So lately I've been thinking alot about relationships, what they mean, how they are defined and all the big questions.
When stuff like this starts piling up inside the only thing you can do is think "what would Swayze do?".
In Dirty Dancing Swayze begins a relationship with Jennifer Grey. Swayze is serious as is Grey. Swayze is a little older and Grey's father, Jerry Orbach is against it.
Does Swayze sit him down and reason it out? Does he explain the depth of his feelings? Point out that he Swayze was born on 18/08/52 and Grey was born on 26/03/60 and compare that to Orbach who born on 20/10/35 and his wife Kelly Bishop 28/02/44. Does he point out the similar age difference?
No. He just fucking dances. When reason and even violence fail us, just fucking dance.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJO_zQTDhb8
Maybe that's what Lady Gaga was talking about.
Showing posts with label exercise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label exercise. Show all posts
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Monday, December 21, 2009
Strangely Numb of Late
Not that the usual business of getting knocked around and pissed off by it hasn't been occurring, I've just been a bit numb to the effects of it all. I get to thinking that I could write a blog about it all and then I come to realise I just don't give enough of a damn to write it down. My fire is slowly burning out.
The plan here is to give a quick recap of the last while, see if anything takes my fancy and if I get to writing then all well and good. I think I'll start by topic and work from there.
Work:
I've become less idealistic. Truth be told, I've been becoming less idealistic since day two when the cold started to set in. I've stopped believing that a group of like minded people prepared to fight the good fight and be the best we can be is what I want. I want to be surrounded by fuck ups. Their litany of sins and precedents set insulate me from the high standards that should be set. I may be alone in feeling safe and comforted knowing that I'm in the company of quite a few terminal fuck ups (who I might point out, do not as far as I know know of this blog). Comedy could only ensue if they did.
Love Life:
It is not a train wreck. Train wrecks get media attention, they are of general interest. Mine is pretty much just an empty train track stretching off in either directions in the dying light of a long day. In an effort to resolve this I've attempted to be more social of late. I hate going out, I hate noise and I hate drunken idiots. I figure I feel about going out how most people feel about pull ups. They're not good at them, they hurt and if anyone is about they embarrass you as you hang limply from the bar trying to understand how your genetics have been thwarted by you. Conversely, while not being world class or anything I quite enjoy pull ups. I can do them with no warm up or real consideration. I do them for fun and if people are ever to be impressed by me this is the time. Also, Fuck Coppers!
Training:
The war on muscular atrophy continues. It's more of a guerrilla war, with no planning and sporadic attacks with wildly different strategies and success rates. It's madness but I can feel the enemy weakening. Why can't I deadlift worth shit though? I've built a new pulling platform. Surely that will help? That's weight lifted anyway, I'm starting to get fat and I need to pay a closer eye to that. Jitz has suffered. A victim of an unforgiving working week and if I can't crush people what's the point?
Thoughts and Conjecture:
As a child I used to pray, I think I did anyway. I'd lie in bed and think on the things that I wanted or was worried by and I'd drift off. I've a fairly narrative style of thinking. Nothing would change but it was reflective and sometimes cathartic. Now I just think what would make a good blog and work on the phrasing. It's more or less the same. More or less.
I've been involved in two car accidents the last three days. Neither were serious and I had at least a second or two to see each of them coming. Nothing occurred to me. I fear that in the moments before my untimely death I won't have the presence of mind to utter a laconic last sentiment. That said, laughed my ass off after each collision. Genuinely funny.
At a wedding recently. Started planning my own. The food choices will be either a fillet steak or a ribeye. Fillet for the ladies and the vegetarians. Music will be entirely made up of songs that people invited by my parents won't know and will find difficult to dance along to. It will be a viciously secular ceremony. Speeches will be uncharacteristically honest and as a result of the above the bride will most likely spend the day crying and lamenting agreeing to marry me. It will be the most memorable wedding of the year but that may not be a good thing.
I feel the dark clouds of Christmas gathering. Having to play nice with extended family galls me. It bothers me that outside of the issues of consanguinity and the propagation to the species people assume a blood tie means I have to listen to them prattle on and respond in kind. I'll just get some training in. More amusingly, we received our yearly letter from the "American relatives", they send it every year despite not once receiving a reply. It tries to cover their trials and successes with an upbeat and thankful tone. Stuff like John and Kerry's baby Jennifer starting Montessori and how even at this young age we can see she's destined for greatness. Fuck sake. My favourite is the negative shit, divorces and the loss of loved ones. Not that I take more than a normal amount of joy in the suffering of others but seeing the mental gymnastics required to phrase this dark material in a way that makes it seem like God's will for his idiot children is something very special indeed.
There's a line from Inglourious Basterds that's stuck in my head, as Col Landa tells Aldo Raine he'll be shot for killing his driver and maiming him - "Nah. I don't think so. More like chewed out. I've been chewed out before."
The plan here is to give a quick recap of the last while, see if anything takes my fancy and if I get to writing then all well and good. I think I'll start by topic and work from there.
