Hey bro, they gotta app for everything.

Over the years following my competitive swim career I took up relay swimming in Ironman distance triathlons. Open water swimming and swimming in an Olympic pool only have one thing in common; we all wear goggles! I quickly discovered that swimming in a lake required the ability to find a fixed point in the distance to keep me swimming straight. Without a point of reference to guide me in a matter of a few strokes I would drift off, usually to my dominate side which was also the side I breathe on. If your lost in a forest the only way to keep in a straight line is to set your eyes on a distant tree, because there is no way to walk in a straight line without a point of reference in the distance -- you will walk in a large swooping circle otherwise, pulled in the direction of your dominant side. Krause has a wonderful note on dominant side favoring... cue the expert.

Like the point of reference in open water swimming and Bear Grylls style nature waking, nutrition is the same. Recently I have relied on my knowledge of what is good food and what is not so good and what is down right Paula Dean (bad food that is, not being a cornball racist) to direct my eating habits. I removed logging in MyFitnessPal app from my routine for this challenge with the Pontiff of Pectoral Paralysis. MyFitnessPal is like the point of reference. Even though I have been eating good food, portion sizes have increased because that is my dominate tendency. By stepping away from logging my caloric intake my weight loss graph looks like the Rocky Mountains instead of a steady downward grade I saw during Destination 195. Brutal honesty is ODJ!

Jaron: 194.0 17.1%
Me: 221.2  19.3%

This past week Krause decided to modify the back and arms workout by changing out the alternating dumb bell curl for a more North Korean level crazy exercise called "forced negative." It lives up to the name!
1. Find your friendly bicep curl machine.
2. Put a light weight on, 65lbs for us.
3. Do 5 steady reps, which should be easy.
4. Have your partner pull down on the bar.
5. Do 5 reps trying to keep the bar up.
6. Avoid blowing an o-ring or pooping yourself.

We only did a trial set of this spawn of Satan... I can only imagine the disgust and colorful metaphors when we fully integrate the forced negative into our workouts after the winter break.

The blog will be taking a break for the Christmas holiday (Krause celebrates the full Bowl Championship Series, better known as Festivus of BCS, which goes thru the January 6th National Championship.) So thank you to our four domestic followers, our NSA handler, and all the Eastern Europeans for making No Fat Jokes Please the #1 blog in the 30-40 age group writing in the category of "Non-Nuclear Passive Narcissistic Fitness Bloggers." We could have never done it without our readers.

Post Script
Corrections from last week's blog. In an effort to keep a C+ to B- grammar standard Krause brought it to my attention that last weeks blog was polluted with an abnormal amount of spelling errors. Further investigation revealed that I replaced the word "plank" with "blank." I would chalk up one or two as a byproduct of sub-rural Tennessee public education, but the entire past was replaced. I can only assume that my subconscious had a Pavlovian response to my frontal cortex desiring to type "plank." Most likely the reptile portion of my brain recalled all the foul language required to execute a plank and over-road my mind-to-keyboard signal. Thankfully my moral filter caught the serpent beguile and inserted "blank" (a writers version of the bleep button) to ensure our PG-13 ratings stay intake.

I'm Henry the 8th

"You say, 'I wanna be out before the diaper years.' Have you considered going out with a bang riding the nose cone of a hydrogen bomb to the heart of commercialized sensibility?"
                                                                                     ~ anonymous

Don't call it a comeback! I've been here for years. If you were rocking it in the early 90's this lyric will surely bring back some jest bumping memories. LL Cool J could not have said it any better for how Dr. Strangelift and I rallied for week six. I'll leave the technical explanation to the professional - I merely provide the color and amazement of dropping poundage.

Jaron: 195.5 & 17.2%
Me: 217.0 & 20.4%

Chest and tricep day during this current phase is best described as "3 Charmins and a Colonic" -- The opposing cable press at 110 lbs each arm, plank push ups and single arm machine flys provide strength yet are soft on the pain rubric. With the workout equivalent of a muscle cleansing coming from the wonderful set of corn on the cobs I knew revisions were expected. Since the trainer is an active participant, Krause decided to bench the plank push up and call up from the minor leagues a fine set of standing cable tricep extensions. This little bastard is easy on the eyes with little sympathy for the uncoordinated. Either I screwed the set up by using abs or by taking a running head start with body movement to get the extension going. Either way, I do not look forward to my next go around with this little weasel since I now know the proper technique.

To fully purge the demons of Thanksgiving recently past, Krause and I decided to take on another micro challenge we failed last week; 5 sets of minute planks with descending rest (1:00, :45, :30, :15.) I didn't feel to confident when my trainer started singing, "Second verse! Same as the first!" However, the set was significantly easier following chest and tricep day versus our maiden voyage post leg day. It should be noted that no matter the muscle group day, plank challenges exploit the weakened muscles. Both of us nearly broke plank not because of tired abs or stressed backs, it was our shoulders. I'm glad to return to my regularly scheduled ab workouts next week... variety is the spice of life.

Post Script
I am up to 4:00 minutes without a break on the 20/15/4 Slow Grind challenge. If I don't make it to the 10:00 minute (half way mark) by February I'm calling this challenge a Tebow and moving to the 5-minute plank challenge.

Four right turns

I have come to accept that blogging my fitness journey is a personal celebration of accomplishments and ego boosting gains, with a few marginal fails sprinkled in for good ego check. A few of the epic fails to date; 6 minute tread mill run and the 20/15/4 slow grind (as of press time still not accomplished). I can now add Thanksgiving 2013. This week's weigh in put me on the verge of complete slide back to the initial weigh in five weeks ago. Luckily Krause treated the Thanksgiving weekend as a marathon of consumption (primarily the adult variety.)

 As we begin week six of our little challenge I am reminded of the great words of Trucky. "We was rejuvenated. You hear that? Rejuvenated. We was juvenated before, lost it...got juvenated again. Rejuvendated!" Krause and I were in our "lost it" portion of the challenge last week, so this coming week we are getting juvenated again.

Harsh reality in blogging is that the numbers don't lie. However, the good news for Kid Crochet and I, the only people reading this rag are from the NSA's outsourced 3rd shift South Korean intern team, and they don't have the updated translator for Gonzo.

Cruel reporting;
Krause: 197.7  17.6%
Me: 220.5  20.1%

A holiday in the life of our trainer.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled Black Friday programming to give those in the know a calorie by calorie run down of our fearless trainer's Thanksgiving Day celebration. It is our policy at No Fat Jokes Please to avoid celebrating the fruit of vice, but we made and exception since Jaron's dietary execution is one of the avenues he is using to beat yours truly in the challenge to end all challenges. Yesterday's redacted text messaged can only be best described as four cheat days, two mulligans, and a Jim Morrison rolled into one 13 hour holiday.

