A small bit of inspiration to those who want to take it

[richie191]

Something Other Than Muscle


Bodybuilding is the one thing in my life that I've stuck to the most. Other passions have come and gone, but bodybuilding has always been there for me. Unlike being shipped off to the tiny island of Guam and leaving the "love of my life" behind. We both would have bet our lives and everything we cared about that we would be together forever. Then, the second I received word I was going halfway around the world for a long time, I knew it was over between us. The military tore our relationship apart and **** all over the pieces. Afterwards, my lifelong "best friend in the world" picked up those pieces and put em' back together with gorilla glue. Now he won't return my calls. Two birds with one stone. Two of the most important birds in my life. Man, life has a funny way of getting back at you. But that's another story. One that I don't think I can handle getting into.

The military didn't alter my relationship with bodybuilding though. Hell, it actually made it stronger. I took five solid months off of weight training when I went through boot camp and technical training. After technical training, just as eagerly as my family welcomed me at the airport, the weight room took me back. They always say if you love something, let it go and see if it comes back, right? If that's true, then I guess the only two things that I truly love in life are my family and bodybuilding.

Why, you may ask, is bodybuilding so everlasting? Why is it so soothing and addictive; so satisfying and comforting? The answer is really quite simple: because it's so difficult. The truth is, there is nothing "fun" about bodybuilding. NOTHING. At no time during the process of destroying every last operating muscle fiber in your body and building it back bigger and stronger just to do it again even worse the next time does the concept of "fun" ever come into play. Other hobbies and sports are fun. Basketball is fun. So is football, bowling, and drawing; ****, even boxing is fun (if you win). Fun is easy. But bodybuilding is neither fun, nor easy; and you never win. If you do win, then you didn't lift heavy enough; in which case you didn't win. The only way to win is to fail. Every muscle fiber has to fail; then you win. But you still failed; so I guess you really didn't win, did you? Just like farting in public, you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. I'd personally rather suffer the ridicule than the gastrointestinal discomfort (**** everyone else).

Amateur lifters may indirectly have "fun" while lifting by showing off in one way or another. They wait until people are watching before they ensue their half-assed reps with too much weight and terrible form. You can smell their narcissism every time they look in the mirror to compliment their physique; a serious bodybuilder is different from this. A serious bodybuilder doesn't see the other people in the gym around them. They could care less. All they see is the insane amount of iron that is about to make tears fill their eyes and vomit fill their throats. When a serious bodybuilder looks in the mirror, they don't smile upon how much muscle they've packed on. They frown upon whatever weaknesses they imagine they have. A serious bodybuilder may act calm on the outside; but inside is a different story. Every rep is judgment day. Every set is scary; daunting; another few seconds in hell. When a serious bodybuilder finishes their set, they don't wonder how they became three times stronger than the next guy over. They wonder why the **** they're still conscious, and contemplate what the next set should be to cure them of this ailment.

Ok, so where does the satisfaction come from? Looking good onstage and standing out as the "big" guy are what the public generally consider the main reasons that bodybuilders suffer the underrated torture that they put themselves through. Indeed, these are the sole reasons for some bodybuilders. They actually were my main reasons for lifting for the first several years. However, other bodybuilders, like myself today, have a more meaningful agenda. Reasons that are not easily explained, but somehow mutually understood by the few who claim them. It isn't discussed much in the gym, but those who understand it can see it in each other's eyes.

The bodybuilder embraces the concept of harnessing every last ounce of effort, both physically and mentally. Every piece of their being that they have any control over must be recruited. It is then metaphorically transformed from something as superficial as building the body, to something as infinite as digging for the meaning of life. They don't lift with determination; they lift with desperation. Every rep is a desperate cry to God, or a higher power; anything that will listen. A desperate search for the truth. A search for any piece of understanding that they can hold onto. Years of searching, and all they have to show for it is the superficial version of themselves that the crowd cheers upon. Nope. The crowd doesn't understand. The muscle is simply a byproduct of this search. Not the main goal.

