There’s a Bear in Them Thar Hills
Boris Bachmann
Squat Talk
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It’s Sunday morning as I write this particular section of the IOL newsletter. A workout is on my agenda, but not in my heart and mind. I trained Friday, a good one with the usual kibitzing and chattering with the ladies at the juice bar and watching the game on the multiple centrally located hanging flatscreens between sets ’n reps with the guys (49ers are looking good), and today is too soon to hoist the iron for this American-made 1942 pickup.
However, I plan to run an errand in Watsonville within a mile of Gold’s Gym (no, not to purchase ammo at Markley’s), and a workout is so darn convenient. I’m thinking a cord of firewood at Tim’s Timber and a courageous chest ‘n back cable blast at the gym. How cool is that, bim, bam, boom.
Note: The life and deeds of Dave Draper are serious and daring, mysterious, complicated and consequential. Wisdom, intellect and cunning must be applied to simplify and streamline daily strategies. Stand back.
I might as well grab some groceries at the Safeway, meds at the pharmacy, clothes at the drycleaners, nuts and bolts at the hardware and fill ’er up at the friendly IranCo gas station on my way home.
Last stop, the ER: eppy, oxygen, saline solution, hydrate… no pulse, flatline, paddles… Clear… again… Clear… getting too close for comfort.
Now that it’s Monday I can tell you I did none of the things above. Rather, I rested and relaxed and meditated on the advantages of resting and relaxing and meditating. There’ll be no procrastination for this champ. By Tuesday afternoon I dragged myself to the gym.
Typically during the 15-minute drive to the CIRF [California Iron Resource Facility, aka Gold’s Gym], I run my body through the ORRS [Onboard Remnant and Remains Scanner] to determine a suitable and desirable one-hour training program. The variables, what do I need to do, what can I do, what am I willing to do and what must I do, are carefully analyzed. “Why am I here,” once a valuable component of the assessment, has been removed by popular demand.
What will it be today? How to stay young and vigorous, solid, strong and flexible as the years pile on like taxes in California? I know: Let’s discuss the various and multiple indications and contraindications of the assorted medications we’re prescribed (or not) to keep us -- your choice: 1) bright and cheery 2) subdued and mindless 3) pain-free and immobile 4) alive, kicking and screaming 5) breathing and compliant 6) huge and ripped.
Beware. Decision-making has been known to contribute to anxiety, heartburn, gas, muscle loss and obesity and bad decisions. With this no-win feature and my penchant for random, no-thought action, I stumbled into the gym and commenced to sit heavily upon the nearest inconspicuous bench to silently sulk. 20 sets of this and I could be on my way home. And to think I used to keep a log of every exercise, set, rep, thought and feeling.
Ah-ha, there’s that inevitable, old and reliable, never to be doubted, always to be coveted, subtly spontaneous and ticklish urge known as inspiration. I stood up like a grizzly bear on his hind legs about to roar from the mountaintop because he wanted to. I rolled my shoulders, spread my lats, flexed the tris and lumbered forward to pulley pulldown. Here I would engage in my first winning battle, a tight, effective area to frustrate equipment poachers and diminish energy-sapping between-exercise travels.
Getting old is fun. Getting old is getting old.
I sat facing away from the apparatus and did a set of 10 reps of wide grip pulldowns behind the neck. Tada… Upon completion I spun around like a danseur (male ballerina) and followed with a set of eight reps to the front. Lats and upper back, teensy biceps and rear deltoid action.
Like a security guard protecting gold bullion, I shifted two feet and assumed my favorite kneeling rope-tuck position for a set of 20 comprehensive reps, switching gracefully (clunk, crash, scuze me, bub) to a seated position and knocking out six reps of lengthy lat pulls. Oh, boy! My hands were fiery clumps. My lats and torso smoldered (they once blazed). The biceps whimpered (they once roared).
I repeated the act for a grand total of four supersets, enough time between sets to shriek as I lay pounding and kicking like a man… always one eye on my pulley systems.
I leapt to my feet after my last drama and set out for the 45-degree incline 10 feet to the northeast, just beyond the Hammer press and not very far from the mirrors. Water, water! There I sat with a pair of 25-pound dumbbells in my greedy hands looking to the left and right like a vulture, the dumbbells hunks of still-moist road kill.
Not settled on what to do with my savory handfuls, but pleased to have them in my possession (by this time in my workout all apprehension and bitterness have dissolved and a delightful sweetness fills my senses), I curl them simultaneously for six introductory repetitions (heavier than I expected); overhead they go for six wide presses (once these beasts weighed 85 pounds at least, another story, another time), then one-arm triceps extensions for six reps, the odd dumbbell remaining outstretched, and, finally, down to my sides for six reps of alternate dumbbell curls.
Four sets of this 6, 6, 6, 6 combination and I’m content, a reasonable replacement for the aforementioned short-lived delightful sweetness. It’s hard work overall, stimulating and fun and fulfilling, but no real muscle is going to grow overnight from the cute continuous amalgamation. Just what the 70-year-old ordered, I guess, like strong tea and a high-protein crumpet.
I see an available bench and an adorable 80-pound bent bar. In less than 30 seconds and any sort of calamity, large or small, I merge the two compatible items and willfully add myself to the mix. All I want to do is four sets of lying triceps extensions, just past the forehead and a little lower than the bench, for as many reps as I can get without causing unthinkable trauma and unbearable pain to the elbows, if you know what I mean. Why, what for, where am I going, who needs it?
I get 12-15 reps, the right elbow wrapped like a loaf of French bread. At the end of each set I add four reps of presses from the chest just to be cordial. I’m not a bad person once you get to know me. Hey, I’m using that bench, chump!!!
A stealthy shift to the Olympic bar for full-range wrist curls, four sets x 25, 20, 15, 12 reps and I’m in the wind.
Make that a breeze, a slight stir in the air, a puff.
Take good care of yourself. Beware the oppressor. Never give up your freedom.
God Bless America and her friends.
The Bomber
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