“The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.” —Shakespeare
A year has come and gone since I last penned an article. Coincidentally, it has also been approximately the same amount of time since my last major weightlifting injury. I wrapped up 2009 with a flurry of great workouts and started off 2010 with a bang.
I was routinely surpassing my personal records in the gym primarily due to being relatively pain free, especially regarding the chronic pain associated with my shoulders. I seized upon this window of opportunity and aggressively pursued a personal goal that had managed to elude me after years of relentless stalking. The quarry I sought was to press a fat bar loaded with eight quarters (25-lb plates) on each side along with another 130 lbs of chain weight in tow. The total amount would be around 590 lbs at the top, and this had to be performed sans equipment of any kind including wrist wraps.
I became obsessed with this goal after adhering to what I refer to as the quarter program. It is simple to follow. After choosing a max effort exercise, namely the fat bar with chain, I progressed by adding a quarter to each side after every set until I failed. Needless to say, I failed often. I always succeeded in getting seven quarters on each side, and I must confess I even bent the rules and added a 10-lb plate occasionally to keep my sanity, but I could not get the stated goal of eight.
A sharp stinging pain in my upper left pectoral in early January was shrugged off as nothing more than scar tissue tearing or releasing. The resulting greenish discoloration only added credence to my personal self-serving diagnosis. Violating my inner urges, I did manage to ease up on the actual pressing of weight for a couple weeks. The resulting time off served me well and paid big dividends. Upon my return, I immediately embarked on quenching my thirst for the quarters with renewed vigor. Ocho sinko? Not this time. Success! All was well in my universe.
On Valentine’s Day I decided to do some heavy foam presses. Foam around five inches thick is placed on the lifter’s chest, and the bar is lowered and actually sinks into the foam. Apparently, Cupid decided to take it upon himself to shoot a nasty little arrow into my left pectoral because after locking out my last rep, I felt a stinging pain that shut me down for the duration of the lifting session. As predicted, this episode was again blamed on scar tissue that simply did not want to stay put. A cascade of colors soon flowed across my chest.
During the subsequent week, I instinctively knew something was amiss concerning my pectoral and realized that I should take at least a week or two off from pressing. However, my cousin had previously arranged to shoot some training footage of my Saturday bench workout for his website. I felt as though I was in Oz as both the Tin Man and the Scarecrow because I lacked both the heart and the brains to cancel. My brief attempt at warming up involved my pec itself experiencing premonitions as it offered up an abundance of warning signals and forebodings to not go through with this. For instance, my left pectoral had seemingly relocated to the middle of my chest. A unique bundle of muscle took up residence to the right of where it once resided.
Undaunted, I proposed a compromise. I would do one fairly heavy set that required me to press 455 lbs off 3-boards for 10 reps and then I would call it a day. To those perplexed readers wondering why I would go through with this, all I can say is that if you have to wonder or ask, there isn’t any adequate answer. I can share that for me it boils down to loyalty and a sense of obligation coupled with an internal drive to be the top dog. Individuals drove an hour to see me lift and I felt committed to do so. No excuses.
I positioned myself on the bench and meticulously arranged all my body parts to ensure that a catastrophic event would not ensue. My hands were cautiously placed in the precise location on the bar, my upper back was squeezed, and my feet were firmly planted. I was locked and loaded, but I intuitively feared a misfire. The bar was unracked and I began to rep the weight. One, then two, then three…ouch!
Upon locking out the third rep and then lowering the bar for the fourth, a searing pain rippled through my chest. My left pectoral felt like a wet wash cloth being torn. The tearing sensation originated in the center of my chest and made its way toward my armpit. As it neared my shoulder, the tearing became more of a fluttering. I calmly told the spotters to take the weight and rack it. I then got off the bench and proclaimed that now I’ve done it. “I just tore my f---ing pec!”
“There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.” —Alexander Smith
This tear was certainly the real McCoy and I knew it. I promptly put ice on the injury and continued this for a few days until the swelling subsided or at least leveled off. The previous minor tears resulted in discoloration located in isolated areas of the pectoral muscle. This episode culminated with a purple haze spread throughout my upper torso and down my left arm. When I walked into work on Monday, my fellow coworkers immediately knew something was wrong. First, they could literally see something was askew because my swollen pectoral protruded in a manner that made it hard to ignore. I was similar to Quasimodo, only my hump was in the front. Additionally, they could see the anguish in my face. This injury wreaked havoc upon me, and I suffered mentally much more than physically. I believed that this may be the coup de grace in regards to my lifting. Robert Fulghum said, “If you break your neck, if you have nothing to eat, if your house is on fire, then you got a problem. Everything else is inconvenience.” It is apparent that Robert never learned how to lift in kindergarten.
Soon word spread of my injury. Former students as far away as Florida emailed to check in and get updated information about the pec. An official pec hotline was quickly set up manned by student office cadets. The Indianapolis Colts even heard about it due to a certain grad that happens to be Peyton Manning’s backup. My friend and fellow principal dubbed the week, Pec Week, playing off the famous Shark Week series. I took all the jokes in stride, but I was an emotional wreck. I needed answers pronto.
