beautiful people.

But they are idols, nonetheless. As ever, last night's show came down to a trio who left the rest in the shade in the old bar-lifting stakes. As the mere mortals duelled it out between themselves, the real stars sat in the back room, presumably filing their nails and waiting until the weight was sturdy enough to anchor any of the yachts bobbing on the harbour.

And then, the fun began. It was poker for the insane, the ante continually raised. Leading the way was the Islamic Republic of Iran's Hossein Rezazadeh, breaking a new world record in the (single movement) snatch lift - a mere 212.5 kg before establishing a new total record in the (dual movement) clean and jerk lift, with which he pumped 260 kg. An old mild-mannered lady in the front row nearly fainted in appreciation. Several of Hossein's country men leaped about in the aisles.

It was only hotting up. Ronny Weller, an amicable German, ordered that several more houses be added to either bar. The crowd yelled in approval. Big Ron trundled up the steps, his tree trunk of an arm engaged in a flourish, like Liberace approaching his instrument.

Big Ron, in his stretched leotard-thing, was digging it. He bent forward and we recoiled. It might take unimaginable sacrifice to attain the physique of, say, Maurice Greene but it can't be too easy to look as if you've just swallowed a racehorse either.

Ronny failed, his legs going drunk just as his arms touched the summit, but he gave this big endearing grin and lumbered off into the sunset, delighted with himself.

The title was Hoss' unless the old stager, the grand old man, could achieve the impossible. Andrei Chemerkin, the 1996 gold medallist at this 105 kg category gave instructions for the bar to be loaded to 272.5kg. The crowd howled in disbelief. This was circus for grown ups - adults all but roaring "oh no he won't".

Do or die, he bounded up the steps, surprisingly sprightly. When he took the strain, it was clear that he was in immense discomfort. You'd wonder what force drives these men to the point where they are standing on a stage, watched by millions, fighting with their strength. A dark childhood episode maybe - some schoolyard bully that made them vow "never again". Or perhaps just boredom and a bit of adventurous craziness. Chemerkin, a police major back in Stavropol, got the bar to his knees and then it clanged back to earth and he was beaten.

The big man, his whole frame involved in his efforts to catch breath, stood back, red faced and proud. He cast a mighty shadow but could feel the heavy stamp of even stronger men on the way.