wrbsuperman’s BodyBlog

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Day 9
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So this and Day 8 are one day behind, for those of you following this you noticed I missed a day. Terribly sorry, here is yesterdays workout. I’m not working out today, so tomorrow I’ll be back on track.

Live life to the fullest.

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"Sure I am this day we are masters of our fate, that the task which has been set before us is not above our strength; that its pangs and toils are not beyond our endurance. As long as we have faith in our own cause and an unconquerable will to win, victory will not be denied us.”

A Monday, another beastly Monday. One of those make or break days. Woke up early, went to the job site with my old man, our old pastor came to help us out as well. Spraying mud on the ceiling, mixing and pouring and brushing. You know those fancy swirly patterns you find on ceilings? The ones that are swirls or squares, etched in like corduroy? Yeah, they’re made with a broom. Nothin’ fancy. Simple tool for a simple job. But the results are top of the line. Should be the way everything is. Grab it and go at it. That’s what I was thinking down in the basement, first song blasting out of the system. Staring down at the dumbells. Presses, at 80 pounds. 3 sets of 6. Alone in the basement. The weights in a pile, just sitting there. Not even challenging me, giving me cause to go and blast them. Just there, in the corner. The new set I’d bought last spring, and the rust covered iron donated by my uncle. Not even waiting for use. If I was going to lift today, there was going to be no-one but me pushing me. Sometimes I use the weights themselves to push me. Today they didn’t want to comply. But that’s all they really are, just piles of iron and steel. ****, they don’t even do anything. It’s gravity. It’s gravity that makes the muscles big. It’s not about the steel. Without gravity, all the metal in the world couldn’t make you buff. Stood there, thinking about that. Guttural screams mixed with a double base pedal washing over me, feeling my heart start to beat faster. It was a time of indecision. Nothing ****ing easy about what I do. Day in and day out, punishing my body for something that won’t be noticeable for months and months, ensuring I don’t miss a day or slack off. Shit shit shit. Some days you can’t think about the why. Some days that pot of gold at the end isn’t enough to keep you going. This was one of those days. And it’s on these days, where the dream isn’t big enough, and the reward seems too small, where people fail. Where I cross a field laden with cement blocks hiding behind tufts of grass, each one waiting to make me stumble. But we must endure. Endure not only the physical hardship, but the mental weakening. The torturer, asking to stop if only we’d accept. Just tell the truth. Just tell me what you know. It’d all end. Here it is, here’s your way out. But the way out isn’t where I want to go. I can see what door I want to go through, and that bastard is standing right in my way. So for today, I can do nothing but endure. Endurance of the mind. The body can do it all. Endurance of the soul. Steeling yourself for another bout of misery and indecision. For all of the worlds contempt for what you do, and the contempt you give yourself. Why can’t today just be a day off?

"Everybody want to be a bodybuilder but nobody want to lift no heavy ass weights."

Just blind myself to everything. To the goal, to the way out. Shut it all out. This is a day where you shut the **** up and do what you’re supposed to. Just shut up and lift. It’s not about you, it’s not about what you want. Even if you want to do the right thing. Just shut the **** up and lift. 3 sets of 6 at 80lbs. Finished the last set with 9, just ’cause I could. Moved on to the barbell. No time for thought. I can’t, I’m told not to. Don’t think, just do. You’re not in control here, son. Move to the next exercise and do it. 75 pounds, curled 3 sets of 8. Moved on. They’re my weights, I know where they are. The musics in the background, screaming and crying and wailing and pulsing. 45 pound plates, don’t **** around setting up dumbells. Shrugs, 3 sets of 10. Now I’m starting to fade. Intensity is a fickle thing. Comes and goes as it pleases, you’re the one who has to make it stay. Today is a day where I couldn’t do that. No thoughts, no thought. Give the brother a holler, ask for a spot on the bench. 165, 8 times. 155, only seven. Going strong until the 7th rep. Like running into a ****ing wall, that’s what it felt like. From hero to zero in less time than it takes to spit. The triceps just couldn’t sustain it. That’s another thing I’ve lost. The muscular endurance. Just my indecision today showed my lack of mental endurance. The body is going right along with it, shackled. It’ll go as far as the mind wants it to. I’m frustrated now. Frustrated with all the shit from my parents, from getting shoddy nights sleep, from having to miss some of tonights concert. From my lack of drive. From the lack of support. Nobody enters my realm. Nobody. Nobody steps in and says I’ve got your back brother, you stay strong. Nobody is amazed by this monumental task. Nobody else wants it. They see it, smile, nod. And that’s it. "Oh, that’s cool." **** you and your cool. **** you and your superiority. Jesus Christ, is it so hard to enthusiastic for a man? Maybe they all think it’s about bragging, about being better. Damn right it is. But not at such a petty level. It runs way deeper than they even care to imagine. It’s these same nobodies who are afraid to say what they’ve done, what they’ve accomplished. Like it’s rude or something. ****, if it’s cool, if you’re proud of it, just say it. I’m rooting for you just like I’m rooting for the next guy. Let me hear it, shout it to me down the hallway, send me a goddamn email. Got an A on an exam? **** yeah, that’s great shit. Got the girl of your dreams? I’ll be the first one toasting with you. Did you manage to stay on your diet for 4 days, and you’re still going? Come on over, and we’ll swap recipes. I get so pumped for those *******s, and then they throw my shit back in my face. Parental support, peer support. Nothing. It’s not their world, and heaven forbid if they try to enter. Put to much strain on their oh-so-busy lives. "Oh, that’s cool." My favorite is when they ask how the workout was, and keep walking. Like saying it over their shoulder. What the **** is that? So I’m on my own, and it gets tough. Somedays you gotta flip the switch, turn into an automan. Plug and chug. Hang and bang. It’s not about you, it never was…

"As he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him" .

