Adieu

this blog is over (for a while) checkout what I'm upto at slimodsoc or Kolob Express. Toodles.

spoils of a great depression

I am neither Japanese nor a woman. Seen as I'm in a pinch though, I thought I might start eating like one. Guess what? The economy is bad. Who knew. Thank goodness I start a new job on Monday (I've been out of work for a while). While I hang on for dear life i.e. wait for my first paycheck, I'll eat rice. And nothing else. For two weeks. During that time I fully expect the aging process to slow down and my waistline to shrink as the blurb on the book promises. Sure I'll be missing 6 pillars of the diet. But hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

the arrival

Loren wandered off the plane lead by as-attractive-as-could-be-expected hostesses who sung siren songs along the way. He reached quickly for his iPod drowning out their vocal lures with background noise far more powerful or at least more voluminous, if less lovely than their bewitchery. There would be plenty of time for sirens later. Having successfully negotiated his first test he strolled leisurely through recently laid puddles and trudged damp foot prints all the way up to the line that divided officially welcomed guests from illegal aliens. 

"Anything, to declare sir."

"Yes." he paused for emphasis: "I have arrived." This statement was met with less awe than he felt was warranted. Be that as it may, Australia fair was unprepared for what would come next.

when in Mexico

I watch this and my nausea explodes in a bright spectrum of colours like light passing through a prism. 

Here's a meme that's probably run its course, but you can never be too sure, lets perpetuate its ubiquity just a little more. Yes, lets... During the 1968 Olympics in Mexico a series of rigorous tests were carried out on a sample of athletes from different sports. Vertical jump, horizontal leap(?), and a 10 meter sprint were all tested (and probably others), all the key athletic indicators. The weightlifters won everything, beating the sprinters at sprinting, the high jumpers at jumping etc. Therefore: I should be weightlifting! For the uninitiated this means: the Clean & Jerk and the Snatch, all other lifts (except the squat) are of secondary importance. Most personal trainers (in spite of the evidence) will disagree with this assessment.

I've just finished cleaning up my mess. For the last five years on and off I've been doing power versions of THE LIFTS. Then I see high school attendees doing full depth versions with incredible poundages (because you get so low to catch the weight on the real versions of THE LIFTS, theoretically you should be able to lift far more weight then the power versions, more weight is good). It's about time I started doing things properly:

Saturday 21/03/09

hang clean/front squat complex 40, 45, 50*5

clean 60,65,70,75,80,85,90,95,97.5,100 (so I can clean as much as I can power clean, what gives?)

Sunday 22/03/09

Played game, felt totally smashed, only broke a few tackles and even missed a few, don't lift the day before a game ever again. We won 60 something to 10ish, I lost count along the way.

sars scare at the old Hopkins place

The spirit of competition can compel you to do a lot of stupid things. Head on collisions with grown arse men who have 30kgs on you springs to mind. Last year my younger brothers and I thought it would be a good idea not to drink any soft drink (soda pop for people who can't speak English), ever again. Silly. Well, they thought it was a good idea, what got me on board was that the winner got $10 from each of the other participants, there were 3 of us. Yep, I'm that hard up for money, there's nothing like a crisp $20 bill to get me leaping out of bed in the morning. OK, I think the real motivator was the whole principle of the matter. We committed that we wouldn't do it and if we did we would have to bear the eternal shame of losing to one of our siblings forever. The possibilities for the potential torment of a dear loved one were to much to pass up. Dumb. I love soft drinks especially root beer and when I'm feeling cheap and nasty I can even go for a round sarsaparilla (a.k.a budget root beer). It really felt like cheating on a partner not drinking this whole time. Why did I sign up for this? Idiot. So, when I left the country I took the opportunity to sneak in a drink or two (or more) and I've been happy ever since. Sorry boys, I'll pay you your teners in a few years when inflationary pressures have whittled their value down to something that I can live with for the rest of my life. Brilliant. Unfortunately I somehow feel more sluggish, less prone to rock the world with unimaginable goodness. Could I have been wrong? What's happening to me? Maybe drinking 2 litres of water a day (then) was better then the 2 litres of coke I down on a regular basis (now). That's it for the sake of my health and my wallet (which hangs on the brink of its own mini-apocalypse) no more soft drinks period. So sayeth me, my word is my bond.

what's this a work out?