Work:
I've become less idealistic. Truth be told, I've been becoming less idealistic since day two when the cold started to set in. I've stopped believing that a group of like minded people prepared to fight the good fight and be the best we can be is what I want. I want to be surrounded by fuck ups. Their litany of sins and precedents set insulate me from the high standards that should be set. I may be alone in feeling safe and comforted knowing that I'm in the company of quite a few terminal fuck ups (who I might point out, do not as far as I know know of this blog). Comedy could only ensue if they did.
Love Life:
It is not a train wreck. Train wrecks get media attention, they are of general interest. Mine is pretty much just an empty train track stretching off in either directions in the dying light of a long day. In an effort to resolve this I've attempted to be more social of late. I hate going out, I hate noise and I hate drunken idiots. I figure I feel about going out how most people feel about pull ups. They're not good at them, they hurt and if anyone is about they embarrass you as you hang limply from the bar trying to understand how your genetics have been thwarted by you. Conversely, while not being world class or anything I quite enjoy pull ups. I can do them with no warm up or real consideration. I do them for fun and if people are ever to be impressed by me this is the time. Also, Fuck Coppers!
Training:
The war on muscular atrophy continues. It's more of a guerrilla war, with no planning and sporadic attacks with wildly different strategies and success rates. It's madness but I can feel the enemy weakening. Why can't I deadlift worth shit though? I've built a new pulling platform. Surely that will help? That's weight lifted anyway, I'm starting to get fat and I need to pay a closer eye to that. Jitz has suffered. A victim of an unforgiving working week and if I can't crush people what's the point?
Thoughts and Conjecture:
As a child I used to pray, I think I did anyway. I'd lie in bed and think on the things that I wanted or was worried by and I'd drift off. I've a fairly narrative style of thinking. Nothing would change but it was reflective and sometimes cathartic. Now I just think what would make a good blog and work on the phrasing. It's more or less the same. More or less.
I've been involved in two car accidents the last three days. Neither were serious and I had at least a second or two to see each of them coming. Nothing occurred to me. I fear that in the moments before my untimely death I won't have the presence of mind to utter a laconic last sentiment. That said, laughed my ass off after each collision. Genuinely funny.
At a wedding recently. Started planning my own. The food choices will be either a fillet steak or a ribeye. Fillet for the ladies and the vegetarians. Music will be entirely made up of songs that people invited by my parents won't know and will find difficult to dance along to. It will be a viciously secular ceremony. Speeches will be uncharacteristically honest and as a result of the above the bride will most likely spend the day crying and lamenting agreeing to marry me. It will be the most memorable wedding of the year but that may not be a good thing.
I feel the dark clouds of Christmas gathering. Having to play nice with extended family galls me. It bothers me that outside of the issues of consanguinity and the propagation to the species people assume a blood tie means I have to listen to them prattle on and respond in kind. I'll just get some training in. More amusingly, we received our yearly letter from the "American relatives", they send it every year despite not once receiving a reply. It tries to cover their trials and successes with an upbeat and thankful tone. Stuff like John and Kerry's baby Jennifer starting Montessori and how even at this young age we can see she's destined for greatness. Fuck sake. My favourite is the negative shit, divorces and the loss of loved ones. Not that I take more than a normal amount of joy in the suffering of others but seeing the mental gymnastics required to phrase this dark material in a way that makes it seem like God's will for his idiot children is something very special indeed.
There's a line from Inglourious Basterds that's stuck in my head, as Col Landa tells Aldo Raine he'll be shot for killing his driver and maiming him - "Nah. I don't think so. More like chewed out. I've been chewed out before."
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Moments of self reflection
I worry sometimes that I'm too full of bluster. All hot air and swearing. That maybe there is no kernel of truth or moment of oneness with me within any of my blogs. This is compounded sometimes when I read something that is brief, eloquent and exceptionally well written.
The man responsible for me feeling all self conscious and naked is Mark Rippetoe. If you've known me for any length of time I've probably directed you to his message board or said "that's not what Rip says". He is a strength and conditioning coach, Beyond that he is eloquent and writes exceptionally well, veering from the succinct to the verbose, the touching to the offensive and always related to barbell training and the truths that it yields. He is as close to any that I might call a hero. For a while my stated goal was for him to cordially call me a "silly bastard". Maybe someday.
The passage in question arose when a person posted a video of bodybuilder routine on Rip's message board. As is custom, all the strength devotees jumped on the chance to ridicule bodybuilding and beat their more manly chests. One comment read thusly
I have tangled with Coach Rippetoe on the concept of hypertrophy in the past. Good times. I argue that pursuing hypertrophy (becoming stronger and looking bigger, better, more masculine and more muscular in the process) is laudable while bodybuilding per se (wearing silk panties and lubing your body) is just plain gay. Coach tends to automatically equate a desire to improve one's physical appearance and performance through barbell training with bodybuilding.
