The Last Lifter Standing
Dave and Mike Katz, Manhattan IOL Bash, 2004
Mike's home from the hospital!!
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Let’s face it, training is a drag. There’s the absurd pre-workout ritual which includes sufficient rest, clean sweats, carbing up, a gym bag full of raggedy gear, the portable protein shake and a bottle of fresh water; the psych, the time, the travel, the pain, the exhaustion and the grief; the dreadful first rep, the impossible last rep and the delirious repetitions between. Home and shower, eat and ache, moan and groan.
That was fun. Let’s do it again.
Not that I’m counting, but I’ve spent 86.0743 of my life attached to cold, clanging, motion-resistant iron. And what have I got to show for it? A pair of inflamed elbows that don’t straighten, swollen knees that don’t bend, stooped shoulders that don’t rotate and the aberration of counting endless reps while driving, shopping, brushing my teeth and dozing.
Should I skip a workout, this is what I have to contend with: For the first few hours I’m relieved. “Swell idea, deserving and dedicated Bomber,” I say, “rest, repair, grow and be happy.”
Before long, my fingers, like spies, secretly probe my waistline, gauging the depth and density of overlapping tissue; the shoulders shrug repeatedly and arch backward in search of diminishing muscle mass; my eyes glance reluctantly in the direction of my forearms, checking wrist-hand thickness and vascularity, whatever that is. Oh! And there I am, accidentally reflected in the Wal-Mart window -- a startled deer caught in headlights -- front, side and rear.
There’s the moodiness, the general discomfort, the anxiety and alternating diffidence and aggression, silence and complaining. Within three days I’m reduced to a drool wandering the neighborhood, not eating, washing, sleeping, changing my diaper or verbally communicating.
It’s not worth the effort, tin heads; I’m going to the gym if it kills me. But wait! I love the house of steel. It’s where life begins -- the concrete walls, the towering ceiling, the cages and racks, the bars and plates; the stern and the severe, the lucky and the brave, the grateful and empowered and empowering.
I’ll start off with something whimsical, something poetic, something almost magical. Low incline curls (light weight, max exertion within 8-10 reps, evolving focus and form) adeptly shifting into incline presses, similar modis operandi. Smiles come from all directions within my gratified structure. Sit up, Bomb, and knock out non-exhausting yet triceps-embellishing one-arm triceps extensions for 10-12 worthy reps.
Sit, smile, sip… repeat again, again and again.
I like wrist curls and dips, back and forth till I don’t like them anymore… usually four rhythmic supersets do the deed. I dip deliberately and thoughtfully, varying body position or lean or contraction or range of motion to maximize muscle engagement and squeeze the most out of the reps. Full finger-roll wrist curls across the knees are big-grin screamers, 4 x 12–20 reperoos.
You can do some gut work if you want to, rope tucks and leg raises. Remember, Christmas and the New Year are right around the corner, eight days if I have my sets and reps right. In case we miss you next week, super people, be strong and healthy, joyful, hopeful and grateful.
The Iron Rocks -- The Iron Knows -- The Iron Works -- The Iron Is
Well, not exactly…
God love us, this I know… The Drapers Two-----
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