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.