9:28am  194cals ~ 1 Bloody Mary breakfast
10:31am 230cals ~ IPA (poor Utah transplant drinking 8.5% booze)
12:55pm -1100cals ~ Leg work out
2:23pm   1100cals ~ First food of the day and that damn box wine
4:06pm   275cals ~ More food and a few sips from the box wine
6:41pm   230cals ~ Beeeer!
9:03pm   650cals ~ 1 beer, 3 glass of that wine, and one cigar
10:01pm 300cals ~ Night cap of more boxed adult drink!

All in all Krause saved himself by doing a mid-day leg workout. He is still very serious about our competition -- however, I know from anonymous sources that he is out on the town tonight and getting VIP treatment at the UNLV football game on Saturday. Oh and who could forget the Aussies! Any ordinary man would put ten pounds and fold like a taco during this week of craziness, but Krause is the master of clutch performances so I would not expect him to take a major weight gain before our next official weigh in. (But I can hope.)

Bite the dog that bit me

Nearly every early morning body ache is preceded by a wonderful work out the day prior. This phases leg day has become a muscle hangover mini-series. After Saturday's brutal round I struggled through Sunday with the usual grunts and groans, which convinced me to just suck it up and bite the dog that bit me. First thing Monday morning I jumped on the StairMaster and climbed the Sears Tower (70 steps per minute for 20 plus minutes) and then 10 minutes of the slow grind (10 minutes, 15% incline at 3mph). Oh the hair of that dog!  

During our weekly workout, Jaron came clean that his Thanksgiving plans may result in a complete backslide of all progress gained -- three football games, an industrial grade 7-Eleven Slurpee straw plunged into an adult juice box for a Vegas turkey day of underwhelming proportion. And he is going to need to arm himself... to the teeth!

It should be noted for future lawsuits and or movie rights, we at No Fat Jokes Please do not promote or condone vice or debauchery -- our choice is always to recommend a clean lifestyle promoting prolonged life... that is until it comes to Jaron. He is the trainer not the example. So as the numbers below indicate his slide toward his original weigh in could possibly come true in a few short days. Ooooh and one must'n forget the Aussies... the sweet Aussies are expected to arrive in Vegas sometime next week. (Get caught up on the reference in last weeks post "Taking odds on one-legged tortoise") All the gastric and malted love Krause will partake in makes my expected Thanksgiving menu look like a long-haired freaky people's rabbit food buffet.  

Bitter transparency:

JBK: 194.9 & 17.9%

Me: 218.3 & 20.2%  

Taking odds on the one-legged tortoise.

The below stats will show Krause is off to a good start with a solid two pound per week average. One could compare it to a steady 8 minute mile pace for this marathon of weight loss. I would say my effort is more like the Black Knight on a bad day... It's just a flesh wound.

Krause: 193.6 lbs, 17.9%
Me: 218.3 lbs, 20.3%

Disneyland was two days of ten hour slow grinds, burning calories one step at a time in the line for Its a Small World. Keeping a thin thread of sanity was the only thing I accomplished. As expect, my Old Testament rituals went unanswered -- instead of notching up a few pounds, the dietary deities blessed Krause with the stomach flu, trimming more off his mark. I have a chance to make significant gains over the next two weeks; Krause is a sucker for Thanksgiving and his good buddy from Australia is arriving in Vegas for a 36 hour bender post Black Friday. Please let the outbackers bring some good old excessive calorie consumption.

Post script:
It has been brought to our attention by some loyal No Fat Jokes Please readers that our naming convention for Kraus and I can be confusing at times. The following are the most common nicknames we will answer to:

Jarvis, aka: Marlow, Yours Truly, "J", and my inbred name "JT".

Jaron, aka: Krause, JBK, Kraustian, Professor of Pain, Doctor of Fitness Funk, Maestro of Muscle Ache, Minister of Misery, Prognosticator of Possibility, Mayor of Hurt Town, Dr. Frankenstein, Prodigal Son Returns, and THE ODJ!

I am the mine.

In the mid-1990s a pharaoh size Colorado mine operation stopped production. The Environmental Protection Agency informed the owners that the closure of the mine would result in hundreds of millions of dollars in clean up fines. For nearly two decades the mine stayed open with a few guys sitting at desks to keep the mine "open" so the company did not have to cough up the funds. I am the mine!

Krause had another week of weight lose while I did my best impression of World War I attrition. Thank goodness we built in a little clause that the winner can not collect on the challenge until the loser drops his total twenty pounds. At this rate I will be executing diabolical plan code named "second place is first loser if and only if I'm the loser, at which time I will not cross the finish line." Full transparency requires proper weekly reporting.

Krause: 196.3 (4.7 total loss) & 18.1%
Me: 219.0 (2.0 total loss) & 19.3%

My hopes that Krause see a significant gain in weight after a weekend of "wine tasting" did not materialize. In another parallel universe the mass consumption of industrial grade grape juice and free cheese would've worked in my favor, but it is my unqualified opinion that his body has yet to acclimate to the Mojave's lower elevation resulting in weight loss. Frantically keeping pass with one of our favorite Vegas characters, the original Ole Girl, I expected Krause to fall off the wagon by week three. No luck. But it is Las Vegas and Krause has been know to implode at the hands of Lady Luck. If I'm ever to catch up with him on this challenge a fast acting stomach flu needs to take hold of my guttural region.

Unfortunately for yours truly the wife has requested my company at the Magic Kingdom during week four... two days of the happiest place on Earth. (So much fun on the horizon that bleeding from the face could only pull me away from Walt's pleasure palace.) Not to mention we'll be traveling through the same lonely desert that was the last known home of the Manson family and dietary options on par with a Long John Silver's grease trap. I have been considering an abbreviated fast over this coming week to at least make this competition look respectable, but then a mental video played in my head of me jumping out of the boat in "It's a Small World" and gnawing on happy hippo... the snozberries berries taste like snozberries!  

Self-inflected leg wounds

ODJ is yet known for the bond of loosely likeminded souls seeking out endeavor across a sea of storytellers who love the sound of cheeks slapping together in a worship of voice... especially their own. ODJ perspective is alloyed Horatio Alger boot strapping and American bird-dogging -- sniffing out practices of cutting corners. Executed with enough tact not to shed light on it's own practitioners' hypocrisy, which is why ODJ is more of a mindset than a cult.

                                                    - forward to Achieving ODJ    

Over the past 15 months I have been able to survive most phase changes designed and set in motion by Krause because I have stuck to a consistent schedule. So when I read the leg work out for this current phase there was no doubt it would be brutal but survivable. Never in my wildest dreams would I think the beast of work outs might nearly end it's creator. Paging Doctor Frankenstein to the ER!

5x5 leg press (500 lbs)

5x10 donkey calf raises with 2 sec holds at top (115 lbs)

5x5 good mornings (60 lbs bar)

5x20 jumping lungs

We started off pretty solid on the leg press with little indication of leg muscles reaching spontaneous combustion. After the donkey calf set got the lactic acid boiling it was the good mornings that I pictured being my undoing. A simple set -- rest a60 pound bar on your traps and go from upright to a 90 degree hinging at the waist. To my surprise the good mornings were actually refreshing and calming to the brewing muscle burn. Three down and one to go... in my mind I was thinking, "Home free!" How wrong I can truly be sometimes.

