Partial Movement, Partial Muscle
On the set of The Monkees, photo by Henry Diltz
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I descended the hillside and ventured out of town recently, and by early afternoon found myself down the coast dumbbell-handed in a good-size muscle gym. There were a couple-dozen people spread across the floor, mostly guys in their 20s and mostly on the iron. A few cardio apparatus grated in the periphery by the agonizing insistence of the faithful.
They were a fit bunch, earnest at the task and demonstrating no disorderly conduct. Decent tunes filled the air at an agreeable volume and several muted TVs hung overhead displaying sports reruns to the interest of no one. Black, off-white and grey were the predominant colors; daylight filtered through walls of tinted glass. Clang, oomph, jangle, thud. I felt comfortable as I grabbed a pair of 25-pound dumbbells and shuffled to an inconspicuous bench for a 35-minute onslaught of curls, extensions, presses, pullovers and lateral raises.
Got to serve the master (also known as the addiction, slave-driver, habit, the tyrant, beast, iron goddess, peacemaker, madness, love affair... and, occasionally, sheer ecstasy).
Between my panting breaths and silent grunts, and without judgment or criticism, I observed the scenery. What a bunch of mutts. Where’d they learn how to lift iron? The girls’ dormitory, cooking class, Toys ‘r Us, Howdy Doody Time?
Just kidding!
Yes, the nose-diving B-71 was jealous, indeed. Twenty-something and the world was at their grasp. The mutts. I should slip some Super No-Gro in their water while they play clinky-clanky-clunky. The mutts.
Seriously, I was encouraged and hopeful. Not one guy or gal was lingering, languishing or lounging. They huffed and puffed, urging and edging the weights across the gym floor. There were some stern faces, one or two did the ‘I’m-huge’ lumbering stroll or the ‘check-me-out’ lat spread ’n sway and I noted a dirigible or two and several pencil necks. But most were lumpy and fit and went intently about their biz.
I didn’t detect any roidiness, now that you mention it (I’m sure I heard your whisper). Very cool.
One comment regarding the training I witnessed (were you to force me to reveal by threatening my life) would be this: They did partial movements, which I believe was evident in the sameness of their muscle development.
Did I say lumpy?
The partial movements were everywhere: incomplete curls, unlocked presses, half-squats, short rows, three-quarter pulldowns, unfinished uprights, limited laterals, restricted extensions, choppy chins, shallow dips and micro-motion machine this ’n that.
Why?
They don’t know what they’re missing. Do they think partial movements are a shortcut, straightforward and sufficient? Are complete movements a nuisance, exasperating, unnecessary? What’s that all about?
Oh, well. So they leave out the beginning and the end. Big deal, though I have a sneaky suspicion they -- the start and the finish -- are where it’s at. You get what you pay for, brothers and sisters.
The joy and reward, health and value of complete movement, full range of motion, total extension and tight contraction were entirely absent. Muscles on fire, lungs filling with air, vigorous pumping and burning, blood flowing fully from insertion to muscle-belly to attachment -- none were present.
Inner shouts, “I’m alive, I’m alive!” ...no evidence.
Stop, look and listen, ironchild. Are they the sights and sounds of mid-summer? Grab a handful, load up your arms, before they slip away -- laughter, swimming holes, bare feet, suntan, t-shirts and shorts, barbeques, marshmallows and mosquitoes, the ice cream truck, drive-in theater, long days, hot nights, running, playing, vacation.
One day you’ll wake up and bells will be jingling and a snowman will be knocking at your door. Ho ho ho.
God Speed we go... Dave D
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