Pull Over, Mack. You’re Speeding
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Driving judiciously down the freeway at the legal speed limit (plus 5-10 mph or so) on the way to the famous Weight Room, I consider my 1993 six-cylinder pickup truck a contribution to the nation’s economy, welfare and character. First of all, sparkling maroon in color, it’s a bright and handsome workhorse; its construction is safe, solid and functional, its gas-consumption is agreeable and its environmental impact is inoffensive. It is also paid for: no loan, no debt, no interest, no hardship, no nonsense. It’s mine.
Did I mention it adds to the driver’s high spirits and rugged appearance? I keep a chainsaw and a few logs in the truck bed.
I could crisscross our purple mountains and fruited plains in comfort, efficiency and style and park the humble rig under the towering redwoods of my front yard, check the oil, take the hose to it and do it all over again. This class of independence and contentment -- slowly, steadily, sadly being wrenched from our grasp -- is a becoming reflection of all-American prudence, discipline, responsibility, self-sufficiency and commonsense. It is, too, the antithesis of arrogance, self-indulgence, obtuse materialism, which tackles and shackles good men and great nations.
I don’t like cheap, but I hate self-indulgent. I don’t like stingy, but I hate spoiled rotten.
It is suggested by the upscale folks in America’s Capitol that my stick shift, oldie-but-goodie -- a product of my good sense and values -- is a clunker and I dump it in trade for a new critter costing an additional 25,000 dollars of hard-earned, well-saved cash (funny money), or a handy-dandy, E-Z P-Z government loan. Gee, that’s what I’ll do as we claw our way out of the Devil’s pit of recession, oppression and depression... buy a new-fangled, dull green SUC (Stupid Undersized Car). Putt-putt.
Note: Best deals on GM and Chrysler, while the companies last.
Hello, Joe, whadaya know? My destination, the iron-oxidized rustarium, just as I left it last time I was here. And there’s my favorite parking place next to the dumpster and recycling bin. Hope nobody grabs my spiff ride and stuffs it among the recyclables. I’ll be walking, but I’ll be serving the global economy.
As my eyes adjust from the glare of the noonday sun to the cool shadows of the Weight Room, I see a half-dozen faces I recognize. This is good; non-combative companions in quest of strength and courage and liberation. Iron is everywhere in various configurations, and the characters I know well, yet hardly at all, are attentively shifting the deadweight about as if its repositioning was vitally important.
Job well done, diligent and mighty servants.
One might say, a doctor or lawyer for example, “Why bother, what’s the use?” But wait; one is a lawyer, another a doctor, and the sturdy fellow in shorts works circles around Wall Street from his computer in his oceanfront home. Get this: 30 years ago he won Mr. Santa Cruz. I was a judge.
The guy who owns the joint is a Lieutenant with the Santa Cruz Police Department. “Get down on the ground... Now!” And the pretty gal behind the front counter, his wife, is, of course, the chief.
I feel best these days when I restrict my workouts to 60 minutes, but I bump them to 75 ‘cus, alas, I don’t attend the distant gym as often as I would like. Gotta make sparks fly while the metal’s at hand, I always say. Any dimwit whose head’s totally comprised of muscle would make the treacherous journey to the iron pits more often, but not this Americore reject.
Note: For 25 years, till 2006, I traversed the notorious north-south route no less than five days a week, sometimes six. Clever child.
Come September, when the weather changes and the traffic subsides, I’m considering a four-day-a-week routine to satisfy the spoiled brat within. I’m a cranky little monster when limited to three sketchy and gaspy workouts a week.
Today I shall skip my usual push-and-pull mix (incline dumbbell presses and pullovers, military presses and pulldowns, or some other stunning exercise combination) and focus on one-arm rows, one-arm lateral raises and one-arm cable crossovers supersetted with one-arm cable pulls.
I like single-arm training. It allows me to totally direct the muscle’s engagement, exactly position myself to accommodate the desired action, or improvise a novel action, apply all ready resources (especially oxygen) to the workload and enjoy the affects of the unique motion. And, there’s a distinctive core demand when resistance is exerted exclusively from the left or from the right.
I promise I won’t get into it, but some guy told me different brain functions are involved in the single-arm, isolated movements and are responsible for stimulating different and, thus, increased muscle growth. Yup! Search me; I was just a fresh-from-Jersey import at Weider Barbell Co on 5th Street in Santa Monica doing my job -- selling a 3-in-1 exercise bench -- when the 40-some customer, a brain specialist at UCLA, tells me in 30 seconds or less of convoluted medical terminology that I could count on it.
I was 240, dumb as a rock and had just found my way to the Muscle Beach Dungeon (one block over and three blocks down). I forgot to jot down the details.
Single-arm, or one-arm or single-side training -- whatever -- is also a valuable technique when dealing with injury. I prefer alternate dumbbell curls for this reason, the right biceps a grouch since it went under the knife 10 years ago. My left deltoid is equally troublesome, refusing to forgive me for overloading it like it was a mule. Beloved lateral raises are, thus, impossible unless I go one delt at a time. In concert, they scream at each other; singly, they sing their own song.
The “stray from the norm” tactic in and of itself has remarkable benefits: The odd synergistic rightness of following one’s instincts and desires and needs without wasting one’s time, falling off the wagon or crashing into a wall; the sense of being on a daring adventure, yet unafraid and confident; a relief of sorts from knowing well, too well, what’s next.
“I’ve seen this movie, it’s a good movie and I know the plot, the characters, the beginning and the end. Wake me when it’s over, Rover.”
Speaking of movies, sports fans, Laree just sent her completed DVD master of the Dan John Seminar to the duplicators and inspiring, high-quality discs will be available before the end of the month. The line forms to the right; details to follow.
And no pushing, pulling or rowdy behavior, bombers! Save it for the gym...
Popcorn... Dave Davio David
THE BEST KEPT SECRET -- TOP SECRET TOP SQUATS
Save your shoulders, be nice to your back, improve your squat, delight in the action and build thunder thighs. Grasp the handles of a Top Squat, settle the padded bar across your back and lower yourself safely, comfortably and precisely to your favorite depth, and in the same way lift yourself up.
You can’t squat -- you will. You squat poorly -- you’ll squat properly. You hate squats -- you’ll adore them. You like squats -- you’ll love them. You love squats -- you’ll marry them.
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