The last set of this leg phase is all plyo (cue the professional explanation below). Like a good trainer, Krause went first to demo. However, the first set looked like it had been preceded by a full marathon. By the second one, I could've sworn neither one of us cleared the profile of a #2 lead pencil laying flat. Krause confused me when he said, "We got three more sets(*)"... I wasn't able to read his body language because the punctuation ending that sentence sure looked like a (?) and not a motivational (!) while I was convulsing for air. Fast forward through the embarrassing details of the final three sets, we agreed to no snap photos if either one of us flat backed on the warm down set of tread mill. And with no fan fair or knuckle bumps we departed for what we both knew would be two to four days of excruciating pain.

Week #1 weigh in:
JBK: 198.6 - 18.2%
Me: 219.0 - 19.3%



    

Track starts are best left to the professional

          Oh where to begin?

          With our pain or lust for thin?

          Cuz this man ain't got it together.

          Its mind to mouth with no filter.

                                                     - ODJ: The Musical

Krause looks similar to dehydrated microwaved death at 6:30am. Not as bad as those poor zombie herds in the ordering line of Starbucks. Damn sad sight to see deer-eyed addicts listing to and fro just one barista mix up away from dropping all rational convention and jumping over the bullet proof glass to mainline the black gold. No, Krause has less passive aggression and a better sense of humor.

The two things I have come to accept during the first week of a new phase are pain and awkwardness -- the former delayed by a day and the latter instantaneous. So after our first set of opposing cable press at 100 lbs we moved into the fun stuff. Second set on chest and tricep day is corn on the cob incline push ups (not corn cop as I mistakenly called them last week.) Lower the bar on the smith machine and rock out five sets of ten. However the corn on the cob part brings the pain! You lower yourself to arms 90 degrees with head up, then move left then right then back to center and then push up. By the third set which was the point Krause was willing to negotiated on that it became clear I might take a strain induced nap on the bar with a little neck smack to finish things off. The arm trimmers on the last ten were a bonus.
The third of four sets was a blast from the past -- blank push ups. This fine little exercise makes you look like a camel standing up, but in our case that camel comes with an involuntary snot cannon primed to blow at any moment. Then Mr. Mayhem gives me a bonus introduction of a plank push up on a bosu ball. After attempting three reps of these unholy bastards I did a track start dismount off the ball nearly turning the ab station into a hardcore parkour course. Thank goodness Krause is a professional and realized the gym's liability insurance would not cover a header into the women's gym glass partition so he landed the plane with a set of single arm machine flys.
May your week be well, because Krause and I have a week of pain to begin!

Post Script... Congratulations to Krause for taking over his gym after only a month in town.

Challenge: Two Score No More

"For the last time, anything you put on that prompter Burgundy will read!"

During our recent Thursday workout, Krause rolled out the new chest and triceps for the next phase which included an evil exercise called corncob push ups. After demonstrating the movement he graciously offered our ego's a get out of jail free card with a revised set of three. My hamster wheel did not process that revision. I'm a robot people, if it's on the paper I'm going to do the work out. If Krause wanted to be a real bastard he could throw in a set of tread mill runs with my shorts at my ankles -- and because it is written it is gospel.

Outside of my lemming tendencies and a sadistic love for seeing my brother from another mother stumbling into the gym at half past WTFreak-time-is-it?... yesterday was the official start for our combined challenge, "Two Score No More." As noted in the last entry of this fine digital broadside the Prognosticator of Pain and I are going mano a mano in a race to lose twenty pounds per capita. Last one to cross the finish line buys the other a fish dinner. (Sorry, Dorthy Mantooth is extra)

As true gamesmen, former UNLV teammates, and once upon a time roommates Krause and I take our challenges as serious as a Mexican standoff between two matchstick men... Smiles on our faces but anti-freeze running through our veins. So it would be expected that he predicted my casual efforts to wear four layers of cloths and a led laden back-pack to our weigh in. Likewise, I enforced the "no touching the wall" rule to ensure no extra grapefruit got added by downward force. On our honor and document via the gym's surveillance cameras for future depositions the below weights have been validated by the Nevada Board of Weights & Measures:

As of this Halloween in the year of our Lord 2013 Krause checks in at 201 lbs with 20.0% body fat and I, your scribe for this savage journey tips the scales at 221 lbs with 20.6% body fat. Please don't think that racing to drop double deuce is easy (see below comment section for scientific explanation  by Krause.) Over the past year I have been on a brutal lifting regiment plus I don't drink soda, booze, or liquid lard any longer -- so with the only avenue to succeed being nutrition, I'm on a water and Trinidad Scorpion pepper cleanse for the foreseeable future. My appointed sparing partner has three avenues; nutrition, working out, and booze. On the other hand, the third avenue is like taking the rivets out of a destroyer; fermented gluten is the only thing keeping his ship a float. In addition, he will have to be south of 10% body fat to enjoy the sweet satisfaction of having me pick up the check in a couple months. I must also mention that I quickly amended the terms of the challenge to exclude purchases of alcohol for the winner... Krause has a massive hollow leg even by Dean Martin standards!

To be continued...   

Wait... Two score equals what?!?! Part Deuce

"I got a new job."
"Oh that sweet Jack In The Box goodness."
"The devil made me do it."
"I retired from the real world and sat on my butt for 8 months."
"The doctor got me on new crazy meds."
"The wife was getting jealous of my slender physique."
"Less you forget, Utah's a 3.2 beer state."
"Damn dry cleaner shrank my drawers."
"Those chicken wings ain't going to eat themselves."
"Fat cells have rights too."
"How do you expect me to meet a future ex-wife looking this good?"

.... The category is: Things brothers be saying cuz they gett'n chubby!

So the Sultan of Sweat Stains and I clearly need an intervention, not the 12 Step kind but rather the ODJ  5 step kind:

  Step 1: After getting busted, first deny.
  Step 2: Change the subject; "Hey look! Elvis on the treadmill."
  Step 3: Settle this the only way dudes should... a bet!
  Step 4: Text like school girls to hash out terms.
  Step 5: Write a blog post.

Staying true to our ODJ roots, JBK and I subscribe to a philosophy that preaches the only real way to recover is to first mock, then quote obscure movie lines, and lastly bet on who can lose weight faster. We have accepted a new weight loss challenge; "Two Score No More!" Terms are simple, the last to lose twenty pounds buys the other an all-you-can-eat sushi dinner. However, unlike last years "Destination 195" challenge this one is a clean challenge; no diuretics, no tape worms, and definitely no self-inflicted dysentery. El naturale! We weigh in this coming Thursday for all to follow the race to trim 20 grape fruits.

Wait... Two score equals what?!?!?

