Skip to main content

My Workout and "Diet"

I always laugh when Im bombarded with questions about training and diet from my peers. The inevitable examples always turn up: What supplements do you take? How many meals do you eat a day? How long are your workouts? And of course, the iconic "How much can you bench?". The hilarity ensues when their faces invariably contort after hearing my answers. While I will forever gain amusement from their confusion, Im enormously tired of the tedium of fielding the same questions, which is why this post was written. Ill address my training, my lifestyle, nutrition, and general outlook on fitness.

The largest misconception that modern workout acolytes strain under laboriously is the need for 6 meals a day. The science of "stoking the metabolism" has been largely disproven, then justified again, only to be tackled once more, before rising from the ashes of defeat like the stubborn, misinformed phoenix it is. The confusion is maddening. When others see my physique, they automatically assume that Im eating 6-8 miniature meals a day, weighing every gram of sustenance precisely for exact macronutrient ratios, and timing my food intake down to the second with the preternatural accuracy of Chris Kyle. The befuddlement and, in some cases, incredulousness, at my answer is always entertaining. I practise Intermittent Fasting, which I will refer to as IF from this point on for brevity and ease of discussion. I typically eat 1 or 2 big meals a day, with a feeding window of about 4-8 hours. To be honest, the window doesnt matter as much as the fasting period does. I will never fast for less than 16 hours, as HGH is naturally released in surplus after 18 hours. My family is riddled with health issues on both sides, especially pertaining to the heart, so, in my mid-twenties, Ive taken an intense interest in maintaining and increasing both quality of life and longevity, and IF accomplishes my goals admirably. My preferred method is The Warrior Diet, coined and created by Ori Hoffmenkler. To paraphrase and summarize the wealth of information available in this treasured tome would not only be unforgivable to its esteemed author, but would be an egregious disservice to my fellow fitness-oriented brothers and sisters. Buy it, absorb it, live it. As for the content of my diet, it definitely varies, but I can assure you that its never what many would consider "healthy". Bluntly stated, I survive on hamburgers, steak, bacon, pasta, beer, wheat bread and sweet tea. Raviolis are a staple, 80 cents a can and eaten on the side of the road. Hey, Im not rich. Yet.

My workout regimen is far from a secret, although many of my friends have speculated as to its contents. Well, here it is, laid out bare, ready and waiting for you, my readers. All 7 of you.

Monday-Saturday: A.M.

5 sets HSPU, 1st max effort, 2nd-5th 10 reps
             3 minutes rest between each set
Fingertip Tuck Planche work

                 P.M.

5 sets HSPU, 5X10
Fingertip Tuck Planche work

Sunday
Active Rest, usually legs and a light run

There, my earth-shattering, universe-splitting routine, in all of its resplendent glory. Intimidating right? Like a pomeranian annoyingly berating you into suicide with its constant yipping. Im a firm believer in the idea that the program is largely ineffectual, and that the effort applied to one's training, regardless of set, rep and rest scheme, is what ultimately matters. It's the reason Instagram "personal trainers", i.e. steroid saturated frauds hiding the punctures in both their consciences and asscheeks, make a fortune duping naive young men and women into purchasing their redundant programs. My contentions are not original, but none of them are ignorant, arrogant posturing, and they sure as hell arent baseless, nebulous opinion. Im merely channeling the writing of superb athletes reaching as far back as the 1800's. The strongest men and women in the world, borne of molten ore and fashioned into plate steel by the ferocious adversities of their very lives, cared little for "scientific breakthroughs" and "advanced developments" in their training. They picked up heavy shit in a bevy of ways, developed sufficient technique along the way, and did it daily, ensuring they stayed fresh. Their training wisdom was earned with painful repitition and strenuous perspiration, won in the trenches, not granted by a congress of pencilnecks in the confines of a sterile lab. I recognize that Ive veered off topic by a few hundred miles, but the number of requests I recieve to know my routine are gratingly nauseating. My plan evolved from study, analysis, experience and, most importantly, knowing my body intuitively. The effort is what matters. There's a reason why prison inmates living in barbaric, dehumanizing squalor and sleep deprived, undernourished, combat fatigued military personnel are stronger, leaner and better conditioned than civilians with a sickening surplus of time and healthy food and a relative lack of burdening stress, not to mention comparatively easy, if somewhat criminal, access to anabolic steroids. Get a decent, empirically tested and proven program, begin, and invest heavily into it with all of your desire and drive. Rest, grow, and reap the rewards.