Perhaps some of the people in the crowd, or in the world, have their own ways of searching. I can't be the only person who feels this way. Maybe they write music. Maybe they run. Maybe they pray. Maybe they cry. Not me; I beg with weights. You can tell which bodybuilders lift for muscle, and which ones lift for something else. You can tell by the look in their eyes while they lift. Do they look like they're imagining huge biceps, or do they look like they're pleading for an answer? Generally, the ones who lift for muscle are the ones who lose the competition.



The day after I wrote this, I trained my back. About an hour into our intense training, my training partner and I moved on to single-armed machine rows. I was three weeks out from a contest, and the extreme dieting was taking a toll on my body. Fatigue was already beginning to set in. After several sets, we had finally worked up to the whole stack; 150lbs per arm. I did a set with each arm, and both felt awesome. During most of the reps, the weight slammed at the top, which meant that I had a full range of motion. After I finished, my back was annihilated. This was supposed to be our last set of machine rows, and I was satisfied with my work. Then when my partner did his set, I noticed he didn't do it quite as intensely as I had; especially toward the end. Being the good training partner that I was, I knew it was my responsibility to bust his balls; and I knew just what the problem was.

"Did you count your reps?" I asked with a concerned expression. He hesitated for a moment.

"Yea...I did six reps each...do you think I shouldn't count them?". He already knew my answer. I had already told him my stance on the matter.

"Of course not. Then you end up limiting yourself-"

He cut me off, "yea you're right, I probably could have done more. I know what you mean"

"Did you happen to count my reps as well?" I was hoping he would say "no", but betting the opposite.

"You did eight reps for both of your sets," he spurted like a brainiac on Jeopardy.

"Well, mister 'I like to count reps'" I said sarcastically while shaking my head left and right to emphasize each word. "I know what we're doing for our next set." He could sense the sadistic plans that were about to unravel. "We're going to do the whole stack again, but we're both going to count our reps." He was listening. "And we're going to get twelve." He looked a little taken back, but I could tell he was up for it. "Not only that, but every rep has to go all the way back and slam against the machine. If it doesn't slam, it doesn't count." At this point, I wasn't sure what was going through his head. He probably thought the same about me. He knew I had pushed myself to get eight, and I knew his six were no walk in the park either. I wasn't too sure that either of us could twelve; let alone slam every one of them. Shoot for the stars and hit the moon, right?

I sat down on the hard, red seat cushion; still sweaty from my partner's last sets. "I'm an animal," I thought silently to myself. "Just do this ****." The first several reps weren't too bad. The machine was slamming so hard that I knew the pussy Air Force beach bodies around us were probably scrunching their noses in our direction; **** em'. After about five reps, each succeeding rep was a question on whether I would be able to complete the next one. I needed motivation, so I began thinking about my upcoming show.

I imagined I was onstage. Thousands of people cheering in the audience; the nearly blinding lights in my eyes; the scent of posing oil in the air; and the guy next to me with the wider lat spread. We were in the final pose down now; this was it. Whoever out posed the other would win. Every rep that I did threw another inch on my back. Rep after rep, inch after inch. Another few reps and my back would be the biggest. I had a chance to win the show. I knew it was mine; until I got to the twelfth rep. I noticed something was different. There was no "slam". I hadn't pulled it all the way back, and my grip was about to slip! I thought to myself, "there's no way I'm letting this go. I have to win the show." I had to. With the last few grams of glycogen in my body, the three fingers that I still had on the handle somehow managed to pull the lever all the way back with a nice "slam" at the end. I had done my twelve full reps.


CONTINUE READING BELOW

[lordsess24]

i sea what u did there

[richie191]

When I looked up at my training partner, he was wearing a smile of commendation. I think I was too. I decided to rest and let him do his right arm before I continued with my left. We switched positions, and he proceeded to do the same with his right arm. He somehow managed to get his full twelve reps in as well. But the party wasn't over. We still had to do our left arms. I returned back to the sweaty throne of pain and prepared for my set. "All I have to do is think about what I thought about before. Gotta win my show. Gotta win my show." Just as I was about to reach my hand up and grab the handle, I turned into Mr. Hyde. "What the **** am I doing?" I thought shamefully to myself. The words that I had written the night before slowly began to sink into my head. I was doing the very thing that I had just ridiculed hours early. I was lifting for muscle. That was it. Just muscle.