"All aboard the pain train"
                            - Izzy Mandelbaum

It has been over a decade since the Doctor of Fitness Funk and I have lived in the same area code, which some say was best for the long term future of mankind while others wept for months after our separation. So when Krause returned to Sin City it was as if  we patched the fabric of space and got the old gang back together.  However since our last world tour I snagged a wife, contracted multiple children and moved to the city where forty-year old working woman relocate when the syndicated men down on The Strip decide their bad for business... so when JBK's third installment to The Meadows, a few things were different for our dynamic duo. Unlike our days and late evenings of old, enjoying Elton John and marathon hacky-sack sessions, my schedule has become a bit more tight these days. So after eight weeks we got our calendars aligned (mainly I got my butt down to Hender-tucky for a long over due work out). Unfortunately for the second son 6:30am is typically the end of a good evening not the start of a hellish slog through back and bicep day.

As true believers in ODJ, Krause and I must come clean... we both gained 20 pounds this summer. Don't worry, verbal abuse and humiliation was handed down in equal directness and passive aggression.

On a positive note, my extra score added to the twenty pound weight belt meant the pull-up reps were forty larger; A first for yours truly! I will let JBK expand on his disdain for pull-ups, but he came through on the preacher curls... the great equalizer for me.

As I'm typing this entry my arms have resisted gravity's pull, locked at ninety degrees, better known as "fork-lift arm syndrome." As a traveling salesman, fork-lifting is easy to disguise when I initially meet people; carry samples in one arm, open the door with the other and then quickly shake hands. Then the uncomfortable awkwardness takes over... some people shake my extended hand again and again thinking it's a Southern thing. Others just stare straight into my eyes pretending all's normal. One gracious lady put a dollar in my hand and blessed my heart for having the courage to panhandle in such nice attire. I really liked her.


 

Dela-weird!

"Cavalier bravado is a mere hollow echo of a once masculine alpha male, long since worn down by years of fringe middle class anxiety and self-help evangelists."           -Achieving ODJ

The NFJP is on the road, so I be reporting from the margins of the first of the fifty states.

I’ve been attempting to locate another spot in America where one can be roaming through agriculture expanse and ten minutes later frolicking on the calm banks of the Atlantic Ocean. I submit nowhere. Whimsical strolls along the beach set aside, my day job summoned me out of the desert for another week of hotel lodging, long days of blood pooling desk work, and subpar exercising. Unlike Delaware 1.0 last month this go around I enlisted the help of a native to locate a real fitness establishment. Ooooh my! There are Roman ruins more modern. These cats furnished their derelict palace with the set rejects from one of the Saw movies. It is widely believed greatness has a perverse tendency of growing up in adverse conditions. I’m surprised that gym doesn’t produce multiple Mr. Olympians each year.

A little self-diagnoses and reflection while bicep repping -- on what I imaged to be a preacher’s curl station, I realized I am spoiled when it comes to workout facilities. The Delaware house of torture devices charges $40 George Washington’s per month for the high probability of a tetanus shot, while in our desert oasis I throw down $14.95 a month for premium top shelf equipment, structurally sound load baring walls, and not to mention the groovy soundtrack of electronic dance pop. This is one portion of my life that “keeping it real” and supporting the grungy armpit stains of gyms gets no R-E-S-P-E-C-T from this prima donna. Don’t get me wrong, I can handle subdermal skin rashes with the best of them, but skimping out on cable equipment and good padding is an injury just waiting to happen. But when in Rome via Delaware, strap on the antibiotics drip bag and give it hell Rocky!

Take me to the promised elevation.

Morale busters in the gym come in many forms; enjoying a ten pound jump in weights on the bench fly press or holding the 60 second plank position without losing bowel control. Most recently it was going from 3.0 mph to 3.2, and then up to 3.3 mph on the 15/4/20 Slow Grind training sets. For our newly uncensored readership from the People's Republic of China, the 15/4/20 Slow Grind was supposed to be a simple work out swap for my 20 minute jump rope set. I had to call a substitute in because the three little piggies that refused the market all joined little Mr. "cried wee wee wee all the way home." I got the bacon handed to them little toes after a month of jump roping. So Jaron created the set: 15% incline at 4.0 mph (6.44 km/h) for 20 minutes on the tread mill.

Both Jaron and I have been very honest with our loyal ODJ'ers. Honesty and integrity are the second rules to achieving ODJ. Especially when the first rule is broken... "If at first you don't succeed, try try to cover it up and deny you ever tried." We have both attempted and failed epically pursuing the goal of completing this challenge. As of this date I'm at 3.3mph for 20 minutes and Jaron is rocking a solid 3.0 for 30 minutes. The pain level is exponentially greater every tenth we go up in pace. Think of 3.0mph as our base camp; uncomfortable, yet familiar. Each adventurous turn of the mph knob is like pacing a mall walker at an altitude of 25,000 feet (7620 meters). Just last week my ego hijacked my better reason and took me on a 3.5mph ride thru hell's barrios marginales. I escaped with only minor PTSD after 90 seconds, vowing never to return without a tetanus shot and Bodyglide® for my inner thighs.

At this point it is very important for those following along at home who have actually spent any amount of time in the cardio section of a local gym to calm yourself. We hear you. You are thinking, "Why is it, my fine practitioners of ODJ, at my gym I see all these rotund women making it look easy on the full incline?" It's very simple. Yet, I will leave the form and function explanation to Jaron, but if you pay close attention to the aforementioned ladies of large you will see they drape over the tread mill like it is a cheap mumu. We must confess... in our love for humor at the expense of our own selves, Jaron and I have held back the fulcrum between easy and Guantanamo level torture... No holding onto anything during the entire 20 minutes. No checking your pulse. No grabbing the sissy bar. Nothing but you and your best race walking technique. I dare any of our readers to go to the gym with this final piece to 15/4/20 Slow Grind challenge and try it... If you can accomplish it (video evidence required) before Devil's Night 20-thirteen Jaron and I will send you a signed copy of Achieving ODJ and an ODJ t-shirt. Who will be first?

Dela...where???

"Or imagine being able to be magically whisked away to Delaware! Hi... I'm in Delaware.." Wayne's World

As many of our faithful readers already know about Jaron and I, we have yet to relinquish amateur blogger status, requiring us to maintain day jobs. Recently I went all Johnny Paycheck on the old salt mine and decided to hang a new shingle out. As part of any new job there is the standard product training and acculturation, which for me meant a ten day stint in the first state of the United States of  'Merica... Delaware! Home of Vice President Biden, and... uh... and... hmmm... that might be it for notables.

Even though the hotel accommodations were great, their work out ammonites lacked. If you have travelled for business you will pick up on what I'm laying down when it comes to describing the piss poor exercise area modern chain motels provide us. The guys who design these over sized closets with tread mills are the spawn of the same glue sniffing family who claim the three foot deep wading pool is "Olympic sized." So every business trip requires fitness ingenuity and creativity.

