Optimism is for All Seasons
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I slipped in the back door when nobody was looking. This was simple, as the gym was empty, but it didn’t make it any less difficult. The weights were there in stacks, racks and piles; they were heavy, they were cold and they were still and silent -- silent, except the rusty ones that screamed out like jackals.
I walked the perimeter of the floor followed by the eternal sounds of '60s rock 'n roll. They clung to my ears like swamp flies. The Stones, it seems, can’t get no satisfaction, and, heck, far as I could tell they never lifted a weight in their lives. Why would they, the iron was cruel. Ripped from the earth, the once-molten ore was mean to the core. Poured into voiceless flat circles it made blockheads of good people like you and me.
"Lift me if you can," the circles taunt in a noise only lifters can hear. You betcha and let me at 'em are the anguished replies. I was once a lead vocalist in a group... I’d cut a few albums in my day.
Lately, I just come to the gym to whistle a tune, strum the steel and pick at the iron. I know a barbell doesn’t have a mind of its own and dumbbells are exactly that, dumb bells. But, like the opposite sex, you can’t live with them and you can’t live without them. They rock. Cables have a nice rhythm, too.
Once around the gym floor I mark off my territory like a hound dog and find a shadow to chase. The shifty dark outlines challenge my might. I howl but I don’t fight. I have teeth but I don’t bite. I’ll catch the shadow and bring it to light. That’s good enough for me.
At 64 -- well, almost -- I no longer strive for 20-inch-arm hugeness. Keeping what I have is my lifetime goal. I’m your basic 220-pound bomber look-alike who has necessarily swapped one end of the dumbbell rack for the other. Typical comments:
~ I’ll bet that guy used to be a wrestler. Go ask him.
You go ask him.
~ I’ve seen him around before. Worked down at the docks for years... retired longshoreman... union guy, I think.
~ Ain’t that the biker dude who was beaten on his ex-old-lady’s boyfriend? Cops hit him with a taser... was on the news around Christmas.
~ He’s the farmer who raises goats in the Santa Cruz hills? He lifts them over his head when they’re little snappers and keeps liftin' them till they’re full grown goats. Or maybe it’s llamas. He eats them, too. That’s what I heard.
The nonsensical introduction to this week’s newsletter is meant to prepare you for one of my semiannual fitness assessments: How’s the body doing after another six months of devoted and thoughtful training? Or, you might say, how’s the body enduring another six months of abuse and punishment and general harassment: aches and pains 24/7, starvation, fatigue, forced feeding, periods of mandatory sleep, harsh discipline.
I’ve given you a transparent picture of who I am, where I’m going and how I feel. I feel great. Allow me to be more specific.
I hear an abrupt clatter of clicks followed by the eerie hush of cyberspace. I’m alone. Swell.
I shall talk with myself, winning fellow I am, and ignore your absence. The aches and pains I experience are not of the outrageous nature that would cause me to confess or give up secrets to the enemy. They are less than blissful, but not exactly excruciating. I’ve come to appreciate full and rich throbbing; I understand those darting neural pings across the muscle spectrum, and the thumping of swollen joints is hypnotic. As they say, better to suffer a little and know you’re alive than not to suffer at all and be dead.
Growth is taking place, bombers, and growth calls out in a painful and booming voice.
There have been rare occasions in these recent years when the body is absolutely void of pain. The peculiar feeling is first recognized as confusing discomfort -- something’s missing, what could it be? Once defined, the physical silence is simply wonderful. It’s a sort of a hum, a buzz... I’m feelin' good! This blissful sensation is short-lived, however, and soon replaced by an unbearable mix of emptiness and guilt. Fears of irresponsibility, laziness, failure and cascading confidence join in sabotaging my fleeting joy.
Good grief! I’ve run amuck. Where’s my pain? Surely tomorrow I will restore my ways. Deadlifts followed by squats.
I talk about starvation. Ha. As long as there’s Bomber Blend I’ll never starve. In fact I might live for another half century... raise me some goats in them thar hills. When I say starve I refer to the general lack of, say, pizza in my diet. Even Laree gave up the curvy darling years ago. We don’t know what it is to have a pizza with whatever topping we want delivered to our house... like ever, man. No pizza, no beer, no cake, no candy (cough drops excluded), no sundaes, no Danish pastry or French fries. Laree cheats like a bandit -- popcorn once a week.