Dumbell rows, 3 by ten back to back with 80 pounds. Lower back is in pain, I can feel the strain of deadlifting twice in one week. But I’ll beat this body into submission or die trying. So that I can find release. One more exercise, one more ****ing exercise, and I can be out of this basement, coats and couches and papers and games all around. Man can’t even get serious about the weights surrounded by this garbage. Whatever. Just do as you’re told. Jake Clark specials, 28 pounds, 3 X 10. Done, done done done. But not yet. Upstairs is yet another task. Downing a protein shake. I’m so sick of the garbage, those little ****ers who bitch about supplements and protein, how they want to get "real" muscle. Little shits need to take chemistry, or biology. Protein is in everything, steak, milk, chicken, and yes. That double cheeseburger you’re hawking down. So don’t you get in my ****ing face about the way I get my protein. You get yours from cheeseburgers, I’ll take mine in a shake made from concentrated milk. People spend money on healthy food all the time, but because I spend mine to become so obviously better than you there’s an issue. You know what the **** it is? They all want an excuse. An excuse so the bastards can sleep better at night, walk around with their heads still high. Not by making their own gains or trials any better mind you, but by making mine less. Smaller. As if there’s less meaning in them. Don’t pick yourself up, just bring everyone else down. Yup, that’s cute. Do your homework. Protein is ****ing protein. This is what man does, he evolves. He improves, he makes things better. Funny how they only fight it when they’re not on the boat… But it sucks. You think protein shakes is an easy way out? Try to drink one of those ****ers. Talk about shit in a can. I use a powder, and mix it up with the blender. The smell, give you a headache. The taste, makes vomit seem like the only sensible option. See, this is because I take the healthy shakes. Ones without the truckload of carbs and sugar. Pure protein. And it’s a beastly, disgusting concoction. But there’s no other choice. You can break your body down all you want, but by golly you better give it something to fix itself after you’re through with it. Otherwise you’re doing nothing but lasting damage. And serves you right, for not knowing what you’re getting into. For not taking the time to be prepared. For the science, for the moves. For the highs, and for the lows. Fire is a consumer. It eats and eats and eats. And sometimes you just run low on fuel… But sleep will come, and that next day will be a new day.

"If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

—-I’ve been posting past blogs, but today I’ll post one that actually happened…. today——

So I started hydroxycut hardcore today…. Felt like I had a fire in my stomach for the first 20 min., I was a little nervous.  My face got tingly as well at the 30 min. mark.  But I went to a BJJ practice right after taking it, so I’ve been okay.  Just popped the second pill, and the same symptoms with a little less stomach burn.    I haven’t been out of control or anything (energywise) but I’ve been crisp and sustained.  Definitely feeling the appetite suppressing.  Had to choke down an apple, glass of milk, and a spoon full of peanut butter for first breakfast, that was hard.  After the workout though, I ate again about 2 hours later… Still hard.   1 cup of oatmeal, a glass of orange juice, and a yogurt.  With water, lots of water.  Eating a banana right now, and in two hours I’ll eat again.  Turkey, cucumber slices, and milk.  My body is pretty hot, and when I do anything remotely active I start sweating like crazy.  Going out for a long distance run coupled with some sprints later, so hopefully that will really jump start the weight loss.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Day 8
“The Ninety-Nines… That’s what I call ‘em. Ninety-nine out of a hundred people can’t fathom what I do. They scratch their heads, can’t believe my dedication to this great sport… This is the road I’ve taken, with all the potholes, bumps, and turns. The Ninety-Nines, they can’t commit 100% to being their best, to step up one day and stand tall among the giants.”

This is what I do. Day number 8, of an unset period of discipline and sacrifice. Of freedom. It was a non-lifting day, a rest day. Just a light jog. The day started with church, an early wake up. Go, let myself drift into the music, feel the beat. Let the notes swirl around me, chords dancing and moving. Finding the harmonies. Watching my kid sister and brother up there, a part of it all. Hannah, the music major. Singing away, matching harmonies and leading the women. Nate, behind the scenes. On the drum set, hidden by the singers but keeping up his never failing beat, staying musical and consistent. Consistency. It’s what makes the difference. I know kids who are die-hards for a day, for two days, for a week. But a week doesn’t move a mountain, friend. A day is a day. It’s forgotten. A day is like a step, one level closer to the ultimate goal. You can go up one step, you can go up two. But unless you’re at the top, you’re not remembered. You can try to be proud of yourself. Blind yourself to your weakness. Those fools never look at themselves and say "Damn, is that who I am? Couldn’t even go all the way?" Nope. Stay positive, keep smiling, you’re the greatest. Fourteenth place trophies, that’s where our country is at. Can’t let ‘em fail. Can’t keep rewards special. Honor, glory. Now it’s spread out among the common, amongst the weak. A ribbon for eighth place. For participating. You should get a ****ing ribbon because with out your sorry ass being there, I couldn’t have taken first place. Without all you failures, nobody could ever be great. It’s pathetic. Ribbons for 8th. **** that shit.

"Most people don’t want to learn new things. They only want to hear about things that validate crap they’re already doing."

Waited for Eric to come over, thought we were going on a run together. Right. His girlfriend was over, they were playing pattycake, could he meet me in an hour? Whatever. Sure. The suns setting, snow starts up. Big, heavy lake effect flakes. Not swirling. Being driven by the wind. The darkness deepens, and I’m waiting for man who I’m rooting for, one who I think has got the start of a fire. Call him up, he’s not going to come. **** that shit. I get it, priorities. My girl is my priority too. Every day. But just say it. Just say it and know it and get it out there so I can move on with my life. Afraid of what I’d think of him. He should’ve been afraid of what I’d think if he’d pass her over for a jog with a random friend. Not that I’m random, but I get it. Girl first. None of that bros before hoes crap. Or whatever. I just wish he hadn’t ****ed around. Tell it to me straight. During that wait period, I was online. ****ing technology. It’s got its uses, but it sucks the life out of you. I was on the girls profile, saw a vid she commented on. That was great. Put me right into a foul mood, I hadn’t been ready for it. ****ing facebook. That, and the Eric bull. I knew what I had to do.

