PenteKing’s BodyBlog

Every day that I log onto this site, I hold my breath until the page loads. What am I afraid of? That the powers that be will one day to start charging us bodybuilders a fee for using this site. I’m not considered poor, but neither am I considered rich. I use this site because it is the best one of its kind, and it is free. I’m smart enough to know that the products advertised here on the site are what is keeping this site afloat. I do my part by ordering supplies from Bodybuilding.com. The price may not be the lowest around, but I know that my order plays a part in keeping this site free. Besides, the service is great. The products I ordered last time around arrived exactly when advertised, and the guys in the warehouse threw in a Bodybuilding.com T-shirt to boot. Who can argue with that?

I’m placing another order today. I’m in desparate need of Isopure and vitamins. So I’m hopping on over to the store; I’m filling my shopping cart, and I’m going to place my order. I’m doing my part to keep this site free. Are you doing yours?

(Psst! There’s a free T-shirt in it for you!)

The struggle to stay fit is often tiring. It is especially difficult in today’s tumulutous and topsy-turvy world. We are, all of us, running so fast simply to stay in the same place that we often neglect the care and maintenance of our own bodies. Those of us who make the commitment - in time, diet and exercise - are often looked at askance by those who do not. Usually, I let the comments go in one ear and out the other. I think that those who deride my way of life are secretly jealous. They wish they had my discipline and determination, but they do not, and so they resort to whispered comments and not-so-subtle asides.

As many of you know, I’ve recently taken up bike riding again. Not only do I enjoy the sport, but it is a great way to increase my aerobic capacity while simultaneously reducing my bodyfat levels. I am fortunate to live in San Diego which, while not the greatest bike-friendly city in these United States, is at least tolerant of bicyclists. California’s laws treat bicycles like any other vehicle, and drivers are warned not to intimidate or harrass bicycle riders. Sadly, not all drivers take this message to heart.

Today, while on my way to my favorite biking haven, some a**hole in a BMW came dangerously close to me. I am fairly certain he did it on purpose because just as his front bumper came up on my rear wheel, he laid on the horn, and then inched his car into my space. Not wanting to end up on the losing end of that proposition, I swerved and gave him the road. In my younger days, I would have chased that driver down, and if I had caught him, would have confronted him. That would more than likely have led to violence of some sort. Luckily, I am older now (although only a teeny bit wiser) and so let the incident pass. But although I did the smart thing and took no action, it rankled me then and it rankles me still. I did that driver no harm. He had plenty of room to pass without running me off the road. So what impelled him to act as he did? Suppose he had made an error in judgment and had hit me with his car? I could have been seriously injured or killed. And for what reason? Because I chose to life a healthy life style and he did not? Can that really be the reason?

For all of our sake’s, I certainly hope not. I’m heading out to see a play, but I have to confess that the entire incident has colored my day gray.

I had every intention of hooking up with the Amazon sisters, Jennifer and Michele tonight. I was scheduled to meet them at 5:30 sharp (they had an engagement this evening, and wanted to get their workout in before attending). I promised them yesterday that I would be on time, but I should know better than to do that. It seems that every time I open my mouth and promise something, events conspire to prevent me from keeping my commitment. So it was this evening.

My boss (who is supposed to be on vacation) sent me a text message telling me that I had to deliver a report to the CEO for a meeting that he was having with the Board of Directors tomorrow morning. (Have I ever shared with you how much I hate Blackberries? But that’s a rant for another date and time.) needless to say, despite my efforts to get the material finished and delivered to the big man, I was more than an hour late getting to the gym. Jennifer and Michele were finishing their routine when I showed up.

They made understanding noises when I explained the situation, but I couldn’t help but feel that they were disappointed; that I had let them down in some undefined way. I asked them if I could make it up to them in some way, but they both said it was unnecessary. Both ladies seemed sincere, so why do I still feel like such a s**t? It wasn’t as though I deliberately blew them off, and yet, the guilt lingers like residue from yesterday’s snowfall.

They said they would be in the gym tomorrow, doing aerobics. I’m going to show up and hope for the best. Wish me luck.

For those of you who read Monday’s post, you know that I was invited to do legs with a pair of Amazonian women. Although I had no little trepidation (fearing that I would be put to shame), I accepted nonetheless. In the back of my mind, I was half convinced that the ladies would stand me up. In this day and age, hardly anyone means what they say anymore. Still, I got to the gym at the appointed time. Much to my happy surprise, the gals were there, waiting for my arrival, and raring to go.

The workout tracker only tells half of the story. For every set I thought was completed, the gals(Jennifer and Michele) insisted I do "just one more rep". Needless to say, all of those "just one more reps" added up to about twice the amount to what I am accustomed. Even now, almost 90 minutes later, I can still feel the blood surging through my veins. I’ve got adreline going for me now, but I can imagine how sore I am going to be on the morrow.

Yet…and yet…I wouldn’t have traded this session for a pocketful of money. Jennifer and Michele are honest, down-to-earth people, and generously big-hearted. They told me some very funny stories about competing on the local circuit and kept me motivated through the entire workout. They are both the real deal. At the end of today’s workout, as I crawled away from them, Jennifer asked if I wanted to join them for chest exercises tomorrow.

I said yes, but then again, I’m crazy.

I work out in a largely gay gym. I mention it only to give a little background to the following story.

