The Beat Goes On
Today, Richard Sorin of Sorinex tells us his Reflections of Zuver's
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I had my first workout at what I expect will be my new iron digs.
Ten miles south in Watsonville is a spotless Gold's Gym with everything, including instruction, child care, aerobic classes and a lap pool in case I need them (if I only had a kid). I know the owners, a strong husband ’n wife duo, from other gym experiences going back 25 years.
The weight room is spacious but not gargantuan, appearing and feeling like a separate gym of its own. What a relief. The alluring yellow-brick-road amenities might as well be in Kansas. The trainees are younger (everybody is younger), orderly, hard-working; no loudmouths or jerks, excluding me… thus far.
“You’re always welcome at my place,” said Eric, the new owner of the former DD World Gym in Scotts Valley. The gym’s a gem, but there are 15 miles of clogged freeway traffic to claw through before my first rep. I suspect I’ll visit on weekends when the road is less traveled. Several dozen Santa Cruz expatriates are there seeking shelter and musclebuilding comfort.
Training assiduously, I seldom make eye contact with fellow lifters on the gym floor. Though I have a powerful personality and I’m admirably secure and self-confident, I fear they might attempt to pierce my mind and discover my vulnerabilities and creepy hang-ups. Screw ’em, I say, and keep to myself. Besides, they may ask some dumb bodybuilding questions like, do you really know Arnold, are you the butcher from Safeway, or you using this bench, bub?
Bub? Really!
Thus, during my very first workout in foreign territory (the outer limits of Watsonville), I kept my head down and bounced off the equipment like a pinball in slow, random motion – bing… bing, bing… bing, bing, bing. I missed clunk and thud, but you take what you can get when you’re both new and old in a mysterious machine.
Seriously confusing! Where am I, who are these unknown faces, what am I doing here?
Not the time or place for wonder, doubt and inquiry, my instincts overcame me like calm in a storm. I grasped a thick rope secured to a cable on the hefty pulley rig, knelt and commenced to tug.
Peace, harmony, resolve; the world around me faded.
There is nothing more comforting and centering than the performance of rope tucks, trisetted with dips and stiff-arm pullovers, especially when one is dislocated, disoriented, discombobulated and deranged. The focus and rhythm, the flexing and exerting require and provide immediate engagement. Safety and sureness, clarity and direction unfold.
Almost forgot: The sweat, pump and burn are precious, and the muscle, strength and health are priceless.
There you are, you little rascal. You can slip and slide, run, hide and fade, but, no, Jo, you cannot go. My mojo: it’s back, Jack.
Breaking News: Bomber Blend plus Ageless Growth overcome the TPDs (Training Plateau Desperation) and MGBs (Muscle Growth Barrenness).
I know what you’re saying: “All Draper does is rope tucks. Is that what I have to look forward to when I’m 70? Sheesh!”
Not so fast, wise guy. Sit down, ya mutt. Listen, and listen good, buster. Before I walked outta Goldie’s joint, I did low incline dumbbell curls for eight reps, heaved the suckers overhead and did wide-arm presses for eight reps and alternate one-arm triceps extensions for four. I put the weights down, 25-pounders, and I was beat bad. Four rounds of those nasty-boys and I was ready to talk.
Ha! Biceps, triceps, chest, shoulders, endurance; the whole mess in one swell foop. I snarled, instead.
It didn’t end there. I took one of the stinking dumbbells in the corner, grabbed onto a rack and proceeded to toss the runt into the air in a dedicated sidearm lateral fashion. Though I focused on the deltoids, I could feel the fire in my arms and torso. This action ain’t for bums; ya gotta be tough. Only the tough survive. Get it? Beat it.
God loves us… The D
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