"I will beat back mediocrity with a fierce hand, will demolish conformity, so that when it’s time to cash in my chips, I won’t leave a legacy of regret, that I didn’t go for mine. In each one of us lies the power to start something… So to those of you out there who can hear, let me say again, who are you and will you stand with me?”

Went downstairs. Put on the shoes. Slipped on the clothes from the day before. Straight out of the hamper. Same clothes. Socks, shirts, shorts, everything. Shoes, hat. Only difference was I decided I wanted some gloves. So I snagged some carpentry gloves, thin, but sturdy as hell. That’s how it should be. It shouldn’t have to be 3 feet thick to withstand an attack. Be strong. Have quality. Companies making shit nowadays to fall apart on purpose. Can you believe that? So that people will come back and buy more. To hell with that system. Laced everything up, and stepped out into darkness.

"But when I get too many good days piling up one on top of the other, too much of that good life, well, I plug my ears and roll up my sleeves. I pick up the hammer and get to hammering. After all, without that voice, I wouldn’t be who I am… Who I can be."

It’s snowing still. Those huge wet flakes. Decided that I was headed left, down towards Fernwood. To the dead end road, where the county decided to put up a barricade in front of the bridge. This old, wooden, and apparently unsafe pile of construction. Lasted for years and years and years. Made back in the old days, where people had pride in what they did. Told myself I was just going to take a loose jog down there and back, put in a mile. Once my feet hit the road, something happened. I just let it go. Started going downhill, let gravity carry me. The only light came from peoples houses and a small break in the clouds, allowing twilight one last glimpse. The snow reflected the white, you could only see where you were from the snow. Nothing else was visible but the snow. It did something to me. I picked up speed, and then sustained it all the way up the next hill, sustained it around the corner slick with slush. Focused on the sand a plow had left a couple hours ago, hidden under the new powder. Couldn’t see where I was now, only the walls of white on either side told me I was still on the road. Just blazing ahead. Trusting the road, trusting my legs. I’m cruising now, wondering what happened to the light jog. Wondering where this came from. But loving it. It was a dirty love. A raw and dirty love of me breaking the rules, breaking my rule. A light jog. Taking that and smashing it, tossing it away like a bear finished digging grubs out of a stump. Tossed it away like a bad exam, crumpling that shit up and getting rid of it. And I blazed ahead. Now, another wall of white. This time in head of me. The dead end. I stopped, took stock of where I was. What I’d done so far. What I wanted to do next. I shook my arms, made a tight u, and headed back. Couldn’t see the intersection, didn’t want to. Couldn’t see the finish, didn’t need to. Just give me the road. Give it to me now. Let me have it, do with it as I please. It’s mine tonight. The howling wind, the darkness, the snow landing on me and weighing me down. This night is mine. Eric didn’t come, there’s no technology out here to taint the land, nobody to save you if you fall. Give it to me. Finally realized I was at the intersection. Kept going. Past my turn. Ran right through that shit like it was locked door on a weight room. Just opened up my chest, leaned forward, and let it fly…

"See, I believe without memory, there is no desire. Knowing what I had, knowing it’s not enough, that I want more–that’s at the heart of my endeavor. Without memory, there can also be no history. I know my roots, where I come from. I know where I’m headed on this journey. History… Yeah, I plan on making some of that too."

Out. Alone. In the dark. I don’t know when I’m going to stop. If I even want to. I’m just running now. Had to cut the pace back because the drive to go farther slapped me in the face, knocked some sense into me. See, that’s how bad I wanted to keep going. That I slowed down, just to make sure that I could go farther. Not enough to be slow, but enough for me to settle into a pace where nothing could stop me. For that moment in time, I was invincible. I was the god of the night, of the elements. Let it come. Even darker now, nothing but the road was visible. Didn’t care. It wasn’t about the distance. It wasn’t about a goal. It was about me. And I was going to go until I decided I didn’t want to any more… It took another mile. Another mile of darkness and cold and solitude and aching feet and a head still swimming with shit. But it was finally clearing. There was a new focus, now. I wasn’t running away. I wasn’t running to. I was running. Stopped at the most nondescript location I saw. Didn’t want to know where I was. Wasn’t the point. Turned around, and realized all I had to do was get back. I allowed myself the smallest of grins, and started to move my feet…..

"You have a choice. You can throw in the towel, or you can use it to wipe the sweat off of your face…"

Started to feel the fatigue. Denied it. Started to lose traction. Just took bigger steps. Get off my back. Wait, try to get back on. To late, I’m gone. Running back, couldn’t see how far I had to go. Didn’t know. Didn’t see the uphill, just felt it. Felt my body adjust, arms pumped harder to maintain the speed. Toes pressed a little deeper into the snow. My glasses were covered, there was no sight. Couldn’t allow myself the time to stop and take them off, to make sure they were secure somewhere so they didn’t fall. Had to trust the feet, trust the road. Trust that this thing that was inside of me wouldn’t lead me wrong, would keep me safe. Would carry me to new heights. Rounded the corner, one that I’d taken nearly every day of my life. Didn’t need my eyes any more. One downhill, one uphill. That was it. But I decided not to sprint to the finish. This wasn’t that run. Yesterday was the day of reckoning. Yesterday was the test. Today was about me, not my body. Picked up the pace anyway. Pumped the arms more, felt the biceps that I’d hammered into oblivion two days before. Bring it on. The hill came, last one. I almost laughed. It was nothing. Whatever fatigue I’d felt before was gone. It was a joke, a whim. Contemplating my body and how it felt. Didn’t matter. And now there was nothing. No aches, no pains, no rattling cough. Just the incredible high that comes from spending time on yourself and having it actually work. Made it to the driveway, walking down towards the house allowed me time to reflect on what just happened. I still couldn’t put my finger on it, whatever it was that gave me the drive. The desire to keep going and not care. Maybe it was me. Maybe I’ve finally broken out of my box, the limits of my mind starting to disappear. Perhaps I’ve conditioned my body to recognize that when shit starts to happen, it needed to dish it back out. Right on myself, in the most constructive of ways. Why fix the world, if you can’t fix yourself?

