Travels with the Secret
Unknown Stranger in Disguise
Download the full Draper here newsletter
in printable, live-link, pdf format, here.
I found Mike’s Muscle House on Main Street squeezed between a dry cleaner and a travel agency. From the looks of the faded overhead sign, Mike’s been there for a long time. Good for Mike and his loyal band of muscleheads. We need more Mike’s across the nation. It was my turn to hoist some iron in allegiance.
Not wanting to be recognized and endure the flattering, yet tedious questions, stares and adulation, I entered the doors disguised as myself. It worked. Early afternoon, the gym floor was near empty and no one paid attention to the old, balding guy wearing a shabby House-of-Pain T-shirt, who walked like a Chester and wrestled with 35-pound dumbbells.
Rats! And I shaved my arms and pumped up in the parking lot before entering the Muscle House. Are these people from another planet, time zone, sport? It is I, The Bomb, DD, the Drapes, the Golden Warrior, El Mondo Man, World’s Strongest Youth.
I took advantage of the anonymity and observed the half-dozen or so lifters at work. Varying levels of development, they -- Ms. Hiphop, Billy D. Boll, Chuck Truck, Ima Newbie, and Jason Latspred -- all appeared to be on autopilot. Robots in action: Address weight, assume grip, raise, lower, raise, lower, raise, lower (‘til seven on scale of difficulty), replace weight, release grip, turn and walk away.
“Hmm,” I said to myself secretly, as I paused to breathe upon completion of a frenzied clash with a pair of resistant dumbbells. I patted my opponents on their backsides (guy stuff), grunting and nodding my approval. “Hmm,” I repeated. Don’t my iron colleagues get it? This is not a factory. We are not building computers or appliances; we are building strong, shapely muscle and vibrant health.
I was waiting for a buzzer to sound and everyone to grab a bench for coffee-break, which would have been fine with me. I would join them; cream ‘n sugar and one of those cheese Danish, thanks. And then it occurred to me; it’s not them, it’s the time of year, the no-zone -- no pump, no burn, no drive, no focus, no smile, no desire, no last rep. No enthusiasm.
Muscle fans, we are in that mundane, insipid period between grey winter and pastel spring. My temporary training partners, though sadly uninformed individuals not hip to the classic bodybuilding scene, are no strangers to the gym. They have the appearance of being attentive musclebuilders at one time or another -- last summer, early fall, no doubt.
They are the remnant of a vital force that has diminished, decimated, since the end of last year. They are the Muscle House survivors on their last legs awaiting renewal, replenishment, support and supplies from the cavalry... or heaven above, Calvary. They’re hanging in, running on empty.
Autopilot is better than no pilot, or winter storage in a damp, lifeless hangar. I see it at my home gym and feel it in my own bones. Roll the hulk onto the gym floor, crank it over once or twice (put, sputter) and flick the switch to automatic. Just keep the thing going, gain some air, flutter and land without crashing. Chug, chug, rumble... Not every workout is like that, just a few, really. But they seem to permeate the entire season, the off-season, the time between blasting and bombing.
Once you’ve trained hard and with purpose, anything less seems mild, almost meaningless by comparison. Preparing for and pushing the very last conceivable rep in every anguishing set throughout a cycle of furious, growth-oriented workouts requires extraordinary resources and courage and motivation. Nine on the difficulty scale is exponentially more than seven. Seven is a faint tremor; nine is San Francisco, 1906 all over again.
Nine is also the only way to grow, some will argue, unless you take the underground. Be careful. It’s dark down there.
Good thing for the off-season, or we might burn out entirely, no rest for the body, mind and soul. Our muscles and joints would collapse, our minds implode and our souls grow hungry. Perhaps we need to adopt an off-season training attitude, a willful and purposeful stepping back, and thus eliminate the guilt of performing sub-grade workouts for months, or skipping them periodically ‘cuz they’re so dang undesirable. Such stress is painful, discouraging and catabolic. Straight poison.
Many of you are way ahead of me. I’m one of those driven slobs who doesn’t know the difference between too much from not enough. As long as the weights are within the county line and I’m conscious, I think I should lift them -- hard. Pop, there goes another rotator cuff. You, of course, have built-in behavior mechanisms that are not overrun by faulty hyper-psychosomatic engines, AKA bean brains. Excuse me. Are you using that Olympic bar? I gotta have that Olympic bar! Gimme the freaking bar!! Let Go.
