Weight Training, the Key to Physical and Mental Health
Barbells, Muscles, You and Me -- We are One
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As you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink, so can you lead a man to barbells, but you can’t make him lift. He’s got to be thirsty, aware and wise. You can lead the same man to the couch, TV and a bowl of munchies and he’ll sit, watch and eat -- actually, he’ll stuff himself. At this practice he’s a natural. In fact, you don’t even need to lead him; he’ll find the three banditos himself. Man is a very resourceful creature -- simple, lazy, gluttonous, and resourceful.
Give us,
bombers
all, a
barbell,
and throw
in some
dumbbells
while you’re
at it.
We’ll
swap the
couch for
a utility
bench,
the TV
set for
a cable
set and
the munchies
can stay,
provided
they’re
packed
with protein
and vitamins
and minerals.
You can
add a bottle
of spring
water to
the combination
and we’ll
see you
later,
alligator.
We’re
not hard
to please
and secretly
we’re
very
bright.
Some
might
call
us muscleheads
with
a chuckle
of condescension.
Ha, joke’s
on them
when
they
try to
undo
themselves
from
the couch,
take
their
eyes
from
the boob
tube
and remove
their
mitts
from
the bowl
of refined
sugar
and salt.
Slothfulness
is addictive
and achieves
no good
thing.
The gym, on the other hand, is the land of opportunity. It is what you make it, a place, in fact, for making and breaking. Some of us are known to attend its four walls for the single purpose of bombing and blasting the body, our ultimate intension to rip the structure of flesh and bone into shape. That sounds like fun. Pump it, burn it, overload it, stretch and strain it, push and pull it, feed and starve it. Swell! Let’s do that again.
Wait! Why? What’s that all about? It’s simple. More than a few lifters are a complicated mass of twisted brainwaves, dislocated emotions, faulty intelligence, fractured personalities and contradictory social indoctrinations. Nice, but nuts.
Bodybuilders fall into this category with a thud, especially those whose eyes are on winning a title big time. They struggle feverishly and in vain against immovable objects seeking muscle size, density, shape, symmetry, definition, skin tone, agility and power. They achieve muscle tears, swollen joints and exhaustion, disillusionment, depression and despair.
There are reasons for this debacle, this complex mess, and they number in the hundreds, but you can be sure these trainers are in too much of a hurry for fame and glory and elusive satisfaction. They hustle the routines and schemes and diets and plans. They force, they shove, they seek short cuts, they eliminate common sense, they worry and they whine. The body is disregarded, the training is a suffering means and the imagined end result is worshipped like a god, a golden bull. Brains go out the window and the ego bandito takes over.
Stick ‘em up, I want all your muscles -- now. I don’t care if you don’t have any; I want them anyway -- now. The muscle gangster at work.
Note: I was a bodybuilder once, until I recognized the dreadful nature of the dude. I now consider myself a musclebuilder, healthy, sane and free of aberration. I’m a bomber of the common denominator. Still nuts. Call me happy, paint me stealth black.
I have a handful of friends who go to the gym to aggressively play around. They’re not obsessed, driven by lofty goals and stretching for things out of reach. They simply love the energized atmosphere, the lively communication, the playful physical struggle and the unstructured, undetermined achievement of health, muscle and might. Lucky guys and gals, they are characters to emulate. They don’t tempt disappointment, struggle and overtrain or regularly risk injury. They just... are.
They are healthy in mind, body and soul, these happy free jostlers of the iron. They don’t become champions, they don’t need to, they don’t wish to and are not crushed when they don’t. In that, they are the champions wannabe-champions will never be. Very cool.
Streaming through the doors of today’s brightly lit gyms -- expansive athletic clubs, trendy spas and dazzling health emporiums -- are a breed of the national community who pursue image and approval and identification. Looking good while pretending to exercise is good enough. They come and they go, reflections in the brightly polished mirrors.
That’s
not us,
bombers.
We come,
we stay
and we
stay some
more. We
won’t
go; you
can’t
make us
go and,
if you
try to
make us
go, you
answer
to all
of us.
See? Now,
beat it,
chump,
or you’re
in for
a thump.
We’re
losing
our pump.
The tough
endure,
but not
always
straight
away.
It was
once
said
to the
muscleheads
of the
world, “If
at first
you don’t
succeed,
try,
try again.” Scholars
of the
hefty
art form
have
united
and agreed
this
statement
is a
truth.
Only
those
who persist
can enjoy
the grand
rewards
weightlifting
has to
offer.
But it
often
happens
that
we start
and stop,
start
and stop
and start
again
before
clutching
the impervious
action
and forming
it to
our lives.
Call
it super-
perseverance;
that
is perseverance,
stimulated
by hope,
accented
by growing
confidence,
enforced
with
courage
and practiced
with
heart.
This
muscle-bound
quality
identifies
one --
just
one --
sterling
aspect
of a
real
bomber.
But you
knew
that.
What’s that you say? If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. If you can’t do the pain, don’t expect to gain. If you won’t strain, don’t complain 'cuz you remain the same. There’s a breed of lifters slipping through the gym daily who execute exercises with precision, but do not apply effort. Ha. That’s like telling a joke without a punch line -- no amusement, no laughter, no one rolling on the floor in uncontrollable stitches... not even a snicker.
