Still Crazy After All These Years
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I sat at the formica counter at Aunt Molly’s Pie Place, ordered a double can of tuna and water and let my mind drift. On sudden occasions I’ll treat myself and drop a few bucks for quality time. Life is a fleeting journey and we must create our precious moments, grasp and savor them. I added an ice cube to the clear liquid. Very cool.
Musing and tuna go together like rock and roll.
I should have seen it coming. My decision long in the making to sensibly reduce my training has been interpreted by a fragment of IronOnline readers as a copout, a pathetic submission, an exhibition of cowardice; a tear in the veil of hypocrisy, a patched crack in the granite, a flaw in the ancient marble; the thin words of a tiring has-been, a stepping down, back and away... A betrayal of the very core of the Bomber Credo.
I love drama, don’t you? You can take the kid out of Hollywood, but you can’t take Hollywood out of the kid. Lights, camera, action.
Maybe... Maybe not. Until age 63, I was yet 22. Zoom, zoom, zoom. Then, despite my insistence on strength and health and well-being, something strange happened. I, in a series of months, stalled. Sput, sput sputter! Arterial blockage and shortness of breath bared its fangs; L-2, -3 and -4 obstruction and impaired mobility tossed its horns. But I already have a pet! A heart bypass was performed a year ago, and a triple laminectomy has been scheduled.
One fine mid-summer day (four months post-surgery) I pushed it a tad too much in the gym and endured a punishing blow, which had me stooped over an 85 pound dumbbell -- the one I was using for one-arm rows -- motionless, clutching and clinging for 20 memorable minutes. The gym was near-empty that afternoon... Just me, my ghost and a legion of angels.
We crawled home.
I denied it at the time, but the creepy little episode I willfully interpreted as a hiccup was a heart attack and reduced my heart's already-compromised function another 45 percent. Six months later I face the truth and the consequences. I'm now on the outer edges of someplace and dare not look down! I'm almost 66 now, no longer less than 22. That doesn't make me an old geezer, nor wiser, nor less arrogant... just different and writing and training and offering this-and-that one week at a time.
My revamped training schedule is matched by a revised training attitude. Neither is inferior to its predecessor. These are in fact superior and more difficult to perform, execute, apply. Stepping back is not a move in my choreography, retreating is not an element of my repertoire, nor is stepping down part of my act. I’d rather dance all night and into the morning’s sun.
Bombing and blasting are all I know.
I’m three workouts into my venture and feel fine -- well, a little plump, insecure, short, guilty, weak, pimply, bent, twisted and useless, but fine. In fact, today’s session is my third, leg day. I call it leg day, but there are no squats, so I really should call it something else, like, almost leg day. Extensions, curls and leg presses (4 sets x the appropriate reps). Calves supersetted with rope tucks (4 sets x 25 reps) and some cable crossovers and rear-delt flys for upper-body stimulation (4 sets x 8, 10, 12 reps).
Where’s the inspiration, you ask, the zeal and intoxication, the creativity? It is there and I shall find it. I shall inebriate myself with each grateful and sustaining repetition. There is an inexpressible high within focus and meditation. Look and listen intently. Methodical sets and rhythmic reps center the seeking body. Strive with devotion. Maximum muscle exertion is realized, attained, with less exhaustive application. Persist like dammed waters.
The mind stimulates the body, the body sustains the mind and the spirit enriches both and the three endure forever. Creativity is in the moment, its spontaneous engagement. The combustible here and now.
Let’s face it; I am a worn cog in the wheel of redundancy. I wouldn’t know the moment from next week, spontaneity from an afternoon nap or creativity if it bit me in the arse.
Now, just suppose you’re reading along with me and wonder what my first and second heart-smart training sessions look like -- exercise, set and reps. Well, they look something like this:
1) Legs, shoulders, lats, back, biceps and triceps are involved both directly and indirectly:
Calf extensions, leg extensions and torso rope-tucks in tri-set succession
Front press supersetted with widegrip pulldowns behind and before the neck
DB alternate curls, thumbs-up curls ss overhead triceps extension with cables
4 sets x 6 to 12 reps, more if appropriate (calves, rope tucks -- 25 reps)
28 sets total
60 minutes flat
2) Shoulders, chest, lats, triceps, biceps -- directly or indirectly:
Press behind neck supersetted with single sidearm lateral raise
Thick-bar bench press supersetted with stiffarm dumbbell pullover
Seated lat row and machine dips
4 sets x 6 to 12 reps, more if appropriate
28 sets total
60 minutes flat
The three workouts -- the above two and the previous almost-leg workout -- are geared and gauged to be nearly pleasant -- 80-percent muscle exertion, a plodding pace, a smiling face. The trio is meant to polish and preserve, serve and fulfill; to keep, hold and behold. What did we expect after several world wars, moon landings and space walks, the internet and iPods and more than a half-century of birthdays, rippling 20-inch biceps?
The workouts are worthy patterns to follow. My future training will resemble them and I’ll bend with urges and impulses and gusts of wind. That’s what we have ailerons, rudders and flaps for, or did you think they are there just for looks?
I almost forgot. My heart guy said, since I’m too old for a transplant, I should have my own personal defibrillator installed for assurance. Stanford will do the job sometime soon. I figure Cheney’s got one, why not me? Also, he suggests I have a pint of blood removed every other month to thin the mud-like ooze currently pumping through my system. I asked if I could sell it over eBay. He wasn’t amused... I don’t think... hard to tell.
Laree and I decided, after reviewing the crowd of tired and grim faces gathered in the waiting room, it must be a tough job being a heart doc. The prognoses can never be good enough.
Give me a pair of wings and lots of fresh air... I’m happy.
Soaring at God’s speed... Finger-to-the-wind Draper
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