MotorcityAl

1 - Draper here… The Creature from the Black Lagoon

I notice stagnation in my daily workouts, a sudden revelation of a gradual
process. My training has the metallic taste of iron oxide, the useless
feel of junkyard steel, the bland look of ordinary, a clanking sound of
repetition and a moldy smell of time-gone-by. Training stagnation is more
than the cessation of musclebuilding action or progress; it’s a subtle
festering accumulated over time that clings, corrupts and breeds toxins
and disease.

Once recognized amendments must be certain and quick, yet not determined
without serious consideration. Sit and think, pace and wonder. There’s
always a solution. Lean back, tap the fingers and contemplate. Why the
standstill? Why the stall? Knit the brow, squint the eyes and squeeze the
thoughts tightly. What’s missing, what’s wrong?

It never ceases to amaze me, muscleheads; thinking works! I believe I know
the condition my condition is in. Realizing and acknowledging I have a
problem drives the issue to the clear and well-lit foreground. No place to
hid, its examination is swift, and semblances and outlines of a solution
are soon exposed. Let me candidly assemble my thoughts and see what
appears.

I hang on to extra bodyweight -- five to ten pounds, whatever -- to serve
me in the musclebuilding process. You know that. It’s part of my training
credo. A well-planned heavy bodyweight provides more energy and endurance
and mass to blast, greater resistance to injury and illness, fuller
feeding to create and support an anabolic environment, the distinct
psychological advantages of largeness, and the elimination of the
preoccupation and stress of dieting, seeking cuts, veins and other elusive
and maddening objects of perfection. The latter can reduce a friendly and
otherwise sensible human being to a blithering idiot.

Good credo. Beg, roll over, fetch. But along with the rational attachment
to bulk and hulk comes the sneaky desire to be ever-stronger. Fine. That’s
one of the points, after all, to our commitment to lifting weights and
eating like horses -- health and fitness, long life with quality, bigger
muscles and ever-stronger. My problem comes -- might I say, our problem
comes -- when reaching for strength becomes out of reach and
counterproductive.

A typical progression: We seek a personal best in the bench press.
Enthusiasm and inspiration flourish. Eventually, after applying and
exhausting all training methodologies, we reach our limit. Our performance
is respectable, yet unacceptable. We press on to exceed our quivering
ability and our pressing goes down with our pump and mood. Stop there? No
way! We ache, we swell, dread our workouts, endure disappointment,
sabotage our intelligent musclebuilding workouts, enlist black magic,
stupidly push beyond our capacity and tear the rotator cuff. What the...?
Humbly, we retreat and lick our wounds for a long, long time.

This revolting predicament occurs regularly throughout our training
experience. By gosh, it sounds miserably, almost embarrassingly, like a
plateau or sticking point. This, the creature from the black lagoon, has
been known to swallow hefty bodybuilders whole or frighten them from the
face of the earth. Beware and stay close to the group. Only the strong,
persistent and wise survive.

There are enough characteristics to distinguish the condition of my
condition from a plateau to make it something else, "what" I am not
exactly sure. Plateaus are enigmatic. This here dern stagnation is
personal, has a unique origin and a distinct end.

Let me remind you -- and me -- that I offer these obscure thoughts not out
of egoism (Heaven forbid I have one of those yapping pets at my heel), but
cuz I think they might evoke identification, tighten our bond and help you
unravel some objectionable trend in your own workout scheme. Sharing,
understanding and encouragement do more to keep us going strong than any
instruction book, mechanical device or hot new ingredient. Prayer’s right
in there.

My most recent workouts -- those of the past several years -- have endured
a sort of sameness: No, not in form or exercise similarity, zeal or even
achievement, but in goal immediacy -- to conquer, as in battle, each
workout one at a time, the enemy being pain and its restrictions. To that
end all other goals are lost: size, shape, strength, condition, training
form and pace. I’m not moaning or complaining; I’m explaining.

