National Bombing and Blasting Magazine
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Not only an architect of innovative training routines and a source of inspiration, a guide through the world’s turmoil and a rock when life is falling apart, I, your humble Bomber, serve as your personal calendar and reminder. It’s February, a time for forging ahead.
Mention February and I think frost, cold and bleak -- little sunshine; sweatshirts, jackets and boots -- no t-shirts: bulky, chunky and smooth -- no cuts; tough, harsh and chilly workouts -- no pump. Are we having fun yet? It gets worse. March is right around the corner.
Break out the long johns. Button up your overcoat.
I recall from another life there are periods of time -- could be my imagination -- when the weather is clear and bright and the sun shines forever and the temperatures are warm and lovable and mankind wears shorts and sneakers and tanktops. Spring ‘n summer, if I remember correctly, gracious seasons when people smile and life blossoms and grows.
I write in this reluctant vein cuz I don’t snow ski, I don’t have a cabin in the Sierras, no wool socks or mittens, and my bones will be 68 in a few months. I lift weights, have simple digs near the California coast, wear elbow wraps and I’m allergic to freezing.
Absolute truth? I love it all. Can’t remember a day when I didn’t find just what I needed. Some days you’ve got to look harder than others; some days you don’t have to look at all.
For all things there is a season.
Clever ditty.
This is the season to lay down track, people of cold iron and rusting steel. The creosote-soaked ties huddle in well-placed stacks, lengths of steel rail lay in crushing piles, and kegs of spikes are strewn like thorns in a frosty patch. The atmosphere is heavy, the work is grave and the pace is laborious, slow and intermittent. There’s an ache in the air and goals are hard-fought and distant. We’re dealing with heavy metal, rugged wood, sledge-hammer spikes and flesh and blood.
Throw a tie on the back, toss it in place. Grab a steel rail, drag it to rest. Hammer in one hand, spike in the other. Do it right, do it now. Swing, and swing again. The stacks and piles, you swear, remain the same. The tracks, you suspect, lead to nowhere... or, maybe, a two-bit burg called Muscletown.
All aboard!
Winter workouts remind me of a construction site. There are boards and exposed trenches and random heaps of dirt; a set of blueprints on a makeshift table, an empty coffee container, a lonesome glove and a flat stubby pencil minus a point; there’s a grimy cell phone held together with a slash of duct tape. The old, the new, the ordinary and the yet-to-be.
The scaffold is weary and splattered with concrete and stands beside a 2x4 wall. The foundation is in; the sub floor’s nailed and reinforced according to code. The walls go up one at a time and workers plan for a roof before the rain. Building a house is in not an easy trick. A real good dwelling takes years, many seasons, good weather, lots of time and patience and labor and dough.
Spring and summer come and go; the winters last forever. What about the plumbing and electrical, the paint and the landscape? Pass me another stud and my nail bag, a barbell, a pair of dumbbells and a well-lubed cable machine.
The work is ongoing. When the project’s done, the maintenance and repairs begin. Currently I’m re-wiring the old power source and replacing a busted beam. Never ending, the bending, mending and attending.
Beats living under cardboard.
We press on, we persist, we never let go, we never quit. Never.
Here’s one for the March issue of National Bombing and Blasting: Several weeks ago Laree received a phone call from the Pentagon ordering an item for their fitness compound. Yes!! Go, America!! The phone call was to our top secret, need-to-know-only, private telephone number. We were not at home at the time and the caller left a message.
How and from whom did the caller acquire our highly classified number? Further, the caller’s voice and request was garbled and incoherent. Was this intentional?
Laree, who for four years in the late ‘70s worked at the NSA in the deciphering complex, could not understand or interpret the message. Her Air Force training and background in cryptology offered no clue as to the critical matter at hand.
Many anxious days went by before a private email arrived reestablishing the formerly indecipherable connection. It seems a participant in the Fit to Win program ordered Dan John’s four-part DVD series via the Pentagon purchasing department. Smart move, but bureaucracy prevailed.
It gets complicated and redundant and exhausting from this point. In summary, after three phone calls, four emails, a fax and six weeks, the DVD set is scheduled to leave our clandestine facility sometime after nightfall. The official credit card has been cleared and the carrier awaits our secure, inconspicuous package.
We were assured by Eric Holder that Homeland Security, The Director of National Defense, HVIG, the FBI or the CIA had nothing to do with the procedures. What a relief.
Just returned from the gym where I noticed something peculiar. Actually, I’ve noted a similar oddness in the past weeks, but have been reluctant to interpret, recognize or appreciate it. I mean... well... it’s been years in the dumpster, maybe three, but I’m feeling... umm... better. That is, better than worse.
Let’s take it slow, one day at a time. Don’t want to have an up day and get all giddy, and then fall into a deep, extended down time as usual. You know how crappy training cycles work: up for a day, down for 10. Note the engrained cynicism and crinkly hope.
Feeling good equals having an appetite, not having nausea, not being drowsy, sleeping pretty good at night, enduring fewer aches and pains, enjoying more energy and endurance in the gym and out of the gym, enjoying anything for that matter; less gasping, less stumbling, less dizziness, less doubt, more purpose, more purposeful...
Comin’ thru, step aside. The weights are still insignificant, but the workouts are more effortful, efficient, effective, efficacious and effervescent. They work. And they are, in fact, desirable, whereas for years they have been barely possible; two frantic workouts a week like warfare in the mountains Ahgotchastan.
I am now at three 75-minute sessions a week, just right for a polar bear during record global warming. I wonder how long this will last. I’m stepping with caution, gratefulness and reined-in enthusiasm. More later.
Draper -- Bomb Squad One. Over and out.
PS: PSA’s down form near eights to near threes. Gold star.
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