I barbell train to get stronger, be healthier and look better. Rippetoe trains (and advocates) barbell training to get stronger and be healthier. To Coach, looking better is only a douchebag's errand.
Understanding another person is a rare thing and so it was necessary for Rip to clarify his position, this is the comment that reminded me of the esteem I hold him in - I appreciate the kind words as always, but please don't mischaracterize my position. I understand that appearance is an integral part of most people's motivations when they begin training. It certainly was mine, and only a fool denies a desire to be perceived more favorably by other humans, as well as oneself. This serves as motivation for beginning to train, and once a person achieves a modicum of improvement in strength and physique, a normally adjusted individual moves beyond the aesthetic as the primary motivator and becomes interested in the various aspects of performance. My position is that when the aesthetic-improvement aspects of training are retained as the primary fascination with it, to the extent that a person wants to show everybody else what he looks like so badly that he enters a "competition" venue designed specifically for this purpose -- or prepares himself for this purpose whether he enters the physique show or not -- then he has become a fucking weirdo. The oil, brown paint, silky underthings, bizarre stage behavior, and questionable juxtapositions with one's fellow weirdos onstage are merely the trappings of such weirdness.
Such behavior is tolerated well when displayed by women, since our culture seems to appreciate such things. And the defenders of the IFBB/NPC may therefore claim that they are the leaders in the transformation of society, the fellows who are at the forefront of the push to objectify both sexes. Fine with me, boys. But it has been my experience that men who so desperately wish to be thought of as being muscular/defined/massive/Herculean that it becomes the sole focus of training, that it carries over into dietary practices that effectively isolate them from normal social interaction with family and friends, and that it finally leads them up on stage in their oil, paint, and underwear to show other men their muscles, are fundamentally different than I am. Better or worse is something we may disagree on.
I'll accept it's cheap to write a blog based largely on something someone else said far better than you could have. Not a great advertising strategy either but Fuck it. I really enjoyed that. Other idiots wrote a lot of stupid shit.
http://strengthmill.net/forum/showthread.php?t=6481
Bodybuilding shows are weird, but I know some and they are nice guys so my own views have yet to crystalise.
The man responsible for me feeling all self conscious and naked is Mark Rippetoe. If you've known me for any length of time I've probably directed you to his message board or said "that's not what Rip says". He is a strength and conditioning coach, Beyond that he is eloquent and writes exceptionally well, veering from the succinct to the verbose, the touching to the offensive and always related to barbell training and the truths that it yields. He is as close to any that I might call a hero. For a while my stated goal was for him to cordially call me a "silly bastard". Maybe someday.
The passage in question arose when a person posted a video of bodybuilder routine on Rip's message board. As is custom, all the strength devotees jumped on the chance to ridicule bodybuilding and beat their more manly chests. One comment read thusly
I have tangled with Coach Rippetoe on the concept of hypertrophy in the past. Good times. I argue that pursuing hypertrophy (becoming stronger and looking bigger, better, more masculine and more muscular in the process) is laudable while bodybuilding per se (wearing silk panties and lubing your body) is just plain gay. Coach tends to automatically equate a desire to improve one's physical appearance and performance through barbell training with bodybuilding.
I barbell train to get stronger, be healthier and look better. Rippetoe trains (and advocates) barbell training to get stronger and be healthier. To Coach, looking better is only a douchebag's errand.
Understanding another person is a rare thing and so it was necessary for Rip to clarify his position, this is the comment that reminded me of the esteem I hold him in - I appreciate the kind words as always, but please don't mischaracterize my position. I understand that appearance is an integral part of most people's motivations when they begin training. It certainly was mine, and only a fool denies a desire to be perceived more favorably by other humans, as well as oneself. This serves as motivation for beginning to train, and once a person achieves a modicum of improvement in strength and physique, a normally adjusted individual moves beyond the aesthetic as the primary motivator and becomes interested in the various aspects of performance. My position is that when the aesthetic-improvement aspects of training are retained as the primary fascination with it, to the extent that a person wants to show everybody else what he looks like so badly that he enters a "competition" venue designed specifically for this purpose -- or prepares himself for this purpose whether he enters the physique show or not -- then he has become a fucking weirdo. The oil, brown paint, silky underthings, bizarre stage behavior, and questionable juxtapositions with one's fellow weirdos onstage are merely the trappings of such weirdness.
Such behavior is tolerated well when displayed by women, since our culture seems to appreciate such things. And the defenders of the IFBB/NPC may therefore claim that they are the leaders in the transformation of society, the fellows who are at the forefront of the push to objectify both sexes. Fine with me, boys. But it has been my experience that men who so desperately wish to be thought of as being muscular/defined/massive/Herculean that it becomes the sole focus of training, that it carries over into dietary practices that effectively isolate them from normal social interaction with family and friends, and that it finally leads them up on stage in their oil, paint, and underwear to show other men their muscles, are fundamentally different than I am. Better or worse is something we may disagree on.
