The Bomber Buster
Mark Cheng Prehab/Rehab 101 Video
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Two things are on my mind, besides wars and rumors of wars. One, how do I thank everyone for their hearty ‘get well’ emails, each one a substantial lift to a slowly descending spirit? The other, dare I leave the comfortable and safe confines of home to go to the gym and confront, engage and embrace the iron?
There’s a logjam of computer correspondence at my fingertips and I’m pleasantly overwhelmed. Rather than respond individually to each winged comrade, I succumb at this very moment and say thanks, big thanks and double extra-large thanks to everyone at once for your concern, prayers and good-wishes. They help big-time. The nasty C has packed its bags and left the building without leaving a trace. Goodbye, good riddance, gonzo!
And this helps, too, bombers: to loudly, clearly and collectively declare my gratitude.
Please send all cash donations to Dave’s 2014 fire-engine-red Harley-Davidson fund. Thx.
The gym and my participation in tossing the iron are yet an unknown. As I sit here tapping away at my complacent ’n compliant keyboard, I consider hopping in the buggy, shooting down Highway 1 to Gold’s and nudging a few hunks of irresistible iron. I’m cool, I’m bad! I’ll be back in a flash, one foot taller, fit as a fiddle and grinning from ear to ear.
Well, not exactly! First things first: I must establish my footing before I arise (you might want to stand back a few feet should I suddenly careen in your direction). Next endeavor, determine my immediate destination and choose the path of least resistance. I take a deep breath, lean forward and I’m off like a oversized gooing toddler in his jammies. This carefully calculated lurch takes me to that grizzly bench aside the backdoor where the struggle to pull sneakers onto my distant feet unfolds. Oomph, ooph! Now, winded, achy and enraged, I am ready to go.
25s, here I come.
There’s another kicker, kiddoes, no pun intended. Once out the door, I can go further, farther and longer and to more places with a cane than without one. I must seriously contemplate engaging the highly distinguishable, contemptuously visible device to aid me from my vehicle to the gym entryway. Oh, bitter vanity, sweet humility! Which is better, to crawl on hand and knee to the heaps of iron or stagger before them with the assistance of a dutiful aluminum cane purchased at Walmart?
A novel idea: The Bomber Buster, a geometric cane ruggedly fashioned from a tried and tired and attractively rusted Olympic bar. The mere use of the implement builds gnarly forearms and exterior deltoids. Imagine you’re shopping at the market and whilst en route from the fresh organic produce department to the butchery featuring grass-fed meats, you come upon an unencumbered post. You can stop, lean and knock out a few whimsical sets of strict, back-supported barbell curls.
Outbursts of elation! Sighs of contentment! Tears of joy!
There are no limits to the versatility and convenience of the BB Buster. Bench presses in the park, bent-over rows at the pharmacy, triceps extensions at the burger joint.
I’m beginning to get a pump and I haven’t left the house yet. Meanwhile…
Zoom, zoom, zoom.
Bim, bam, boom, clink, clank, clunk… thud.
Honey, I’m home.
If you sneezed or yawned, you might have missed my disappearing act. I went to the gym and returned and everything along the way was better than I expected. After a bunch of subtle swerves, several meticulous stumbles and one or two well-placed collisions I managed to superset seated chest presses with wide grip pulldowns, wrist curl with thumbs-up curls, and some mild calf work in between.
I exerted substantially, huffed with sufficiency and puffed with satisfaction.
Super! We’ll have to do this again sometime soon, and on a regular basis. Be careful. Don’t get hooked. This stuff can be habit-forming. Addictive, even.
Cane curls, crutch crunches, God speed… Dave Dunmore
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