A3: Back and Hamstrings
(THURSDAY): 70+ mins
94kg, BMI 27
Warmup: exercise bike, ski machine, calisthenics, jump rope, stretching
CIRCUIT:
Leg curl: 12, 9, 6 @ 40kg, 45kg, 50kg
Good mornings: 15, 12, 6 @ 30kg, 40kg, 50kg
[A new exercise for me, this time in lieu of the stiff-leg deadlift, since I was planning to go heavy on the deadlift. (See below!) I went light and tried to get used to the form. I think I kept my legs too straight. These felt like a combo of hypers and stiff-leg deads, so I like them as a warmup for the deaadlift. We'll see. Maybe some weeks I'll swap the deadlift out for the stiff-leg dead.]Deadlift: 11, 8, 5, 5 @ 100kg, 115kg, 130kg, 140kg
[That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I broke––or at least pressed right up against––my "deadlift stalker's" 140-kilogram glass ceiling, of which more below.]Jump rope: 100–120 skips
CIRCUIT:
Pullups: 15, 12*, 10*
[* did a kip and negative for the last couple reps of the latter sets.] Lever bench row: 10, 8, 6 @ 80kg, 92.5kg, 100kg
One-arm dumbbell row: 10, 8, 6 @ 26kg, 32kg, 36kg
"COOLDOWN":
Ab cable pulldown: 32, 30 @ 30kg, 35kg; 150 skips; Russian twists: 50, 50
+ + +And now I feel a little guilty.
When I got to the gym tonight, my coworker/stalker was more taciturn than usual. He had quipped a couple days before at lunch that "150[kg] is next [on the deadlift]," but I had a feeling he had fallen short of that. His mien oozed with the fact that the night was not his. Where was his usual bravado? His usual puckish ribbing?
I broke the ice by saying the weekend is coming and then got into my warmup. I eventually made my way to the free weight area to see how long I'd have to "weight" (rimshot!) for deadlifts. He pointed and nodded at the bar. "How much?" I asked. "Eh, 140. But, you know, I'm finding the grip is holding me back." (Tip o' the hat to
my prediction about exactly this problem for him.) After a few minutes I asked to use the bar and he said he was done.
Long story short, I got to 5 reps at 130kg and felt very good. So after a little time on the ski machine and jump roping, I headed back for a 4th set. 140kg felt very good, actually, and I know I could have done 150kg for a couple reps. Chalk is king! I left my stacked bar on the platform (I know, what a horrible gym monkey!) so I could get into my back circuit.
I saw him as he was leaving. He seemed dejected. He was slow putting his jacket on. He took a phone call and then muttered, "I'm done… in more ways than one." I assume he meant he is having ladyfriend trouble. He also mentioned today was his longest teaching day. I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that somewhere in his "done" cowered a humble(r) consciousness that I had deadlifted his vaunted 140kg, and it was only a matter of time till I surpassed him. I also have a hunch his effort last week to leave me in the dust may have slightly injured his lower back. I know I shall paste a couple NSAID pads on my lower back when I sleep tonight! The bar was in plain sight from the parking area––I admit I left it there as a kind of line in the sand––and it is a major habit for gym monkeys to glance at and assess others' form and weight. Did he see my achievement? I don't know. But I do know he's discouraged by his problem with the grip (rimshot!).
Another thing I know: a couple months ago, when I was still a cub in his eyes, we discussed the issue of steroids. He said they work wonders but he's not into them. He added that they are great for old people. "You never have to get old," he said with an expert grimace. Well, the sad fact is, you always do get older and I suspect he was fed a bitter taste of his age and mortality tonight. This is why I refuse to treat weightlifting as a total way of life, as a sort of iron fountain of youth, as if a barbell were a divining rod for women.
Deo volente, may the gym never be a shrine for me, but only a holding tank for the wee but genuine glory of the human body.
