Ouch That Feels Good
Laree's new publication, Movement, by Gray Cook
Available August 2010
Download the full Draper here newsletter
in printable, live-link, pdf format, here.
It’s no secret I’m not a big fan of aerobic exercise, just as I’m not big on nibbling my food or driving slowly in the fast lane or buying grapes one by one at the market. It’s a personality thing. That doesn’t mean I don’t train my heart and lungs fittingly, I simply have a broadside approach.
Yes, I’m an admitted, self-assessed mental case. I was presented a dashing Lifecycle 18 months ago by my adoring wife, Tower Power. It sits patiently in the corner of the bedroom facing a picture window full of trees, nature and hope. How soothing, how alluring and inspiring! In a moment of weakness I mounted the wheel-challenged contrivance for a total of 25 revolutions.
My brain seized and my butt grew numb, time stopped and the world quit spinning.
I thanked Laree profusely for her kindness, apologized copiously for my general lack of appreciation and promised I would never, ever use the mute and motionless contraption for a clothes hanger. She snickered, seethed and sneered, displaying a wide range of girly emotions, and refused to bestride the black beauty as well, retribution for my ingratitude and abandon.
The incident brings me to the development of my cunning musculo-cardio, quasi-aerobic training technique, the chair pull, a sophisticated version of farmer walks, or, if you prefer, cannonball carries, with a utility caboose. These are practiced on my off-gym days to fill a gaping exercise gap, increase my training output and satisfy my desperate need for entertainment. Unlike the original B-29, the B-68 needs constant attention.
Our 100-yard, 10-degree-sloped, blacktop driveway provides the perfect training ground. I grasp a pair of 35-pound kettlebells and I’m off, phase one, down the long grade. I love downhill, lean forward and step. As I plod, big grin on my kisser, a cheapo plastic deckchair, attached to my waistband by a 10-foot cord, follows me like a faithful, gangly pup every step of the way.
Laree rolls her eyes, “He’s losing it.”
I complete the downhill with more than sufficient muscle and cardio exhaustion. I’m wheezing. If you recall, my heart, my pump, is as reliable as BP’s pump in the fabulous and furious Gulf of Mexico. It’s a bust, a disaster, a perilous challenge, a mysterious unknown, yet an absolute necessity. Hence, the caboose, the chair in tow. I abruptly tug the cord, deftly retrieve the rickety four-legged furnishing and plop myself down before I collapse.
Got Chair, Will Travel!
I focus intensely on recovery, stand when ready and assume phase two, the uphill farmer walks in sets of 50 paces. Now you’re talking -- posture-correction attention, muscle-engagement modification, muscle-exertion exaggeration, attitude adjustment and personality alignment. I’m good as long as the BP is good -- my blood pressure, that is.
Each set is rewarded with a plop on the chair and deep breathing. Three years ago I would have eaten the kettlebells and spit them out at the end of each set. Lately, it seems I’ve lost my appetite.
As I respond effectively to the advanced methodology, I plan to drag a weighted sled affixed with a Big-Boy recliner, an audacious expression of my muscle-headed madness.
Step aside, Clyde, there’s no holding me back, Jack.
Occasionally I run out of stunning musclebuilding revelations to share with ya’ll. Who’d have thunk it? The related subject matter is not only limitless, it’s absolutely fascinating: peaked biceps, V-shaped lats, the search for the perfect six-pack, tuna ’n water on the rocks with a sprig of parsley. Suspicious that one of these gaps might present itself this week, I’ve decided to act preemptively and explore a dark dimension of exercise in motion: training pleasure.
Daring and fearless, I have never before trained without pain, sacrifice and suffering. Pleasure within the gym walls is alien to this dedicated ironhead, neither do I seek it or entertain it. Moreover, it’s illegal, immoral, unethical, unthinkable and just plain wrong.
These cold chunks of steel, do they look like toys? Am I a brute, a ruffian among innocents at play?
What good is hoisting iron if preposterous and unparalleled force is not applied to every movement, set and rep? For what: a little buzz, trivial social interaction, a mere singeing of calories, puffy entertainment, neurotic reassurance, a groovy mirror reflection?
Hello. Can anyone say hypertrophy? Intensity? Bombing and blasting?
Training without legitimate, well-deserved grunts and growls is an embarrassment, a mockery. Training for pleasure is debauchery. There’ll be no pleasure on my watch. Real joy is found in pummeling, pounding and thumping.
Gosh, I love this stuff.
If you complete your set and walk away, you have not done enough. A set that builds muscle and power and is worthy of honor leaves its practitioner on the floor in a twisting heap gasping for air. Perhaps, within these exceptional moments, as you will your quivering body from the floor, a dash of pleasure is tolerable.
I watch a fellow doing curls before my favorite mirror. Up and down goes the undemanding, unserious bar with the greatest of ease. Bingo. Ten reps and he racks the thing and saunters away. He wasn’t seething, bleeding or convulsing, attempting to flee or applying first aid. Tsk!
I grabbed my bar and let it hang heavily before me, aware of its potential and in need of its unforgiving confrontation. The static pull of the iron -- silent, severe and suspenseful -- excited my biceps and traps. My back tightened, the torso activated and the lower extremities clutched the floor like talons.
I was very alone, sounds faded and the room grew strangely dim. I contracted my grip and engaged my muscle and might like a wave breaking on shore. The bar moved as directed according to the arousal of a thousand precise neural signals and intercellular responses, actions and reactions. I was in motion, the encounter had begun. Upward and into a unyielding contraction, all might engaged in one solid moment, and a quick release to a smooth and deliberate return. If there is pleasure in training, it is in reckoning the force and muscular activity within the ecstatic pause before the execution of the next repetition whose meticulous path is yet to be determined.
Discovery, invention, intention, direction, sensation, creation, construction and completion: They are the elements of training pleasure. Therein lies the joy of the matter.
Did I mention the bar I use is a padded streamlined affair of aluminum alloy?
Soar more, sore less... Dave
---
Did you know Bomber Blend will provide the least expensive and most nutritious meals in your daily eating regimen? It’s not an added extravagance to your food budget; it reduces your budget and improves your nutritional intake. It builds lean, strong and shapely muscle. Regular servings of Bomber Blend raise your IQ and enable you to time travel. Made into a poultice and smeared on the scalp will prevent baldness and kill tics. Good stuff.
Scoop the blend into a glass, stir and drink with pleasure and satisfaction, when you need to, want to or should. All the time.
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.