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.