Starting a Weight Lifting Routine
I Remember When
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I try to put myself in the shoes of a beginning weight trainer and cannot. I remember myself always as doing chins and dips in my mom’s kitchen in New Jersey. I’d slide one of the chairs with chrome legs and red plastic-covered cushions from the kitchenette to the doorway, enabling me to reach a flat overhead support. My greedy little fingers struggled to maintain purchase as I writhed and wriggled and pulled, getting "one more rep." This is fun stuff.
"What are you doing, Son?"
"Chins,
Ma."
I was
a busy
fellow
and in
due time
two more
chairs
were
arranged
back
to back.
I’d
stand
between
them,
hands
in place,
and,
after
sufficient
oxygenation
and mental
preparation,
leap
into
position
and commence
dipping.
As the
house
was small,
its occupants
many
(five,
including
me),
and my
practice
private,
I invented
a method
whereby
I could
accomplish
my muscle-making
work
in a
condensed
time
span.
I’d
do a
bunch
of chins
till
I burst,
followed
by a
bunch
of dips
till
I burst,
rest
just
enough
and repeat
the wonderfully
nasty
deed
till
I had
drawn
five
lines
in pencil,
one for
each
superset
(cool
name,
I thought)
on a
pad on
the table
top.
Not only
did this
quick-pace
technique
improve
the chances
of privacy,
it was
more
fun and
effective
-- it
hurt
more.
I was
onto
something.
Then came Tarzan and Jane, my steel hand-grippers, the Herculean spring set and that pile of used weights from a neighborhood muscle dropout, and the rest is history, like the Brooklyn Dodgers and fins on Cadillacs. For me to think of life without a burn or pump or the pursuit thereof is like an ordinary kid -- or adult -- considering his day without chocolate or TV.
A new person walks into the gym, uninitiated, unaware, unbroken, innocent and clueless. What can that be like? I mean, they’re familiar with gym settings having seen them as backdrops in TV news stories about health and conditioning, or there’s the gym on the big screen with the hero boldly bench pressing with his lean and beautiful confidant while he details his plan to thwart the enemy. But the yet-to-flex know nothing of how the equipment works or what it does, what the weights feel like in their warm, uncalloused hands or what progressive resistance to their limited efforts will cost or demand.
How foreign, how unlikable and how unlikely is this act; boring, tiring and stupid come to mind... painful and old-fashioned. This is the 21st century, Neanderthals. There must be an easier way: pills, electronic gadgets, medical procedures, lotions, hypnosis, a cute personal trainer. I don’t mind the walking and climbing and swooping on the high-tech machines -- there’s something advanced or scientific or important or legitimate about the LED panel, but weights -- how primitive and sub-human. How gauche. They used this stuff a hundred years ago, along with horse-drawn wagons and mustache wax.
Laying flat on a thinly padded bench with a 45-pound Olympic bar in one’s hands straight over one’s head is one unsure experience for anyone. The cold iron bar feels out of balance and is about to plunge in any direction it leans, and it continuously changes lean and direction with every breath one breathes. "Down" is the command, yet the weight, increasing in heaviness with the lengthening moment, wants to go at once left, right, forward and back. Down she goes with a sudden lurch toward the forehead, instantly overcompensated by a thrust to the right, then left, and settling finally and abruptly on the upper abdominal region. Oomph! Safe... off target, but safe. I can’t breathe, my heart’s pounding, but safe. I’m bad! I’m bad!
Resting at last and presenting no immediate threat, the hopeful fledgling lifter waits for the bar to be removed before continuing to practice his training form. This isn’t so bad once you get used to it, he thinks. "Now press the bar steadily till your arms are fully locked out and directly overhead... repeat this for 8 to 10 repetitions. Go," is the second command issued by the heartless instructor who’s beginning to look like the Slimy Thing from the swamp.
Not to worry. It gets worse. Dumbbell presses are twice as hard, as the dern stumpy iron instruments -- there are two of them, one in each hand -- want to go in every direction, fast, all the time, no matter how hard one tries to control them. That’s why, we are told, they are so dern good for us.
