Endurance phase

If stability phase is proof fat guy guts throw off the center of gravity, then endurance phase should spotlight fat guy gut cutting into recovery time. Not for this guy! I cannot escape the fact 40 pounds of extra flab is stowed away in the pockets of my skin suit, but my body lives in the past and pulls from skinnier days. Involuntary delusions of past grandeur help my recovery time to be that of a Kenyan distance runner. Heart rate spikes are quickly lowered in the matter of seconds. Jaron believes it has to do with my consistent years of adult swimming, cardiovascular memory, and unadulterated American fat guy strength. Think retarded strength with higher test scores and a hint of cheap chlorine cologne. For 235 pounds I am light on my feet and ready to grind out sustained pain.

Endurance phase allows me to hit the gym, plow throw sets with little rest, sweat like a pig at a BBQ, and then glide through interval cardio training. From bar-code scan to sweaty exit is roughly one hour.

60-90 seconds rest
Arms & Triceps
Standing cable press  45 lbs
Weight assisted dips  110 down to 80 lbs
Machine flies 90 lbs
Alternating hand step up push ups on bench 6 per arm

Back & Biceps
Weight assisted wide grip pull ups  110 down to 80 lbs
Bent over long bar row narrow grip  100 lbs
Rope cable curl biceps 50 lbs
Rope cable upright rows 50 lbs

Legs
Walking lunges 12 steps 25 lbs in each hand
One leg extensions seated  80 lbs
One leg curls standing 70 lbs
Donkey calf 150 lbs

Cardio
options (30 minutes)
Sears Tower stair master (110 floors in 30 minutes)
Seated stationary bike 5 minute warm up then 2 minutes at level 15, 3 minutes rest on level 12
Elliptical 5 minute warm up then 1 minute fast, 2 minutes rest

Destination abhors ambiguity

Try something the next time you participate in a repetitive fitness activity; pushups, lap swimming, running, burpees, etc. Instead of doing a set number per round, give yourself a time. “One minute of pushups.” Or “Run for an hour.” I ain’t no gambling man, but I’ll take odds you would rather do double the amount of reps if you were told to repeat until the clock says stop. I will go a little meatier with my bet, and postulate that most people actually do less reps in the timed sets. Because if form issues are not in play, the output will always be greater for defined number of reps. Speed is on our side when counting down reps. One closer to finishing. While timed sets trigger the brain’s conservation mode.

I shudder at the thought of time being the destination. It is worse than watching paint dry. It won’t dry if you’re watching it!

Jaron occasionally slips in timed sets of pushups, burpees, prison squats, or a myriad of other core basic exercises. Inevitably I gravitate to an exact number of reps I will do; no more no less. The clock becomes white noise. Time is meant for rest intervals and race paces. It has no business being a destination.

The mind of a repetitive athlete likes to know what it is latching on to. Without the cadence of a defined diminishing number the inner wimp wins. Less intensity, longer delays between reps, and stopping short, to name a few. I rely on reps during my swim sets -- I will use mental mile makers to help me sustain the pain... Three-quarters of the way through the set. Half way through. “I have fewer to go than I have done so far.” But if time is dictating the set, a cruel uninterested lord complex comes over the clock. Once an amoral tool quickly turns on me. Time is slave to no one, yet it mocks ruthlessly when given control of the destination. Tick-tock, tick-tock.     

G-O-A-T

Greatest of All Time... The debate format that turns my stomach every time I walk into a room of pontificators. Halitosis of the brain filling the air with society’s mental decay. Call him what you may, but at least the fool has an errand. At worst, the chin music has a beat. The G-O-A-T ushers in the numb.

I once relied on headphones to pump the motivation sounds of alt-rock. Today, they are a refuge from the verbal diarrhea coming from remedial class rejects, which is invading my mental comfort zone. I might need a safe word. The mutual pooling of “like” and “you know” can cause irreversible IQ in laboratory rats. The only politics they know is what Facebook tells them. Talking weather is unpredictable and religion is being practiced in the mirror, so no need to discuss. All aboard the G-O-A-T merry-go-round.

