Blimps, Biplanes, Gliders, Hot Air Balloons and B-50s
Formed with the hands of the amazing Dennis Rogers
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I can never figure these guys out. They arrive at the gym early, sit at the front counter and grab the newspaper. They go right past the headlines (Statue of Liberty Vanishes as City Sleeps) to the sports section and make facial contortions as they review their teams’ wins and losses. The less literary lean their heads on their palms and watch the sports highlights on TV, ignoring, of course, the top stories of the hour (Obama’s Green Card Expires, Lassie Was a Cat, JW Celebrates 90th After the Mr. O). If they talk, it’s in grunts about guys and footballs, basketballs, baseballs or pucks.
Like, hello, dudes. Clank, clank. The weights are waiting. The iron is rusting. Gravity calls.
Ever since I can remember (before TV and texting and Pampers), I no sooner enter the gym and I’m sizing up the gear, arranging equipment and clearing a path for some serious supersets. I’m focused, engulfed, captured, ravenous, consumed, possessed, obsessed: which movements, what bench, which cables, what dumbbells. Words like bomb and blast, veiny and pump, huge and shredded, V-shape and preposterous dance across my nimble mind. I’m hot, I’m on fire.
While I’m burning, the sports guys at the juice bar are exchanging chill scores and creepy speculation.
“My guy has more homeruns than your guy.”
“Oh, yeah! My guy has more hormones than your guy.”
“My guy has more touchdowns.”
“Oh, Yeah! My guy has more testosterone.”
“My guy has more goals.”
“Oh, yeah! My guy has more gonads.”
What a revolting development this is. When encountering grievous discourse like this, I always ask, “What would Steve Reeves do?”
Once centered, I continue my ferocious bombing and blasting in peace and calm.
It was one of those days. I walked into the gym with a cluster of thoughts jamming my brain: I made it, Why, I wanna go home, Let me outta here. Inspired, encouraged and motivated, certain and unequivocal, I tossed my bag in the corner and turned to the iron. “You’re in big trouble, you dumb, gravity-stricken clunks. You’re going down.”
Love aside, revenge is my diving force. The molecularly dense hunks in all their shapes and forms were about to be systematically and scientifically discombobulated, or, as they say in the field, bombed and blasted. Take no prisoners or pets or dancing girls or video games or baloney and American cheese sandwiches.
The basics rule, simplicity, order, directness, sureness, steadiness, toughness. The whole body goes, no part left behind. Six exercises, four sets of lots of reps, 24 sets total, half the workout of those of the bygone years but sufficient for blimps, biplanes, gliders, hot-air balloons and B-50s. The plan goes like this:
Before I begin, I confess a pet peeve in my little world of muscle and might: I don’t like the word exercise. Cute for Trixie Midriff and Rickey Sixpac, but not for the iron-raw musclebuilder. Exercise suggests the practice of standard physical activities, or exercises, to achieve or maintain health and fitness. How mundane, obtuse, ordinary and unspectacular.
I prefer the word movement, a broad and powerful word which transcends one, two, kick and three, four, bend. It demands exertion and focus and finesse and oneness. You know what I mean... just wanted to clear that up. Moving on…
The six movements, three supersets: leg press and pullover, bench press and bent-over barbell row, standing barbell curl and machine dip.
Each movement is a weed in the field, but in the hand of a devoted bomber they comprise a bouquet of colorful wildflowers. It’s in the choice and the way we arrange them that brings out the beauty and glory and sweet fragrance to the beholder. It’s in the presentation.
We’re beyond how much does it weigh; we’re into how does it feel and what good does it do and will I progress without injury or pain. Does that sound about right? Secretly, the last rep can be pushed like a stalled car if you need a jumpstart. I like the last rep, keeps me rolling along the old dirt road.
Leg presses are only leg presses unless you follow the burn. I like high, near-lockout reps done in consecutive clusters of 10, 5, 5, 3, 2, till a total of 25 are squeezed out. Nice profile, lovely sneer, my kinda leg press.
I crawl to the bench to address the dumbbell for its contribution of 10 reps of stiff-arm pullovers to move blood, bolt my lats, pound my arms and shoulder rotation region and awaken the abs. As you can tell, I’m not sure what they really do, but I love them. My pullovers are over 45 years old and still fit well, accentuating the taper and providing panache to my workouts.
Bench presses are most fun and beneficial when you don’t go heavy and they are not the foundation of your routine. They serve up some dandy muscle action in the tris and shoulders and pecs when the regions are fresh and unbroken. Regular bench pressing can be downright mean and destructive.
Mix the big push of the bench with the big pull of the row and you have the big response of the system. Muscle mass and power and natural HGH is stimulated. Explosive. Eight to 10 to 12 reps.
Sometimes I think standing barbell curls done with determination and finesse, flailing madness and musclebuilding desperation might be all we need to build a mighty and muscular body. And then sometimes I don’t. Besides, who can flail madly these days?
Combined with dips, as in my recently developed, highly technical methodology known as supersets (patent pending), and the journey though the cutting-edge musclebuilding wilds is complete (8 to 12 reps). Nothing left for us to do but sip on a Bomber Blend and watch the muscles grow.
While doing this, I often perform leg raises to pass the time and work the hip flexors and abdominal area.
Exercises are for kids, movements are for men and blondes. Can I go home now?
The Bomber
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