Iron On My Mind
We’re expecting a shipment of books later this month from a printer in the central states. The trucker will unload the shrink-wrapped pallets weighing about a ton and a half in an empty field behind the old antique warehouse. I, under the supervision of Laree, will load the cargo box by box into my pickup and transport it two miles up a windy narrow road to its destination in the dense forest -- the destination the oversized carrier could not reach. Mission accomplished.
Well, not exactly. Missions are never accomplished; they are always in a state of near-accomplishment or just starting or never ending. This one, Iron On My Mind, is in the accomplished, yet about-to-start phase -- done and delivered but not sold and out of sight. That’s where you come in.
We figure if each of you buys two copies of IOMM before Christmas, one for you and one for a friend -- mom, dad, spouse, boss -- we will be rid of the whole mess before the New Year. In fact, we will be able to pay our rent, buy food and retire.
Iron On My Mind, as you know, is a collection of articles devoted to iron and might, yet it follows no particular blueprint. The book need not be read in order, in a series of dedicated readings or one time only. Rather, it might be most appealing and favorable to read the individual chapters randomly or as a daily practice to stir the embers of motivation, point you in a constructive direction or remind you you’re not alone. Like tuna and water, too much, too often can be -- gag -- disagreeable, but just enough and you can eat the stuff regularly.
Five compelling reasons to own Iron On My Mind:
1. Intelligent. Many of the words used in the text are more than one syllable and found in the Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary.
2. Diverse. Though each chapter sounds like the last, they are all different.
3. Mysterious. It has been suggested by psychics and wizards that within the language of IOMM there are accurate predictions of the future when its inner meaning is understood.
4. Versatile. There are 60 oval-shaped muscle pictures throughout IOMM, which can be neatly cut out, pasted back to back, affixed with a loop of string and hung with care on your Christmas tree. Strung in length like a chain, they make a dandy adornment around a doorway or the mantle. Jingle bells and ho, ho, ho. T'is the season to be jolly, bombers.
5. Useful. I stumble into training obstacles every day and the thoughts contained within the shadowy covers of Iron On My Mind enable me to overcome them every time. I more than overcome them; I beat them into a lifeless pulp. I resolve them, remove them, roll over them and blast on... energized, powerized, gratified. Seldom do I look back, but when I do, they’re not moving; they’re devastated, they’re finished. Think iron, and the path before you unfolds, straight and sure.
I know... You wonder where I acquired my marketing skills, my slick salesmanship. Candidly, soaring eagles, they’re a gift.
To further underscore the value of Iron On My Mind, allow me to dissect my recent encounter with an old training problem -- an insidious one -- to which I applied IOMM thinking.
Weight training plays an important role in my life. I could live without it, but who wants to be strapped to a bed in a barren room, sedated and spoon-fed? Thus, I train hard. More than that, I insist on training hard every workout when, perhaps, I should lighten up. That it took 20 minutes to force the words "lighten up" onto the computer screen attests to my bullheadedness. Lighten up is for them, those other people, the lightweights, the sweet-smelling spa-sters, the smiley playful crowd -- the no blood, no sweat, no tears, no pain, no gain bunch. Not me. I dare say, not us.
Intense training gets the job done. No argument. So I blast it. Blasting it is a relative term meaning as hard as I can without popping a cork, pulling a bi, ripping a tri or tearing a rotator. Today’s blasting is a crackle compared to, say, 1965, but blasting is blasting. Blasting is not only effective, it’s fun, seductive and habit forming. It is also a fanged beast and will take a bite out of your backside.
Three, four or five wonderful weeks of training, hard-hitting and relatively injury-free, cause solid hypertrophy and allow enthusiasm to lead the way to climactic muscle saturation and fulfillment. Now this is a sensational place to be, bombers, but not the place to remain. The wise man knows this place and visits with respect; the fool visits this place and tries to move in.
Outta my way, I’m takin' over the joint...
Training insensitivity and greed cause me to push beyond my limits and I begin to regress. Aches and pains in muscles and joints bully me as I fight back with antagonism. Invariably I push on, insisting upon overcoming lifting thresholds and boundaries, striving to reach the outermost regions of growth and advancement. Throughout my training years the same thing happened regularly and didn’t register on the Body Richter Scale (BRS). Friday I blasted it and the BRS registered red and an obnoxious buzzer went off.