I dropped my head and rested my face on the cold, dirty, metal cross bar. I suddenly felt pathetic; dirtier than the sweaty, bacteria-infested support that my nose and lips were carelessly smashed against. I knew what I had to do. I had to beg for an answer. Suddenly, my left arm shot up with a purpose; as if God himself had commanded it to. I needed to temporarily escape from the gym. I needed to escape from my body; from the universe. I had to think about the concept of life and how the fact that "the only thing we know is that we know nothing" is just too damn much for a human to take. Every part of my being, every atom associated with my physical and mental self, had to be grasped in my hand. The power of the universe in my hand, that I had to convert into a scream. A loud scream. A scream louder than any other human before me had screamed. A scream so loud that it could be heard by God himself, so that he might whisper back, and I might get my answer. "I need to know!" The rhythmic slam of the weight stack was somehow comforting. "I need an answer!" A tingly force was shooting through my body. I suppose maybe adrenaline. The crash of the weights became like the background noise in a room with a loud A/C that you had forgotten about . "Why am I here?! Why are any of us here?!" A tear was forming in the corner of my eye, but that didn't matter. "What are we?! What is everything?! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"

A loud crash awoke me from my trance. It was the weight stack. I was back in this universe; back in my body; back at the gym. My body felt paralyzed. I slowly stood without looking up or saying a word and hobbled over to a bench to recover. After a moment, I could feel the burn on the top of my head of my training partner staring at me. Looking up confirmed my assumption. He looked as if he had seen the hottest chick on the planet; or the fattest chick on the planet (they're both the same look). He kept staring for a few seconds before stating the obvious.

"Well...that was a good set." He said with surprised sarcasm.

"How many did I get?" I wasn't completely sure since I hadn't really been paying attention, but I was pretty sure it was at least twelve.

"You mean you weren't counting?!" He inquired in a slightly raised voice accompanied with a chuckle. "You got sixteen," he continued at a normal volume. I suddenly must have looked as if I had seen the hottest, or fattest, chick on the planet. "You're left arm must be stronger," he stated matter-of-factly. But I knew better than that. My left arm was actually my weaker arm.

"Naw...it's not stronger...I was just thinking differently during that set. I was thinking about something I wrote in my book last night."

He eagerly responded, "well you better show me whatever you wrote. Especially if it will make me lift like that."

"Yea, I'll show you," I smiled back. I was beginning to get to know this guy pretty well. I knew if I showed him what I had written, he would probably take it to heart. Then I pondered, "do I really want him to potentially surpass me?". On his next set, he got twelve again. Just twelve. "Yea, I suppose I'll show him; someday."

[Impression]

[yaman]

Originally Posted by Impression

LOL.

[BulkingBrit]

Originally Posted by Impression

lmfao.

ORIGINAL!

reps

[-->aDAM*<--]

[Phal4nx]

I think this deserves an 'Are you aware'

[Quentinx]

Are you aware Bodybuilding is the one thing in my life that I've stuck to the most. Other passions have come and gone, but bodybuilding has always been there for me. Unlike being shipped off to the tiny island of Guam and leaving the "love of my life" behind. We both would have bet our lives and everything we cared about that we would be together forever. Then, the second I received word I was going halfway around the world for a long time, I knew it was over between us. The military tore our relationship apart and **** all over the pieces. Afterwards, my lifelong "best friend in the world" picked up those pieces and put em' back together with gorilla glue. Now he won't return my calls. Two birds with one stone. Two of the most important birds in my life. Man, life has a funny way of getting back at you. But that's another story. One that I don't think I can handle getting into.