What would happen if I ate with less dietary restriction? I’d gain fat weight, become blocky and smooth and my heart would work hard to keep me alive. I’d lift slower, like a crane moving cargo down on the docks. I’d probably laugh more, but have less fun. Maybe I’d cuss and argue over sports.
I, in fact, have reduced eating to the compulsory chore of feeding the body what it needs to grow strong and healthy whether it likes it, wants it or not. Open mouth, fill, chew, swallow and pause. Repeat till plate or can is empty. Smile and go... be back on time.
What would happen if I ate according to my appetite? My bodyweight would drop to 180; I’d lose muscle mass, strength, energy, endurance, enthusiasm and pump. The gym would be a bad dream and life would be a nightmare.
When I leave the gym after my last set, it’s not as if I bolt to my vehicle like the Roadrunner, streaks of disturbed light-waves restructuring in my wake. Rather, I hang onto the banister and cautiously lower myself down the treacherous staircase. My vehicle is parked strategically near the exit. I’ve considered having Laree pick me up after the onslaught, but she thinks I’m tough and might be disappointed at the quivering spectacle I present. I spare her. Instead, a pre-mixed Bomber Blend sits on the passenger seat and restoreth my body and soul.
Sleeping is fun when sleeping is not allowed -- middle of the afternoon when there is work to be done. Sleeping is impossible when sleeping is timely -- at night when the rest of the world sleeps and growth hormones are patiently waiting in the shadows for the proper moment to enter the body and do their thing. I have often found little undisturbed heaps of growth hormone piled in corners of my bedroom. Cute, but kind of sad.
Naps are fun, but they’re a sure sign of old age and you’ll not catch me napping on the job.
Earlier, I referred to harsh discipline as if it were a clubbing for misbehavior. Without discipline the clubbing just begins and misbehavior never ends. The bank account empties, the jobs come and go, the waist grows, the back aches, self-esteem tumbles and depression grabs hold. Chaos is the good life absent discipline. And any discipline to the slothful is harsh, like wiping drool from one’s chin, refraining from snorting in church, wearing shoes to court.
I’ll apply some harsh discipline at this juncture and spare you further praise of the masterful companion. Lord knows you’ve heard it all.
Back to the condition my condition is in and other exotic subjects: I must remind us it’s been a long winter. How long? October, November, December, January and half of February equals four-and-one-half months of cold and dismal weather. Rain, eternal nights, temperatures below fifty. The winter months (non-spring and summer months) take their toll. Who do you know grows like a weed and feels like a million when the days are short and the sun -- the fiery ball of life in the sky -- is hidden behind soggy cloud cover?
With that in mind -- no tan, a little furry and fuzzy, skin tone reflecting the effects of continuing cold air exposure and cumbersome protective covering, reduced daylong busyness and increased nighttime inactivity; less motivation to stir the mind and soul, more aches to disable the system, no pump, cold sweat and the flu lurking around the corner ready to pounce -- I’m not doing so bad. The above burdens, threats and symptoms are, after all, enough to stamp out an entire civilization. So, in the final analysis, I’m... well, it’s hard to say.
My neighborhood, you see, has had five days of authentic springtime weather -- warming sun, blue skies, 70 degrees, blossoming trees plus an added hour of daylight -- and its affects have been absolutely amazing: thumbs up, smiles, joy, relief, spontaneity, hope and wagging tails. For the first time in six months I’ve stopped for pedestrians at a crosswalk and didn’t think of ways to rob the bank on the corner. It’s conditions. It’s attitude. It’s the condition my condition's in.
Another week of this cheery bouquet of gold, blue, green and warmth and I might be in the best shape of my life. Tomorrow’s a day off and I’m going to the beach. I hear there are water and sand and dogs chasing birds along the coast. Sound’s spectacular. I’ll continue my mindless mid-winter evaluation next week... or maybe not.
Flying barefoot and topless... DD
PS: In keeping with our modesty, neither Laree nor I boasted that Muscle and Fitness magazine in a current award critique announced Brother Iron Sister Steel earned the coveted Best Bodybuilding Book award. We also noticed you, in your sensitivity to our humble nature, withheld publicly celebrating our triumph and, thus, embarrassing us. We are touched and deeply grateful.
In our gratitude we have retained a few pristine copies of Brother Iron for those of you anxious to possess your very own copy but who are reluctant to inquire. We say throw aside your fear of imposing upon us. We are humble, but we are big.
With a steady hand, though my head is bowed low in profound appreciation, I shall sign each tome with clarity and respect.
Get one for your dog.
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