I'll accept it's cheap to write a blog based largely on something someone else said far better than you could have. Not a great advertising strategy either but Fuck it. I really enjoyed that. Other idiots wrote a lot of stupid shit.
http://strengthmill.net/forum/showthread.php?t=6481
Bodybuilding shows are weird, but I know some and they are nice guys so my own views have yet to crystalise.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
A grand and Pathetic Tradition
My rowing machine is name Kate. It is named after a girl that I lusted after and couldn't have. The purchase of the rowing machine coincided nicely with the lusting. So it seemed the only right and sensible thing to do to name it after her.
I have bought other equipment and I have wanted other girls but these things haven't since coincided. I attempted to give all my equipment a girl's name but without the feelings it's hard to remember. Fuck I even tried to individually name my rings and I just didn't care. I know I named one of my kettlebells Marie but I can't remember which. Probably the heavy one. A sort of irony, but I didn't really feel it and the name has faded.
Now I find myself anxiously awaiting the arrival of my new bar. My beautiful 29mm diameter bar, with 200,000 lb yield strength (whatever that means), no chrome or other artifice just natural steel. A bar of natural beauty. Not made up like the trampy bars we see in gyms.
The knurl is pretty too, marked for both powerlifting and weightlifting. http://www.roguefitness.com/store/BR... - It's a damn fine bar. Coincidentally I find myself lusting too.
This bar with it's rich character, distinctive appearance and timely arrival will have a name.
My tyre is called Samantha but that's just cos it looks like a Samantha.
get some chalk on it
Lust doesn't sum it up but I was restricted by the proximity of posting this on Bebo and I occasionally wish to avoid a scene. At least I like to be in control of the scene. The bar is named Paula.
I have bought other equipment and I have wanted other girls but these things haven't since coincided. I attempted to give all my equipment a girl's name but without the feelings it's hard to remember. Fuck I even tried to individually name my rings and I just didn't care. I know I named one of my kettlebells Marie but I can't remember which. Probably the heavy one. A sort of irony, but I didn't really feel it and the name has faded.
Now I find myself anxiously awaiting the arrival of my new bar. My beautiful 29mm diameter bar, with 200,000 lb yield strength (whatever that means), no chrome or other artifice just natural steel. A bar of natural beauty. Not made up like the trampy bars we see in gyms.
The knurl is pretty too, marked for both powerlifting and weightlifting. http://www.roguefitness.com/store/BR... - It's a damn fine bar. Coincidentally I find myself lusting too.
This bar with it's rich character, distinctive appearance and timely arrival will have a name.
My tyre is called Samantha but that's just cos it looks like a Samantha.
get some chalk on it
Lust doesn't sum it up but I was restricted by the proximity of posting this on Bebo and I occasionally wish to avoid a scene. At least I like to be in control of the scene. The bar is named Paula.
Glum Hugs
Before I even start I think I've got to acknowledge the ownership of the term "Glum Hugs". As someone who shoots his mouth off and from whom soundbites are subsequently stolen I couldn't live with myself if I did the same to Carrie, that and more importantly Carrie will glare at me. That frightens me.
Anyway to topic. Not last week but the week before I was in a 4 day long bad mood. I clarify because last week I was in fucking exceptional form despite the almost complete lack of sleep. The bad mood was down to a combination of things. I'll mention the things that don't pertain to my continuing quest to find a wife, namely the loss of a certain piece of protective equipment. I say loss, because theft alleges something I really don't want to follow up. It went missing is the long and short of it and I've long stopped believing that things take on a life of their own when I leave them alone. One of many illusions that faded away with childhood.
Being in a bad mood and being generally bad company left me alone and in a bad mood. This reminded me of the book "Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus", one night we had a copy of it and having little other entertainment picked the salacious and pointless parts out. It made some reference to a man's "cave" that mental space that a man goes into when the tide of things turn against him. He noted that he would become less talkative, more contemplative and generally retreat into a headspace all his own to solve these problems. The book is shit. It just points out enough of the obvious to be taken seriously by people looking for a quick fix. If your relationship is fucked up and this is where you turn then you don't really care enough for the relationship or you should be dumped because unless you're partner is a moron this won't help.
So here I found myself, in a mental cave. I have, through years of being in bad moods and a self destructive streak, made real my cave - it is Muscle Forge. When I'm pissed off, I go lift. I go in angry and confused and by the end I'm focused and if I was angry enough I have a deep burn and a personal record. The week then culminated with three days of me beating the ever loving shit out of myself. It begins with Kate and a 2k row, despite not rowing for the past three months I throw caution to the wind and shoot for a new record. Doubt and the pain in my legs cloud my mind and halfway through I falter. I just miss out on a new PB with a time of 6.53. Fuck.
Next day, I go squatting. A video of this is online somewhere for those who care. During the third set, traditionally where I am stronger I die under the bar. Thanks to catch bars this isn't literal death just the death of pride and the workout. The mood is darker and the next day stairs hurt my poor abused legs. Bollocks.