With the weather on the East Coast turning cooler I was not about to run in motion or miss out on the lush green landscape that was not installed by a team of Mexi-mericans. (For those new to the blog... Team ODJ lives in the upper branch of the Mojave Desert.) To my surprise Delaware looks a whole lot like Nebraska at ground level. The bi-product of some weird government agricultural energy plot to get all of us to change from hydrocarbons to popcorn embryos. During one of my long runs I could've sworn I saw the sign to Gatlin... more than once. Things would've gotten pretty interesting if a midget Amish dude stepped in the road quoting the Book of Revelations. On second thought, that would've been some good blog material. Nevertheless, my next visit to the land of Biden, I might stick to the hotel tread mills and Dr. Phil regurgitations playing on the tube; don't want to end up on a corn cross just because a few side show freaks get all Jim Town on this wayfaring stranger trying to burn a few calories after a prior evening's Ruby Tuesday gluten bender. The Blue Man! Yes, the Blue Man! 

And the prodigal son returns!

Many doubted. Few believed.

Even fewer understood why

the prodigal son must return!

A note to our beloved readers across this great spinning rock -- the rumors are no longer speculation, now fact. The professor of pain, the mastermind of muscle sculpting, the tacticianer of cardio has returned to Las Vegas... The one, the only!... Jaron "JBK" Krause (last name redacted to protect our NSA handler).

My selfish pursuits are definitely met with this third installment of "JBK in Vegas." It's awesome to have my trainer in the same area code -- a weekly work out buddy with a respectable IQ to distract from the knuckle draggers. Not to mention a bro-escort for pilgrimages to our favorite all-you-can eat sushi spots. Only time will tell if the city has fully recovered from the last time the Nevada DMV awarded him an ID. It has been over a decade since his FBI papers resided in the great state of Nevada, and many things have changed for both he and the city of sin. May their courting go smoothly.

With the original ODJ practitioners teaming up again, I expect greatness for the both of us. First order of business is to finalize the latest challenge; The 15/4/20 Slow Grind. 15% incline at 4 mph for 20 minutes on the tread mill. As of last attempt this week I am up to 20 minutes at 15% incline going 3 mph. The sweat ring runs so low that my belly button doubles as a shot glass. If you think this challenge is weak, take a read below an enjoy Jaron's attempt at the 15/4/20 challenge. If you attempt this challenge we suggest you put EMS on speed dial and tell your next closest relative where the will is stored, because the Slow Grind could end you.  

Welcome back to Vegas, you crazy landlord of the House of Pain!

I did not order the one free lobotomy with my gym membership.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Well, well, well the book-end of summer has come and gone... For our Uncle Sam readers, I hope Labor Day weekend went swimmingly. It is great to be back on the blog train after a brief summer break. My Labor Day weekend was great; thanks for asking. I grabbed a plate of seared beast of burden flesh to celebrate a much needed day of rest for the undocumented Mexi-mericans and Far East carpal tunnel class. Personally, I don't know anyone who actually meets the standards of the original laborer, so I celebrated the people keeping my HOA happy, assembling the kid's toys, and the herd of agriculture workers picking and preparing my grocery.

In addition to a weekend of laboring, I started a new day job this past week. It's a dream sales job with an amazing company. However, the telecom folks decided to set me up with a Steve Jobs' special. Prior to the shotgun conversion, my professional Äppärät has been the Blackberry; a functional work horse! In the gym it supplied uninterrupted Pandora interweb radio. For over a year the world within the gym has been a mere visual pleasure set to a soundtrack of random streams of audio goodness. So when I turned in the berry for the chic iLame it never occurred to me to get corporate green-light for adding streaming audio goodness. Telecom approval still pending as of press time.

For the past few days in the gym I have had the pleasure of adding people hearing to my work out regiment. Man there are some moooorrrr'ons on this planet. The Great One in the sky made a good decision to make breathing and cardio function involuntary, which is fully validated on the floor of the free weight area of my gym. I am thinking about going in tomorrow with cotton balls in my ears. These knuckle draggers could actually cause verbal induced Alzheimer's. Worse, I feel like Joel Barish in Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind... hearing the meat head's communicate is like machine gunning lacunar amnesia darts in my brain bucket. So don't be surprised if the police come across a scruffy faced middle-aged man negotiating a truce to the cola wars in 7-Eleven only wearing a Flamingo bathrobe and Fiesso white patent leather low-tops if the telecom stiffs deny my request for a Pandora app.

This little piggy went to market...

Recently I had to call and audible on the jump rope portion of the weekly work out plan. The three little piggies on each foot were beginning early stages of succession. I informed the practitioner of pain that I'd survived two months of shin splints, chronic arch aches, and the embarrassment of jumping rope -- however, the three amigos were hurting so bad that during a kick set at last week's swim practice it felt as if two or four of them just gave up the ghost. The ODJ rule book states that modifications are allowed, but it must air on the side of extreme. So, being an ODJ fundamentalist, Jaron removed the jump rope and added incline tread mill. Shoot me now!

The set is a pretty straight forward; 20-minutes, max the incline of your tread mill (15% for the fine Gold's Gym stock) and then pump the MPH up to a paint drying speed of 4.0 miles per hour. Bad Water flat land 4.0 mph for yours truly is a brisk mall walk pace, or the George Clinton House of Blues quick step as Jaron and I like to call it. In my mind I was preparing to cry ODJ foul on my man for going on the weak. Then I attempted the set. Holy Helens! Even though I was taking :30 second breaks ever three minutes and rocking at a 3.5 mph speed, Mick threw in the towel at 13:15 after the smelling salts proved ineffective. A man's heart beat should never look like a subwoofer dropping DJ Magic Mike's bass test.

 

Slowing down the speed and increasing the incline is the wave of the future for this former fat guy. I have found my new challenge... survive 20 minutes of 15% incline at 4.0mph with no breaks.

 

To be continued...









Once around the Sun

It has been a great year under the fitness tutelage of the grand master of flash mobs. I am proud to announce that shortly after this post has been scrubbed by our cute NSA intern, Jaron will be relocating a half-dozen hundred miles south on the ole Spanish Trail. I am very excited to have my brother in ODJ residing in Vegas once again. As us desert rats commonly tell outsiders... The UNLV is our university, but it stands for U Never Leave Vegas. Unlike most failed escape attempts by the passengers on the Las Vegas merry-go-around, Jaron was the one person that needed to leave for a spell in order to become a successful fitness consultant (don't need to hold that rib in!) and even more successful entrepreneur. You ever seen the movie Hancock? Jaron is Hancock, Vegas is Charlize Theron. Nuff said!

 

To honor the triumphant return of Sin City's prodigal son, I would like all our esteemed to rent Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, pump "Mambo No. 5" by Lou Bega, and hacky-sack in your Speedo (underwear is not a substitute). 

Staple them elbows to the table!

Hey J! Did you know that this resort's claim to fame is consuming 150 pounds of butter every day?