G-O-A-T debates are multigenerational turf wars over who’s childhood great would win in a fictional competition in the already absurd gamification of ancient military exercises. Psychologist have found the music we listen to at 18 and 19 years of age will stick out as the greatest music of our generation. I would submit for sports, the age of emotional coding is around 10 and 11. People’s passion to defend their G-O-A-T’s honor is only matched by religious zealots and amateur multilevel marketers. Daring to desecrate their G-O-A-T god is punishable by… nothing… this is ridiculous. Just punching air.  

When I am feeling conversationally sadistic the best course of action is to drop the G-O-A-T grenade in a group of intoxicated sports freaks, then step back to enjoy the verbal stench consume all surrounding intellectualism like a black hole. Take a deep breath.          

In the name of shame

249.6

 

The official weigh in for the Summer of ODJ Challenge. There it is, presented for all gluttony. That is 1/8^th quarter ton for the people following along with the fuzzy math edition. A new high point. Shattering the previous 2012 starting point by seventeen pounds!  

Posting my starting weight is very important for Jaron and me. We do little in our friendship that is not in the name of shame. Motivation by embarrassment is the Joel Olsteen of ODJ. The preposterous prosperous gospel is giving us lazy slobs a get out of self-loathing jail card, and it sure as heck ain’t shedding no pounds. I have to go with extra strength negative reinforcement ---- Peer pressure is for youngsters. And prizes are for the sheeple. But shame is for the hardened, nothing to lose crowd.

 

Losing weight to feel good and spreading the joy of feeling good is noble… (Add wink and finger gun for dramatic effect.) Let’s all sweep the cavalier dung droppings of motivating others under the yoga mats. If you ain’t working towards a personal end game, then you’re probably a narco-disciple of self. With more internal consumption than a Utah based multi-level marketing supplement company.

No weak stomachs in the slaughter house.   

 

They’re baa-aack… Stability

Back to basics with stability redu. Stability would not be hell on Earth without 4-2-1 count. Nothing like a four count motion, with two count pause at the summit, and one count at the rest point to remind me fat guy strength has no chance in the stability phase. I am Fezzik. I am the Brut Squad. I am powerless to stabilize. Trying to hit a fly out of the sky with a boulder is easier than resisting gravity on one leg. May the farce I live in at the gym know me once again after this challenge is complete. Fat guy strength is so much better than a physique. Remember children, if you don’t have dreams you won’t have nightmares.

We are the Penn & Teller of social media workout evangelist... Expose the magic for all to duplicate. We got day jobs, and our egos are well-worn. 

All sets are 3x12 and 4-2-1 count unless noted. 

Back & Biceps

Weight assisted pull ups – wide overhand 100 or 120 pounds

Reverse push ups – Smith machine

1-leg dumbbell bicep curls 25 pounds 4x12

Reverse flys – dumbbell on lower back horse 7.5 pounds

Chest & Triceps

Dumbbell press on stability ball 50 pounds

Stability ball push ups – narrow arms military style

Bench pushups – wide arms

Plank pushups

Legs

Hack squat – machine

1-leg standing reach with dumbbell (no 4-2-1) 25 pounds

Peewee Hermans (no 4-2-1) 12 reps each leg

Core

Pike ups with feet on stability ball – push up position

Plank roll-outs on stability ball – feet narrow
1-minute planks

V-ups

We’re back!... sort of.

“It’s déjà vu all over again.”
                                    -Lawrence Peter Berra

Taking a page outta the playbook of KISS, The Who, and the Clintons… We are back! This blog has died and resurrected more times than Bill Murray in Groundhog’s Day. Lazarus is sick of our zombie tendencies, but Doc Holiday is excited because our hypocrisy knows no bounds too.

