what if...

I woke up everyday and felt like getting out of bed? This is what I dream about when I'm sleeping. This is theoretically attainable in a no-fuss type of way. Here's what to do, limit myself to only one weakness: chocolate and ice cream; which I will only eat ever again on Sundays, and only if I've been good and not ingested any other naughty things throughout the week. This sounds only partially as ridiculous as I intended. If you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything. I will get no less than 8.5 hours of lying in bed at night, most of which I hope to spend sleeping. I will also  make mental notes of each time that I blog about making sweeping lifestyle changes that will once and for all redeem me from a misspent life, so that I can make encouraging gestures at myself in the mirror as a facade to cover what I fear may be the underlying truth. Proverbs teaches us that smiling makes us happier. Most importantly, no matter how devastated by the ravages of tiredness, I will continue to go to the gym:

bench 85kgs/3*8

chins, n-grip me/3*8

high row, rope 45/3*8

hu-rrah!

being and becoming

I am sitting down finally. The haze of sheer exhaustion from this week has been washed away momentarily by the torrential down pour during footy training today. There's no real reason why rugby league should be called footy. The ball for 90 percent of a game is kept in hand. It's one of those things that has always puzzled me. Before the weight of my specially cultivated malignant tiredness resumes, I sit and reflect. I'm human. All too human. This is a trait I'll never overcome. I sit and imagine things different, as they could possibly be if I were not the person who was fantasizing about alternate realities.

I feel like I learned something today. It's one of those lessons that you already know, but only on an intellectual level. I don't say this dismissively, I'm all for cold calculating irrefutable logic, but there are certain phases that an idea needs to pass through before it attains apotheosis. It's not quite out of the chrysalis for me yet; still digesting, to mix a metaphor. I'm reading What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami, a literary savant from Japan. It's a memoir of sorts about running and the writing life. The lesson was simply this: when he does something he puts everything into it. This guy runs marathons for fun. It's crazy, there really are no secrets to success.

what I talk about when I talk about working out...

(A1) bp 80kgs/3*8

(A2) chin, n-grip me/2*8;6

(A3) row, seated, v-grip 55,60,65*8

on the shoulders of giants: a series celebrating the burly strong men of yesteryear

Don't mock the leopard skin, Joe Greenstein could bite a nail in half (among other things); today I had to settle for:

bench: 60*5;80*5;90/2*5,8;

chins: 98/5*5

inc bench: 70/2*6

chins (n-grip) 98/2*5

volume:

ON GYMING IT UP an essay in many parts #1

while I was at University I wrote many essays , it's comforting to know that this type of important work is going on in academia...


“Lack of activity destroys the good condition of every human being, while movement and methodical physical exercise saves it and preserves it.” -- Plato[1]

The modern male is a complex entity. This essay will peer into one of the great developments of the late 20th and early 21st century, in regards to masculinity: that most manly of institutions, sometimes referred to as a health club, but better known as a gym. In these pockets of society – some dingy and dungeon like, others polished with the sheen of corporate culture – you will find matrices dedicated to the development of the perfect male form[2]. The dual sites under investigation are the gym and man (women not included, sorry). We will investigate how men utilise gyms in an attempt to simulate a cultural ideal: the visual ideal of male perfection. First, we will examine how our modern concept of manliness originated by taking a brief detour through the Enlightenment. Secondly, Plato and Baudrillard will help us to tease out what an ideal social form is and how it is that we go about simulating one. Finally, (with the necessary theoretical ground work laid) we will step into a gym and observe in that context how the male body can be read as a text, which simulates the ideal form that society has constructed for it. Let’s begin to disentangle some of that complexity and see if we can’t make some sense of these manly pursuits.

break parallel back squat 60*5,100*5,120*5,130/2*5
power clean 60*5,80*5,90*5
inc press 70*10
chins (n-grip) 97*10

volume:

[1] http://www.quotegarden.com/exercise.html
[2] The same can be said for the female form but due to space constraints this essay will limit itself to the question of masculinity.

escape from imminent destruction

Getting stapled is not a flattering experience. What it is, is simply a failure in an attempt to lift a weight, resulting in the entire gym populace laughing in your face while you try to rack or deload the weight without causing yourself grievous bodily harm. The ego hit is always bad, but things can and do get uglier: last week I saw a guy drop a barbel on his head while benching pressing. In less than 2 minutes it looked like he had a plumb growing out the side of his face. Kids, always use a spotter! I don't recommend getting stapled, the psychological and physical damage just isn't worth it. Conversely some of the most satisfying moments you can have in the gym are when you straddle staple territory and somehow complete your lift. Today I had one of those moments. I was benching. The weight, which was underwhelming as usual, slowed as it came off my chest. Gravity my, arch nemesis in the weight room, thought it had claimed another victory. I think that the bar actually reversed in it's motion momentarily, my gym life flashed before eyes and I decided that I didn't feel like eating any barbell today. I squirmed, I cursed sub-vocally, I bargained with the weight and still it didn't budge. I clenched my but-cheeks and for some reason felt like I was going to tear asunder from my crotch on upwards. Then it happened, like Deus ex machina, except my escape wasn't facilitated by an outward source it was all internal. I finished the lift and lived to see another day. Words can't explain how satisfying this feels.

power snatch: 40*3, 45*3, 50*3, 55, 60, 65, 70, 75
power C&J: 80, 85, 90, 95
bench 60*10, 80*5, 85*5, 90*4
chins (n) me (97kgs)/3*8, 6
db OHP 2(20)/3*10

volume:

the weak that was

The Manly sea eagles down trailed the the Melbourne storm on Sunday, 40 - 0. Embarrassing.

Kimbo got KTFO by a nobody who's name I can neither pronounce nor spell. Kimbo Slice are you kidding me? The big black bearded one didn't even throw a punch, not one punch and was dropped by what's-his-name with a short right while back peddling. That's right the guy was retreating when he sent Kimbo's overblown legend to its room to think about what it had done. Nothing by most accounts. Bas Rutten you oughta be ashamed.

I continue to work out like a geriatric turtle on downers. Slow and steady wins the race. If I keep up this hectic pace of one work out per week when I'm 35, over the hill, and scary looking I could be Kimbo too. Kimbo I shouldn't kick you while your down, but it's just so damn easy. Hmm, we could possibly meet one day right, I take it all back (except the part about how you suck, man I'm getting harsh in my old age).

a 2 g back squat: 20*60 (totally spent), 30*40, 40*10,80*5,90*5,100*5
chins (n-grip) me(97)/2*5

volume: 5120

a quickie

Big things happen a little bit at a time:

inc bench 50*10, 60*4, 40*8
chin (n-grip) me*10

volume: 2010kgs