The American Dream
Download the full Draper here newsletter
in printable, live-link, pdf format, here.
No longer thighs of thunder, my legs are whirring spindles, soundless but for the grinding in the knees. My one-time barn-door lats are today more comparable to a splintery board torn from the old shed’s siding allowing for passage should a small person choose to enter or exit with a wriggle. Baseball biceps have become knobby golf balls (new game), coconut delts are more accurately associated with peanuts and that once-pulsing bulldog neck reminds me of a pencil, a soft, unsharpened Ticonderoga #1 to be exact.
Woe is me. I’m an abomination.
Not so fast, rack of bones. I’ve been saving the good news for last: I can walk.
Over the weekend my little gal from the A-1 Temp Agency, Ms. Laree, and I attended the Santa Cruz Weight Room for my third of three post-op trial workouts. The gym test is the best test, better than the rest. How I have moved in the past 24 months has been deeply etched in my mind. And how I moved Sunday was casually, carefully, almost subconsciously compared to those increasingly halted performances. Get this: I was much more fluid, much less stunted, more assured, less tentative, happier, less stressed.
I was hopeful, cheerful and peppy.
Strange. The last three descriptives scrolled on the screen above have not frequented my daily conversations for the last two years. Had they, they were weakly expressed and tainted with sarcasm. Now look! See that broad, gleaming unfamiliar thing stretched across my face from ear to ear... It’s a grin. I feel good.
Or, as James Brown would say it, “I FEEL GOOD!!”
I have until Wednesday afternoon to revisit my evaluation before this newsletter is launched into the far reaches of cyberspace -- whoosh. Two more days for me to apply dedicated scrutiny -- will the forward march continue unencumbered, shall I stumble awkwardly backward un-recovered? Let’s see how it goes.
No matter what, the beat goes on. My training undergoes revision every day, something I’ve noticed with increasing reliability. The trail is no longer clear, though the direction hasn’t changed. It’s that way, toward the hilltops, where the sun breaks through the clouds and the slopes are fertile and well-watered and wildlife is plentiful. You can see for miles on a good day and the valleys nestle comfortably against retiring foothills.
Rugged boots take a good man or woman as far as he or she needs to go. Skillful thrusts with strong arms and the right implements make light of the uncut path. There’s no rush, there never was. We have today, and today again tomorrow. Yesterday presses us onward, tomorrow pulls us forward and today, as we have come to learn, we go along for the ride, the journey.
Some things never change. That’s a good feeling in a day and age when nothing seems sure, to find something you can hold onto, something true, something real and tangible: a pair of 50-pound dumbbells (okay, make that 25 pounds), a deeply knurled Olympic bar, smooth performing cables and handles of every description. Oh, boy!
And these devices made of steel and without spirit, knowledge or emotion can alter our spirit, knowledge and emotions. Somehow, dumb as we are, by extension of ourselves we infect these inanimate objects with a life responsive to ours. Think about it for a second (a second only or they’ll come and take you away). If you’re in a good mood the weights are friendly and cooperative.
They go this way and that according to your wishes, needs and desires. They’re happy weights. And where do you suppose they got that from, a box of chocolates, a sip of wine, a tweak on the collar? I don’t think so. Respect, appreciation, a good tug and clank... an honoring partnership, that’s where it comes from.
They pick us up when we’re down and we pick them up when we’re down. We go up when they go up and down when they go down... fast. And there are those who dare to say we don’t have a spiritual connection?
And the iron is responsive to our feelings, as well. Some people scoff at the notion, but they never cradled a pair of 85-pound dumbbells in their arms or lifted a loaded Olympic bar heavenward from the depths of hell as they screamed from their inmost being.
We enter the gym after a long and lonely day and it shows in our walk and talk. We’re not in a good mood. Do you think we bear the pressure alone? The all-knowing iron provides a distraction, a purpose and a direction to ease the pain. The rhythm, pump and burn they offer are euphoric and fulfilling. The tangible rewards and achievements our relationship garners are priceless. Just enough reps to gladden us, and not so many to sadden us. And none of this could we claim without their omnipotent presence.
I don’t have names for the weights or various pieces of equipment, like some folks for pets or cars or friends. Have fun, I say, but don’t be silly. 50-pounders will do, or the adjustable incline bench, the chinning bar, or Mondo, the Incredible Squat Rack. Keep it simple, impersonal, hoist the nasty creatures, toss the cold-hearted bad boys, tackle the iron beasts. Get tough, get huge, get ripped.
The weights can be jerks sometimes. You want to stay in control.
Today is Wednesday and I just returned from the gym after my fourth post-op workout, 75 minutes and 24 sets of bliss. Though I did not do a volley of back flips, cartwheels and pirouettes across the floor, neither did I walk with a stoop, hobble or gasp after each set. I walked, not with pause and labor and psyche-up preparation for a carefully selected target, but I walked with power (almost) and acceleration (nearly) and spontaneity (sorta). I simply walked.
Yoo-hoo... Over here... I’m walking.
No pain, no complain. Thighs are weak, but they’ll get stronger. The heart, long without the support of the major blood circulators, the thighs and calves, will get stronger with their renewed assistance. These are my recent-most and ever-so-humble observations from the tower. I still need a lot of work and time, cookies and milk and pity.
Now if only I could get rid of the radiation poisoning and leprosy. Just kidding about the cookies and radiation poisoning.
All this by the power of God... Captain D
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 e-report with your confirmation notice.