Sports and Iron and Playing and Winning
Still photograph from the movie Don't Make Waves
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I’m tempted to go to the gym today because I’m bored, have nothing better to do and no place else to go. Gee, that about sums up my life in a neat little package. For excitement I can stop at the park and feed the pigeons. I’ll pack a picnic—tuna, water and breadcrumbs.
Actually, things are looking up. A few months ago I would have opted to lie down and sleep to overcome fatigue and shortness of breath. If this wild and crazy upswing continues, I might consider returning to Hollywood and filming a beach flick. I’ve got connections.
I can see it now: The Terminator and the Gladiator Go to Hawaii.
Seriously, bombers. I’ll talk to Arnold. He’s almost done governing.
Travel to the gym affords alone time to consider life, solve problems and, if the traffic is nasty, invent new ones. Today my wandering lightweight mind pondered the ironheaded principle “That which does not kill you, only makes you stronger.” You know that little ditty, bombers; you swear by it every time you step into the gravity chamber and grab a handful of metal.
So, I’m thinking: Five years ago the Governor boldly stepped into what he viewed as a den of political lions. The scene quickly descended into a pit full of vipers, a cave teeming with bats and an attic crawling with roaches; a basement swarming with rats, a sea infested with sharks and a sky darkened by vultures. I suspect the Oak will be relieved to ditch the California wildlife.
It didn’t kill him and it made him stronger.
Hard to reason with snakes, bats, roaches and such. Terminating them would be easier, said the polar bear to the spotted owl. Me? I love cats and dogs and horses and barbells and dumbbells.
I arrived at the Weight Room to find the parking lot empty and the rear entryway closed. My heart skipped a beat, did a few flip-flops, rolled over and played dead. That was normal, but the shut double-door in the middle of the day was a very bad sign. I parked the truck. My heart rebooted. I mounted the stairs and found the doors were blown closed by a gust of air.
Hallelujah! Life is a breeze.
I bounded past the doorway like I was entering an arena, propped the wind-whacked wily wascals with 25-pound plates and turned to face the fury. The room was empty of life but full of challenge and daring and silent confrontation. My heart skipped 10 to 12 beats and a chill went up my spine, which is good cuz it’s been numb for six months.
Three guys sat at the juice bar watching the game on TV. I briefly wondered if it was baseball, hockey, basketball or the NFL. Voices raised and someone yelled, “Ghana.” By this time I was engrossed in wraps and grips, my objectives and plan of attack.
Ghana?
The object of my attention appeared like an answer looming on a Magic 8 Ball. Thick, shapely shoulders were clearly envisioned, the center of my force, focus and form.
Of course, little does the dopey 8 Ball know we can’t isolate the shoulders. Vigorous deltoid work insists upon including—more or less and much to my appreciation and approval—arms and back and chest. The more action the better, like that ballgame on the tube before the raging trio.
Don’t they know they’ll never get huge ’n ripped hooting ’n rooting?
Ghana?
If I was a young man, which I am not, despite my sturdiness, vigor, agile comportment, drooping musculature and Photoshop, deception and lies, I would practice cleans and presses with an Olympic bar for maximum muscle growth of the entire body, head to toe. However, considering my audience of readers just might have physical limitations, I offer this routine today.
Note: Has anyone else noticed how shallow the exercise pool has become lately? I think it’s due to heat and evaporation (global warming) and the earth’s diminishing diameter (global shrinking) and excessive oil consumption (global gulping) and carbon production (global dumping). Gee, maybe I should confer with the government before determining and presenting my plan for shoulder growth for worldwide ironheads (global bombing).
No way, Jose. This workout is for everybody, from the Mexican border to the Canadian border, from Iran to North Korea... and Ghana.
Ghana?
Thick-bar bench press (4, 5 sets X 12, 10, 8, 6 reps)
Supersetted with
Seated side-arm lateral raises (4, 5 sets X 10, 8, 6 reps)Incline dumbbell press (4, 5 sets X 12, 10, 8, 6 reps)
Supersetted with
Bent-over laterals (4, 5 sets X 10, 8, 6 reps)
Seated press-behind-necks, slow, partial reps with burning and pumping care and precision (4, 5 sets X 8 reps)
We have front, side and rear shoulders, triceps and chest and upper back in the hopper. Calories are flying and protein is building and stress is in the dumpster and the spirits are soaring. We’re good.
Yes, I know. This routine has been recorded on these pages at another time, a prosperous and inspired time when my secret training methods were first revealed and apportioned to you according to your ability to accept, absorb and apply them. Now you are fully informed and engaged. Feels good, huh?
The only secret remaining is hidden within you: how to perform each individual rep, one after another, precisely and effectively, healthfully and joyfully. Many of us have reached those moments in life when each rep stands alone and is distinct, unique. And only the implementer knows its implementation. It’s all in the groove, the intensity of exertion, the focus and form and attitude.
Think a little, feel a lot, do it all.
Steady as she goes but never a rush; a sufficient load but never too heavy; daring but free of risk; the last rep this side of injury; finesse rather than force; instinct before intellect; premise above submission; clunks and thuds over moans and groans and hanging on before letting go.
The Ghana guys are still at it -- run, jump, score, yippee -- and I’m thumping and bumping out the back door like a used soccer ball after the World Cup.
Ghana?
Come to think of it, I bet the three cheery bums are watching the golf finals down the coast at Pebble Beach. Sheesh. Golf.
Get a sport, Lions, Tigers and Bears… work out… push that iron… lift that steel…
The Bomb
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