The sky is dark and all I can think of is the lessons on pathetic fallacy back in English. Grit your teeth, growl through a smile and set up the rings. Thirty muscle ups here I come. The masochistic streak comes out and I ignore the torn callus on my wrist and try to push on through. Hit the timer after the last rep at 8.20. Fuck yeah, a new record.
Aside from just venting and bragging about my new muscle up time the point of this is to show that though you may feel like shit and all about you may be letting you down there are better uses for bodily fluids than crying. Sweating is one of them. Clear headed and happy I emerge from the Cave. Nothing has changed but perspective.
Pissed off at something new today.
People seemed to like this blog. I also really like the phrase glum hugs.
Anyway to topic. Not last week but the week before I was in a 4 day long bad mood. I clarify because last week I was in fucking exceptional form despite the almost complete lack of sleep. The bad mood was down to a combination of things. I'll mention the things that don't pertain to my continuing quest to find a wife, namely the loss of a certain piece of protective equipment. I say loss, because theft alleges something I really don't want to follow up. It went missing is the long and short of it and I've long stopped believing that things take on a life of their own when I leave them alone. One of many illusions that faded away with childhood.
Being in a bad mood and being generally bad company left me alone and in a bad mood. This reminded me of the book "Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus", one night we had a copy of it and having little other entertainment picked the salacious and pointless parts out. It made some reference to a man's "cave" that mental space that a man goes into when the tide of things turn against him. He noted that he would become less talkative, more contemplative and generally retreat into a headspace all his own to solve these problems. The book is shit. It just points out enough of the obvious to be taken seriously by people looking for a quick fix. If your relationship is fucked up and this is where you turn then you don't really care enough for the relationship or you should be dumped because unless you're partner is a moron this won't help.
So here I found myself, in a mental cave. I have, through years of being in bad moods and a self destructive streak, made real my cave - it is Muscle Forge. When I'm pissed off, I go lift. I go in angry and confused and by the end I'm focused and if I was angry enough I have a deep burn and a personal record. The week then culminated with three days of me beating the ever loving shit out of myself. It begins with Kate and a 2k row, despite not rowing for the past three months I throw caution to the wind and shoot for a new record. Doubt and the pain in my legs cloud my mind and halfway through I falter. I just miss out on a new PB with a time of 6.53. Fuck.
Next day, I go squatting. A video of this is online somewhere for those who care. During the third set, traditionally where I am stronger I die under the bar. Thanks to catch bars this isn't literal death just the death of pride and the workout. The mood is darker and the next day stairs hurt my poor abused legs. Bollocks.
The sky is dark and all I can think of is the lessons on pathetic fallacy back in English. Grit your teeth, growl through a smile and set up the rings. Thirty muscle ups here I come. The masochistic streak comes out and I ignore the torn callus on my wrist and try to push on through. Hit the timer after the last rep at 8.20. Fuck yeah, a new record.
Aside from just venting and bragging about my new muscle up time the point of this is to show that though you may feel like shit and all about you may be letting you down there are better uses for bodily fluids than crying. Sweating is one of them. Clear headed and happy I emerge from the Cave. Nothing has changed but perspective.
Pissed off at something new today.
People seemed to like this blog. I also really like the phrase glum hugs.
What did I tell you?
You may have guessed that I was in a bad mood. Not angry just tetchy and generally pissed off. You may not have guessed. You may not have even cared. Maybe your worries are greater than what mood has taken Shane today. They probably are. People are generally selfish and don't care about my moods nearly as much as I think they should. After all, I'm fucking great. I'm the brightest star in a darkened sky, I'm the first flower of springtime and I don't take advantage of drunks, in the main anyway. I'm all of these things and more and I do it with a certain reserved dignity that brings to mind royalty. Not modern royalty but more like Aragorn in the Lord of the Rings.
Some of the reasons for the bad mood are pretty self evident and others are best left unsaid. Sleeping dogs and other clichés that I could trot out. You can see the depth of the mood by the dismal blog before this. Posted but mere hours ago it was written by an entirely different Shane. A broken man trying to figure out morality and justify his course of action. Fuck all that. Fuck it to the hell I'm going to spend the next month in. Cold and sore and bored and dealing with idiots. Fuck it all to that hell.
The change that has been wrought is due to Bill and Bench pressing. I know you can't really seperate the two. Bill loves the bench, and more than that loves to beat me in a semi-regular bench pressing competition. The rules - five sets with 80kgs, max reps wins. Rest periods are based on the honour system and allow for conversation. Couple o' beers and this would be the greatest way to spend a Friday night. Bill loves to bench. Tonight I got the call and despite my mood accepted the challenge. Step up. I did the mental arithmetic had a plan. Knew what I'd do each set and then completely ignored this and for the first time beat Bill. Two clear reps. I am the reigning champion. A bad mood can't withstand that kind of positive energy. Fuck right and wrong and the second guessing. Fuck the future and the corner I'll be standing on for a month. Fuck the wind, the rain and the biting cold. Fuck pretty pictures and ugly memories. All these things pass.