If you have followed this blog for any length of time you know that there is no hiding from the fact that my writing prose and choice of topics could never pay the bills. Days're getting longer... Masters got me work'n... Some day he set me free. Last week the day job flew me into the ATL for our annual conference. HOLY HEART ATTACK! Growing up in Tennessee never fully prepared me for visiting the motherland as a grown, health conscious, thirty-something. No wonder the cuisine is nicknamed "soul food"... you have to sell your soul to get off that dietary crack. Gets a fool all shook up; freaking cat nip for fat people.

Thankfully Jaron wears his Troy Aikman commemorative Dallas Cowboys helmet around the house, he nearly took a sailors dive into the big screen when he read my text. Dude! Heading to the Dirty South for a week. Weight room sucks. Constitution is weak. Like a true practitioner of guerrilla fitness, the MacGyver of personal training designed a traveling work out plan from six breath mints and a Bone Thugs-n-Harmony compact disc. It kinda freaked out the hotel help, but it got the job done.

Financial advisory note:
Buy stock in every witch doctor med-co peddling arterial plaque medicine in the South.

Who fired Atlas?

Failure is always an option. A very real possibility with disturbingly high probability. With no known human or marsupial to ever fully realize ODJ, failure must be respected. Failure is the nauseating cold sweats before quitting a job. Failure is the thousand yard stare after a near ELE with a semi-truck. Failure is why NASCAR is a multi-billion dollar cottage industry. Failure is always an option. But a wise man once stepped toward failure and cried out; "Pain heals...Chicks dig scars... Glory last forever!"      --Achieving ODJ

 
Hopefully the IOC has no plans to ban carisoprodol, or my 2014 Olympic curling debut may be in jeopardy. My lower back is longing for the days of bocce ball and shuffle board on the lido deck. However, for the time being, I am the willful servant to the prodigal son of pain. Jaron has written a great back & arms work out. That is, if you're looking to go on long term disability. Last week my arms would not fully flex, making for a few awkward client hand shakes. Visualize two forklift arms with meat gloves extended outward. One person actually shook both my hands at the same time and asked if it was a Southerner thing. I am lost.

Unable to fully disclose his proprietary workout, I feel it is within contractual language to speak on the weighted underhand pull-ups. Ten pounds is fo'real! As Taylor likes to say, "Its miserable and magical!"

Post Script
If anyone has the below phone number, I apologize. This is what butt dialing on the narrow grip cable rows looks like; 11119999922222*********111199999922222*******

 

Legs forged in Dante's hibachi

I strategically align my workout week to have legs land on Saturday, in hopes of maximizing gym time. In addition, there is little worry that a leg machine will be heavily populated. This leg day was no different! If you ever wont to see a knuckle dragging cro-magnom blue screen with an error message, just do a leg workout in front of them. Yet I pressed forward.

To provide a point of reference, here is the assigned leg workout for phase five of hypertrophy (key points redacted per the legal department):
     5x10 box jumps using a 30" box
     5x12 single leg box jumps using a 12" box
     5x5 single leg standing hamstring curls
     5x:45 second wall sits with 45lbs over head

As I stood in front of the 30" (76.2cm) obelisk my imagination ran wild with day dreams of shin shaving face plants. The first round required a slight skip to my Lou my darling and hop to the apex two and one half feet above the ground. Once the confidence was up, rounds two through five went off without a hitch. The fun was just beginning after that little hip-hop set. Single leg box jumps are similar to drinking a Red Bull, running a 2000 yard dash at Usain Bolt speed, and then poor man pogo sticking up two flights of stairs. Four times. I now have proof that the human nostril cavity has sweat glands. Taking Young Jeezy's phrase, "making it rain" to a whole new lexicon.

It was my goal to report on the rest of the sets, but that will have to wait until next week... I finished the balance of the workout in a walking lactic acid comma. Note to self: driving under the influence of lactic acid could be hazardous to my health.   

It was chest day, why do my legs hurt?

"I am disgusted with this book! Droning on and on about lethargic, excuse prone members of society feebly fighting the weight wars. Who the h*** gave these guys a publishing deal? While reading the first few pages of Achieving ODJ  I discovered so many bad things about laziness, cutting corners, fad diets, and cattle-car workout programs that I decide to give up reading."    -anonymous

Now that phase four of hypertrophy is history and the 5-minute Wall Sit challenge is in the books, I'm off and running with phase five. After the first workout I fear a trend of muscle group bait and switch. My logic in the past would have me believe a chest workout should mean my chest muscles would ache. Then why in the world are my upper legs hurting like all get-up? Oooooh, I remember why! The Dr. Frankenstein of fitness programs reintroduce yours truly to the $.55 worth of poorly inflated, Chinese made rubber sphere, and added it to the chest/tri workout. (for further insight on my loveless relationship with this ball, check out "Well ain't that cute!")

Since I run no risk of violating the non-disclosure agreement Jaron had me sign last year, this is the chest day. Feel free to laugh, cry, or reticule in the safety of the living room -- but let your muscle soreness atone for any thoughts of ease.

5x5 sets of dumb bell flies (25-35 lbs)
5x5 sets of tricep push downs (55 lbs)
4x20 sets of push ups with one foot's toes on ball, other leg extended above.
3x?? push ups with hands on balancing ball until failure
2x2  1 minute plank & 50 wood choppers on Bosu ball
20:00 of jump rope

Challenge: 5-minute wall sit

In conjunction with the preparation for the Dunk by 38 through out the Year of the Leg, I came up with a 5-minute wall sit challenge to give me something to shoot toward during the first third of the year long leg focus. With swimming three to four times a week, a killer Saturday leg set, jump roping two days a week, my legs have been shot for the greater part of the spring. Jaron thought I was a crazy SOB for attempting a challenge during this phase of hypertrophy. Three weeks back he wisely suggested I do a quick time check. In his professional opinion I should be able to hit 3:15 as a bench mark. WRONG! 2:10... wah wah waaaah. Aside from the brain aneurysm and double quad convulsions, I was horrified at the terrible time logged. Not to mention a sophomoric textual beat down by the Rudy Ray Moore of muscle building.

I had three weeks to bridge the remaining 2:50. The only way Jaron could imagine me gaining nearly three minutes would be to add timed wall sits each week, and increase them by :30 seconds each week and then consider animal sacrifices if all else fails. Unfortunately for me it took five days to recover from each weeks' leg workout. From the test set until today, I attempted four timed wall sits. The last one came this past week; squeaking out a gut busting 4:00. Have you ever enjoyed the scene in Great Outdoors when Chet Ripley realizes he still has to down the gristle to complete the Old 96er challenge? That's what the prospect of 4:01 to 5:00 looked like to me. Unfortunately for me, I ain't getting no Paul Bunyan hats.


So today, after a four-hour stint at Wet'n Wild I put in the mouth piece, cranked up the MGMT, and hit go on the stop watch. However, unlike my preparation runs, I forgot my lifting gloves. Being a superstitious workout understudy, I panicked. Then my phone dropped off my leg causing me to lean down, exerting extra energy. But I was not going to turn this into another "6-minute mile" debacle. Three minutes in I began shaking like... (insert your favorite socialite rehabbing detox cliché here). Then galactic time stopped at 4:09. Had death shuttled me to the other side? Nope, my full body quivers had just caused the lap timer to trigger. 4:20... 4:21... 4... Holy hell I'm going to pass out!!! Why is St. Vincent crawling up my leg in a NASCAR uniform? THE COFFIN IS CLOSING!