I did not immediately go to an orthopedic doctor, but rather for the sake of expediency, chose to pay my chiropractor a visit. He was actually uncertain as to the extent of my injury, so I made an appointment to see an orthopedic doctor and have an MRI. The imaging confirmed that I had a muscolotendinous tear. Unlike many pectoral tears, mine did not detach at the humeral insertion but rather was intramuscular in nature and thus surgery was not an option. It had to heal on its own with rest and therapy. Wait…what’s that? A little Mr. Mister playing on the radio, “Take these broken wings and learn to fly again…” You’re damn right.I hear what you’re saying my soft rock brothers.
Now what? Where do I go from here? I left my orthopedic doctor’s office on a positive note. The usual condescending and stoic doctor was actually reassuring in his tone. He even muttered that I could be Superman again in 8–10 weeks. He prescribed a regime of therapy that I honestly had no intention of following. I did consult with our high school’s athletic trainer, and after a brief conversation concerning what the doctor suggested, I concluded that my best approach would be my approach. My next order of business was to contact my friend and personal philosopher, Jim Wendler, in order to gain insight as to how I should go about constructing a plan of attack that would assure a return to a state where I was at least some semblance of past self. Jim is often frugal with words. He simply expressed that I needed to train like I was on ludes. Through years of experience, I knew better than to try to delve deeper when seeking knowledge from the great one, so I concluded that he meant to slow down. Not only did I heed his advice and progress slowly in terms of weight used and overall volume, but I also lifted less explosively.
“If the wind will not serve, take to the oars.” —Latin proverb
I started down my path of recovery with the mindset that I would rather lift at a somewhat subordinate level enabling me to do something I thoroughly enjoy than go crazy and risk another injury. Remember, slow and steady wins the race. Within a few weeks, I was able to painlessly perform push-ups. This evolved into brief morning workouts that I did Tabata style. For those unfamiliar with Tabata, I did a total of eight sets by doing push-ups for 20 seconds alternated with a ten-second rest period. I would find a tempo and do as many reps as possible. Then rest ten seconds and repeat. There isn’t any prescribed number of repetitions to be performed for each set but rather the goal is to work as hard as possible during each set. However, I did know I was ready to move on to bigger and better things when I was able to do a minimum of ten push-ups each set.
Dumbbells done in a variety of fashions were next on my list. I started slowly and did dumbbells at various angles and tempos. I also included kettlebell presses into the mix. Eight weeks passed before I conjured up enough testicular fortitude to attempt straight bar bench presses. I was more shaky and nervous than a hound dog shitting a peach seed when I first climbed back under the bar. Since the injury, I have not gone over 80 percent of my previous maxes on any straight bar lift. I now avoid any lifts that are ballistic and overstretch or strain my pectorals such as the foam press. In retrospect, I believe the sinking of the bar into the foam may have been a significant contributing factor regarding the pec tear. Then again, the tear may have happened because I forgot to take my fish oil. To say I still harbor a fear of benching heavy with a bar would not be an understatement.
Oddly, I continue to break records with dumbbells and kettlebells. For example, I recently pressed the 100-lb kettlebell for 33 reps off a Swiss ball. I actually had a few more reps in me, but I stopped at 33 to honor the greatest basketball player of all time, Larry Bird. In addition to dumbbells and kettlebells, I feel safe and secure incorporating an odd implement I invented, dubbed the giant paperclip, into my routine. This device, seen below, allows me to press at multiple angles while simultaneously allowing the load or resistance to be easily adjusted or manipulated because humans serve as the weight. My wife and other casual observers related that the homoerotic undertones while we perform this movement are epic and only eclipsed by the volleyball scene in Top Gun. Whatever works.
Nothing beats wrapping up a workout like paperclip presses and heavy chain push-ups. A recently discovered lost cache of my chain brings my total to 200 lbs. The chain, comprised of 20-lb segments, is loaded on to the lifter’s back one at a time coinciding with the completion of each rep. When all the weight is loaded, the lifter then performs reps until all the weight is de-loaded or taken off. Finally, I have adapted and carried on by including more exercises for my back into my workouts. I generally do heavy one-arm rows along with something I call “the trifecta.” I load a bar with approximately 250 lbs and perform ten deadlifts immediately followed by ten bent over rows. I then conclude with ten shrugs. Do this for three to four sets. Bottom line is that I currently try to train with a fuller range of motion, and I utilize both a greater variety in the types of exercises chosen and the body parts emphasized. For example, I curl on a regular basis, perform light front raises, and even do push-downs with the green bands.
The New Year will be upon us shortly. What does 2011 have in store? I hope to keep on keeping on. I am content with the fact that I will not don equipment and lift in another meet. I am also OK with the fact that I will not press as much as I once did with the straight bar. I also know that I will improvise and continue to break personal records of some sort. As Voltaire said, “Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.”
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