“A man who views the world the same at fifty as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.”

Eric called, decided he wanted to do abs before going to Mitch’s. We were both going, hang out, spend the night, you know. Whatever it is guys do. Fine, I said. Come over. We went down to the basement, situps and leglifts and crunches and more leglifts. Planks, a move I learned from a man who had a world record in power lifting. More situps, more leglifts. The lifting, the pulling. Made me think back to the ice fishing I’d done earlier in the day. Talk about simple. A bucket and a pole. Only one piece of bait needed, because as soon as you caught your first fish, you used their eyes for bait to catch the next one. Painful cycle, but damn effective. No technology, nothing. A pole, a hook. One grub. An old paint bucket to sit on. An auger for your hole. Got to do some manuel labor before getting back to the roots. Fishin’ for perch, they told me. The Okay family, that’s who I went with. Jake Okay, one of my friends from highschool invited me. Nobody else, just me. His dad went, and his brother too. Just walked out there, slammed some holes in the ice, dropped a line, and started fishing. Took me awhile to bring them in, I can tell you. Caught one right off the bat, and then it slowed for me. Oh, they were nibbling all right. But it was only my second time fishing and I’ll be damned if it didn’t take me a full hour and dozens of missed fish to get the hang of when to pull that ****ing rod tip up and reel the sucker in. Got a little more fun after that, I can tell you. Filled up a five gallon paint bucket with ‘em, finally left when we couldn’t fit any more in. And you’d better believe we took those things home and filleted ‘em. I’m through with that catch and release garbage. Either catch it and eat it, or leave the damn thing alone. Yeah, you’re big. Casting your little lure out there and catching something that fights every day for survival. It’s like nothing we could even imagine… We wake up, we’re in our beds. At some point there will be food for us. Whether we went out and earned it or it was given to us. It wasn’t placed out in the middle of a field filled with grizzly bears and surrounded by hundreds of other people wanting the same thing. Nope. We’ve got it easy. Just look at nature if you want to be inspired. You’re afraid to be a fighter? I’m a survivor, not a fighter. I’m going to survive… Got done cleaning the fish, put on my boots to leave. The man comes over and hands me some fillets, thanking me for the good time. Now, I know exactly how many fish I caught, and the amount of meat there was total. I was given probably triple of what I caught. Triple. Typical outdoorsman goodness. It was a character trait. I left with more than a great trip. I left with more than even my fish that I didn’t even know I was going to get to keep anyway. Did I mention the mom gave me some old hunting clothes? Asked if I new someone who sewed, and I told her about two of my relatives who did it for a living. She immediately plunked them into my arms and wished me luck. If I hadn’t been in the way, I imagine they would’ve snuck out to the truck and hidden them in there, so not to make a seen. How do you like that? I was touched, and refreshed by their goodness. What the **** happened to the world? What the **** happened? But the Okays survived. They stuck to there guns. And they had quite a few, I can tell you. Hunters, fishers, woodsmen. Outdoorsmen. Not rednecks, none of that racist close-minded uneducated selfish bullshit. These people were true people, back to the early days where man relied on his neighbor, and his neighbor relied on him. Tallies weren’t kept, a balance wasn’t paid. It was honesty and goodness. Simplicity. They wanted to do right by me, and right by themselves. The latter causing me to walk away staggering under the weight of clothes and fresh perch. It was the sweetest fish I’ve ever tasted…

"…That combined with desire and heart, and always pushing yourself… So to all these kids who come up to me, asking me how I got this big, what I eat exactly, the specific exercises I use… In the end, it doesn’t mean shit. It’s all about finding what works for you, then applying it with consistency and diligence. Throw in heart, real passion, and you got the makings of a champion."

Saturday, February 21, 2009

It’s the numbers. You can get buried in them. Counting and counting and counting. To make them count. To turn that 8 into a date. To turn that 10 into a knockout. Turn that 275 into a swagger. Take that sub seven minute mile and run with it, pass ‘em all. Counting is instinctive to me now. I can start, stop halfway through, and come back in right on target. It’s subconcious. That’s how deep this shit is. It’s in you. Then there’s the listen-to-the-body side of things. Numbers are just that. Numbers. You could never count a damn thing, never look at the plates, never look at the dumbell, and you’d still be where you want to be. It’s instinct. It’s the discipline that comes from abusing your body over and over in order to achieve greatness. In order to stand up and be counted…

"The opponents and I are really one. My strength and skills only half of the equation. The other half is theirs. An opponent is someone whose strength joined to yours creates a certain result."

**** them. **** the naysayers. Started my morning out great, woke up, ate. Cleaned a little, satisfy the mom. Called Eric, told him to get up and come over or I’d start without him. Groaning. He was ****ing groaning. 9:30am and the kid wasn’t out of bed. Said the day before he’d be over by 8:30. Right. But I love him. It’s always the same, go downstairs, find what food is left in the house that I hadn’t ravaged the night before or one of my siblings hasn’t snagged and stashed away. So it was cereal, with the last of the milk. Cereal that was over a year old. My mom had got it for me, back in wrestling season. Some super healthy Kashi shit. Tasted like wood chips and cardboard. I bailed as soon as wrestling was done. It was still there, hiding in the back of the cupbard. Just looking at me. I grabbed that shit and ate it. Poured out the whole damn box, tinking and plinking into the bowl, sloshed the last of the milk on it. Shoveled it in, slammed it down. Protein, the building blocks. Fiber, simple carbs. Building blocks, all of it. Bricks. Everything you eat is building materials. You gonna build a house out of shit? I’m not there yet, not ready to convert. I was, but this is a new day, a new journey. I need to work my way back. So I started with the cereal, one small step towards perfection. Climbing that mountain…

