When in Doubt, Ramble On
April 5, 2003

We live in a small town on the coast of California 75 miles south of San Francisco. Our gym is located in Santa Cruz, a neighboring town popular for its tourism, surfing and idyllic environment. One major coastal road, Highway 1, carries the travelers, commuters and locals, this way and that and over the past decade has become increasingly crowded. Sound familiar? The neighborhoods are stuffed, though a no-growth policy clutches the edges of the small governments concerned. Absolute gridlock between 3 and 7PM has tortured the residents in recent years, more than a few pulling up stakes and heading to points north, south and east where open space has yet to become shopping mall.

We, Laree and I, are immovable objects and have noticed a curious change of activity in the past six months. Not only is there less traffic on the gym floor, but also we can zoom home at 6PM just like the good old days. One gets the strange feeling that the planet is being deserted, a creepy Twilight Zone hush whispers in one’s ear.

What’s up? Where’d everybody go? The population is growing on all continents and we know darn well they’re not turning them back at the borders. Is everyone hiding out, less busy with work, less motivated and energized to play outdoors, poor or pennywise, strung out on TV, videos and Pizza Hut home delivery? Could it be the economy confidence or the lack thereof, big time heartless thieves deep in our pockets, bad guys with bombs who hate us lurking in the dark, disputes on national fronts between swollen egos and a world growing smaller where the lives of oppressed people under fascism make us sad and anxious? Nah. How about Hollywood and television and violence glorified; something there might be distorting the enrapt minds of the rather large viewing audience, ya think? The experts say no. Acceleration of daily living, dilution of home and family, magnification of trivial differences, elaboration and validation of political correctness – do they have root in the curious local decrease of man and vehicles on the go in my neighborhood?

I can get used to this: more time, less aggravation, easier and simpler. I get to the gym and my compact workday quicker, when I choose and not determined by traffic flow. I return home sooner and less stressed by the bumper-to-bumper boredom and battles. This goes for me, Laree and him and her. We’re all smiles. Hi, neighbor.

Once at the gym I can dig into the jobs at hand with more energy and a clearer mind, including my popular workout, which secretly supersedes all other occupations. And some days, like you, I need every bit of clarity and energy I can muster, every ounce of purpose and inspiration lost in the cracks and retrievable and every thread of hope rewoven. Days without bright attention and optimism go by as if shunned or lost or buried. This is wrong. I must do my best always or suffer.

Suffering (there are those among us who love the diversion) often takes the form of hiccups, eye tics, spasms, shuddering, twitching and gas. On a bad day I’ll have all seven and squatting can be a nightmare. By the sixth rep I’ve lost count and can be half way across the gym floor, a revolting predicament, but the show must go on.

I see a list forming.

We must always do our best.
The show must go on.
We must rally clarity of mind, energy, purpose, inspiration, hope, optimism, enthusiasm and bright attention.

The right foods are important and the right routine is significant. These can be devised with resourcefulness and written in your log. There they are for your application in black and white. The application, however, comes in a rainbow of colors from red through yellow to purple, hot and cold shades based on attitude, emotions, mental and physical well-being – well, what do you know, the list above. It’s important to be in conscious tune with these variables regularly, thus providing the opportunity to dial them in, a preparation for your dynamic equalizer, the workout. It’s part of the psyching process we go through as we approach any occasion of consequence.

I hear someone muttering in the bleachers that I’m a mental case and should be ignored. I’d add that was I not adhering to the above precepts I’d be a mental case that should be restrained. I’m not alone. Some of the healthiest people I know agree with my insanity.

So what’s your point, Bomber? Okay. It’s not in the dance; it’s in the dancer. It’s not in the act; it’s in the actor. It’s not in the bomb; it’s in the bomber. I don’t expect everyone to be ripping-nuts about their training – certainly some of us would be better off if we were not so wrapped up or enslaved, but positioning and casting a spotlight on it while it’s onstage is your job, your role, your charge.

Mark entered the gym and walked past the juice bar where the famous Bomber Blends are blended and exciting discussions about building brawn take place. He looked up, nodded and plodded on toward the locker room. “Hey Sparkle Plenty, what’s new,” I asked, suspecting he could use a friend. Passing the test, he retraced his steps and leaned on the counter like a sack of wet sand.

“You feel okay, you got the bug?” I asked.

“No. Just one of those days,” he said.

“Nothin’s injured, you’re not overdoing it,” I asked, probing further as if I was the doctor on duty.

“Nope.”

“How’s your fuel supply? Have you exhausted yourself on the job? Have you been getting adequate sleep, nourishment, protein? Any unordinary stress, feeling sorry for yourself, unfulfilled, how’s your relationship with your girl? Am I going too far here? No, I’m not writing a book,” I said.

I didn’t have a thermometer so his temp remained a mystery. I thought twice about taking his pulse (Mark had that “do not touch” look, if you know what I mean), but his forehead was dry, his eyes clear and his responses, though unexciting, were lucid. Stooped shoulders indicated a heavy unseen burden. This boy needs an attitude adjustment, I thought.

He’d dumped his hope in yesterday’s garbage, unrenewed and unattended. His optimism was under the pile of dishes in the sink, sticky and gathering flies. Peak performance was in the laundry with his dirty underwear and socks.

Mark needs a transfusion of good thoughts to replace the negatives that have penetrated the thin skin of his unconscious mind. A fresh supply of encouragement would act as a natural stimulant and redirect his energy to a forward motion rather than draining his fuel stores in useless back-pedaling. He’s a good and generous man who works hard and it shows in his daily walk and talk and structure. He’s simply forgotten and needs to be reminded, as we all do.

Because life seems to repeat itself (a total lie), we become bored and disregard the newness of each moment. Mark had submitted and his creative fluids ceased to flow. He had stalled. With no air under his wings, the bomber was in freefall. A jumpstart was needed. Training enthusiasm had to be regenerated by a massaging of the imagination and the suggestion of sure muscular growth and power advances.

I needed to act now while he was pliable and conscious. Condescension must not be detected and sincerity must rule. Easy.

Order, the primary stabilizer, was quickly gained by pausing to restate his goals, list his menu and review his workout scheme. Where doubt was raised or discontent evident, we sorted and smoothed things out with basic touches. I hate hanging leg-raises and press-behind-necks; get rid of them and do rope tucks and seated front presses instead. Keep it happy. I hate tuna and water. Dump them and eat sardines and goat’s milk instead. Smile. Small joke from the Bomber, though it might carry some real credibility.

Laree, stop at the health food store on the way home and pick up a gallon of goat’s milk, please. I want you to try a little experiment, sweetheart.

I asked Mark if he’d thought about standing curls and how they recruit a vast complex of muscles providing muscular benefits and body power beyond the biceps’ activity only. We talked about smart ways to combine exercises with pace to affect a momentum and spirit in training that captures our attention and promotes harder work and greater muscle response and maximum fulfillment. I revived the subjects of stress reduction, hormonal stimulation and balance and the joys of power in the grip and health in the bones and the absolute thrill of not being a turnip.

Mark was sitting upright on the swivel stool sipping a Jucy Lucy, his favorite Bomber special. His voice had gained muscularity and his eyes, intensity. He said, as if reading cue cards from the rejected Brother Iron screenplay, “This isn’t something we must do to live a long and strong life only; we lift weights because we love it and because it’s a sure way to express ourselves positively in a world where too many pretend, imitate, lie and waste.” He gripped the Styrofoam cup and I thought it was gonna burst, Jucy Lucy all over the ceiling. “The only way to train is to blast it.”

I’ve created a monster.

The Bomber

Keep your eyes to the skies and may you see forever.

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