To top it all off I walked into the house and Highlander was on the TV. Fuck yeah.
Chalked up and happy
Bill had a bum elbow which has since healed and ruined this little ritual on me. The month that followed was as shit as I expected, but it passed and I remained. This should be instructive but I continue to bitch and moan at every little bump in the road.
Some of the reasons for the bad mood are pretty self evident and others are best left unsaid. Sleeping dogs and other clichés that I could trot out. You can see the depth of the mood by the dismal blog before this. Posted but mere hours ago it was written by an entirely different Shane. A broken man trying to figure out morality and justify his course of action. Fuck all that. Fuck it to the hell I'm going to spend the next month in. Cold and sore and bored and dealing with idiots. Fuck it all to that hell.
The change that has been wrought is due to Bill and Bench pressing. I know you can't really seperate the two. Bill loves the bench, and more than that loves to beat me in a semi-regular bench pressing competition. The rules - five sets with 80kgs, max reps wins. Rest periods are based on the honour system and allow for conversation. Couple o' beers and this would be the greatest way to spend a Friday night. Bill loves to bench. Tonight I got the call and despite my mood accepted the challenge. Step up. I did the mental arithmetic had a plan. Knew what I'd do each set and then completely ignored this and for the first time beat Bill. Two clear reps. I am the reigning champion. A bad mood can't withstand that kind of positive energy. Fuck right and wrong and the second guessing. Fuck the future and the corner I'll be standing on for a month. Fuck the wind, the rain and the biting cold. Fuck pretty pictures and ugly memories. All these things pass.
To top it all off I walked into the house and Highlander was on the TV. Fuck yeah.
Chalked up and happy
Bill had a bum elbow which has since healed and ruined this little ritual on me. The month that followed was as shit as I expected, but it passed and I remained. This should be instructive but I continue to bitch and moan at every little bump in the road.
It's okay to love again
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| At sometime in your life you'll lose something. People will come up to you, avoid eye contact or force the issue of eye contact too much and just make an already uncomfortable moment that little bit worse. You'll be told that they are there for you but within three weeks you won't have heard from half of them and within 10 weeks you will only be speaking to your friends anyway. Even when you speak to your friends the prevailing attitude is "suck it up, we gave you three weeks and that's enough to get over it". People will have told you that you'll get over it and that all it takes is time. That the best tribute to their memory is to live a long and happy life and do the things that make you happy, just spare a moment for them every now and again. At first the moments all come together, you can barely spare a moment for the other parts of life. You feel the loss, but millions of years of evolution means that you go on, just to keep breathing. Just doing the motions. But the days are long and your mind will find a way of tricking you out of this grief, the millions of years of evolution just take care of it. Even if your mind can't help, there's always pills... Then it happens, one day you're going through the routine and you realise that the depth of your feelings for the new skipping rope are the same as for the old one. The handle is finally a familiar piece in your hand, it feels right. The dirt and grime have worked in and it feels like it should be there. Your calves have adapted to the slightly different length and the rhythm has returned. You can do double unders, cross overs and normal skip for ages. It's not exactly the same as the other one but it feels good and today when you looked at it you weren't just reminded of your loss. That was only in the back of my mind. All I was really thinking was "I like skipping", and I do, I'm reborn. I know people say that you can't replace a loved one and at least one other person has probably speculated the same about a skipping rope, but given time you can learn to love again. You can see that what 'ole blue rope would have wanted is for you to be happy and to sculpt those beautiful calves. I still miss her, but I can move on now. Appended to the end of the blog to preserve the tenderness. My favourite part of this blog is that a heartbroken sister of a friend of mine was reading it and really felt a connection. She saw parallels between her recently broken up relationship and the topic. She read on eagerly, then swore loudly when she found out it was about a skipping rope. Since then I have taken a job upon myself that has lots of walking and fucks with my tender ankles, long story short I don't skip anymore. Following the train of thought of the blog what does that say about love and loss? | |||
Memories of a loyal friend
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| I have a tendency to not really open up to people. I'll keep stuff to myself, avoid letting people actually getting to know me. In the off chance that I tell one person something, just to nullify that, I'll tell everyone. In my own mind at least it limits how deeply connected we are. It stops me starting to care. In a strange way I take a silly pride in this. I wear a certain outward stoicism, or an even more disconnected outward enthusiasm that I just don't feel. Work is always an example of this. I have a pretty good telephone manner but it's all just the same repeated conversations with the same standard responses and reciprocal conversations thrown in. I'm not really there a lot of the time. It always surprises me then when something actually gets to me. The big stuff not so much, but the little things. I started going to the gym with Eoin (Eoin has not died, on rereading it sounds this way) many years ago. I think it was the summer after we left Salesians. We met Donna, Ruth and Jacqui in the hall as we were wandering in. Ruth was painting. The picture is still there. Soon after we began regularly working out I started skipping. I couldn't do it very well. The rope was a little long and people didn't roll it up properly. I persevered, I finally got one minute uninterrupted. Then five. Now it's just one of those things, I don't think when I do it. I was forced to think and remember when Dublin Airport Security took my skipping rope. What the fuck could I do with a skipping rope? The clumsy fucks missed the two bottles of shampoo I had in my bag. Training has become a large part of my life, it's part of how I define myself. Since I started the methodologies that I have used have changed and been refined and changed again. I have eventually come to this point. For this entire journey I had my skipping rope. A perfect blue rope, of the Henry Cooper model. Made by the good people at Taurus. The handles were smooth with sweat and hand grease. Far from disgusted this felt like home. The loss I feel isn't epic and it isn't something I'll whisper on my deathbed but I have lost my favourite piece of workout kit and now I have to break in a new one. Farewell my friend, you're helping Angels improve muscle tone and coordination with relatively low impact workouts now. Via Con Dios | |||
Moments of truth
Flow is that mental state you get to when you're enjoying an activity. Time flies by and all that. This is a text message sent to a friend of mine when I had an experience entirely the opposite of this.
