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Monday afternoon, sun’s on fire and I’m recuperating from a tense ’n tight (TNT) workout completed just an hour ago. It was a blast and, having showered, refueled and assumed my place in the sun, I ponder my worth and that of my workout. Was my worth based on my subsequent aches and pains, I’d be a rich man… a very rich man indeed, whose stocks are rising moment by excruciating moment. Yow ouch, mama! The word skyrocketing comes to mind.
The training session, one of those push-pull dandies I’ve been coddling lately, was first class. Neat and clean, effective and entertaining, short on time, sweet to the taste and absolutely agonizing. As always, before initiating the deliciously horrific scramble, I assured myself I would dutifully attend my health, sensibly stir up the iron and sanely stimulate the muscular system, that is, whatever remains of the retreating sore loser.
One thing I’ve learned living with myself all these years: Don’t believe a word I say.
This particular tail-spinning B72, having endured more than its share of clashes and collisions in peace and war, is limited to 40 minutes in the steel-zone twice a week. It’s the law. Longer than 45, and the consequences are ugly. Got that?
I nod my reluctant approval.
Cunning as a fox, I simply apply super-squeeze methodology (SSQ), performing as many exercises, sets and reps as possible in the trim yet treacherous time frame. Explicit Prerequisites: absolute focus, total clarity, immaculate execution, unequivocal purpose, action absent regret and a big smiley face. You can administer CPR or electroshock, introduce smelling salts or inject adrenaline, but you can’t outsmart Super Bomber. He’ll train if it kills him.
My most recent good fortune is the receipt of a Disabled Driver Tag (DDT), which I display proudly from the rearview mirror as I pull directly in front of the gym. You must earn one of these puppies; they don’t grow on trees. Step aside, you amateur old-timers who are yet to be cane-certified or Disabled Driver-identified. The nifty privilege makes in-and-out a quick and easy task, allowing me to super-squeeze to the very last second, as the frantic stagger in return to my wheels has been effectively diminished.
Okay, enough adjectives and adverbs in my tedious and exasperating gesture to prep you for the hunky clunky cascade ahead.
Needed: One 50-pound dumbbell -- plus or minus, according to need -- one bench, 40 minutes and innumerable bombers. Ready, on your mark, get set, go. This is so much more fun than soccer.
Start: Bend over with one hand on the bench for support and perform the royal one-arm dumbbell row, left to right, with full range of motion. That is, to be clear, total extension and tight contraction, not that sissy partial version I see thinly varnished lifters do these days in public on the gym floor. Seriously! Back and bis are furiously collaborating and the torso is obliged. From here, a firm beginning, sit and heave the mostly agreeable dumbbell overhead into a two-handed hold. Here, recalling masterful full range of motion and no regrets, knock out six repetitions with style and class.
You’re creating and developing horseshoe triceps, after all.
Grinning, settle the compact load on your knees, kick back and lying the length of the bench with the feet up, continue your kinetic motion with the beloved straight-arm pullover. Stretch, and pull and contract. The repeated stretching and the lungs filling with air is healthy, energizing and gratifying. Meanwhile, the bis and tris, lats and pecs coordinate forces for the heavy lifting and muscle engagement. After six reps, the straight-arm pullover morphs into a bent-arm triceps extension, the back of the arms assuming the extra load in the positive shift. Six reps, pump and burn. I’m in love.
No time for dawdling as the SSQs rage on. Stand dumbbell-free, and lean against the nearest immovable object like it was your 4x4 on empty, 50 yards from the gas station. Push, push, push, engaging your knowing and ready muscle and power, push, push, almost there, push, push, push, till you’re beside the pump, 4.29 a gallon in sunny Golden California. Do six rhythmic sissy squats and pay the man behind the counter. Cash, no credit cards.
Three or four applications of the six-ply remedy should be enough for what ails you, if it doesn’t kill ya.
Put the dumbbell away when you’re finished and don’t forget to turn off the music and lights on your way out.
Go… God Speed… D
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