"She’s a skinny girl and a real looker, but she tells me she’s gotta watch what she eats. I watch what I eat too. But she’s not eating four foods and only four foods. So she’s starting to get the picture… I tell her to imagine a slice of pizza. ‘What’s the first thing that comes to mind?’ I ask her. She starts talking about the taste. Yeah, that’s how most people are…"

But it’s them. Those mother ****ing people on the sidelines. The wannabes. Hell, some of ‘em even step in, move the weight, move their bodies. But it’s not enough. It’s never about them, it’s always about the other guy. I lift and I run and I throw and eat and I do it all to be better than anybody. To be the best I can be. It’s never good enough for them. I could stand up there and punch all day, and beat one bitch after another, take warrior after warrior and crush them beneath my power. And it’s never enough. "He wasn’t as strong as you, he wasn’t as skilled, he wasn’t as conditioned." You’re damn right he wasn’t. He’ll never be. They’ll never be. I refuse, I will not allow it. I will never allow someone to be stronger, to be faster, to be better. I put in hours a day, weeks, months, years, to be the best. So you’re damn right I’m stronger than him. But they try and take it away. Hell, sometimes they succeed. It’s never enough to win. You have to win on their terms. Because I go out and bust my ass and sacrifice, therefore it shouldn’t be considered an even match. Someone’s gotta lose. Someone’s gotta win. And I refuse to leave it up to chance. I will always win. Or I will become better. I don’t need excuses. What is, that’s what ****ing is. I don’t need a reason, I don’t need an out. Line ‘em up, I’ll put ‘em to sleep or they’ll shut me down. And I’ll become better. But not them. Not Mitch Frechette. Not Nate G. They’re both my friends, but deep down there’s something in me that can’t stand them. "You only won because you were stronger." I’d better always be stronger. I refuse to fail. You can try and take away my victory all you want, but it’s mine. The victory doesn’t just come from the minutes in the ring. It’s the hours outside. I walk in knowing that I’m the best I can be, and I don’t give two shits if you’re not. You wanna throw with me, I’ll be there. Every. Time.

"I don’t try to intimidate anybody before a fight. That’s nonsense. I intimidate people by hitting them."

Double session, today. Lifting in the morning, running in the afternoon. I felt good. Check the numbers, that’s a set at 165. 6 days ago that set was 115. It’s coming back, it’s like a freight train. That’s how they used to describe me in Cross Country. A freakin’ freight train. Stepped out the door, blue skies and fading sun. 38 degrees, a hint of wind. I’d put on a hoodie, beanie, pair of shorts, and my shoes. Those shoes have been places. Up and down hills, through cities and parks, through mountains and rivers. They could tell a story. And you know what? Those shoes have known nothing but going ahead. I’ve never turned around once in those pair of shoes. I’ve never backed down in those. And that knowledge carries me the next time, and the next time. Slapping down on the pavement, dirty with the plows attempt at melting the snow. Just me. The wind slid down my throat like a finger, feeling it tickle my lungs. Not a knife, not yet. Just playing with me, daring me to go on. Cupping its’ hands around my ears, massaging my neck. It knows what’s coming, as well as I do. The farther I go, the tougher the way back. This wasn’t a joy run today. This was a run to test me. I needed it. Who was I? Where was I? Repped out the first mile, no issues. Running by broken down trailers, faded siding and ramshackle fences to keep in their dogs. Passed a barn, withstanding yet another upstate New York winter. Could hear the cows inside, lookin’ for their food, neighbor, whatever. That’s a life, eat and sleep and be lead around on a halter by another being. Not me. Give me the road, give me my shoes. I’ll go, and I’ll take care of myself. I’ve felt hunger before, I’ve felt pain. And I’m still ****ing here. Half a mile later rounding a hill, this mutt runs out. Probably a half breed. Barking its head off, telling me to get to the other side of the road. I slow down, put on my best dog voice, and tell it to get the **** back on it’s property before I kick it to kingdom come. Apparently it doesn’t hear me. So I change my course, and head right for it. They say animals can sense things. That dog was sensing things for the next 10 min. from inside it’s dog house, damn thing took off yelping and didn’t come back. This is where I wondered. Where do I go? Do I go? Did I stop, head back, feel good about getting another training run? Why was I out here? I hadn’t seen any life yet, other then that dog. What was I doing? Feet were in pain, size 8 feet carrying size 165 body. Slapping and slapping, no technique to carry them the way they wanted to be treated. But they get me there. To the top of that hill, where a quarter mile away I see my turnaround. It’s on.

"Lay on, Macduff,
And damned be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!””

Snowmobilers out, riding the trails. I smell their exhaust, the gasoline. Kind of like it. I’m no gearhead, but it’s good. Not like the truck that drove by, some overweight middle aged woman in black diagonal sunglasses peering down at me like I was some bug on her windshield. I gave her a nod, she just squinted her eyes. Great, huh? Bustin’ my ass, nobody’s there to push me but me. Unless I make them. I took her and I shoved those sunglasses in my head, then pumped them all the way down to my aching lower back. I was on the return journey, and those things were going to watch me the whole way. Watch me, bitch. Just watch me. I’m coming in, and I’m coming in hot. I’m coming on, and I’m coming on strong. I pass the dog again, who decided it wanted another try. This time the owner was out, reassuring me that his dog didn’t bite. Right, mister. He doesn’t bite you, you feed him. Don’t tell me he’s growling out of joy and happiness to see me. To eat me, maybe. I give a motion and the dog backs off. Keep going, refuse to look back and see if it follows me. I hit the one mile left mark, my road. Valley road. And the wind roars in to greet me, slamming into me and hugging me as if I was an old friend. Smiling as it slid the knife into my mouth, and down into my chest. Pulling at my hamstrings, laughing as it inspected them and found every weakness. There was Coughing, great wracking coughs that started somewhere down in my toenails and exploded through my chest, sapping every ounce of energy out of me. But I refused. Refused to pause and spit. To put the hands on the knees. To slow down for even a second. The wind changed direction, to my back now. Not enough to help me, of course, but enough to take the sound away from my ears, to leave everything utter silence except my rattling breaths and ticking glasses. Ticking, ticking. Watching the road crawl by, it was like running underwater. I could hear nothing but my body, and my body said nothing but stop.