At the five minute and seven seconds mark I slid to the floor in pain and anonymous glory.  

Rehab for medical grade exceptionalism

Western society's conventional wisdom is proud of maxims about weight gain being caused by a lack of willpower or genetic predispositions. That's like saying guns kill people. MORONS...bullets kill people. It's not willpower or our mother's DNA coding inflating fat cells, its our consumptionist hands shoveling unholy amounts of sustenance through a mouth equipped with reinforced photo-polymerised chomping factories.     - an excerpt from Achieving ODJ  

A great catalyst that Jaron has used to speed up my reaction to increased cardio and accepting the universal truth that eating less is key, has been his use of the good ole "Hey fat boy, I'm the trainer!" motivation. A simple verbal back hand to get my mojo adjusted. This shot across the bow is common practice for anyone that is seeking to exercise within ODJ fitness standards. However, because of legal reasons I must strongly recommend this form of motivation not be used on the political correct crowd, anyone born after 1984 (Generation Green Ribbon), or men who have...who will... or have consider wearing skinny jeans. The deferred embarresment of watching a grown hipster cry is damn near nauseating.

Body by Krause, which is the benchmark of ODJ fitness, is designed to squash an individual's since of exceptionalism. No motivational speeches. No pandering to excuses. And definitely no modifications to accommodate weaknesses. To top it all off, Body by Krause does not solicit. Remember it is more of a mindset than a cult. Recall the scene in Fight Club when Bob stands outside of Tyler Durden and The Narrator's house? Key differentiators: clean running water and a solid dental plan. 1-2-3... Let's Go Obama Care!

Lonely squat rack

No matter the time of day, I can count on the squat rack being unoccupied. At first sight, one would lump the squat rack with the other rejects from the land of misfit toys; but the more I follow the words of Jaron, our personal Nostradamus on this journey, it's come to light that the squat rack has warped men and women for decades. Thousand yard stare and night sweats type of warp.

With three months (one quarter) of my prep work for the "Dunk by 38" challenge logged into the books, I am looking forward to this months 5-minute wall sit challenge. As excited as I am to take on a self-imposed challenge, I know there is a great deal of work left to get my legs into leaping shape. One of those exercises has become the bane of my existence. Every week the final exercise of Saturday's leg work out, three sets of fifteen squats at 145-175lbs (66kg-80kg), is all over me like a cheap tux on a groomsman in a wedding on the surface of Hell.

After a month of phase four of hypertrophy I can report that the hamstrings don't resemble piano strings exploding every time nature calls for a sit down meeting with number two. But with the closure of one comedic gold mine another honey hole emerges. Just today, after the second set of squats I nearly took the A-train down to irreconcilable delirium. As sweat dripped out of the eyes and the lungs neared spontaneous combustion, I began spaghetti legging around the rack, singing out loud the fight song to The ODJ in the key of weird... Hey dirty! Baby got your money!... Hey Dirt! Baby got your money! Thank goodness the gym's security DVR is on a 24hour purge cycle.

I ain't no swine!

"Do as I say, not as I do, because I have done it already fool!"
                                                     -an excerpt from Achieving ODJ

As a member of Generation X I have seen, experienced and participated in the rise of the coddled ego. Insert your own examples of entitlement cliches. Getting called on the carpet for not getting things done is how changes are made; not by sofa sulking and sucking down a side of excuses. Excuses are why there are so many holes in modern belts and defense lawyers. Example of a recent conversation between the commander of crush and I.
    JBK: When was the last time you did a body fat test?
                      ...Need to monitor lean body mass.
    JT: I need to get on that... I'll report back.
    JBK: You know I mentioned this a while back...?
    JT: Yep. Just like my dentist mentioned flossing.
                      ...Slipping on both.
    JBK: Understandable on the flossing.
    (pause)
    JBK: You do what I say! Get on that.
    JT: Dayz a gett'n longer...
             Mass'r got me work'n...
                 Someday he set me free.
    JBK: Now you got the program!
For those just joining this blog, Jaron does not throw out exclamation points willy-nilly. Needless to say, I was in the gym the next morning logging my body fat and weight. See folks, even though Jaron and I are friends and contemporaries, he is an expert in his field and I ain't no swine. When pearls are cast before me, the ego is checked at the door and I get back on track to execute the plan set in place.

Post Script:
In time for beach and club scene season, the Shameless Commerce Division of NFJP is pleased to announce the arrival of our latest swag; The ODJ. Thanks you Jaron for modeling the tar sands black version. For a nominal fee you can have your very own... please contact us via the comment section for order details.

This ain't yo mama's double dutch

Cheap scotch and hip hop.

There's an apartment for rent,

inquire within.

When JT moves out,

let Jaron in!

 

When Jaron sent out the fourth phase of hypertrophy four weeks past, with an emphasis given to gaining vertical leap, I nearly LOL'd him out of the building when I read two weekly circuits of jump rope. Who the freak does he think I am; a third grader competing in the President's Fitness Challenge? Oh how wrong I have been... Black magic has nothing on the demonic spell he cast over my calves and knees. The devil's herd is currently knife fighting in my lower hinges.

 

At the end of the first and third workouts, a twenty minute jump roping set is the designated cardio. During the past eight workouts with jump rope assignments I have yet to make it more than two minutes straight with out stopping for either, a calf seizure, a near arch collapse, a shin-smacking rope miscue, or all of the above. Over the past month, my twenty minutes of jump rope has been subdivided into six rounds of three minutes. The first thirty seconds is a pre-set rest phase (to make sure the Pandora connections is solid). Then the trailing two-thirty is a monkey boy uncoordinated pogo. Laugh it up! Drop a comment if you make it more than one-thirty and cursing all things sacred.

 

Post Script

Next post will be the official launch of our merchandise line for The ODJ. Unlike earning your Insanity T-shirt, we are shamelessly selling swag to fund our citrus addiction.

 



Lesson in Bro

Spend enough time around the Homo Sapien sub-class of Lifter Erectus Neandertha TapOutcus, one can easily identify them in a crowded gym or an ultra dance club. My field studies are continually evolving as the body of research has yet to flush out a solid thesis statement on this group I have commonly nicknamed; Brotastic Liftard. However, my laziness has shortened the sub-class name down to Brotard (pronounced, bro-tard).

Good news! Legal counsel just sent me this text message... The Noble Prize committee has approved publishimg a portion of your research, it fits the poorly vetted blogosphere. Top Five!