Excuse me for a second; I’m overcome with grief... slobber. Woe is my
middle name... gasp. I can’t go on... sniff. There, that’s better.

Unimportantly, the pain is located in the hand and wrist, neural in origin
and minor relative to daily living. Swell. But when pressing and trying to
build strong shoulders and big triceps (yeah, I know... at 63 why bother?)
the pain is a dirty rat, a rotten dog and a wretched swine. Sets and reps
are not done for fun; a delicious pump and burn is not the object, and the
fulfillment of perfect form no longer matters. No, not hardly. Instead,
maximum pain is sought indicating that maximum-muscle exertion is
accomplished. No pain, no gain. You’d think I was building the Grand
Canyon.

I insist on lifting as heavy a weight as I can within each exercise, which
is absurd considering for starters I can lift no defendable weight at all.
Never mind the blow to the yapping little ego, the vain, disgraceful
endeavor is a loathsome struggle (gasp) and amplifies the pain
proportionately. The pain (scorching) interferes with my form (sloppy),
pace (slow), goal (lost) and attitude (nasty).

The solution is easy, simple and plain. It is also objectionable. To lower
the pain, lower the pressing weight -- from nothing to nothing minus five.
I imagine high school girls and thirteen-year-olds gathering in small
groups and snickering.

This is what I plan to do starting Monday -- chest, back and shoulder day:
I shall submit to the light weight I loathe in all pressing movements --
Smith presses at 45- and 75-degree angles and 60-degree dumbbell incline
presses. Each has its corresponding superset movement which I love
(surprise!) -- widegrip pulldowns before the neck, widegrips behind the
neck and stiffarm pullovers. I’ll execute five sets of each to assure
saturation and move with a pace that is unimpeded by pain and the
anticipation of pain.

I expect the reps will be happier (smiles and laughs), freely flowing and
higher in number, as I deliberately seek an inspiring pump and
exhilarating burn apart from the once familiar debilitating pain. The sets
will accumulate like precious ore from a mine streaked with shimmering
gold veins, not a hole deep in the bowels of the earth producing rock
slides and toxic gases. The pace will be regular, rhythmic and tuneful,
like an orchestral march for brave warriors off to save a land from
oppression, a welcome replacement of the pitiful war cry for senseless
barbarians off to a bloody slaughter.

Another part of the plan, equally intolerable, is lowering the bodyweight
from 225 to 215. This is not difficult for me technically. The weight is
solid, yet a bit of a stretch, and hangs on with deliberate effort. I’ll
remove one average meal from my daily menu and in two weeks I’ll be
cruisin' at 215. I despise letting go of the bigness, but will delight in
the leanness and enhanced feeling of wellbeing. It’s that trade-off that
makes us crazy: big, thick and strong for light, lean and fast, rhino for
leopard.

The five-percent loss of bodyweight, I suspect, will provide a change in
training direction without obstructing bodybuilding progress. On the
contrary, it should support it, encourage it, further it. At this point in
time I’m subject to my workout program and style. With the cascade of
alterations released by lowering the bodyweight and exercise weight, my
training will be restored and renewed. I shall expand and grow with the
new found freedoms. That is, until circumstances -- knobby elbows, enraged
insertions, sallow muscle bellies, gaunt facial features, danger crossing
parking lots on windy days -- call for rethinking and recalling,
refurbishing and retrofitting.

Geez, Louise! No wonder most people stay home and watch TV.

Presently, Laree, my little cutie pie, often sez, "My, what a big strong
stomach you have." And I reply, "The better to squat with, my dear." Well,
time to give the squats and knees and ankles a rest, kids. There’s a
winter coming up before you can say July 9th Bomber Bash. Winter’s are for
squatting and bulking and eating and stuff like that. In March I was 230
pounds for a day. All I could do was taxi down the runway and rev my big
fat engine. At 215 I can do rolls, dives, somersaults and minor crash
landings.

__________________
Body under construction.

Dan

nice read!!