DL sumo 200kgs*3,180/2*4 (I can't really overstate how disappointing this was, struggling on 200, are you serious!?)

power snatch 60,62.5,65,67.5,70 (weak, this is my annoyance getting bigger)

front squat 80/2*5 (dull stabbing pain on my right side, not good)

embattled: the mental scars of war

I forced myself to workout today hoping that it would pay off this coming weekend. You never know with these things. I forgot how painful a first game back could be. 3 days gone, and I'm still reeling. I'll put the body dissaray down to that very reason (first-game-itis), and dispell from the get go any suggestions that my age might be affecting me. I repeat in my mind, I am young, but I don't believe it.

hang snatch 40*5,50/2*5
bp 80,82.5, 85,87.5*5
sit row (high pull t-bar) 30,35,40*10
ohp-db 2(20)/2*5
mac row 35/2*8

what time is it? game time hooo!

the man who almost wrecked my season

Have you ever tried to heavy squat the day after playing back to back league games? Not recommended. I packed it in after the second set. I suppose the important thing here is that I finally got cleared play. The last time I took a league field in any (semi) official capacity was for the Richmond Bulldogs and that was 5 seasons ago. Why after the extended lay off did I need a release from the NZRL, did playing one season (the extent of my on field experience) of club footy for a lets, be honest, an absolute shambles of a team from an organizational standpoint justify my being eternally contracted to New Zealand rugby league? Thanks to Karmichael Hunt, yes.



The offender in question after two years of playing in Australia decided he was Australian (he's a Kiwi), hey if he wants to change national allegiance more power to him, the option was there and that's his prerogative (to be fair I think he's played all his league in Australia). I for one would have done differently, but that's just me. He went on to play a part in many successful Queensland and Australian sides and also lost in the world cup with Australia last year. You can't win them all eh. Karmichael is a talented player and the Kiwi's fearing a loss of other potential greats have instituted a rule precluding any players who have ever played in NZ from playing for Australia ever again by requiring said players to sign a contract pledging their loyalty to the NZRL the alternative being non-eligibility to play in Australia.



The details of the process of being cleared are complex beyond comprehensibility my current club manager for the Runaway Bay Seagulls showed me a schematic detailing each step of which there were about a million. All I could think of is: haven't these people heard of the internet? The bulk of the communications relied on faxing. Faxing? Did technology somehow freeze in the late 1980's for these people? Well through much pleading and excess expenditure of my mobile telephone credit I managed to circumvent the Karmichael Hunt rule. Finally I played yesterday. All is forgiven NZRL.



Played one game for the reserve team. We tied 16-16 with the Ormeau someone-or-rathers. Our team suffered from poor completion rates. Is it really that hard to catch a ball that's lollipopped into your lap? Come on boys! Played another with the Seniors after (I think my entire game time for the day must have been around 80 minutes). This one we lost by a converted try and an inability to retain the football once again. If you want to win you've got to respect the ball. Balls are quite dignified so I pay them their due reverence. Ahem. On a personal note my offence was almost up to its usual standards with my "the hardest man to tackle on the planet" moniker being justified once again. Damn I'm good. Then there was my D. The less said the better huh. Needs improvement.



Stats that matter:

No turn overs.

1 try. Only one? I'm just getting warmed up (coverage on the way soon).



Disclaimer: I bear no ill will to Karmichael, he's an awesome player. He'd be even better if he played for the Kiwis.

I'm in!

Just in time for the last preseason game the NZRL has responded to my incessant calling by faxing the form for my release to the Queensland Board of Rugby League. Game on!

AN IMPORTANT PART OF ANY CONTACT SPORT IS LIFTING HEAVY OBJECTS, this being a post wherein I do so with little fanfare and large dollops of generosity

The gym, my home away from home, which fortunately is just a stones throw away from my actual home, which is just across the way from centrelink (the place where you sign up for the dole), which somehow attracts the pick of the litter of this generation. I sympathise with their plight, empathise even, I really do. I need a job just as much as the next guy, or I could just morph into a sales champion over night (it's a commission only deal) get good at my present one and all would be right with the world again. With my new found riches from my new found sales savvy I'd do my best Mother Teresa impression showering down free candy, boomerangs, and other assorted goodies on the endless throng of nev'r do wells who pass, like sands through the hour glass so are the Days of Our Lives, through this here region. Yes, my promises of future philanthropy, with cash that in all probability has an extremely strong unlikelihood of materializing, knows no bounds. Yep, I'm feeling pretty good about myself right about now. But enough with the idle chatter, down to brass tacks, and iron knuckles, and other euphemisms for strictly business. Oh yes it's business, it's business time. As I was saying, the gym has carved out a special place in my heart at least the size of one of its four chambers and I couldn't be happier. Here's the workout from today (and another from some other day when I forgot to post), because I know how much you guys love reading about me training sessions mate. I just keep on giving and giving and I don't stop, I don't stop indeed...


lost workout
power C&J 60kgs,70,80,90, 100 (stapled on last)
OHP 60*3,40/2*8

today's workout
DL 180kgs,185,190*5;195*3
Power C&J 100/1*8 (stapled on reps: 1,7,8. I remember when this weight used to be easy)
seated row, small v grip 55,60,65*10

Me and League

I was 10 years old when I was first exposed to rugby league. I was vaguely aware of organized sports as a concept from possibly the age of 5, there was something called soccer were you kicked a ball around, there was running, an activity for which I lacked any natural ability at that early stage, but the thrill of athletic competition wouldn't truly capture me until a few years later where opportunity skipped over preparation, but found luck anyway. My lunch times and play times in those budding years were occupied by wild feats of my own imagination, I'd pretend to be various things, none which included sports stars.