With this short essay, the veil on my mysterious, enigmatic workout has been lifted. As even the less astute, myopic reader can note, there is a hell of an emphasis on shoulders and arms. This is simply because I know my goals. Simply put, I love doing not just handstand pushups, but performing hand balancing in general. To me, the ability to gain over 40 pounds of muscle with solely your body and sense of proprioception is remarkable, the meaning of true strength. And how strong am I? At a bodyweight that fluctuates between 167 and 175 pounds at my heaviest, I can clean and press 175 and bench 235. Hardly colossal, but far stronger than the average gym rat, and this is without touching a weight. Before you clamor and bitch to Brodin regarding my lack of legs, Ill reference two of my idols, Vass the Supersaiyan and Rich Piana. Vass is who I model my training after, and, he, like me, already has well developed legs, not in the cartoonishly intense way, but sleek and athletic, and cut back on them to focus on bodyweight progressions. Im in the same boat, preferring to work certain gymnastic skills rather than squat. Last I checked, I can still hit 285 for 3. Im no powerlifter, but compared to the general populace Im very well off. To quote Rich Piana, "Train for your fucking goals.". A one time Mr. California, he ceased to compete after growing disillusioned with the shallow subjectivism and questionable consistency and objectivity of the judges. He recognized the uselessness of building your body according to the whims of other men, and through his message I reached the same epiphany. So what if somebody says my program is unbalanced or places too much emphasis on certain areas of my physique? I dont care, Im training for a world record, and I know what I desire from my performance. In the past Ive been especially guilty of being a douchebag, unfairly and unjustly criticizing those who train differently from me. One of my friends
exists solely for running long distances, and while I would never want to emulate his waifish physique, I cant help but admire his tenacity and remarkable endurance. On the other extreme, one of my friends competes in powerlifting. At 5'10", 235 pounds, he possesses the kind of size every red-blooded male aspires to. However, in spite of benching well over 500 pounds, he can't perform 3 pullups or run a mile without being rendered incapacitated. He also has a ponderous gut, hindering his range of motion and practical functionality. While I prize strength above all, it comes in many forms, and I would never venture to gain it at the expense of cardiovascular endurance, aesthetically pleasing muscles, and simple health. Im short, stocky and broad. I like having cannonball capped deltoids, thick, shapely arms and striated, massive forearms. My upper back and traps are wide and full, and my lat spread grants me immediate residence and respect in an aviary. It all tapers down to a narrow, tight waist, defined abs, and sculpted, defined legs. Im built like a gymnast, and this is the look I prefer, what I train for daily. Chase the ideal you desire until you embody it completely, and practice your skills and exercises until they are as deeply embedded in your muscle memory as the muscle fibers themselves. Just dont curl in the squat rack. Ever. Unless youre Lee Priest.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

As my parole date looms and I prepare to muster out of the service that's cradled me the entirety of my adult life, I face the future with an uneasy trepidation coupled with my characteristic combative nature.
I've heard every excuse, tempting me with bonuses and transparent promises regarding where I could live next, to tales of woe and agonizing regret, detailing the life of a miscreant that fleed from the Navy, expecting to flourish in the free world, no longer bound by the constraints of military life.
Eager and cherry, they're invariably met with a crippling reality, sprinting head first into a shallow pool of filthy water barely concealing jagged, dangerous rocks and craters.
I'll take my chances as I retake the reins of my life, though, even this far out, I know that my path will hardly be traditional, and will probably offend some traditionally and civically minded elders.
I plan to drift, languid but controlle…

The Desert

The Desert



Dry air in a normally humid climate is not conducive to a strong immune system. The shock is sudden and violent on an unseen level, I'm sure.

I never thought I'd suffer from stifling congestion and repetitious fits of coughing while stationed in Hawaii, but I was proven wrong recently.

As I pen this, my throat, though healed and no longer reacting in an incendiary manner when forced to swallow, is as arid and barren as the Mojave.

My chest is harboring a veritable barricade of mucus, and each pill I pop, in hues of rose red, ocean blue and grass green, chip away at bricks of the stubborn, phlegmatic stowaways.

My nose is on the brink of suicide, and breathing in coats each gust of air with a Welcome Aboard package of sandpaper and gravel.

In short, I'm fucked.

Yesterday I spent half the evening limping around wincing, my side cramped by an invisible knife, present and piercing, jostling with each aching step.

Save for a few meandering sets and reps performed to…

Nights At The Apollo

Nights At The Apollo




"Sit down, my boy.", he'd say relaxed, contentment and happiness spilling over in his tone like rain from a windowsill.

I'd settle in to a leather chair and watch as the sun disappeared behind a lavender horizon, winking at me brightly in various lively hues before absconding for the evening.

I'd observe him like a student before his master as he'd carefully select a CD from his well worn plastic attache case. It was a veritable armory of ageless music; Swing, Blues, both American Southern and Chicano, Jazz and Big Band.

My Grandfather played rhythm guitar in a band during his youth, wielding a Gibson ES335, its body ponderous and cherry red as a pin-up girl's lipstick.

He'd perform deftly, his fingers moving with the smooth choreography of a true professional. Eventually, the twin realities of career necessity and a burgeoning family brought an end to his strutting onstage, but he never relinquished his musicality.

That night, n…