Being two weeks after partially tearing my delt, I had a thorough day at rehab and decided to head straight to the compound and pull-- all by my lonesome. This delt issue was all tied in with my bicep and pec, so I decided I'd pull with straps to try to minimize any further damage.
Feeling good from my therapy session wore off real fucking quick, but I was there so I was going to see how far I could push it-- a gamble for sure, but you can't always be scared.
Warming up felt like shit, but metaphorically being behind the eightball for the Arnold, calling it early wasn't an option. I just plate flipped my way up to 675, which moved ok, not to fast, not to slow. I took 725, not absolute dog shit, but pretty terrible nevertheless. Having hit 755 right before my delt decided to take a shit on me, I hit 755, so I loaded up 775.
Welp that was that That motherfucker didn't move any more than 3 inches and that's the way this goes, as I always say-- somedays you're the pigeon, some days you're the statue. If I'm honest probably wasn't my best approach, I'm Irish, I'm stubborn, and am willing to push the envelope to win the Arnold for the third straight time.
I finished up with all my accessory work, delt felt like shit, after consulting with my Dr, I iced and wore my sling for the rest of the day and night.