Swell, coach. Let’s go over the stationary bike one more time.
It’s trendy to work out. Young start-up trainees persist in exercising because of the novelty and the befitting nature of the athletic activity; and their high hopes and innocence. They say, "This is a cool and fun sport and having a lean and strong body will be cool and fun, too. Wow! Let’s go to the gym and lift weights." With a little bit of luck, eight out of ten will last three weeks and two will be hooked for the season. There are so many wild distractions when one’s a young boy or a girl. Commitment and discipline are not at the top of the list.
Older exercise start-ups persist because they must. At 30 they feel and look 40, which is not bad compared to their lazy or less-informed neighbor who hasn’t considered or chosen to visit the gym. Their blood pressure has increased with their bodyweight; their energy has decreased with their muscle tone and they need a diversion beyond Reality TV. Sagging and bagging is surely the next neat thing they’ll add to their accumulation of far-too-early mid-life collectibles. It’s gym time, ladies and gentlemen, now that there is one on every corner.
Life is beginning to make sense and they want to stick around to enjoy its promise.
Most kids -- fresh, curious and supple -- jump right in. Men and women, whose experience has alerted them to the trickery of life, sidle up to the heavy metal of the gym world with starched sweatpants, glowing white sneakers and fear -- fear of pain, humiliation, the truth, disappointment, exposure, wasted time, failure... oh, boy, the unkind list goes on.
And then they remember the words of the ancient and revered anonymous Tibetan Monk:
Everyone can and ought to benefit from weight training. It's one of the safest and most direct ways to achieve strength and fitness in one's body, one's mind and one's soul. The activity of lifting weights is simple, challenging and fun and requires only basic training to begin. Skill is gained by continued practice of the fundamentals and understanding is discovered workout by workout, day by day. Few things teach more completely and more indelibly than hard work, diligence and perseverance, the tools of character that come from and are intrinsic to hopeful and significant weight training. Fear not! Be wise, Blast it.
The first rep is the hardest.
Fly high and you can see forever.
God’s speed, bombers... Dave
<<<>>><<<>>>
A sort of true story full of wisdom and inconsistencies from the tablet of an ancient Himalayan priest:
During a severe famine among a devout and disciplined people of the northern slopes of the great Himalayas, it was revealed during deep meditation that an abundance of fine food was stored in the cold recesses of a cave closed by a rock fall. Access was thought impossible due to the great weight of the stones wedged against the cave’s entryway and the hopes to endure the winter without sustenance were grim. "We live, we die," was the acceptance of the stoic and unflinching tribes.
One man stood before the mound of fractured granite and considered its unique formation. "Should I start at the top and one by one push each rock away from the slope, the opening to the cave will be cleared," he concluded. "I can do this with patience, hard work and great strength in my triceps."
He returned to his village and commenced the task of building his triceps muscles in the fastest and wisest way known to enlightened mankind. He diligently applied the Stealth TriBlaster.
The rugged and handsome, two-inch thick-handled steel apparatus was quickly attached to his cable system, whereupon he performed every variety of pulley pushdown and cable extension his mind and body could devise. The comfort, grip variation and sense of power enabled him -- nay, inspired him -- to build big and build quick.
Wasting no sunrise or sundown, it wasn't long before the same man climbed the forbidding rock pile, flexed his muscular and powerful triceps and pushed his way rock-by-rock to the bottom. With the entryway clear -- a beautiful sight, indeed -- the precious food stores were distributed among the hardy and grateful men, women and children.
The TriBlaster, when not serving to build cave-clearing muscle and might, was used as a corn crusher, as a door stop, a paperweight, a decorative wall-hanging, an anchor and a wheel-block to prevent wagons from rolling down northern slope.
Everyone should have the grip-tight, black, slick Stealth TriBlaster.
We live, we grow.
You've seen the Blaster, right?
And you can grab yourself some Bomber Blend elixir here
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