Thank the stars above, it’s spring. I’m not ready to develop an off-season training attitude. It’ll take most of the summer to put that delusion together and make it real. I have one dubious thing in my favor, however. I’ll be 66 by the time summer rolls around and slowing down will be that much more feasible, realistic and absolutely necessary... attractive, even. I suspect the only reason I train as hard as I do (clang, oomph), besides an ego the size and constitution of a dirigible, is my loyal flight crew and bombardiers. I keep going to keep them going. Or is it the other way around?
Thank you. Our little conversation has inspired me. Starting tomorrow I shall engage my first of a series of reduced workouts. Truth is, the timing is right. Easily and often, professionals in any sport lose perspective. Playing becomes fanatical; winning becomes obsessive and pressing on past the finish line becomes neurotic.
I have been spared of these sick fixations, yet I find myself somewhat preoccupied with musclebuilding and weight training on infrequent occasions. I count passing cars on boulevards like sets and reps; I consider the body composition of people shopping in the market; I guess what a guy standing at an ATM might bench press if he had to, or what she might look like in a bikini... that one strictly from the wholesome point of view of a beauty pageant judge, naturally.
I’ve fought the notion of modified training for a year, since the day I returned to the gym after a dinky heart bypass. I rumbled onward, underwent months of EDTA chelation to further my arterial health, followed my nose and restored myself, albeit at a lighter bodyweight, and have come to the conclusion that less bodywork is better for this less-than-pristine pickup truck.
I can do more, but it only wears me, rather than repairs me. I ain’t dumb, I ain’t. It’s gonna be tough, bombers, but I must restrain myself, rather than strain myself. I’m putting a 60-minute limit on the workout, three alternate days a week, three supersets of four sets of 6 to 10 reps typically (24 sets total) at 80-percent output. No more forced reps, no more five-set supersets, no more extended sets. I tried these modifications in my last upper torso workout and reduced wear and tear by 25 percent without minimizing the muscle training effectiveness.
I am robo-man with built-in calculating software... very cool applications. I’m thinking of getting an iPod, if I can figure the gizmo out.
The 90-percent output and the fifth of five supersets are the heavy hitters, formerly responsible for maximum muscle gains (hardness, shape, vascularity, definition). Today such intensity is harmful: The heart mutters, joints swell and ache, muscles cry for mercy and fatigue consumes the body and settles in the marrow of the bones. The trip to the gym must not be a dreaded event, a dreadful experience. It can and ought to be a joy, uplifting and fulfilling.
Now he tells us. You mean I can remove the tacks from my sneakers and the barbed wire from my underwear?
Over 65? Bomb and blast sensibly. Till then, get to the gym on time, every time, and eat right always. And don’t park in my spot. Just kidding. Park anywhere you like.
Blue skies, dolls and guys... Kid Draper
>>><<<
Well, not exactly... there’s more...
Here's an idea: Brother Iron Sister Steel was called The Best Book on Bodybuilding Ever by Muscle and Fitness magazine. You'll ask less and train harder with more joy and certainty after reading its fun pages. Tips and hints, routines and nutrition, motivation and stories, and tons of pictures from the good times.
Go... Godspeed... Dave
Soak yourself in a taste of bodybuilding’s Golden Era with Dick Tyler’s on-the-scene record, written in his easy-going, one-of-a-kind style, West Coast Bodybuilding Scene.
Take a trip over to our
New Musclebuilding Q&A Blog
... where Dave allows us a peek into his email outbox.
Did
you sign up for Dave's expanded
email yet?
It's
free, motivating and priceless!
We'll also send you a link to Dave's free Body Revival
Tips and Hints booklet with your confirmation notice.
BILL PEARL/DAVE DRAPER LIVE SEMINAR DVD
The Package includes a one-hour-and-fifteen-minute tape of the July seminar, two muscular slide shows, plus a 32-page booklet outlining the subsequent interview between the mighty one, Bill Pearl, and me in which we discuss some favorite subjects untouched by the seminar. ~Dave
Cut through the confusion! Grab your copy Brother Iron Sister Steel to make your training path clear.
Readers agree: Dave new book, Iron On My Mind, is non-stop inspirational reading.
Our IronOnline Forum will answer your training and nutriton questions right here, right now.
Golden Era fans will rejoice in this excerpt from West Coast Bodybuilding Scene.
Are your shoulders tight? Do your shoulders hurt when you squat? It's practically a miracle! Dave's Top Squat assists squatters with shoulder problems.