The military didn't alter my relationship with bodybuilding though. Hell, it actually made it stronger. I took five solid months off of weight training when I went through boot camp and technical training. After technical training, just as eagerly as my family welcomed me at the airport, the weight room took me back. They always say if you love something, let it go and see if it comes back, right? If that's true, then I guess the only two things that I truly love in life are my family and bodybuilding.

Why, you may ask, is bodybuilding so everlasting? Why is it so soothing and addictive; so satisfying and comforting? The answer is really quite simple: because it's so difficult. The truth is, there is nothing "fun" about bodybuilding. NOTHING. At no time during the process of destroying every last operating muscle fiber in your body and building it back bigger and stronger just to do it again even worse the next time does the concept of "fun" ever come into play. Other hobbies and sports are fun. Basketball is fun. So is football, bowling, and drawing; ****, even boxing is fun (if you win). Fun is easy. But bodybuilding is neither fun, nor easy; and you never win. If you do win, then you didn't lift heavy enough; in which case you didn't win. The only way to win is to fail. Every muscle fiber has to fail; then you win. But you still failed; so I guess you really didn't win, did you? Just like farting in public, you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. I'd personally rather suffer the ridicule than the gastrointestinal discomfort (**** everyone else).

Amateur lifters may indirectly have "fun" while lifting by showing off in one way or another. They wait until people are watching before they ensue their half-assed reps with too much weight and terrible form. You can smell their narcissism every time they look in the mirror to compliment their physique; a serious bodybuilder is different from this. A serious bodybuilder doesn't see the other people in the gym around them. They could care less. All they see is the insane amount of iron that is about to make tears fill their eyes and vomit fill their throats. When a serious bodybuilder looks in the mirror, they don't smile upon how much muscle they've packed on. They frown upon whatever weaknesses they imagine they have. A serious bodybuilder may act calm on the outside; but inside is a different story. Every rep is judgment day. Every set is scary; daunting; another few seconds in hell. When a serious bodybuilder finishes their set, they don't wonder how they became three times stronger than the next guy over. They wonder why the **** they're still conscious, and contemplate what the next set should be to cure them of this ailment.

Ok, so where does the satisfaction come from? Looking good onstage and standing out as the "big" guy are what the public generally consider the main reasons that bodybuilders suffer the underrated torture that they put themselves through. Indeed, these are the sole reasons for some bodybuilders. They actually were my main reasons for lifting for the first several years. However, other bodybuilders, like myself today, have a more meaningful agenda. Reasons that are not easily explained, but somehow mutually understood by the few who claim them. It isn't discussed much in the gym, but those who understand it can see it in each other's eyes.

The bodybuilder embraces the concept of harnessing every last ounce of effort, both physically and mentally. Every piece of their being that they have any control over must be recruited. It is then metaphorically transformed from something as superficial as building the body, to something as infinite as digging for the meaning of life. They don't lift with determination; they lift with desperation. Every rep is a desperate cry to God, or a higher power; anything that will listen. A desperate search for the truth. A search for any piece of understanding that they can hold onto. Years of searching, and all they have to show for it is the superficial version of themselves that the crowd cheers upon. Nope. The crowd doesn't understand. The muscle is simply a byproduct of this search. Not the main goal.

Perhaps some of the people in the crowd, or in the world, have their own ways of searching. I can't be the only person who feels this way. Maybe they write music. Maybe they run. Maybe they pray. Maybe they cry. Not me; I beg with weights. You can tell which bodybuilders lift for muscle, and which ones lift for something else. You can tell by the look in their eyes while they lift. Do they look like they're imagining huge biceps, or do they look like they're pleading for an answer? Generally, the ones who lift for muscle are the ones who lose the competition.