1. The Brotard herd is drawn to the gym between the hours of 4:00-6:30 p.m. to maximize narcissistic buoy.
2. Individuals are protected from the common man's eye contact by their lightweight Under Armour hoodies.
3. To add another layer of D-baggery, Brotards walk around between sets with their Beats by Dr Dre headphones resting on their temples. A metaphor for the shock therapy needed to cure these knuckle dragging apes.
4. A sampling of the Chinese characters tattooed on their rib cages are loosely translated;  "Sucka!", "You Want More Beef and Broccoli?", "Bed Wetter", and "This Idiot Doesn't Know What I'm Tattooing!" 
5. Cardio is for chicks and dudes without back acne.

Happy Mother's Day to Mama JT and Mama ODJ!



The Ant King and the Elephant Court

I would not know what 37 years old felt like even if the Apple Store had a pod cast entitled "Growing Old for Dummies." But I can say with near certainty that age may be a state of mind to most, to me it is an angry demented compressed L7 and aching knees at 4:30 in the morning. Even though western culture is youth centric, it is a privilege to age. Hopefully not aging to the point of adult diapers, debating the Easter Bunny why the kids wont stop by, and screaming at the Nurse Ratched to alphabetize my meds. So as long as I'm still the ant king to the voices, lets enjoy this journey of words documenting personal greatness.

On a dietary note; I have been off the hard stuff, sugary sodas for nine months. Caffeine got dropped in 2007. However, I drank A&W Root Beer and Sprite by the tanker. When the mad scientist of body building set up my list of "to don'ts," the fully leaded drinks were top of the list. Fearing that my only remaining vice would be subjugated to Minute Maid Lemonade Lite (10 calories per 8oz serving) and water, Jaron convinced me to try diet versions of my favorites. He saved my sanity! Now I have a few menu: Sprite Zero, Diet A&W Root Beer, and the classic Caffeine Free Diet Coke. For three point five decades I had avoided the weak sauce of the soda world, but now that my eyes are opened to new things; what else could I experiment with? Country music!?!... I'll be right back.

 

No way in hel-icopter! There is no life changing event that will ever get me to consume that garbage. Worse than drinking a Limburger cheese shake through a toe jam straw.

 

Post script:

In two weeks the "5-Minute Wall Sit" challenge will be attempted. A challenge not sponsored or commissioned through the Body by ODJ program; but one that he condones. This will be a non-man-card challenge. No points can be gained or deducted for success or failure. But I will be damned if I fail! If I do, you can bet a week's lunch money on me trying and trying and trying to hide all evidence the challenge was ever attempted... destroying DVR evidence and paying off weight room staff.  

135 pound time bomb (the Skrillex Remix)

Bucket List Item #124:
Answer this question: What is it like to live with out knees?

Ever since Saturday's leg workout my body's lower half has physiologically revolted. I am now a threat to myself. Unable to climb or descend stairs upright, unable to out run a parked car, or bend over to pick up any object affected by gravity. All because of two sets of fifteen squats with 135 pounds on my shoulders. The mad man of physical fitness has dialed my number on this hypertrophy phase. Night sweats and bathroom screams.

I fear adult protective services will get a call from concerned neighbors as I moan in a zombie like shuffle from the front door to the mail box over the next few weeks. No right minded, tax paying suburanite will allow my daily death march to go unpunished. Those ninnies are going to sick the unholy HOA on me!

To make matters worse, just today I had to take a running head-start to clear the 6" curb in front of Office Depot. Imagine the Tin Man with a Forest Gump accent stiff legging across a parking lot, trying not to draw attention to a home grown involuntary Parkour. That feat of embarrassment was only matched by the evil stink-eye Mr. Suburban Strip Mall rent-a-cop gave me as I whiniest in accomplishment. I better get out of here before this pig-faced screw puts me under arrest for suspicion of public intoxication!

Does that donut pillow come in Rebel Red?

We may lose every reader during this journey, but it will be one heck of a slide to the land of blog mediocrity. So be it! As Cortez was once misquoted moments after storming the shore; "Burn the boats. Turn up the EDM. Weez gonna get weird!"

This past week saw the ushering in of phase IV of hypertrophy; a.k.a. "Led Legs and Nightmares." The master of ceremonies has crafted this phase of calf burning jump rope sessions, box jumps, and piano cords shirring squats. Five straight days of some serious goodies. There have been extinction level events that put less fear in me compared to excruciating pain that sitting down in the coming days will bring.

Here is a sampling of the leg hurt locker:

    * 20 minute jump rope. (giggle now... I dare you to try it for more than 3 minutes!)

    * 45 minutes on Stair Master.

    * Seated 24" box jumps followed by reverse box jumps.

It has begun. My long slow march toward glory above the rim.  A journey that goes through hurt town, population me. He is building castles in my legs, and there is currently a massive war between the dragons and kings set to the sweet sweet sounds of Swedish House Mafia. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1y6smkh6c-0 Bengay and road flares!

As noted in previous post, the next ten months are dedicated to training for the 38th birthday celebratory dunk. However, to keep in good standing with our publishing house and venture capitalist funding this twisted road trip, we have obligations to meet. It goes without mentioning that our love for postulation, bloviation, and pontification, fuels me and Jaron . So we're proud to announce the near completion of a tell all memoir; "Destinies Stepchild: White Men Who Can't Jump and the Women Who Love to Tolerate Them."

Jump the Shark

Jaron and I recently launched a new business venture to compete with the gluten free equivalent to endurance competitions; the Tough Mudder. We're calling it, "The ODJ: More of a mindset than a cult." Instead of paying $100 dollars to get an ice cube enema and commando crawling through Mother Nature's intestinal fluid with four of your best friends; we're offering a free gauntlet of pointless yuppie accomplishments. Bring your own GoPro to capture a YouTube worthy counter view point to our heavily doctored footage and overly dubbed heckling of your team's performance. (Think, Mysterious Science Theater 3000 meets The Gong Show.)

Google the obstacles we will be featuring; not responsible for any HR or marital troubles the images may bring.

• The Awkward Man-on-Man bear hug relay... a timed event, scored on duration and level of deferred embarrassment.
• Reverse Rio Grande drug mule swim with the optional coyote upgrade.
• Blindfold Roman candle dueling.
• Midget tossing. (so politically incorrect it requires a liability waiver and pre-race sensitivity training.)
• A fun run through Riverside County's meth villages with life-time supply vouchers for Sudafed, Drano, brake fluid and Ether, duct taped to your day-glow metallic jump suit. Them dirt people are attracted to shiny objects.
• (All ties will be settled by the Electronic White Rabbit Kool-Aid Spa Challenge... winner goes to the person who's heart stops last after the radio drops)  

Remember folks, a squirrelly person can learn to cope with things like seeing their buddy crawling up a river of pooh with a plastic knife in his teeth, but nobody should be asked to handle this corporate trip. Tough Mudder is what the whole hip world would be doing every Saturday morning if the British had won the war. Union Jacks and poor dental hygiene.

post script... I was trapped in a LAX hotel all last week with crappy food, piss poor work out equipment, and a ton of day dreaming time to work on our new venture.