Champ, Big Guy and Bubba to the Rescue
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The hills are quiet this afternoon. A gulch several hundred yards below our house leads to the ocean, if you care to take the hike, and is an efficient conduit for the sounds of mankind below. The freeway hums early in the morning and the surf is a kind rhythm late at night. Restlessness stirs the air as July’s lucky ole’ sun keeps rolling along and the glorious day folds upon itself.
Time to break the soft afternoon serenity with the crack of iron and the thunder of steel. Danger Zone! I’m off to the factory where strong bodies, minds and souls are built. Hard Hat Area! Enter with caution the gritty shop where pressure is released, character is defined and gratefulness is earned.
Outta my way... comin’ through... another day older and deeper in debt.
The last time I caused the iron to crack and the steel to thunder I had sideburns and a headband. Now I’ve got sideburns and a headache. But I can still make the plates jingle when I must.
Jingle, jangle... jink, jink... I went to the gym and now I’m back. I didn’t jingle the plates, but I did juggle the dumbbells.
Before you beat it out of me, I confess the workout was -- how should I put it? -- less than inspiring. “Iffy,” crosses my mind; in the neighborhood of three on the one-to-ten Training Superiority Scale (TSS). And, lacking any burning desire to launch the metallic implements skyward, the act was short and sweaty. 50 years of ‘sweaty’ tends to dampen one’s burning desire.
“Get the bum’s prints, photograph him and stick him in holding under heavy restraints.” As if captured -- not captivated -- I wanted freedom the minute I passed the entryway, a feeling I am not unfamiliar with.
I remember lonely descents into the Dungeon a lifetime ago for workouts qualifying as cruel and unusual punishment. Once I broke the early morning silence with the forceful tug on the poorly hinged door, I was committed to two-and-a-half to three hours of confined, dimly lit, self-imposed torture.
“I’m innocent, I tell ya. Frank Zane did it!”
And get this: Today those mean and nasty times are called the good old days, the Golden Era of Bodybuilding. Gee, if only we had known... live, learn and grow.
What’s that you ask, a look of incredulity in your eyes, a frown of wonder crossing your forehead and the obvious question held loosely in your half-open mouth: How exactly did I juggle those dumbbells in the hollows of the gym when I could have been soaking up rays at a gorgeous California beach?
It wasn’t easy. I did my five sets of ropetucks with sufficient effort to convince my reluctant body I was in motion and building momentum. This is an old trick, which I supported with fragile musclehead proverbs, like anything’s better than nothing, Champ, or this must be done, Big Guy, or no pain, no gain, Bubba.
This is embarrassing... No, not humbling... Embarrassing!
I then grabbed a pair of light dumbbells (more embarrassment) and did six reps of low-incline curls. It occurred to me if I put them back I might not pick them up again -- I was teetering -- so I thrust them overhead and continued to do six reps of duel triceps extensions (bis and tris, clever, I thought). Ha, I laughed to myself, and felt a vague yearning in my shoulders and pecs beckoning me to knock off six reps of low-incline presses (did you know the number six is a magical number?). Wow, I exclaimed in the silent recesses of my absent mind, this continuous combination is constructive and comfortable.
I sat up, allowing the dumbbells to hang by my side, and recalled indistinctly like it was just 10 years ago that it might have been my original intention to prioritize the guns. Why not? Urged by the sudden flash, I decided to accentuate my biceps-building endeavor by completing the venturesome set with six reps (an authentically magical number) of seated dumbbell alternate curls.
Lots of stuff going on, I observed. In addition to a cute pump in my shoulders and pecs, my bis and tris were buzzing, my hands were aching, my wrists and forearms were burning and I of crappy heart health was breathing like a steam engine peaking Mount Mucho Macho. Light on the oxygen, but not a bad view from up here.
I stood tall and reached for the rope dangling on the cable machine for balance and assurance, and the continuation of part two of the humbling superset, the aim of which was appearing before me as I proceeded. I was here, what the heck? Pulley pushdowns to engage the triple peaks of the triceps assumed various positions and directions of thrusts within one set of 18 reps. Each of three modifications of the pushdown -- overhead, downward and forward -- consumed six mystifying, gravity-defying reps.
I did four multiplicity-supersets, increasing the reps or the weight each round to create interest. Momentum, I noticed, is a stealthy companion and rhythm a compelling friend. Investment, like a favorite uncle, encourages always and never ceases. Discipline and determination and perseverance are priceless concomitants and can not be purchased.
So, that’s it, Champ? Not exactly, Big Guy. I want to walk out the front door, Bubba, not jump out the toilet window. There are five sets of secret lats rows I can no longer resist sharing with you. Tell no one or endure the famous curse of shriveling muscles.
I love seated lat rows -- lots of back, bis and core -- but the seated and bent-forward position can be torso-inhibiting and exhausting for an already worn, weary and uninspired lifter who made it to the gym by the skin of his teeth. Hello! The secret lat row is a similar action, freer and less bombastic, but no less magnificent.
I utilize the high pulley of the pulley/cable machine with a pair of loose strap-handles. With a modest weight compared to that used in the seated lat row, I step away from the machine and lower myself to one leg -- one leg outstretched for support. I lean forward, fully extended, reaching toward the pulley with the weight remaining suspended -- the feel-good starting position of an oarsman about to engage in his exhilarating and musclebuilding sport.
Pull and lean back, way back -- the handles the oars -- and contract deliberately upon completing the action. 12 to 15 reps define the work and activate key muscles from stem to stern (boat talk): Grip, biceps and forearms, lower back to the upper back, delts and pecs (I’m serious), lots of core muscles and stretching and extending with a lot less congestion in the midsection and intrusion upon max breathing. Swoosh... swoosh...
Secret’s out, bombers, I leave the rest to you. Find your groove. Don’t make waves. Never let go. Thumbs up, flaps down.
Godspeed... DD
Early heads-up: Stella’s Kitchen and the first of four Dan John DVDs from the recent Utah Bash are in the wings. Line forms at the rear. No shoving. Push that iron.
THE BEST KEPT SECRET -- TOP SECRET TOP SQUATS
Save your shoulders, be nice to your back, improve your squat, delight in the action and build thunder thighs. Grasp the handles of a Top Squat, settle the padded bar across your back and lower yourself safely, comfortably and precisely to your favorite depth, and in the same way lift yourself up.
You can’t squat -- you will. You squat poorly -- you’ll squat properly. You hate squats -- you’ll adore them. You like squats -- you’ll love them. You love squats -- you’ll marry them.
----
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