 

I quit apologizing years ago for dragging Jaron into my failed attempts at weight loss. However, he knows when a weight loss contest is on the horizon there are two sure bets: first, fun Jarvis takes second chair to grumpy starving Jarvis. And second, the dust will be blown off of No Fat Jokes Please.

This blog reanimates more than Bernie in Weekend at Bernie’s. For our younger hipster crowd, that is Bernie Lomax of the 1989 subcult classic. Not the bastard Vermont socialist love child of Doctor Emmett Brown and Larry David. For the next 12 weeks I am competing in two weight lose contest. One at work, and one with Jaron “The ODJ” Krause himself. The latter is because the pending pool season requires Jaron to renew his subscription to the doctrine of when the suns out, the guns shall be out.

The work contest has yet to determine prizes. I am guessing a 5 night 6 day Mexican Riviera cruise, or possible a $5 gift card to Chili’s. The contest prize with Jaron is the same as in the past; the fatter fool at the end buys all-you-can-eat sushi. Trophies aside, both contest are grudge matches with no restrictions on creative gamesmanship. No holds barred. If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying. Call the Tijuana nutritionist. East German female Olympians. Nuff said!

 
What a momentous weekend to fire up this ole digital dumping ground. Today is the 25^th anniversary of the Rodney King riots. The matchstick to the powder keg of racial tension in the land of smog, sponsored car chases and NWA. Ice Cube has really gone wealthy white guy with his cash cow Are We There Yet franchise. I still can't afford Dre's earphones.

Ironically, today is the continuation of the National Football League’s annual slave trade… better known as The Draft. Replaced are the shackles and cotton fields with Rolexes and football fields. Billionaires making more millionaires than Ed McMahon. In twenty years most of the current gridiron gladiators will be drooling shells of their once greatness. Pissing in the stove as a result of years of brain trauma. No need to fret over this annual Faustian ritual… the money will be enjoyed by children, spouses, and agents for years after eulogies are delivered. No motivational post here.

Enjoy the fat shedding reunion tour! 

           

Blogpocalypse

This is the end,
my only friend,
the end...It hurts to set you free.
                                       - The Doors

"Blogpocalypse is nigh! 235! Square one! I am, apparently, a scarce few tenths of a pound from comprehensive trainer failure, and, from pulling the plug on this journalistic juggernaut that is limping along on life support." - Jaron, July 2015

"I will see this site torn to the ground after Thanksgiving, as it will no longer serve a purpose beyond nostalgia. If BLOG 3.0 is revived in 2015, I will not be a part of it! From one former fatboy to another, this time it sticks!" - Jaron, August 2012

                          

 

The West is the best, but this ride's gotta end before reaching the coast! Jaron is a man of his word, and I am a man of little loyalty to my weight plan. He set the point of no return, and as a good disciple to the pied piper of pain we are O-U-T! And so, Blogpocalypse occurred at 6:06 a.m. on Friday, February 19, 2016. The official scales read 235.2. The End... Over 100 post from August 2012 to present day, and nothing to show for it. The American Dream alludes.

 

Within the Hypocritical Oath of ODJ a passage reads; "Do as the ODJ says, not as the ODJ blatantly flaunts in your face." When Jaron gains weight, it is not acceptable to gain along side. This fat guy doesn't need sympathy from the herd; I need an unhealthy amount of fat shaming.

 

I have enjoyed documenting the past 40 months of weight loss, weight gain, and the occasional opine on the subcultures of gym life. Don't fret our loyal followers, we will be fine. Our word-smithing will never go fallow. We have been texting like twenty-something hipsters since the days of Startac numpadding. The QWERTY keyboard was but a glimmer in the eye of Blackberry when we were producing rapid fire twenty-first century Gonzo. And if that is not enough comfort for those who care; Jaron and I can now give more time and attention to the long rumored, but not yet titled sequel to Achieving ODJ.

In the inspiring words of Randy Dupree... Stay loose. Stay liquid. Laugh a lot. Stay nimble till you get the call from the mother ship.