"No man is sane who does not know how to be insane on proper occasions."

Rejection. It stings, it burns. It hurts, it crushes. It’s one of the ultimate fears. Dejection. Comes from failure. They sometimes go together, dejection and rejection. But I felt something different. It swirled around, tendrils drifting past my conciousness. And it spurned me on. Another chance for greatness. Another chance for glory. Chances I refuse to pass up. Can’t. Won’t. Arms pumping, throat wheezing with all manner of shit and snot from my lungs. One more hill. That’s it. I used to tell my friends, if you were almost at the end of a run and someone offered you a million dollars to run faster, would you? Could you? Damn right you could. So I ran. Make it a physical barrier, not a mental barrier. Coaches all have different ways of saying it. This is my way. If you’re stopping, if you can’t put that weight up, it better because your body has no other choice than to shut down. If it’s you, if it’s all in your head… Grow up. Make it a physical barrier to your success, not a mental barrier. On my toes now, less than 100m. You can go faster. You can go harder. You’ve got more effort to get rid of, so you can step inside and look back and know that was it. That was the best you had.

30 min. 4 miles. I can take that.

“Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength.”
Currently listening:
Carnal Repercussions
By Salt The Wound
Release date: 2008-02-05

Friday, February 20, 2009

It’s begun
I’m going to begin recording my journey. It’s been 4 months since I last touched a barbell, 4 months since I’ve done any physical activity with a goal in mind. And as of Sunday of last week, I began again. It’s been a long time in coming. I hurt my shoulder in October lifting weights and practicing Judo, and all this time has been spent recuperating. And when I say recuperating, I mean my grades, my love life, my very person. Oh, and my shoulder. See, working out is my life. It’s what I love. What a pen is to a writer, so my running shoes are to me. What a chord inspires in a pianist, is what a barbell inspires in me. Undoubtedly, there are many who would view my obsession with focused and driven activity as an obsession with my body. And that’s true. "But that’s so unsubstantial" Well, my body is a measure of me. It’s a measure of my care, or my discipline, of my motivation. And it’s something that enables me to do the things I love, like kayaking or mountain climbing or fighting. I’m lucky enough to love something that helps me do more of what I love. Everybody’s different, and I understand that. When I stopped working out, my grades plummeted, and it was a struggle to bring them back. My relationship struggled, my people skills degraded, and who I was 3 months prior was not who I was then. Could it be that THAT is the measure of who I am, who I can be in the face of adversity? Yep. I guess so. But I came back. I got the grades up, I worked through the relationship, I motivated friends to begin fitness programs and goal-creating of their own. And now finally after 4 months, it’s my turn. I look at it as a beginning, as a journey. I need to make a new myspace profile (it changes with my life), perhaps one more like I had before? "This day is a new day." THIS day. Is a NEW day. And I’m sticking with that. I’m ready, I’ve got the fire in the belly. I’ve spent my life honing my skills, amassing knowledge, and I’m ready to put it all together and unleash something incredible. My posts after this one will not be this style, they will be simpler, more primitive. Unless something from the workout stimulates thought on something more. In which case, in proper blog fashion, I’ll write about it. Nothing fancy, nothing special. Just a quick look into the world of Jake Clark and his training. And maybe a little more. I’m not ready to be completely hardcore about everything, I’m still keeping it semi-light. But it’s shifting, I can feel the beast getting ready to come out. I’m looking forward to it. Even as I type, I can’t help but get fired up. I’m ready, I want to go. Not cast off the shackles, but break through the chains. Not wake up from a slumber, but rip off the sheets and burst through the door. It’s on. And there ain’t nothin’ that’s gonna stop it. I’ll record things every day when I can, but some days it will be tough. Heck, noone might read this. But it’s not about the world. It’s about me. I guess this is something that I’m ready to share with people, this transformation of myself. And just the insanity of lifting and running, the double sessions, the sweat gear. It’s what I love, and I want to share it.

So let it begin.

"The way is covered with mud, rock, and shit. To all those who’ve come before me, I tell you this… I too have heard and I am ready. I am ready to toil in anonymity under the merciless weight, under the scrutiny of my own unforgiving gaze. I am ready for this undertaking and when I am done, I will no longer be among the nameless, the faceless. It’s my time… I will stand up and be counted."

