Muscles Are Forever
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Let’s see, what should we talk about this week? I just had a flash: I’ll tell you how to secretly build ridiculously colossal arms ASAP. Curls and triceps extensions till you burst, eat right and rest well. Kind of a short message, boring yet to the point.
Other choices from my list of unique and seldom-discussed muscleman topics are “getting huge and ripped faster than tweeting,” “lats as broad as Netflix bandwidth” and, last but not least, “bombastic cannonball delts by Friday, Saturday at the latest.”
Better yet, I’ll tell you what I know for sure. And I suspect the chances are good that the subject matter has occurred to you somewhere in the lean and striated recesses of your mind: Does old age commence, and if so, when? Is it as much fun as they say? What would the Bomber do if he were to confront that revolting predicament?
Here’s a short, nail-biting story I just conjured up. I was 58 years old when Laree and I stumbled onto the internet and created that first web page on davedraper.com. I wrote Brother Iron Sister Steel during the same time, and the year 2000 was brand new. The point? Most newsletter readers are younger than I was then, and injury and time’s wear and tear were by no means a novelty to me -- elbow surgery, surgery to mend a torn biceps and supraspinatus, congestive heart failure, three stent procedures and eventually open-heart surgery and the attending drag on vigor and might.
Did I forget to mention prostate cancer, radiation and melanoma? The L2-L5 spinal laminectomy and stenosis? Have Cane, Will Travel.
Are we there yet?
Skirting obstacles, I kept on chugging with spirit and sass until age 64. Big squat (425) and big deadlift (500), big smile and hard body at 220. It was then (hold onto your hat) I noticed without surprise the certain and increased regularity of Aging, capital A, and its consequences. Oh, the wicked woes of waning, wobbling and withering.
Solution? Solution! There must be a solution, a tricky fix, a cunning evasive movement, a sneaky way out.
Nope. No exotic formula, kids, beyond rarely applied commonsense. None. Zero. Nada.
After the initial and mandatory rounds of painful and exhausting brawling to fend off the bully, I yielded and accepted the indisputable process of maturing. I released the shrieking super ego and its relentless demands and sought its whimsical twin cousins, wellbeing and quality of life.
Joy and Wisdom are their names.
Look forward to fewer and trimmer workouts, lighter weights, naturally improving focus and form, and training efficiency and purpose. Stick to the basics and push, press and pull, but don’t break. Warm up with hopeful and faithful gratitude (thank you, Lord), stimulate the muscles you’ve earned and stored, urge them sensibly (git along little doggies), and rest assured.
Eat right (high protein, medium good fats and good carbs, no junk); supplement with fish oil, and other basics if you need them. Those vaunted ’n trendy esoteric ingredients confuse me (ground hoof of wild bull for endurance, Asian bongo tree root for striations) and cause doubt, whereas the simple fundamentals clearly rule and serve us splendidly.
My workout these days, affectionately called The Rhino, Mule and Workhorse Romp, looks like this.
Rhino: Lying stiff-arm pullover (six reps), lying triceps extension (six reps), bent-arm pullover and triceps-chest press (six reps), all using a short Olympic bent bar totaling 50 pounds. Three complementary movements are combined to form one generous extended set. Three rounds of the triple-header, four, if I’m exceedingly sparkly, and I’m primed, pumped and psyched. Light weights work wonders when we work wonderfully. Gleam.
Mule: Standing bent-bar curls for three sets of 12 fully engaged reps. Delicious, particularly when there’s a whisper or shout of muscle and familiarity already established, and you don’t face a pile of gnarly supersets of endless reps and forced reps as the sun goes down and rises again on your youth. Grin.
Workhorse Romp: Seated on the bench end, legs spread for stability and with a forward lean for direction of force, I perform one-arm lateral raises applying sufficient body thrust to more fully involve the torso muscles. Three sets, back and forth for six to eight repetitions with tight contractions and persistent negatives. Groan.
That’s it. Naturally sweet, obligingly concise, fiery as a match stick. No race, no competition, no grand expectations, no bombing, blitzing and blasting. No burden, no blues; no confrontation, no pre-workout procrastination, no post-workout recrimination.
What’s left?
Contentment! Today! Tomorrow!
God bless us more and more.
Dave Draper
B73 Bomber
*****
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