I hate this high-tech stuff.
The signals gained my undivided attention. They require a response. Today, Monday, I stand in the center of the gym (I made it) and look full-circle about me. What can I do that won’t hurt a lot... a little? I sting from head to toe, my fingertips throb, I can’t reach my nose to scratch it. Sitting is difficult, bending is out of the question. Standing begins to take its toll and I move like a caterpillar to an inconspicuous flat bench. I sit, applauding myself for the dazzling display physical agility, and consider my next move. There’s no rush, I wait and wonder. What? Do what?
No anger, no fear, no danger, no action movement -- just waiting and wondering, and a ringing in the center of my head. It’s shoulder and chest day, which is laughable since the pecs are mushy mounds and the deltoids spasm uncontrollably. Patience and persistence void of love and hate. That’s me. Eyes open, reactions ready. Time is the coach, the pause a referee. What isn’t answered in the action is resolved in the wait.
I’m here and doubt I’ll leave without hanging somewhere by the thumbs for 45 minutes. It’s mandatory, the unwritten code. I can do abs, if I can get into the darn convoluted preliminary position -- lying on my back. From that vantage point I can attempt crunches and leg raises. The stimulation will be healthy and indicate my level of inability. Swell. I can attain a bearable rhythm and continue to wonder privately and, perhaps, discover the direction to travel. I feel like Magellan.
By the twentieth crunch it becomes clear that bombing and blasting are addictive and enthusiasm is internally contagious and, unless governed, they lead to overtraining. Brilliant, though I’m turning light blue with torso soreness. The solutions are various and zip through my ringing head like BBs:
Maintain status quo: Continue same bulldog methodology and respond appropriately when overtraining (OT) occurs -- moan, recede minimally, pretend pain is gone and carry on like a fool.
Moderate training: Inject a day of thoughtful stimulation, throttle back training to moderate pace with moderate weight and moderate intensity. Moderate reminds me of the masses on Sunday morning, the slow lane on Interstate 5, half sunny days, quarter-pounders, a four-foot Christmas tree... no tinsel.
Preemptive training: Appropriately temper training input -- intensity within set and rep, weight used -- and upon restoration resume forcefulness with new intelligence, sensitivity and intuition. I don’t trust my deep inner feelers, exactly. Loose fuse, short in the over-ride mechanism, erosion due to time...
Bridle training: Sensitively alternate high intensity and moderate intensity training to overload muscles, yet not load the muscles excessively. This has real possibilities.
Reconsider training goals: Train for health, longevity and pleasure without compromising hard core integrity. Sounds suspiciously like maintenance training, which is smart, yet invariably leads to accepting lower levels of strength, muscle size and hardness, and physical conditioning. Soon you’re back where you started and nobody gets out of your way or does what you tell them to do. Well worth a month or two in the winter or summer, but as a steady program, unacceptable.
Pharmacy training, a last resort: Drugs and painkillers and deflammatories --this is not an uncommon route to go. You begin easing aches by ingesting a variety of over-the-counter pain killers and anti-inflammatories. As pain increases and minor-league treatments lose their effectiveness, the logical move is to the big leagues where trade-offs are serious. The health of the system is compromised and ugly symptoms rear their head in due time. Organs like kidneys, stomach, intestines and liver don’t tolerate the stuff like they do fresh vegetables, fruit and fish.
Of course, in certain circles muscle-enhancers are considered and tried and grab hold like a monkey on your back. A healthy sport and constructive pursuit transforms into a destructive ego trip. Integrity and wholesome vitality are sacrificed. An unfamiliar being emerges and life goes up in smoke or down like a house of cards. Reality has a way of disappointing us with the hard, cold truth.
Oh, no, Captain Dave -- that’s 575 crunches, five or six solutions and you’re deep blue, tinged with gray. The gym owner called my closest living relative, Laree, and she suggested they pour a bucket of water on me and drag me to the back door... no problemo. She’d pick me up after the freeway traffic subsides. That’s my girl.
Leave the flying to us. We deliver. DD
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