Sunday was the first day. I was nervous, I kept rubbing my arms. Chest and tris, chest and tris, it was a mantra, one that I chanted over and over again. Don’t get the hopes up, stay positive, just let it happen. I was with Eric Vondell, a friend from way back in grade school, the days of cubscouts and kickball. He’s had a mission, and I’m the man to help him fulfill it. It was a mission of mine for a long time, but it was a hard burden to bear. It made me great, but at a terrible price. So I cast it off, and just remember. But Erics road is his own, and I’m just helping him to learn how to blast through the mountains rather than stagger over them. I got on the bench. 95 pounds, 8 times. Arms couldn’t stop shaking. It wasn’t the weight that was the issue, it was the coordination. Not the muscle memory, but the nerves. The first 2 weeks of strength gain is simply from your nerves learning to fire at the same time, to get the maximum result. Mine obviously were a little rusty. Upped the weight anyway. 115, scary. I used to warm up at 115. It was nothin’ but water weight. Still, have to start somewhere. Another 8 reps, Eric shouting down at me to stay strong, stay tough. As if I didn’t want to. As if the last 4 months hadn’t been the stiffest 4 months of my life. Every day watching myself degrade in the mirror, knowing that I was letting it happen. I’m not one for eating healthy. 125, 8 reps. No prob, besides the bar rattling inside the weights like an old chevy going down one of 50 back-Lacona roads. Moved on, dumbell presses with 55 pounds. That was better, that was at least honest weight. Repped ‘em out. Decline bench, 100 pounds, another 3 sets of 8. My hands felt the stress of the bar, of the contours of the steel in my hands. It’s like sandpaper, it rips you wide open. It’s not the muscle fatigue that kicks the unmotivated out of the gym. It’s the hands. Gripping the weight you haven’t even moved yet, feeling the pain. And then if you push through, if you challenge the pain, you rip. You tear. I’ve bled on the weights. Didn’t happen that day, but it has. Carpentry with the father has kept ‘em tough. I refuse to wear gloves, now. Wood, cement, mud, iron, it’s all the same. Give it to me, let me at it. Break ‘em down, so the next time they won’t. Pushups followed the declines, elbows in tight. Eric stood over me, grabbed my hips to pull me up when I couldn’t, when I was roaring out in pain and hurt and desire. There’s no room for you with the weights. It’s not about you, you don’t have a name. Neither does your partner. You can’t come in looking at the guy next to you and making judgements. You can’t come in afraid of being judged. And awkward is a word reserved for the lunch tables and teenage relationships. He’s a man trying to go places. Grab his damn hips, and help him get there. Finished 30, then another 25, then 20. Back to the bench, dumbell flys with a kick. A Jake Clark special. Lower ‘em down, then explode back up. The partner holds your wrists and stops you from smashing your knuckles together. Took a few tries, but he got it. It’s good to be with someone whose got the fire. The workout ended after striking. The visions, oh the visions. Combinations, getting rocked, letting the hands go. I stayed with the MMA gloves to give the shoulder a rest, while Eric grabbed the speed mitts and gave me a target. Started with the lead jab, then the follow through. Lead hook, money hook. Combo, jab jab money. Uppercuts were next, then overhand rights. Through some more combos, then called it quits. Let the shower wash it all away, whatever reservations I had, whatever doubts were creeping in about what I’m trying to do.

Monday I was by myself, back to the old days. Biceps, shoulders, and back. Deadlifts were first, the hardest damn exercise a man could find. Mentally, physically. It’s stiff stuff. 3 sets of 8, 135. Half of what I’d used to do. Gotta move past that, let it push forward, not back. EZ bar curls, 3 sets of 10 at 45. Immediately reversed for 3 sets of 10 at 35. Moved on to d. rows, one hand and one knee on the bench. Looked down at the sweat stains from the day before. Time, effort. And that fire. It’s everywhere, burning things out of you. Biology, my prof was talkin’ about clear cutting in the rain forest, or of using fire to completely wipe out a hillside for farming. Then how the rain would come and completely sweep the place clean no nutrients, no minerals, no material left. Just dirt. And the farmer couldn’t grow jack. That’s the kind of fire I had, after October. The shit kind. And now it’s new, baby. Some shit went down with the girl, things are a little different. But I’m back. Jake’s back. And this fire is the fire that makes you alive. Lights you up, sets all your cells ablaze. And I’ll be damned if it don’t burn some shit away. But it leaves things. The good stuff. The joy from sacrifice, all that poetic shit. Moreso, it stays with you. It starts inside, but then moves to the outside. You’re all aflame, and as you stalk among the mortals, they can see it. They don’t see the hours, the hands, the stained leather on the bench. The battered gloves lying in the corner next to a little girls crayons, and some dirty napkins. They see the product. But they don’t feel it. It escapes them. Sometimes I’m like that guy from the Fantastic Four, what’s his name? The Human Torch. What a gay name. But he can fly, and baby that’s where I’m going. To be able to stand, tilt your head down and close your eyes, and let it all go. Set it on fire. And when you straighten up, it’s cracklin’. It’s like fire and electricity combined. The electric spark in your eye, the fire in your skin. That’s what I started to remember on those dumbells. Looking at my bench, 200$ invested when all my relatives just shook their heads and laughed at me. Better 200 on a bench then on 20 grams of pot. Better 200$ on the bench than the thousands on college money because I couldn’t keep my head on track. Better 200$ on the bench than hundreds more on health care shit. It does something to me. 3 sets of 10, 55 pounds. Move on to shrugs, 45 each hand, 3X10 again. What’s it matter, this pain? What does it even matter at all? The heart pounding, pounding for what? For me, for my goals, for a whim? Why? It pounds because I make it pound. It pounds because it’s the center of everything. It pounds whether I’m lifting, striking, or in bed visualizing. Whether it’s slow, and I’m drooling on my paper in Writing. Whether it’s exploding when I’m on her, breathing and breathing and consumed with feeling and passion. The rush of blood when I’m with that girl. It’s insane. She’s got such power over me, all our loved ones do. But to feel that torrent unleash when we start kissing, it’s unbelievable. My heart pumps liquid iron. The sets were done, I called my brother to come down and hold the gloves. Grandma came in to watch, but she left when she couldn’t get the picture of someones face being behind my hands. What the hell do you think I’m throwing for? Why would I do that? Every punch, ever single ****ing one of them. It’s thrown for a reason. My hands are mine, and they do whatever I want. I’m throwing for my girlfriend, I’m throwing for my family, I’m throwing for all those who can’t throw that someday will need someone who can. I’m throwing for fun, yeah. But I say fun because what I do is fun. I fight. Or at least, I try to. It’s very few people that are willing to step into a ring with someone, and battle till the end.

"A grindstone that had not grit in it, how long would it take to sharpen an ax? And affairs that had not grit in them, how long would they take to make a man?"

Everyone has thoughts on why people fight. This isn’t the time to go on. But I throw to fight, and I fight to win…

Monday comes, 4 mile run with Eric. He’s too slow, but the wind is nice. It’s cold, it shoots right to my lungs like a knife, cuts me. Every breath with a stab of pain. Bring it on. Gotta keep talking, keep pushing him. It’s just one hill, it’s just 4 miles. C’mon brother, keep the fire. But my head is clear, and so were my eyes. I’m ready to go out on my own, to see what I’ve got. I need a challenge, so I’ll do it myself. Maybe tomorrow, after this crazy snowstorm is done. Just me. The road. Me.