The day after I wrote this, I trained my back. About an hour into our intense training, my training partner and I moved on to single-armed machine rows. I was three weeks out from a contest, and the extreme dieting was taking a toll on my body. Fatigue was already beginning to set in. After several sets, we had finally worked up to the whole stack; 150lbs per arm. I did a set with each arm, and both felt awesome. During most of the reps, the weight slammed at the top, which meant that I had a full range of motion. After I finished, my back was annihilated. This was supposed to be our last set of machine rows, and I was satisfied with my work. Then when my partner did his set, I noticed he didn't do it quite as intensely as I had; especially toward the end. Being the good training partner that I was, I knew it was my responsibility to bust his balls; and I knew just what the problem was.

"Did you count your reps?" I asked with a concerned expression. He hesitated for a moment.

"Yea...I did six reps each...do you think I shouldn't count them?". He already knew my answer. I had already told him my stance on the matter.

"Of course not. Then you end up limiting yourself-"

He cut me off, "yea you're right, I probably could have done more. I know what you mean"

"Did you happen to count my reps as well?" I was hoping he would say "no", but betting the opposite.

"You did eight reps for both of your sets," he spurted like a brainiac on Jeopardy.

"Well, mister 'I like to count reps'" I said sarcastically while shaking my head left and right to emphasize each word. "I know what we're doing for our next set." He could sense the sadistic plans that were about to unravel. "We're going to do the whole stack again, but we're both going to count our reps." He was listening. "And we're going to get twelve." He looked a little taken back, but I could tell he was up for it. "Not only that, but every rep has to go all the way back and slam against the machine. If it doesn't slam, it doesn't count." At this point, I wasn't sure what was going through his head. He probably thought the same about me. He knew I had pushed myself to get eight, and I knew his six were no walk in the park either. I wasn't too sure that either of us could twelve; let alone slam every one of them. Shoot for the stars and hit the moon, right?

I sat down on the hard, red seat cushion; still sweaty from my partner's last sets. "I'm an animal," I thought silently to myself. "Just do this ****." The first several reps weren't too bad. The machine was slamming so hard that I knew the pussy Air Force beach bodies around us were probably scrunching their noses in our direction; **** em'. After about five reps, each succeeding rep was a question on whether I would be able to complete the next one. I needed motivation, so I began thinking about my upcoming show.

I imagined I was onstage. Thousands of people cheering in the audience; the nearly blinding lights in my eyes; the scent of posing oil in the air; and the guy next to me with the wider lat spread. We were in the final pose down now; this was it. Whoever out posed the other would win. Every rep that I did threw another inch on my back. Rep after rep, inch after inch. Another few reps and my back would be the biggest. I had a chance to win the show. I knew it was mine; until I got to the twelfth rep. I noticed something was different. There was no "slam". I hadn't pulled it all the way back, and my grip was about to slip! I thought to myself, "there's no way I'm letting this go. I have to win the show." I had to. With the last few grams of glycogen in my body, the three fingers that I still had on the handle somehow managed to pull the lever all the way back with a nice "slam" at the end. I had done my twelve full reps.

[yaman]

Originally Posted by -->aDAM*<--

LOL again.

[FatScottishGuy]

ooookay, I'm off back to the dillbag shaving thread...seeya

[richie191]

I suppose I forgot that anyone on here at this time on a Sunday is probably an immature teenager that stayed up too late. My apologies. I'll be sure to bump this later when actual bodybuilders and mature adults are on here.

V/r,
Richard

[FatScottishGuy]

Originally Posted by richie191

I suppose I forgot that anyone on here at this time on a Sunday is probably an immature teenager that stayed up too late. My apologies. I'll be sure to bump this later when actual bodybuilders and mature adults are on here.

V/r,
Richard

Maturity is overrated, If being 'mature' means writing 2 pages of bloat to say something you can say in 1 paragraph...then i'll stick with being immature kthanksbye

[richie191]

Originally Posted by FatScottishGuy

Maturity is overrated, If being 'mature' means writing 2 pages of bloat to say something you can say in 1 paragraph...then i'll stick with being immature kthanksbye

You obviously have no literary sense if you believe that can be written in one paragraph. Maybe you would better understand if you were actually a bodybuilder of some sort. I hate to break it to you, but fat Scottish people don't belong on a bodybuilding forum.

V/r,
Richard