Recently, a pair of sisters joined the gym. It’s obvious from looking at them, and watching them work out that they know their way around a weight rack. They are old school, as well, and don’t fool around with any of the new fad exercises. They are hard-core, heavy lifting bodybuilders. I’ve been watching them for the past week or so, to see if I could pick up a new technique. (I’m always looking for something that will nudge my notoriously slow muscle-building body into new growth.) Today, one of the gals did an exercise that I’ve never seen before. It will take too long to explain, so I won’t go into it, but I was intrigued to the point where I approached said woman, and inquired whether her awesome delts were the result of the exercise she was doing.

Not only did the woman respond graciously to my question, but she invited me to join her and her sister during their leg routine the day after tomorrow. I was stunned, but accepted with alacrity. (How often does a competitive bodybuilder offer to train you for free?) So, on Wednesday, I will be doing legs with these Amazons.

If I had posed the same question to a guy doing the exercise, he might have responded, but only briefly, and he certainly wouldn’t have invited me to join him in his routine.

The generosity of women never ceases to amaze me. I thank the Lord for making them that way. I’ll provide an update on Wednesday (providing I can still walk). 

I once saw a great cartoon. It depicted a man seated at a chessboard, in the act of making a move. Across from him, was a dead horse. The dialogue balloon coming from the man’s mouth read, "Checkmate!" The caption, of course, was "Beating a Dead Horse". Why I found this cartoon hilarious is to delve into the inner depths of my consciousness. That is a journey I’m not prepared to undertake at this time of night, so I won’t. What I will do is explain why I touched on the subject in the first place.

For years, I have searched for the artist who created the cartoon in the hopes that I could purchase a signed original. (Hell, I’d be satisfied with a signed proof!) My search, however, proved fruitless. The Internet hadn’t been invented, and as I didn’t know the cartoonist’s name, nor remember the publication the cartoon originally appeared in, my research efforts ultimately proved futile. I reconciled myself to the fact that I would have only the memory of that cartoon to lighten the dark and pestilent moods that sometimes afflict my soul.

Last night, in a serendipitious moment, I googled the phrase, "beating a dead horse". Lo and behold, one of the search results brought up the image of the very cartoon I have just described. You can all guess what my next steps are going to be. Pray to whatever gods you believe in. Rub the talismans in your possession. Invoke the happy spirits of the underworld. In other words, wish me luck.

That week off was EXACTLY what I needed. I went back to the gym today, and had one of my better workouts. I actually was supposed to pick up my workouts yesterday, but discovered, when I got to the gym, that I had neglected to pack workout shorts. I’m not overly shy about my body, but even I draw the line at working out bottomless. (Besides, I don’t appreciate the women’s snickering.)

The gym looks pretty much the same. No new equipment (darn!); no new members (expected); no new supplements (disappointment!). Still, it was good to be back. There’s something comforting about being back in old familiar surroundings, even if those same surroundings have the mimosa of dried, stale sweat.

The weather has been pretty good the past week, so I’ve plenty of opportunities of riding my new bike. I purchased a Fuji Professional road bike. I feel so much more comfortable on it than my old Trek. I don’t know why this is, but I’m not going to question it. My only goal is to train for the 100-mile ride that’s coming up in October. (Why do I do these crazy things? Because I’m crazy. Duh!)

Until next time, I remain, as always, your brother in bodybuilding.

I need it. I’m physically and mentally tired. I’m straining too hard in the gym, and I’m robbing my body of what it needs most - rest. I’ll still ride my bike (have to get in better shape to complete my 100-mile challenge in October), but I’m laying off the weights until June 16. My aching left shoulder will thank me, as will my chronically sore quads.

I probably won’t blog at all, so allow me to say so long to Curt James, Angela Green, Body Auditor, CT, Ninja Bill, KatNap, GoddessAmazon and the rest of the crew with whom I occasionally converse. I will definitely return, but for the next seven days, I will be incommunicado (that’s one of those banana republic countries just north of the equator). Quick, dad; send lawyers, guns and money.

God bless you, Warren Zevon, wherever you may be.

It’s been almost two years since I started this journey, and I grow impatient with my body’s turtle-like response to growth and change. Mind you, I realize that my age may have something to do with my body’s reluctance to add mass, but that can’t be the sole answer. I eat right, exercise religiously, get the proper amount of rest (I think) and drink the right amount of water. Yet, for the past six months, my progress has been nada. Nothing. Zippo.

I have a sixteen inch neck, twenty-two inch thighs and a thirty-two inch waist. These are the same measurements I had nearly a year ago. WHAT IN GOD’S NAME AM I DOING WRONG? What is wrong with me? Why can’t I build the body I aspire to have? Must I resort to pagan animal sacrifices to lesser demi-gods to realize my ambitions?

The community has been notoriously silent to me on this subject. (I’ve beseeched you for help in the past.) I can’t consult Coach. Ever since the Athletic Center went out of business, she’s been incommunicado. The other trainers at the Powerhouse Gym don’t impress me. (Believe me, I’ve been watching them like a hawk eyeing dinner.)

So I ask you - what’s a boy to do?

I have a confession to make - I’m ashamed to post my progress pictures here on the web site. I know; I know. I shouldn’t be. Other people have posted their photos. No one is going to judge me. All of that is true, and yet…and yet… I’m not satisfied, damnit. I look at the progress pictures I’ve taken (and I have taken a few) to see how much progress I’ve made and to my eyes, it’s never enough. I think I should be further along than I am. I eat right, I exercise like a madman, and I’m nowhere near where I want to be. I’m afraid that if I post my progress pics, I’ll be able to hear the snickering from Maine to California.

Insecurity is a bitch. I’m going to have to work like hell to get over that. What do you think?