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Mr. Exercise Stallion
By Bill Zahren
(Posted 10/05/00)
I go to the YMCA at 5:15 a.m. (most) every
weekday. Why? In part so I can tell you about it and feel
like a clean-living stallion while you feel guilty. (Is it
working?) In part to keep my weight somewhere below 420 pounds.
In part to build massive pecs, lats, quads and hammys just
in case my daily life requires me to bench press 250 pounds
(which I can, not that I'd bring it up).
I was looking through my Muscle & Fitness
magazine at the park the other day, and my 9-year-old daughter,
Haley, looked over my growing shoulders at a photo of a massive,
over-tanned bodybuilder. "You want to be that big?" she said,
eyes rolling. My brain snapped back "Oh yeah! Chicks would
be on me!" but I told her, "well, maybe not that big."
Note to my wife: I don't REALLY want chicks
to be on me. But most guys, even the most happily married
(that would be me, hon!) way deep down (if you get my anatomical
drift) wants a bod that makes random females pant. Maybe it's
the male equivalent of the female urge to have body fat levels
low enough for them to wear tiny Lycra spandex garments in
public. This female urge has my total support, except when
it comes to the females known collectively as "my wife and
daughters."
So I'll admit to a little bit of vanity
involved in my iron hefting. But, fundamentally, the main
issue is weight control and weightlifting's documented positive
effects on health like slowing aging, strengthening bones,
increasing energy, raising metabolism and more. One 30-minute
weightlifting session gets me ready to handle work and kids
(literally!). It's 30 minutes of straining muscles and wandering
mind.
Today, for example, I mused over the presidential
debates Tuesday night, specifically, how people spin them
and see what they want to see. I've also gotten some killer
creative ideas while working the iron. On top of all that,
it's cool to be part of the crew that exercises at 5:30. There's
no chit-chatting in the weight room as a rule, but you see
the same people there every day and kind of form a silent
bond.
Of course it's not upsetting to have the
opposite sex notice you. Take the one time this babe was checking
me out from the treadmill. I was doing arm curls on a machine
when I noticed her looking right at me. My testosterone-affected
mind jumped into gear: Oh yeah, she wants me. She's hot for
the pythons. We'll I can't blame her. I've been firming up.
I've been hitting the iron with varying degrees of intensity
since Jan. 2, 1999 when my resolution kicked in. The rest
of these women have been playing it cool, pretending not to
look for all these months, but finally this one was overcome
with lust.
So I did what all guys do in that situation,
I put more weight on the machine. Because I'm a bull! The
leading cause for torn muscles in a gym is guys thinking women
are watching. So I'm cranking out the reps, hiking up my short
sleeves so treadmill babe could get a better look at the flexing
steel. See that? That's a 90-pound curl there! I'm a stallion!
Better go easy, though, don't want to create a stalker. I'm
married, after all, so we wouldn't want her to be wildly disappointed
to realize I'm not on the market. (Note to my wife: I made
sure my wedding ring was visible at all times.)
With my biceps blood engorged and tingly,
I decided I better get a drink, give the woman the side shot,
flash a little triceps for her. Shot her a look and she was
STILL staring at me. Maybe I better take it easy here. She's
likely to come right off the treadmill and tackle me. So I
pulled down my sleeves and got a drink.
I came back and was standing around behind
the curl machine when it hit me like a 45-pound plate bouncing
off my skull. The curl machine was right under a TV suspended
from the ceiling. The woman was staring intently at the KCCI
morning report, not me. She probably had no idea I was even
there. Oh, I'm a bull all right. A 215-pound ball of female
stimulus! A lusty babe arouser - unless the Super Doppler
weather report is on.
I'll see you at the gym at 5:30 a.m. tomorrow.
I'll be the one with hiked up short sleeves, under the TV.
© 2000 Bill Zahren
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