Penetrating Study of Training ABCs
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I’ll never learn. Never, never, never. I’ve been feeling pretty good lately -- no injury, no pain, no fatigue, no job -- so I mosey into the gym innocent as a newborn gorilla and blast an arm workout. No C-4, just one stick of standard-issue Bomber Dynamite, and ba-boom, I pull something lumpy in the right lower biceps.
Of course, the sneaky SOB (swelling of biceps) doesn’t show up until the next day after the damage is done. The injury is nothing new (my head would have to fall off to be new), an overwhelmed insertion I suspect, but it is dangerous. Meticulous training care is in my immediate future, not to mention suffering, misery, frustration, discouragement and depression; irritability, whining, pouting and public tantrums.
I’m good, I’m cool, I can handle it.
When I have an injury, I think it’ll never heal and the pain will never go away. But it does. We’ve all gone through it before, from a mild tear to a major rip. I had this particular injury less than two months ago. I did the dance, sweating and swearing and got caught up in life and it went away. Woke up one morning and gonzo.
Time, the villainous, invisible creature I condemn for its stealthy approach and hasty departure, is the great healer of wounds. If only we’d wait. Who, might I ask, has time to wait? Time is a vanishing element, scarce among the ignorant, the misbehaved and the foolish. Or, if you prefer, an abundance of time is an enviable ingredient absent from the reserve of the squandering and the careless.
Time is money, time is life, time is flying -- not a butterfly, but a raging rocket.
I’m scheduled for a workout later today. What can I do, what will I do? Sound musclebuilding progress depends on consistency, commitment, toughness and obsession, a little wisdom and very few smarts. Pushing the limits takes daring and courage, desperation and foolishness. Remarkable structure, genetics and luck are also handy.
The mark of a champion is subtle yet indelible.
Draper, you’re exasperating. Shut up and lift!
Laree just provided me with a stack of papers to sign -- past-due mortgages, loan applications, confessions, taxes, a few autographs, a few forgeries -- and my brutalized arm locked up at the joint. Will I go to the gym, or not, that is the question.
I shall go to the gym tomorrow. The pain level has reached ‘furious,’ the arm is aglow and generating enough heat to warm a PortaPotty on a three-dog night. A day off won’t kill me. There are other ways to punish myself. I’ll consume tuna and water from sunrise to sunset.
The old day has gone and the new day has come and I went to the Weight Room to do what I could do with a little luck, ample force and ever-available whimsy. I eased into a significant blasting session and will surely wake up tomorrow broken, rigid, throbbing and on fire.
Not! This 55-year veteran of the iron trenches did just enough: four rounds of rope tucks, leg presses and stalled-truck pushes, five sets of light-weight, high-rep leg presses and four sets of partial dips to prove my childish manhood.
Just what the veterinarian ordered. I swaggered -- no, not staggered -- out of there like I owned the joint. Look out, coming through! The place was empty, closing time on a late sunny Sunday afternoon.
It’s all so simple. I felt great during the workout. Pain adeptly guided my every push and pull. I felt great after the workout. Adequate pain rewarded me, a sign, a gesture of support for my training mettle and verve. I felt great the following day. Subsiding pain, a tilt of the hat for my refusing to submit to painless and ordinary retreat, the broad way most frequently traveled.
I thought for a minute, a bit of a struggle, as I proceeded from here to there and came up with this effervescent concoction, that which the editor-in-chief called mindless, trite, banal, irritating and embarrassing; I blushed and swelled with pride. Seldom do I receive such stunning praise from the Tower.
The following treatise is mandatory reading for all aspiring BBs (Bombers ‘n Blasters). Memorization is voluntary.
The ABCs of Training: Go to the gym.
Aggravated, aspiring, anxious, aging? Access the dungeon at once!
Bored, burdened, bullied, bamboozled? Bomb it! Blast it!
Cranky, consumed, confused, cantankerous? Clang iron!
Depressed, discouraged, deranged, dopey? Dig the dumbbells!
Exhilarated, energized, ecstatic? Engage the steel!
Fidgety, flabby, frustrated? Find gym, pound iron!
We’re just getting started...
Grateful, gleeful, grouchy, grumpy? Grab a pair of 25-pounders, make that 50s!
Harangued, hysterical, haunted? Hoist those weights!
Introverted, impatient, impossible? Invest in exercise!
Jarred, jilted, jangled? Jiggle the plates, jimmy the collars!
Kookoo, kool, krappy? Kick metal, krunch tin!
But wait, there’s more:
Lost, lonely, languishing? Lift that metal!
Married, mystified, mortified? Move that bar!
Nervous, neurotic, narcissistic? Never let go, never quit!
Obsessed, overweight, obnoxious? Overcome! Go to the gym!
Puzzled, pickled, peculiar? Push that iron, press that steel!
There’s no turning back now...
Questioning, quarrelsome, quacky? Quickly, to the gym!
Restless, rebellious, rambunctious? Reap ‘n sow! Plant plates!
Serious, stressed, strung-out? Shift and shove and stack steel!
Troubled, terrified, trapped? Train hard, eat right, be happy!
Undermuscled, underrated, underpants? Unload at the gym!
Vain, valiant, venturesome? Ve must lift ze vaits! Git!
Hang in there... w x y ’n z...
Weird, wired, whacky? Work out wildly!
Xtra-light, xtra-heavy, xtra-lame? Xtra sets, xtra reps!
Yucky, yielding, yourself? Yank the cables, yoyo!
Zoned, zapped, zoomed? Zabo sez, whatzit all mean, man? Go to the gym!
And now, bombers, to continue the flow of inspiration and creativity, I present similar exercises using the Greek alphabet, hieroglyphics and sign language.
What do you suppose Laree means when she says, “Draper, you’re driving me crazy. Get a job, a hobby, a pet, a box of crayons; do something, text, tweet, tip, type, tap.”
I intend with every fiber of my pulsating body to return to this special and specific place next week right about this time, or, to be blunt...
I’ll be back... The Determinator
>>>>>>>>>>
Note: I shall not eat StarKist.
I want the best from an All-American fisherman, musclehead and connoisseur: http://www.davesalbacore.com/
Note: Not me; another Dave, an old bud, and his cute, courageous captain ‘n confidant, Christa.
Hook- and line-caught wild salmon and albacore are low in calories, fat and sodium, and high in protein, B vitamins and the essential omega-3 fish oils.
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Scoop the blend into a glass, stir and drink with pleasure and satisfaction, when you need to, want to or should. All the time.
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