I John 5: [19] We know that we are of God, and the whole world is in the power of the evil one. [20] And we know that the Son of God has come and has given us understanding, to know him who is true; and we are in him who is true, in his Son Jesus Christ. This is the true God and eternal life. [21] Little children, keep yourselves from idols.
19. scimus quoniam ex Deo sumus et mundus totus in maligno positus est 20. et scimus quoniam Filius Dei venit et dedit nobis sensum ut cognoscamus verum Deum et simus in vero Filio eius hic est verus Deus et vita aeterna 21. filioli custodite vos a simulacris.
Why do I feel guilty? If I did "get to him" with my deadlift, then I feel like it's another case in which I made a friend and/or acquaintace "cry" in an athletic setting. In high school, a couple friends and I went out for wrestling. The coach paired me up with my friend Isaac, since we were comparably sized n00bs, but it didn't take long for me to, um, consistently pwn Isaac in sparring. He ended up leaving the team, later telling me he couldn't take the hostile edge of competition between us when we sparred. I understood but was also at a loss. I had no animus against him: I was simply doing what a wrestler does: grapple, wrench, pin, win.
Come time for states, I was good enough and light enough to challenge a senior for the 145lb (?) seed. I was a first-season sophomore just trying to stay fit between cross country and crew seasons, while my opponent was a six-season senior looking to cap his career with a state match. Alas, I defeated him (rather roundly) and thus usurped a senior wrestler's "last wish." It was awkward but, again, I had no qualms: if you can't handle the heat, get off the mat. With the coach's approval I competed at states… and got folded up like a lawn chair in a trash compactor on Halloween. (Halloween, you see, adds to the horror of it all.)
By the end of high school, I had a notorious reputation as a wrestler. At a regatta in my senior year, for instance, a sophomore, whom I considered a good friend, got wind of my alleged prowess and asked me to wrestle him. The regatta tents were on grass so we had plenty of safe space in which to spar. I kept waving him off, since I knew I would defeat him, but I didn't want to let my emotions get worked up enough to hurt him. That is much of the reason I was and am so competitive in wrestling: I want to "get the job done" (or get defeated) quickly enough that I don't take the battle personally and become emotionally invested in dominating an enemy rather than defeating an opponent (subtle but real difference, that).
In the end, I agreed to grapple and a crowd of sorts gathered to watch us. He put up a good fight and I got increasingly savage in order to end the charade and protect our friendship. Alas, I ended up dominating him so roughly that he folded and cursed me through his weeping. "We're just playing, man! Why did you have to be so violent." I of course felt like
Lennie Small with a dead mouse on my hands. It took him a long time to forgive me and that day I got very upset about my seemingly uncontrollable rage.
This is why Wolverine and the Hulk (i.e. Bruce Banner) have always been favorite superheros of mine: they possess much more power and lethality than an enemy realizes at first, and they are quick healers. And both have a disturbing patrimony of instinctual rage to manage.
In a similar vein, during my senior year of high school I and some friends took up racquetball a few times a week. I had played a lot of wall ball in my younger days so I had some pride invested in my racquetball skills. Not wholly unjustified pride, but certainly naive, since I was frequently bested by an otherwise unathletic, sloth-like friend in InterVarsity. One time I got so riled up and aggressive that he stopped playing, saying neither he nor I were having fun "when you're like that."
So, nearly eight years later, I find myself once more with the increasingly chilly feel of a dead mouse on my palm. I always say, "I'm training my body, not some other guy's," in order to keep the emphasis on personal growth rather than competitive arrogance. Even so, I have all the instincts of an athlete and I won't deny for an instant I have used my coworker's workouts as a kind of goad, or at least constructive model, for my own gains. I went for 120kg a couple weeks ago, and then 130kg last week, fully conscious that such lifts would level the field between me and my coworker. What I did not do, though, is rag on him about it. Not so subtle and not so small a difference, that.
And so, God willing, it shall come to pass that I will deadlift 150kg. Perhaps next week. Chalk is still king!
[Holy bleep! This is so funny I had to post it before I forget!
The White Girls' Workout!]
