Noise, Aka, Thinking Out Loud
Heavyweight boxer Mike Jameson, Dave and World Champion kickboxer Francis Farley
Local boys, mid-'90s
Download the full Draper here newsletter
in printable, live-link, pdf format, here.
Time is flying by (unless, of course, you’re spending life in the state penitentiary, trapped in a stalled elevator with a serial killer, or caught in LA traffic at 5PM) and the only fix to the mad rush is to hop on board and go for the ride.
“Stop and smell the roses” is a cute little ditty for Auntie Sue on her 60th, but it’s smarter to grab the roses and smell them along the way. Let’s face it, we stop to take a whiff and somebody snatches our bench and dumbbells and pump. No way, Jose. Move it or lose it!
Next thing you know, I’ll be texting the newsletter instead of writing, editing and sending it. Hmmm. Gain a whole new generation of dive-bombers... or not, big on the not. What do they care about barbell curls supersetted with skull-crushers? On second thought, they might like the thought of skull-crushers.
Recently I gave up the fool’s deed of trying to slow down time. Time under scrutiny and heedless urging becomes an elephant in the room moving at its own inexorable pace and is no more amenable to my persuasion than the hands of the Big Clock in the sky. I, instead and with refreshing relief, have chosen to synchronize myself with the rhythmic beat of daily living.
I’m more focused. I’m less frantic. I no longer suppose I’ll miss it all because it’s all going too fast, faster than I want. I am no more in control, but I am no longer out of control. I’m relaxed. I fit into the months, weeks and days, the minutes and moments peacefully, willingly and comfortably.
I’m free.
What’s come over me, you ask? To what do I owe my dazzling liberation? I’ve seen the light, bombers; I’ve had a revelation, an awakening, an inner experience. I’m alive, a new man, a revitalized being.
Well, not exactly. I’m groping for subject matter and the newsletter deadline is approaching at the speed of one of those stampeding, snorting and slobbering metaphorical room-bound elephants, which triggered my silly excursion into the fleeting-time charade. I feel better now, thanks.
Moving forward without skipping a beat, as I reconcile myself to the swiftness of time, I seek to adjust to my loss of bodyweight. Yeah, I know, two thirds of the world’s population wishes they had the problem. I know why I lost weight, besides not having an appetite and eating like a canary: I no longer squat and my leg workouts have been limited to save-the-heart, no-max leg presses. No real systemic work, no major comprehensive muscle demand. Rats! Furthermore, deadlifts went the way of the squat, down the narrow, twisted and rutted road to the pits.
There ain’t no sunshine in the pits, pretty mama. It’s cold, dark and damp down there.
I’ve got a plan: Plan A.
Feeling a tad better for the first time since the pre-op stone-age of early 2007 -- improved balance and faint signs of breathing -- I might throw a bar on my back and see if I can go up and down. I’m curious, not stupid. If I pass that little challenge, I might just attempt lifting the lifeless thing off the floor.
Ugh! Bending over has a way of bunching up the heart and lungs and stomach and intestines and diaphragm and all the other vital parts stuffed in that small area, making it particularly difficult to breathe... gasp... and lift. Hey, the good thing is the ‘area’ is relatively small, a nifty byproduct of losing weight. My butt is gone, also. Bye-bye, butt. Hello, droopy drawers.
Today is Saturday. Tomorrow, Sunday, I shall go to the gym, while everyone else on the planet is watching the Super Bowl, and set myself to Plan A, the suspicious struggle against the stealthy steel.
I reveal these idiotic things because I suspect they might be of encouragement, assistance or interest to those of you who wear bifocals, bear canes at their sides or carefully sip their Bomber Blend with a straw. God gives strength to the humble. Furthermore, I love to talk about me, myself and I, and it provides material for my adorable taskmaster, the editor-in-chief, who runs a tight ship, the able aircraft carrier, the SS Bomberoo.
Squats or not, deadlifts or bust, I shall be moving steel with zeal in the days ahead. Swoosh, the B-68 in flight.
The Super Bowl has come and gone (cold evidence that time does fly... hop on board). The whozits won and the whatsits lost, and I didn’t squat or deadlift. I wanted to, I planned to, I threatened to, I coaxed and begged, but no physical part of me agreed. I attached the Top Squat to the Oly bar (yes), I set up the rack, safeties in place (yes); I affixed my thick leather power belt (yes, yes) and slipped under the bar (yes, yes, yes).
No. Not today. Not ready, Freddy. I looked in the mirror and my legs looked like sticks and my arms looked like twigs. My eyes said “what are you doing,” and my mouth said “he’s goin’ down.” I got outta there fast before going down for good, which is bad, and engaged the Bodymaster leg-blaster, a super unit for the temporarily squat-impaired seeking to regain their lost groove, mass and strength... or any part thereof. Pheew... close call.
I had a delightful time wheezing, gasping and straining without collapsing or complaining. Adding leg extensions, curls and calf-raise look-alikes and I was in paradise.
Hello, Plan B.
My just-developed back-to-squat plan includes the above workout once a week and the every-other-day performance of high-rep, freehand squats with as little hand support as possible. I must confess, I’ve faltered on my leg training sessions because they are demanding, exhausting, unappealing and pukey. But I think the time has come to reinstall the buggers with good purpose and conscience.
Health and function are my primary motivators. Plus, I miss the performance and wizardry of the magnificent Top Squat, the best thing for squatting next to the Olympic bar -- technically, snugly and poetically next to the Olympic bar.
Oh, there’s one other reason: I overheard a pudgy, absurd, ill-informed lifter say, “You know you’re old when you can’t squat anymore.”
Go in silence, bombers, or go loudly. Just go... Godspeed... DD
Last blast: If I do squat successfully in the future, you can be sure I’ll have man-made pain the dimension of the ever-growing Himalayan glaciers and Amazon rain forests combined. Will the madness ever end?
---
Did you know Bomber Blend will provide the least expensive and most nutritious meals in your daily eating regimen? It’s not an added extravagance to your food budget; it reduces your budget and improves your nutritional intake. It builds lean, strong and shapely muscle. Regular servings of Bomber Blend raise your IQ and enable you to time travel. Made into a poultice and smeared on the scalp will prevent baldness and kill tics. Good stuff.
Scoop the blend into a glass, stir and drink with pleasure and satisfaction, when you need to, want to or should. All the time.
Soak yourself in a taste of bodybuilding’s Golden Era with Dick Tyler’s on-the-scene record, written in his easy-going, one-of-a-kind style, West Coast Bodybuilding Scene.
Take a trip over to our
New Musclebuilding Q&A Blog
... where Dave allows us a peek into his email outbox.
Did you sign up for Dave's expanded email yet?
It's free, motivating and priceless!
We'll also send you a link to Dave's free
Body Revival Tips and Hints e-report with your confirmation notice.