night as we sat down to dinner, Laree reminded me that we're having
company next year. My first reaction was, Company? So soon? You
should've warned me. We had steaks, stir-fried vegetables (hate
the term 'veggies'), potatoes and salad. I drank milk and we both
had water. Good Bombers are we. As the conversation continued
I discovered the company to which Laree referred was the cast
of IOL characters, a jolly good group ranging from medical doctors
to medicine-men, lawyers to tattoo artists, fire chiefs to fiery
chefs. "That's a coincidence," I eventually responded, "we'll
be in the Canary Islands." The lead character who suggested the
union of bombers next summer is a big child-hearted visionary
named "Og of the Canaries." He and his sweetheart, Fay, want to
visit Santa Cruz for a holiday in 2001. He also invited 350 of
his friends. They're purchasing their tickets and reserving their
rooms early to beat the rush and get good prices. The snowball
is rolling and it is not melting. Great Gugamuga...
So hows by
you, dear rippers? Are we getting somewhere? Is it a good fight?
Bad fight? Any fight at all? The most important and most difficult
battle undertaken by any of us in my estimation is the one to
give up smoking. Though I've never smoked I am not without understanding
of the tight and hateful grip of addiction; it does come in all
forms. I'm not a generous soul. I see a person smoking and I say,
"I'm glad I don't have that one," and I feel smug, a condition
far worse than the condition I condemn. I promise to the parties
concerned that I shall this day forth, as a 'getting ripped' aspiration,
discipline myself to - without piousness or superiority or self-virtue,
derelict creature that I am - favor the hounded person with a
prayer to God.
I come to
you this 10th day of May, celebrated month of toughness, bearing
excuses and rationales. I'm weak and I can't go on. That's not
funny, sonny... you shouldn't even joke like that or you nose
will grow or your pants will catch on fire. The really 'real'
truth is Brett, my prowling night commander, has been in Mexico
and Josue, our Green Card maintenance man who just got back from
visiting his wife and four kids in Chihuahua, quit suddenly like
a candle in the rain. Ryan, my barn sized chief-of-steel and I
have been cleaning and polishing and mopping and lubing and every
time I get on the spin-bike that sits by the rails of the balcony
and look down on the gym floor, all I can see are the things I
need to do instead of stupid aerobics; and, besides, the skinny
little seat hurts my tail feathers. So I take my Ripped Force
along with effervescent creatine and ribose and commence my modified
super-sets and extended quad-sets. Of course, this is after mid-section...
25 minutes of a non-stop concoction of incline weighted crunches,
hanging leg raises, rope tucks and incline leg raises. Absolutely
no one in the gym works his or her gut harder than me; I'd have
to drop 30 pounds to see those famous abs everyone talks about.
No thanks. I'll stick with the shoulders, back and arms in place
and the power in the thighs.
Here we go:
Smith front press super-setted with wide grip pulldowns to the
front, the All-American Bomber Favorite. The reps range from 4
to 10 with provoking half reps here and there for flavor, some
mid-rep dynamic tension upon urge for grit. I manage 7 sets with
one minute of local floor mopping to maintain the heart rate,
body heat, work-focus and momentum. Rhythmic mopping with flair
burns calories and is very therapeutic. This is swell for cleaning
the black rubber gym floor as well.
warm and I'm rollin'. The water is cool and tastes good as I slug
it down. Perfect environment for a four-part giant set of eights:
flat DB press / stiff-arm bent bar pullover / DB shrugs / seated
lat row. This jam is deliberate, hardheaded and roiling. I grab
an extra rep where I can and give up a rep if I must. Nobody can
hear me except me and that's enough. I take two minutes between
quad-sets to vigorously polish the 5x10 mirrors known for their
sparkling reflections. Five big sets and the place is lookin'
spiff. Hang on. I'm missing something: the glass doors to the
parking lot and my rear delts. No problema. Five sets of heavy
bent over DB laterals, some more crumpled newspaper and Windex.
Who needs a spin bike?
is leg day. I solemnly swear to mount the aimless and mindless
beast and give it a revolution or two, a fine preparation for
squats and other delightful hammerings.
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