Don’t get anything done till Thursday. I went to this shit-hole of a gym at OCC, they call it their "Fitness Center". Yeah, right. The only thing that was getting fit in there was more equipment, shitty stuff at that. It was this long dark brick hallway, with weights and machines jammed on each side. Don’t get me wrong, I love the rust, I love dark. I’m a hardcore man, and I lift hardcore. But when you have the girls aerobic equipment right next to the bench, and some punk in jeans and skate shoes tellin’ you not to arch your back, **** it. Not happening again. Met a kid in there, some all-natural stoner. Ended up working out with me, another day of Chest and Tris. Flat benched 115, 3X10 , moved on to dips, 12, 10, 8. Transitioned to the dumbells, presses at 55 pounds, just did it till my arms couldn’t go any more. Then straight to flys with 25s, exploding up with a grunt, trying to block out the sound of D3 lacrosse players talking about the big game while prancing on the elliptical. You’re kidding, right? Meanwhile the kid, Jason, is asking me questions about nutrition, and lifting. I like it, I like him. He’s a stoner, but a good guy. Can I fault him for breaking the law? Hmmmm….. I didn’t care right then, I had a guy who was looking for change. Finished the flys (3sets of 15) then I headed over to the compound for some tricep extensions. Watched my neck swell up in the mirror as I pressed down. Damn, my neck is big. I love it, I can take a punch, bridge off my back (but almost every single one of my losses in wrestling were pins, so…) and generally do whatever the **** I want with it. I need a mat, to start working it out again. Finished 3X10 at 40 pounds, then headed over to the old lady aerobics room for abs. Jay tagged along, held my knees and I held his. Then leg raises, throwing them back down every time for 30. Then crunches, then calling it quits. Wend down the locker room that didn’t have any locks, and changed, my eyes watering from the smell of piss and tobacco smoke. **** that. Give me hardcore, but don’t give me this shit. But Jason was cool, we finished up and I told him what protein bar to buy. Kid is trusting. It was refreshing.

"These laws of iron and steel forge new bonds between us. They are unbreakable. This is the state of man and ours is the brotherhood of iron."

Went for a jog with the girlfriend. A run for her, she was just starting out as well, but a jog for me. Of all nights for us to do it, a 20 mile an hour wind and 10 degree weather. But what the ****, it’s the road or it’s piddling around doing nothing till Daymocracy. And we did it. Went all the way down that mountain they call Olympus, out to the streets. Did we get some looks from people driving by. That’s right. We’re out here. We’ve got places to go. This cold? Yeah, it’s here. But so are we…

It never fails that there will be time. And there will be time to fill. You can fill it with shit, or you can fill it with recognition. Recognition of what you want, when you want it. Time was today, waiting for Eric to come over to lift again. 20 min here, 14 min there. What happens to it all? How many minutes do we waste a day doing something that noone will ever remember, that did nothing but waste the most precious thing we have. Why the **** would we let that slip away? I was bouncing all over, trying to deal with all this college shit. I’m transferring into ESF, out of that highschool they call Onondaga Community College. And wouldn’t you know it, they ****ed up my paper work. So I had to make phone calls, send emails. This was after convincing my mom it wasn’t for my girl. I love her, and you better believe I’d make sacrifices. But this shit is heavy, and we just gotta go off of faith if we’re somewhere else. Made it so far, so why the **** would this be any different from the other decisions I made? Barbell curls, 3 sets of 6 at 65 pounds. Huge increase over my last bi. day. I’m feelin’ it, it’s comin’ back. Deadlifted, with Eric spotting my form. There’s an analogy for you. Back straight and nothing gets broken. Stand tall and stay true to yourself, and you’ll be what you want to be. I don’t need a ****ing belt. All it does is show you’re weakness. If I’m maxing out, sure. But train with a belt? Let’s go for a run down hill for 4 miles. Let’s swim with a lifejacket on. Grow the **** up. 3 sets of 8 with 150. Moved on to d. curls, 30 pounds, 3 sets of 9, 7, 6. It’s all good. Eric said I was ripped, he sees a part of me. A part of it. Of what I was, of what I used to be. I can see where he’s going, too. He did chest, and I was spotting. Sore shoulder, weak body. He’s got his own demons to fight through. He didn’t need Mitch slapping him down, Nate Glenister calling him out. **** them. Right here, right now, this is it.

"… That single moment reminded me that when two things rub together, the results aren’t always bad. After all, to create a spark, to create a ****ing fire, you need a little friction. "

Did some rows, 70 pounds, left and right arm back to back, 3X10. Lookin’ down on that bench again, this time it’s slick with sweat. Fresh sweat, you can smell it. It’s the stink of weakness. It’s the smell of victory. Leaks into your lips, the taste of defeat. The saltiness of earth. Farmers, they know. They know what sweat is. They’ve been there. I smell cow shit, and I don’t turn my nose up. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t rollin’ my window down for it. But I know what it is, what it stands for. It reminds me of farmers, the salt of the earth. Is it because of so much they put back to it? The drips, never ending, plowing, haying, carrying, loading? I’m not sure. But I know that they shaped this country. And these local boys are always going to have a place in my life, and I’ll be damned if there’ll be a chance I can do something for them and I pass it by. Toss me down and step on me. They know what sweat is. And they know what blood is. Blood is just red sweat….

Finished up with shrugs, shoulders to the ears with 45 pounds, 3 sets of 10 again. Get down on the floor, 40 situps, leglifts, crunches, leglifts, more situps. Eric’s right with me, every single one of ‘em. He’s got heart. He’s got balls. And he’s got the scent on the wind…

Tomorrow we begin again.

"Strength and growth come only through continuous effort and struggle…"

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