I forgot my phone.

That was it. That's how the whole thing started.

I was at the Main Street location. Jim Wendler was there. My wife was there. Maybe that was all of us at the time. I walked out the back door, got in my car, and realized I couldn't call anyone to bring the phone out because it was the one I had left inside.

So I sat there. For close to 20 minutes. Just stewing. Too pissed off to go back in and get it.

When I finally went back inside, I sat down and started writing. Not because I had something profound to say. Because I had just spent 20 minutes in a parking lot being furious at myself for being too lazy to walk 30 feet, and that was funny enough to put on paper.

That turned into an article called "27 Reasons to Get Big," which ran on T-Nation around 2003 or 2004. This month's Crew Cast, which members got first, was me going back through those 27 reasons. Running each one through the same filter: what I thought then, what I'd say to myself now, and what the compromise actually looks like from two decades out.

This is the version for everyone else.

The Logic That Made Sense at the Time

I was over 300 pounds at the back end of my competitive career. The only thing that mattered was being heavier so I could hit a bench goal we were training toward.

Everything I did was run through that filter. If something burned calories, it was a problem. If something didn't contribute to the surplus, it didn't belong in the day.

That meant not moving unless I had to move.

If I needed to send a fax, I set it aside on the desk and waited until I had to take a piss. Then I'd knock out everything at once. The Copenhagen dust on the keyboard. The pile on the desk. I'd batch it all together so no trip was wasted.

From the outside, that sounds ridiculous. From inside the goal at that time, it made complete sense. Weight was hard to put on. If I weren't keeping my foot on the gas, I'd drop from 300 to 285 in a week. A lot of it was glycogen, a lot of it was bloat, but that's what I needed to move what I was moving. You let up for a week, you feel it under the bar.

So I justified it. And I'd do it again, at least for a while.

The problem wasn't the logic. The problem was what I let go in the process.

What I Actually Let Go

Mobility. GPP. Single-leg work.

Not because they were bad ideas. Because they cost calories, because they didn't have a direct line to the bench, and because I told myself I was past them.

The close-grip incline press is a good example. That was a big driver for me. Then it stopped working the way it used to. So I dropped it. Moved on. The thinking was: if it's not driving the main lift anymore, cut it.

What I know now is that when I put it back in later, I sucked at it. But then I built it back up. And when I did, it chipped the strength in a way that would have helped the whole peak. I just abandoned it too early and for the wrong reason.

The assumption that a movement has to correspond directly to the main lifts at all times gets you into trouble. Things stop working and you walk away. Sometimes the right move is to bring them back, accept that you're going to suck at them for a while, and build from there.

I should have just kept getting stronger. That sounds simple now. It wasn't what I was thinking then.

A Few of the Stories

These are worth telling because most people who have been big, really big, know exactly what I'm talking about.

Getting Off the Bench Press

When you're over 300 pounds, you don't just sit up off a flat bench. You can try. You might get there in three attempts if you build enough momentum. Or you roll to the side, flip a leg over, and work from there.

What I found out later is that there's an actual technique. Pull your knees up, lift your hips, swing the legs forward to create momentum, and then twist as you come up. You land on your feet, and it's clean. I didn't figure this out when I needed it. That's how it goes.

Tying Your Shoes

You don't really tie them. You lace them up, tie a knot at the end, and spread the laces so the shoe stays on. It's basically an open shoe. But you still have to bend over.

The technique: take a deep breath and go as hard and as fast as you can. Get down there and get back up before the blood pressure climbs. The longer you're down there, the redder you get. Most of you who have been big know exactly what I mean.

The Airport

This was before things got better. No swivel wheels on luggage. A laptop projector the size of a carry-on bag, which I had to lease for $4,000 and refused to check because the replacement bulb was $600, and I was paranoid the airline would break it. I sat with that thing on my lap more than once on a flight.

Then there was the bag on one shoulder because there was no way I was putting a backpack through both arms. If I got it on, I was never getting it off. So I slung it over one arm and dealt with it sliding down into my bicep every 30 seconds.

Getting to the counter was the first part. Standing in line without being able to sit was the second. Getting through security with a belt was the third.

That's where Wendler figured something out.

He went into the bathroom, took his pants off, and threaded his belt through the loops before he put the pants back on. That was the whole revelation. I had never considered doing that in my life. I still do it today. Best thing I ever saw in an airport bathroom.

The rest of that story I'll leave to the Crew Cast.

Zoos. Amusement Parks. Anywhere that requires walking.

I could get about 20 yards before my lower back would start to pump. So I planned every route in advance. If there was a drinking fountain at 5 yards, a fence at 10, a bench at 15, we went that way. If there was a 100-yard stretch with nowhere to stop and lean, I didn't go that way. I'd tell whoever I was with that I had to find a bathroom and disappear until a better route opened up.

I blamed it on the Dball and moved on.

The thing is: if your lower back pumps out just from walking across a zoo, what do you think that's doing to your deadlift late in a meet? The work capacity had dropped that far. A hundred steps every few hours would have made a difference. Not just in life. In performance.

The Compact Car Situation

If you're a passenger in a low-to-the-ground car and they park curbside, you are done. The door scrapes the curb, it's open maybe six inches, and you have to do a Bulgarian split squat on your way out. Except you've never done single-leg work and the car door is the only thing keeping you from going face-first into the street.

I got into a Corvette once. That story ends with me rolling onto my stomach to get out and coming up through something that resembled a wrestling escape. I still have feelings about it.

The advice: be the driver. Park where you want. Don't get in the Corvette.

What I'd Actually Change

Three things. Just three.

Keep the mobility. Not a major program. Not a dedicated session. Just don't let it disappear. The difference between being able to get a foot up on the side of a bed to put your shoe on and not being able to do that is pretty simple to maintain at 30. It's almost impossible to get back when you've let it go completely.

Keep some GPP in. Not much. A baseline. Something above zero. When the lower back pumps on a 20-yard walk, that becomes a meet problem eventually. I knew that. I justified it. The justification cost me.

Get the CPAP. Don't wait five or six years. Just get it.

And the close-grip incline: leave it in the program.

Why He Still Wouldn't Have Listened

Here's the honest part.

If I sat down across from myself in 2004 and ran through all of this, 2004-Dave would have told me to shut up. You're washed. You never did what you said you were going to do. You've got no standing to tell me what I need right now.

And he would have been right about one thing. From inside the goal, the long view is a distraction. You're trying to peak something. You're trying to display the strength you've spent years building. The person telling you to keep the mobility and the GPP sounds like someone who doesn't understand what you're actually trying to do.

The compromise is not abandoning the goal. It's maintaining just enough of the base that the goal stays reachable. The lifters who get that right don't think they're being smart at the time. They just don't let certain things fall completely off the table.

A little is a lot better than none.

I can tell you that now. I couldn't have heard it then.

Live, Learn, Pass On.
Dave Tate / elitefts