Draper here -- Training in the Timeless Trenches
Lions roar, bears growl, badgers shriek, pigs squeal, hyenas scream, owls hoot, eagles call… I can go on… cats hiss, wolves howl, dogs snarl, girls whine (ha… bomber joke) and ironheads groan like wounded buffalo.
At last, the sun is out, my cold is gone, the workouts are in and my spirits are up. All I needed last week was a hardy IronOnline groan (rant) to release the tensions, disperse the toxins, dispel the pains and feel tingly all over.
Now we can focus on the theme of this week’s newsletter, the things we don’t do that we did do five years ago. It’s sensible to glance in the rearview mirror occasionally, not necessarily to see where we’ve been, but to see where we’re going.
Whoa… smudgy reflection.
Let’s see… the don’ts… I’ll go first: I don’t deadlift five plates, I don’t squat four plates, I don’t bench three plates, I don’t overhead press two plates and I don’t curl one plate as I did five years ago. I don’t eat 400 grams of protein a day, I don’t run a mile a day, I don’t blast the gym floor six days a week and I don’t work 24/7/365.
I’m a bum!
I feel like I’ve stepped over the edge, I’m in freefall, and I’m about to hit bottom. This is very depressing. I propose a revised topic, gang: The things I shall do that I have not done before. As I always say, ’tis wiser to plan ahead than look back. Onward and forward, up and over.
Who said it’s all about me, eight I-somethings in that teensy paragraph? It gets worse.
[*V*] {:=> <\:>) c/;<( >bis’ntris> )‘*U*’( ’nlats “\^l^/” ’npecs. (^V*) ‘/*O*\’
The above notations are computer-generated doodles, time-wasting scribbles of a mind with nothing to say or do, and nowhere to go. The only solution to my dilemma is a trip to the gym. You’re welcome to join me if you’ve got nothing better to do and nowhere to go. Together, we can groan and share deep thoughts.
Last week I went to a hardcore Gold’s Gym in another county just to be wild and crazy. I’m that kind of guy. It was late in the day when the after-work crowd cruises the floor to do their thing. I cleverly wore a plain, brown, eco-friendly paper bag over my head to conceal my identity and prevent commotion. Works like a charm. No one came near me, no one said a word.
An inconspicuous part of the crowd, I was able to enjoy an intense and concentrated workout while simultaneously scoping the actions of the resident lifters. My workouts have lost heat this summer and I need some new moves and grooves to set them on fire. My plan is to observe and assimilate the latest techniques and methodologies, apply them with intelligence and an open mind; study them, sharpen them, isolate, combine and glean them, and present them to you in their final, absolute working state.
The big guy with a chest the size of a 50-gallon drum did bench presses. That’s a new one on me. The lady with the tight butt… no, not butt… err… bottom… no, not bottom… cute buns… no buns, umm... with the slim figure was on the spin bike. Unique… mark that down on the list. The overgrown kid with the bulging arms was doing standing barbell curls like an animal. Cutting edge… deserves an asterisk. Oh, looky over there -- bar on back, down and up. I’ll call that the squat.
Omigosh… Information overload… Out-of-control creativity... Inspiration gone wild... Too much, too soon, too fast!
The only difference from the Muscle Beach Dungeon is 50 years, wide-screen digital TVs replace the 40-watt light bulbs and the spiff lifters readjust their musical earphones between sets, make calls on their cells (I’m at the gym in the front of the BodyMaster multi-purpose chest, back, shoulder, arm thingy. Where are you?), check their messages, tweet and text and connect with imaginary friends on facebook. Tippy, tippy, tap, tap…
Give me a break.
Science has brought us a long way. The machines are in order like a proficient, high-production, unionized assembly line. All we really need are hunky barbells and dumbbells and renewed spirits, mondo courage, determination and perseverance, focus and attention and passion and purpose. Science can take a mc-squared leap.
Call me old-fashioned, stubborn, hard-headed and boring. There I sat with the bag pulled tightly around my ears and noted nothing new in the sophisticated, extravagant, zippy muscle emporium: flexed lats and tris, conceit and insecurity, energy and fatigue, pumps and burns; sets, reps and supersets, groans, grins and glaring, and flirting and staring.
There’s nothing new under the sun, as Solly, one of my heroes from the early days, once remarked to a curious audience. That does not mean that which is not new is old, beat up and unworthy, B-40s. To the knowledgeable, I’m convinced it means they are tried and true. But what do I know, I with a paper bag over my head.
I tuned into a longtime favorite, the bluesy-jazzy iron rhythms of the low-profile, light-weight, high-exertion, bag man dumbbell blast. Got your attention, didn’t I?
It goes like this: Grab a pair of friendly dumbbells (25s-35s) and a solitary bench in a mellow section of the gym. Lie flat and do the following exercises for sets of six reps without putting the dumbbells down -- you’re focused on form, a slow and steady pace, exact muscle recruitment, faultless movement transition, oxygen reservation and maximum exertion and peace of mind.
Fly to sides, fly from 45-degree midway angle, straight-arm dumbbell pullover from the rear, flat presses, abbreviated flat-bench curl and lying one-arm triceps extension.
Release the dumbbells and do a set of hands-under-the-butt leg raises for 15 to 25 reps. Sit up, relax the muscles, restore your oxygen and adjust your crumpled, disheveled paper bag.
Great routine when your muscles are fresh and responsive, but your head is dead. The uncomplicated and uninterrupted movement draws you into the action, and the feel-good responses and reflexes engage and soothe your mind and soul. By the time the pain sets in, you’re burning for more.
Four or five sets of these far-reaching firebrands, incrementing the weight if you’re wild and crazy, and it’s time to split the scene -- enough of this bizarre world of iron-madness.
“Hey, dude, where’d ya get the paper bag?”
Tweet you! DD@boomboom.bomb
>>> after my spectacular departure >>>
“Who was that bagged man?”
“That was Whatshisname, the chubby hubby of the famous humanitarian, publisher and webmaster, Laree Draper.”
“No way. LD, the Tower of Power?”
“Yeah, way. Her!”
Ignore them… Godspeed... Me
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