Q: What is the IRS? A: The Inner Reverse Squat
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Rain, wind and fire, tornados and quakes torment the earth, and where natural disasters fall short, the slobbering occupants pick up the slack with decadence, violence and war. Same old story, a cheesy re-run; we've seen the movie before and no one proposes a new script.
Seriously. Why bother lifting weights, eating right and being nice to your neighbor? Nobody cares. Nobody knows. We're doomed.
I watched a roving FOX-TV camera crew interview a cross-section of people on Time Square last week, a couple of dozen average citizens including Berkeley and NYU students, a tidy 30-something mom and a chipper tech support guy. They never heard of Benghazi; Syria sounded familiar -- one gal shaking her head, wishing they would just get their acts together; two Berkeley undergrads stared at each other when asked who the vice president was (wha?). All admitted they didn't know the name of the attorney general and half guessed the letters DOJ stood for the Department of Justice.
Lois Lerner? Isn't she the blonde co-star of Two Broke Girls?
Bingo, boomer bombers and blustery blasters! I did it. Cunningly, I've achieved my foremost goal and I thank you for your generous contribution. I goaded my seething world rage and you listened patriotically. I am now thoroughly prepared to attack the gym and pummel the weights as if they were the enemy at large.
When things are looking grim, I grab a fistful of iron. And when things are looking hopeless, I grab a fistful of steel. It's halfway through 2013 and I stomp about with iron in one hand and steel in the other. They call me Metal Mitts, the Cruising Crusader.
I've must admit the above Q ’n A sounds like my first interview 50 years ago. Today I know too much, which is nothing at all, and it scares me to death.
To Gold's I go, within the walls of which lay the speechless and motionless antagonizers, the mute and shrouded implements of offense, the inimitable and daunting bars, dumbbells and plates, pulleys and gadgetry. I'll seize them one by one as they appear before me, and take joy in the confrontation. No plan, no strategy, no mercy, no submission.
It's mid-week, early in the afternoon and the gym is humming. Humming is good, buzzing is bad, screaming is unbearable. I make my way across the battlefield to an outpost where pulleys are abundant. Here I can hang on and hang in, pull, tuck and extend for 30 minutes without having to plod long distances, which kills time and consumes precious energy.
Three multi-sets of six exercises are packed into the half-hour, the reps are both high and low (6-20 reps) and all are thoughtful. Nothing enters my mind but the movement and it's precise performance; the muscles engaged and their tight contractions; my breathing and burning and pumping.
As I switch movements, there's always an appropriate apparatus at my fingertips -- rope, single handle or wide bar attached to an overhead or adjustable pulley. I pause just long enough between sets to acknowledge my heart and its health and my lungs and their readiness. This is the tough part for me. Muscle intensity and overload without gasping or panting. Good Lord!
Close-grip/under-grip pull down, wide-grip pull down, rope tuck, seated lat row, triceps extension and sissy squat.
... Are we done yet? Can I go home now?
In one throbbing piece, I'm off to another outpost, a bench where sitting is required, and the adroit handling of a barbell and a pair of dumbbells. I will not go into the entertaining details of the heavy weight I adroitly handled. Let me just say one can surely get a satisfactory beating from light weights when one needs to.
Barbell wrist curls, seated dumbbell alternate curls and one-arm overhead triceps extensions all in one neat, dedicated spot. Three sets x 12, 8-10, 12 max-intense reps.
I'd do more, but I cannot. Besides, my hour is up. Even if I could do more, I would not. Why should I? It would be more than I need or want to do. It would be too much. It's been done. Now is the time for good food, plenty of rest, healthy thinking and fulfillment from good deeds practiced.
The next triumph is only a heartbeat away.
Be awake, be aware, be strong, be bop-a-lula... Dave
*****
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
Have you ever thought about opening you own gym business, either 10,000 square feet downtown or a personal training facility in your refurbished double-wide garage? You love the iron, muscle and might and know exactly how they work. You can do this, a dream come true.
Daydreams come and go like sets and reps. But if this one persists -- providing and teaching strength and health, here and now -- proceed smartly and surely. Or not at all. Your very next move (after your terrific workout, of course) should be to seek the advice and business know-how of Thomas Plummer and Associates.
Thom's my long-time bud.
Iron's not enough, folks; you need more than a bench, a cable and a personal trainer's certification. You need simple yet specific business know-how, marketplace awareness, people skills and sales savvy; this trick and that trick, these tips and those hints from the chief gym-maker himself, Thomas Plummer. He learned, discovered and invented this stuff while ironheads like me were doing curls and presses.
Final word of encouragement: Don't you dare open a gym biz without Thom standing by your side. That clank-clunk you hear is not the sound of dumbbells in action.
It's the doors closing.
New lecture video here:
Thomas Plummer: The Business of Training Video
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