Let’s push it, girls and boys. This ain’t a church social or the "Class of '96" reunion picnic; it’s a stinking gym for crying out loud. This is a workout and those are dumbbells, not chrysanthemums, and them there are barbells, not hotdogs on sticks. Strain, pain, sweat and gain. It’s wonderful. It’s delightful. It’s delirious. Try it, you’ll like it. Go, you’ll grow.
I’m being mean (sometimes I just can’t help myself). I respect the non-aggressive trainee who displays care, consistency, discipline and good form. I merely encourage an increase in exercise output to increase the benefits of the time and attention invested. Add effort to the performance and add power to your life. You’re here: Put fire in the furnace, zeal in the steel and vim in the gym.
What is a gym, really, Mr. Brown? The gym is home to the alone, a training camp to the robust, a prison camp to the suffering few and a playground to lighthearted. It’s a hangout, a refuge, a rendezvous and a place to regroup.
It’s also an alien territory to the anxious, fearful and shy. Oh, no, not the gym. There are people there -- huge people, beautiful people, smart and confident people who know who they are, where they’re going and what to say. I’d rather die than go to a gym. They smile, laugh, joke and have friends. I wanna go home.
Not exactly. People in the gym are just people with arms and legs and hang-ups, just like you and me. Yeah, there are a few jerks in every gym. So what? That’s life. That’s their problem.
Come to think of it, there are a lot of jerks in gyms, more in some than in others. I’m with you, my reluctant friend, and I, too, walk circles around those people, those places. Arrogance, childishness, rudeness and ignorance are the behavior of fools. Let their poor performance strengthen your character, as the weights strengthen your muscles and bones. Neither hate them nor pity them, but surely avoid them. Maybe one day they’ll grow up.
Try this. Put a bag over your head and go directly to a stationary bike. Mount the dern thing and pedal for 10 minutes with vigor. Okay, forget the bag. After five minutes of exercise you’ll no longer care who’s in the facility, what their problems are, how much they weigh or where they’re looking. You’re exercising. You’re distracted, involved, working, progressing and invigorated. Exercise does that, among other things.
No way, you say? Alrighty, then; you might consider a personal trainer to get you through the initial steps, hurdles, hoops, tricks and treats of your first gym experience. Three comprehensive training sessions from a trainer who has lifted his or her share of the iron off the Earth’s surface -- not just read about it -- should provide the boldness and knowledge you need to move the heavy stuff around on your own. Check in with your mentor once a month for refreshment, assessment, affirmation and further consultation to keep you strong and on track. Now you’re going places and as fast as you can go. Drink your Bomber Blend.
Yes, the world is made up of all types. You and me, for example, sterling characters, interesting and vivacious, dedicated and wise, caring and generous. Let us continue to frequent the gym that we may inspire others, teach them, set them in motion and direct their ways. It’s our duty, our calling, our promise.
Yeah, right. If I don’t go to the gym, I go to jail, rehab, the streets and alleys, the county institution for the muttering; I twitch and I drool. My duty is to blast it, my promise is to get huge and my calling is, "Bombs away."
Today is the day before tomorrow. Don’t miss it, bombers, like it was the day before today. Start your engines. Take her up, take her high and look around you; listen to the roar, feel the wind on your face, hold her fast n’ steady and land her safely. We want to do this again tomorrow. It’s our gift.
God’s speed... the Bomber
TALES AND TALL STORIES FROM HANGAR X
He sat on the bench and leaned heavily upon his knees. His gaze was unmoving and appeared to analyze the blackness of the rubber matting on the floor. Though he tried to conceal his despair, I could see the man was in turmoil and in need of help.
My first response was, "it’s not my business and he’ll work it out." But there was something familiar in his plight, a twist in his expression, a particular hopelessness in his stare. I’ve seen it before. No, more than that, I’ve experienced the dreadful pain of heart, body, mind and soul myself in another time.
I couldn’t let him suffer another moment. He didn’t need to. He didn’t deserve to. It was not his destiny. I grabbed my handy Top Squat and walked over to the man, a heap of flesh hanging on by threads.
"Hey, man. I know what you’re going through... you’re not alone."
He looked up with bloodshot eyes and said, "What would you know, bub? Don’t bother me."
I handed him the TS and, staring intently in his eyes, said, "Put this on your bar and squat."
He returned my stare, took the bar and wielded it like a weapon. He grasped the handles, stroked the tough, thick padding, banged the unit against the squat rack as one kicks the tires of a used car before a purchase. He rested the black beauty across his back and smiled.
"This is it, brother," he said, "This is it."
I pressed the Top Squat on the standard one-and-one-sixteenth-inch Olympic bar and asked how long it had been. It seems he tore his shoulder in the winter, bench pressing for a personal best.
"That’ll do it," I said, "but a torn shoulder’s no reason to miss your squat workouts."
"That’s what I thought," he said, "and leg presses just don’t make it."
I stepped away from the bar to reach for my lifting belt, when he impulsively positioned himself under the rigged bar, grabbed the tough steel handles and hoisted the weight. Several adjustments and a few tugs and the formerly forlorn failure was squatting precisely and fanatically. The look on his face was worth a thousand words and a million dollars.
"I can squat better than before and I can feel my legs growing."
I have a friend for life.
Do you have two legs? The Top Squat is for you.
Don’t forget: Drink your tasty, muscle-building Bomber Blend.
dd
And Bomber Blend you'll find right here.
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