The Art of Training
Boris Bachmann
Squat Talk
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I’ve had a string of encouraging days, days without the regular bouts of nausea, lifelessness and muscle dullness. My mood has lifted along with expectations and a cautious smile of relief has replaced the grim stare fixed on my face. The last four workouts -- count ’em, 1, 2, 3, 4 -- have been less tedious and anxious, and more fulfilling and pump-worthy. I’m tired and sore the days following my training, but not spent and depleted, glued to the mattress, Velcroed to the couch or bolted to the floor. My appetite has improved, the tuna and raw eggs going down like yummy hospital jello.
As an experienced lifter of iron, I know my physics: What goes up must come down, the good times included. Thus, I expect a dilemma any moment -- a spark plug misfires on an ill-fated Boeing 787 Dreamliner causing it to lose altitude and take out my house; I’m viciously attacked by a 26-foot anaconda (eunectes murinus) while stacking firewood in the backyard; I contract the small pox virus from a tainted can of tuna (or was it the water from the river?). I’ve advised Laree to get a room at the downtown YWCA till this whole thing blows over.
We’ve rounded the bend, bombers, the days are getting longer. If you stand on your toes you’ll see spring warming up for her grand appearance in March. Spring puts on a good show and we embrace her approach. She revitalizes the heart and revives the spirits, relieves aches and repairs breaks.
I’ve got to go to the gym now; it’s time.
I don’t want to go to the gym now. It’s warm and comfortable in this corner of the house, the sun slanting through the windows, total silence but for Laree’s key taps as she makes final edits to Gray Cook’s fascinating and instructive three-disc, 170-minute functional exercise video. The scent of coffee fills the air, the promise of dinner and an evening of meaningful conversation (reality: boiling water over instant Sanka, reheated Chinese take-out, ER reruns, Arrow, The Walking Dead, Haven).
If I don’t go I’ll be real sorry. You know how quickly muscles shrink, fat stores and power and endurance fade. I create visions of curls dancing in my head and triceps extensions in synchronized supersets; the pump, the burn, the euphoric last rep. Besides, Markley’s Gun Shop and indoor range is a mile away and I need practice, ammo and a 12-gauge short-barrel shotgun.
Two birds, one stone. I’ll be back.
***
I’m back, but not without being substantially humbled -- humiliated, annihilated, frustrated, bleary-eyed, bloodied, lost and broken, pumped, burned and exhausted.
I entered the gym after a swift ride from the hillside. The sun was setting late Sunday afternoon and the floor was comfortably empty, an occasional thud in the background. The leg press bearing one plate on each yoke was in the far western corner. Perfect, except the hike to the sunbathed unit was significant for this hobbled, aerobically challenged sep•tu•a•ge•nar•i•an. I can do this.
Upon my arrival I noted the winter sun presented a stinging glare, less welcome than a pair of rusty vise-grips clasped to my nose. I hate glare. It’ll be gone soon. I sat (oomph), positioned my feet and commenced to press. The first few reps were more like twitches, my range of motion limited with time’s insistent march. As I rounded 10 repetitions, the working distance increased, the action improved and a sunny, glaring smile appeared. Serious muscle pain was gathering in a nasty, most desirable way amid the 30 thoughtful, focused reps. I was doing it.
Huffing and puffing, multiple aches and accompanying ugly faces, I prepared to unravel and release my quivering body from the claws of the mechanism. The glare of the sun continued as I stood to add another plate.
Humbled.
Two plates, how cute! I snuggled up once again with the adorable contraption, wincing from the relentless, longsuffering setting sun. It’s that time of year. The 30 reps were much more agreeable as I urged greater distance with each down and up and down motion. There was a disturbing joy as I cranked (creaked) out the lengthy set in a batch of 10, 5, 5, 5, 3 and 2 reps. Pump and burn achieved.
Twice humbled!
Three plates, my starting weight before stricken with ageous gravitus mysterious, went righteously. I can say that now, but amid the action in a batch of 10, 5, 3 and 2, righteousness was not on my mind. The lucky old sun penetrated the windows between the uprights of the leg press, presenting alternate mini-explosions of blinding white light in my eyes and mind. I’m being sun-boarded.
Humble, broken, annihilated… I’ll talk!
Another plate, left side, right side. I like the number four, unless we’re talking about fingers on the hands and toes on the feet; here I prefer five.
Without rushing, I dash, zip, dart to the leg press for two more sets of 12-15 reps (5, 5, 3 ’n 2). I’m swift, in a cumbersome sort of way. Did I mention my jolly thoughts as I proceed: First five reps, high blood pressure -- next five, seriously compromised heart -- another three reps, the low-back surgery -- last two defining repetitions, enflamed knees and hips… how about DOMS? I did it. Now, to unload the eight 45-pound plates. Does unloading count as a set if you’re over 70?
Pumped, burned, bleary-eyed and ready-to-go (RTG). Home, that is.
While no one’s looking I crawl to the dumbbell rack and proceed to do incline dumbbell curl/dumbbell incline press/stiff-arm dumbbell pullover trisets for four sets of 12 reperoos.
Amid the first set of pullovers my nose starts to bleed. I’m on a blood thinner and when I bleed, I bleed. I complete the set, but not without a scramble to prevent the blood from gushing. I have tissues by the fistful going fast and furiously, tissue up my nose and tissue down my throat and bright red blood on my classic white World Gym t-shirt with the gorilla on the back. None of it departs my body. How responsible! My head is upward and away from the gym floor as I gracefully grope through my sets. I pretend this is normal.
“Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
Bloodied, pumped, burning, humiliated, annihilated and slightly anemic, I hum and sip water from my bottle. “Nice day.”
By the time I reach the truck, the bleeding has stopped. Yahoo! Off to Markley’s before they close; they’re down the road only a mile away. I’ve been there before. I have a map.
An hour goes by (the sun has not yet set in the great western sky) and I’m still looking for the firing range. I’ve passed strawberry fields, half-a-dozen strip malls, crossed a lazy lagoon, gone up and down boulevards, avenues and dead-end streets and past Gold’s twice. Where’s Markley’s Gun Shop?
Lost… frustrated and humiliated… a bloody mess, yes. But grateful.
Can you imagine if I’d found Markley’s gun shop?
“Hi, Laree. I’ll be in the shower.”
Thank God Almighty… The Bomber
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