"I've hidden from you many of the things that truly bother me, the things that frustrate and depress me don't fit neatly in the dynamic of our relationship. But in in my adult life, TJ has brought me as close to tears as any other experience. So many failed HPU's, 40.50. I feel like shit."
TJ is the name of a workout.
HPU stands for handstand push up.
40.50 is nearly double what I think this workout should take to accomplish.
I'm rarely honest or open and when I am I'm loud and the meaning gets lost. This was refresshing if only to me.
"I've hidden from you many of the things that truly bother me, the things that frustrate and depress me don't fit neatly in the dynamic of our relationship. But in in my adult life, TJ has brought me as close to tears as any other experience. So many failed HPU's, 40.50. I feel like shit."
TJ is the name of a workout.
HPU stands for handstand push up.
40.50 is nearly double what I think this workout should take to accomplish.
I'm rarely honest or open and when I am I'm loud and the meaning gets lost. This was refresshing if only to me.
Metabolic realignement
This is an effort in bullshit. Big unfamiliar words are used and an incomplete understanding is pushed forward. It predates my reading of badscience.net and my idea to market the high salt diet for rapid weight loss. It just sort of amuses me.
Metabolic realignment is the rather complicated name given to something which is quite simple.
A little background understanding is probably necessary but I will try to keep it brief.
The human body is one of the most complicated and intricate arrangement of organic matter on the planet. This complexity has been forged by millennia of adapting to the changes around us be it climate, food supply, disease and any other number of hazards that as a species we have bested. The few who survived each catastrophe have passed on the traits that helped them survive so that now were that same catastrophe to strike our population would have a much higher chance of survival. With each new setback came the tools to beat it and so we were made stronger.
One of these setbacks would have been food shortages. In the case of famine in a land it makes sense that those who would have been able to survive on less food for longer would have weathered this rough patch and then thrived in times of plenty. This was an issue of metabolism, something we as athletes are interested in increasing to speed recovery times, and calorie usage.
We have all at one stage or another been told that a weights workout will raise the metabolism for longer or increased muscle mass will increase our base metabolic rate. These things are broadly true but frequently exaggerated. A higher metabolic rate is attainable which is good news for anyone in sport or who just wants to look better and have a fuller diet.
However by the same token, as a result of our evolution our metabolic rate can drop. Our bodies entering a starvation mode where with less consumed calories cells with start consuming muscle protein and generally reducing the size and average calorie expenditure of the organism. Like a company who fires staff to protect the company as a whole, certain that in times of plenty it can rebuild.
This catabolism often starts to kick in sports ruled by weight categories; my experience is in the realm of sub wrestling and mma. I have seen fighters drop large amounts of weight through sensible and not so sensible means.
In theory the best way to drop weight is to eliminate starchy products from the diet while keeping wholesome fruit and veg in meals along with nutritious ph neutral proteins. This diet coupled with smaller portions served much more regularly (ever 1.5 to 2 hours) should make losing weight easier and avoid the onset of starvation mode. Shortly before the event more drastic measures may need to be taken, this is referred to as cutting weight, and may include water loss and fasting. These occasions should be minimized and for maximum performance should be used for only the barest weight loss.
If you have failed to lose and subsequently cut weight properly or even, if in these endeavours caused a starvation mode to kick in, then you may need to realign your metabolism before you return to training.
The first stage of this will be to raise the calorie consumption to previous levels; given the calorie lockdown your body is now in this may result in sudden weight gain. This will more than likely express itself as fat. It is not uncommon to see a fighter drop weight, and then return to his pre-competition weight only to have changed his make up to one of increased body fat. Often times this has minimal impact on strength and is predominantly an appearance thing, but were this cycle to be repeated then the athlete could find himself at the same weight but with far more fat and far less muscle and as a result – strength.
