Bodybuilding -- It's All Good
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There comes a time in every bomber’s life when he must review his passion for the iron, its worth and the toll it’s taking on his body, mind and time. He or she is usually bed-ridden and spoon-fed, but lucid enough to tell the attendant to put another five on each side of the bar and give 'm a hand-off... on three. Counting to three is the hard part.
The eternal riddle: What comes first, our last gasp for air or our last set of dumbbell inclines?
I was talking to a 20-year-old who has all the earmarks of a here-today, gone-tomorrow musclebuilder -- sleeves rolled up on pipe-stem arms, permanently flexed lats and he loads the bench press, moving it with a huge arch, bounce, groan and assistance from two weary spotters. He swaggers. He plans to build his body through the summer and keep it forever, like a hotrod or show car. Lots of chrome, polish and flash. No zoom.
His days are numbered. He doesn’t know it, he’ll never know it. Time will come and go and he’ll be gone. I asked him the double-edged question above and he answered, “I don’t do dumbbell inclines, too stinkin’ hard to get the weights in place.” I agreed.
Today’s my day off from the wilds of the gym and the rest of the world -- I lie low in my lair and let my mind wander. This can be dangerous. Last time I let my mind wander it was gone for two days before it came back, an exhausted hound dog with fleas. I have no way of knowing where it goes or what it does. It thrives on curiosity, wonder, daydreams and chasing its tail.
Oddly, I miss the gym. Yesterday, as I traveled the freeway en route to the awaiting piles of steel -- leg day -- I wished I was in custody, under sedation or lost in the Amazon... anything, anywhere, but the gym. Today, under no obligation or threat of heavy metal, I feel lost. Workouts are tough, painful and demanding, if they are serious, and the anticipation preloads our back and mind. Ah, but the play of lifting weights, the fulfillment of focused exertion and the reward of a completed training session are priceless, incomparable and uplifting.
I’ll lie low. The feeling will pass in less than 10 seconds.
Occasionally I’ll get an email from a rambunctious wingman who, at 40, say, and under the iron for years, vows to take the weights to his fiery grave. Bombers, it appears, have no fear of death, convinced they’ll conquer the final condition with the power and audacity acquired through overcoming gravity. We joke, exaggerate, our minds wander and we dream on. We lift with all our might.
When the weights reach skyward like flares, when the pump stretches the skin like a birthday balloon and the muscle burn is as heart-warming as a mother’s love; when you grip the cool knurled bars with affection and the endorphins open the gates and set you free and another workout is complete, it is then you decide you’ll live forever and take the iron wherever you go. Savor the crazy moments.
Say nothing to no one, they’ll put you away.
Of course, we who have spent long hours with the weights in various forms -- long bars and short, thick bars and bent, pulley systems and machines -- know of different times. We recall those indelible moments when the cold iron scorched the hand that touched it, wrenched the shoulder connected to that hand and sent pain and doubt through the whole body, causing its foundations to crumble like clay. Injury is a cruel and effective instructor. Plateaus, envy, frustration, boredom and sacrifice -- difficult lessons summon us forward.
Life has many faces, scores of names: the unlikable twins with long noses peering from hoods, tall in body and bent at the back -- the spineless thieves, disappointment and discouragement; a mocking creature with features like your own -- perfection, the unquenchable companion; a soulful partner wearing your scruffy shoes -- your best friend, you, your devoted self.
I believe it’s the daily, day-by-day encounter with the clanking and pushy musclebuilding elements that etches the deepest lines in our body and psyche. Daily stands alone. Daily suggests living and learning, routine and persistence, struggle and enduring. And though these states-of-being are our familiar escorts and stabilizers, they also attempt to imprison us, break us down and cause us to give in. Confine a man and he begins to doubt himself. The clanging of plates, like the dripping of water in silence, will have him toss and turn and desperately seek relief.
Freedom, freedom, whither hast thou wandered?
You’ve heard it before: Only the strong survive. “Daily” must be formed, molded and fit into worthy and important, interesting and fascinating. This is done not with the hands only, but the mind, the ever-powerful mind, which shapes our future as we assimilate the day, the present, the here and now -- the iron and steel moments. Our positive imagination, our confident expectations and our resolute attitude day-by-day direct our extending and contracting sinews. Here the work is applied, the toil endured, the challenges met and the struggles won and lost.
Thank heaven work is not without satisfaction, toil is not without reward and challenge – one more rep, one more pound -- is not without gain. Winning and losing are difficult to separate; knowing them is the prize.
Tomorrow is Friday, win or lose, and I plan to go to the gym for my daily, everyday workout. It should be a doozy. I’m geared up, wired and ready to go. Boom Zoom! Look out innocent bystanders. I’m all fired up. I’m a barbarian. But, then, I just might crawl into the gym like the hesitant Bill Slowsky and find a cool corner in which to withdraw. These hot summer days are killing me.
I’ll take my time, drinks lots of water and breathe deeply. The specific challenge at hand is deadlifts and I have not trained lower back directly for the past months. Consistent squatting and bentover rows have adequately worked the region and temporarily exempt me from the awesome exercise. Tomorrow I confront the steel as it stands before me like a slick loan shark, short and stout in stature, vicious in nature. Payback time!
I’ll warm up with some crunches, rope tucks and mild hyperextensions. A great combo to work the gut, prepare the areas to be worked and stall for another 15 minutes. My favorite bar will be loaded with a plate-and-a-half, centered in the platform, generously chalked and stared upon and mildly considered. I’ll knock off a simple set, seeking perfect form. The second set will be done with 225, a drop in the bucket not too long ago. With the completion of the second set I’ll know how deep I stand in smelly swamp water. The fight will begin. Mood and attitude and approach (and power) are everything. I’ll wrestle, I’ll squirm, I’ll pace, chalk and wrap. The third set will total 275, a squirt in the can. I’ll recall days gone by, imagine pulling the light weight repetitiously and try not to fuss. Three plates look commendable if I was going to press it, and I’ll appreciate its hunky appearance. Gee! Wow!
Here is where I leave the foothills and encounter the mountain. How high can we go, bombers? Proceed with caution. There are rocks and crevices and ravines, the air is thin and it’s a long way down.
The first heavy sets of deads after a long layoff from the girly exercise are devastating. It’s as if there’s no muscle within the length of flesh comprising the erectors, but, instead, a Gumby-like substance that merely bends and twists and contorts. I could get six reps; I could get two; I could get a herniated disc. I should get a minimum of one rep for a few sets, and move on like an adult who plans for his next workout, his health, his wellbeing, long life and joy. However, having spent most of my life behind gym walls, I’ve seldom encountered an adult, a mature person, grown-up, or whatever they’re called. No role models. I’m clueless.
Well, time will tell, tomorrow, sitting alone with my water bottle. Platforms can be lonely places. After deadlifts I’ll do some shoulders and arms. I’ll devise a routine according to my performance with the cleverly designed vessel of gravity, the barbell, lying in wait on the rubber-matted platform. Workout complete, I’ll collect my abandoned gear and hit the freeway, my truck and me. I’ll count ladies using their cell phones while they drive. Tsk. Guys get a free pass.
Bombers are a creative and fascinating bunch. Give them some air, a pair of wings and they’re aloft.
Thank God. It’s all good.
The Bomber----
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