Stage two therefore is to hit the weights and hit them hard. Most athletes should be engaged in some resistance training, if for no other reason than to prevent injury and round out imbalances created by the sport they are engaged in. The need to regain the muscle lost in the weight loss process is obvious in relation to maintaining strength and to maintain the momentum of improved performance as a result of athletic training. This increase in size coupled with the comedown off starvation mode may bring with it fat gain but a more intelligent approach to weight loss this time round should reduce the need for metabolic realignment
Metabolic realignment is the rather complicated name given to something which is quite simple.
A little background understanding is probably necessary but I will try to keep it brief.
The human body is one of the most complicated and intricate arrangement of organic matter on the planet. This complexity has been forged by millennia of adapting to the changes around us be it climate, food supply, disease and any other number of hazards that as a species we have bested. The few who survived each catastrophe have passed on the traits that helped them survive so that now were that same catastrophe to strike our population would have a much higher chance of survival. With each new setback came the tools to beat it and so we were made stronger.
One of these setbacks would have been food shortages. In the case of famine in a land it makes sense that those who would have been able to survive on less food for longer would have weathered this rough patch and then thrived in times of plenty. This was an issue of metabolism, something we as athletes are interested in increasing to speed recovery times, and calorie usage.
We have all at one stage or another been told that a weights workout will raise the metabolism for longer or increased muscle mass will increase our base metabolic rate. These things are broadly true but frequently exaggerated. A higher metabolic rate is attainable which is good news for anyone in sport or who just wants to look better and have a fuller diet.
However by the same token, as a result of our evolution our metabolic rate can drop. Our bodies entering a starvation mode where with less consumed calories cells with start consuming muscle protein and generally reducing the size and average calorie expenditure of the organism. Like a company who fires staff to protect the company as a whole, certain that in times of plenty it can rebuild.
This catabolism often starts to kick in sports ruled by weight categories; my experience is in the realm of sub wrestling and mma. I have seen fighters drop large amounts of weight through sensible and not so sensible means.
In theory the best way to drop weight is to eliminate starchy products from the diet while keeping wholesome fruit and veg in meals along with nutritious ph neutral proteins. This diet coupled with smaller portions served much more regularly (ever 1.5 to 2 hours) should make losing weight easier and avoid the onset of starvation mode. Shortly before the event more drastic measures may need to be taken, this is referred to as cutting weight, and may include water loss and fasting. These occasions should be minimized and for maximum performance should be used for only the barest weight loss.
If you have failed to lose and subsequently cut weight properly or even, if in these endeavours caused a starvation mode to kick in, then you may need to realign your metabolism before you return to training.
The first stage of this will be to raise the calorie consumption to previous levels; given the calorie lockdown your body is now in this may result in sudden weight gain. This will more than likely express itself as fat. It is not uncommon to see a fighter drop weight, and then return to his pre-competition weight only to have changed his make up to one of increased body fat. Often times this has minimal impact on strength and is predominantly an appearance thing, but were this cycle to be repeated then the athlete could find himself at the same weight but with far more fat and far less muscle and as a result – strength.
Stage two therefore is to hit the weights and hit them hard. Most athletes should be engaged in some resistance training, if for no other reason than to prevent injury and round out imbalances created by the sport they are engaged in. The need to regain the muscle lost in the weight loss process is obvious in relation to maintaining strength and to maintain the momentum of improved performance as a result of athletic training. This increase in size coupled with the comedown off starvation mode may bring with it fat gain but a more intelligent approach to weight loss this time round should reduce the need for metabolic realignment
People will let you down
| I like this blog. Unashamedly. I also like my rowing machine. | |||
To avoid this I have decided to give things names. Bear with me. A person can let you dow, you can form expectations of them, make assumptions, concoct a fantasy in your head that will ultimately be shattered by their own shortcomings. Hell, I'm a complete fucktard. I let people down everyday in dazzlingly inventive ways. Such is my talent they don't believe that I can disappoint them any further. So I give to you, Kate. Kate is my rowing machine. Kate is not invincible, but Kate came with a user's manual, repair guide, a full list of things not to be attmepted, and a two year parts warranty. What friend can claim all that? There is no guess work with Kate. There is even a handy little display on her that lets me know how to use her. I know the weight tolerances. Who else can say that? Beyond all this, there is a bond. I give to Kate what she needs and she gives to me an easy to calculate return on time and effort invested in her. People are random. People will let you down. Not Kate. Not ever. The only way that she can fail is if I neglect her. How could I neglect someone like that? Conan The line is blurring | |||
Visited the NABBA qualifiers
This blog didn't make the transitional cut.
The essence of it being I think bodybuilding is a sport. I see no problems with drug use and as with most sports I think the race is won long before the event by genetics. Everyone is juicin'.
I did express some reservations about fake tan and the posing briefs.
The essence of it being I think bodybuilding is a sport. I see no problems with drug use and as with most sports I think the race is won long before the event by genetics. Everyone is juicin'.
I did express some reservations about fake tan and the posing briefs.
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