In 1990, my final year of primary (elementary) school, I shifted from the then backsliding, according to my parents, Grey Lynn school (20 years later my youngest sister would finish what I started by once again attending the school I'd been pulled from, proving that either (a) there's never any parenting mistake that you can't fix by having other children or (b) and slightly less believable, government funded institutions, like public schools, can actually improve over time) to Westmere Primary. While there I made friends, broke up with friends and re-befriended them again; I threw a tennis ball like a girl and have done so ever since; I went Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle crazy; I learned from a talking Giraffe about the wonders of puberty; Mike Tyson lost to "Buster" Douglas; New Kids on the Block were the hottest thing out and even then at that tender age I couldn't figure out why. However, the most seminal moment in that pivotal year came when I was invited by my sometimes friends to participate in a lunch time game of rugby league, I had no idea what they were talking about.

During the first few moments Lee received the ball, and perhaps keenly aware of my inexperience, ran directly towards me. Encouraged by the others to smash him, I responded by picking the poor boy up and power slamming him into the turf. The others were impressed informing me that I had "dumped" Lee. In later years "dumped" would take on other definitions with greater impact than this initial tackle, but for that small troop of prepubescent boys only one type of dumping mattered and somehow, inexplicably I was good at it.

heavy(ish) lifting

More transitioning over to 5*5, although from now on I'll probably just try to max out on the Olympic lifts at the beginning of a session and then do whatever else from there.

front squat 80,85,90,95,100*5 (why are these so much harder than back squats?)
hang snatch 50,52.5,55*5 (couldn't hit 5 sets)
n-grip chins me/5*5
inc press 60/2*10

pros and cons

During my legendary journey to the west island I've come across a few things that make me go hmmmm?!?

• Eftpos minimums: what century are we living in again? I feel like buying a chocolate bar and I need to spend ten dollars to do so. So much for the cashless society. Maybe this is one of the economic stimulus plans, I know these shopkeepers wont be going broke anytime soon.
• Internet Banks have weekends and holidays off: Are you kidding me. If you blow ten bucks on an eftpos minimum purchase on the weekend the transaction doesn't show up on your internet bank balance until Monday. I've got a budget to monitor here people, come on. I think someone actually enters all the transactions manually. And I thought we were backwards in New Zealand.
• Monster sized cockroaches: 'nuff said.

(if this is all I can complain about I suppose things aren't too bad) On the plus side...

• For the first time in my life I have a tan.
• There's no fee to put books on hold at the library
• League actually matters here. Wooo!

gymazing update

I tried out a shieko workout this week, big mistake. It looks as if my body isn't made to stand up to the rigours of 2 hour plus workouts, plus league training. I pulled way back on yesterday's installment, opting for a 5x5ish, Bill Starr, old-school, in-season workout. This went down much better. I'm concerned that my oly lifts seem to be super pathetic at the moment, they'll be receiving immediate attention in the coming week. Enjoy my unparalleled amazingness...

DL 120kgs*5,140*5,160*5,180*5 (drank some weak sauce on the 2 hundy, haven't looked in the mirror since)

Power Snatch 60kgs*5 (I convinced myself that the other 4 sets didn't matter)

Power C&J 80kgs*5 (ditto)

Bench 70kgs*5,75*5,80*5,85*5,90*5 (I even paused on the first 4 sets!)

bureaucracy strikes again

Due to a little piece of paper making it's way to NZ, my aspirations to play league have been put on hold temporarily. I can't play until it returns. No nines for me this weekend. I put pen to paper almost a month ago covenanting with the NZ Rugby League that if I make the NRL I will never ever play for the Kangaroos, I should be so lucky. I'm 29 years old I have a greater chance of winning the lottery than making the NRL, let alone being selected to play for the Australian national team. Given, the state of international rugby league where players cycle between teams on a whim I find it difficult to fathom that at the grass roots level the powers-that-be are more stringent in their management of players than the elite level of the game. NZRL and the Richmond Bulldogs, please release me, I've got some people to smash.

welcome to my new place

This is it for the next 6 months, I showed up on a dark and stormy night and surprised my unsuspecting flatmates, Hi I'm Loren and I'll be living here from now on, I said through sheets of water passing over me. This delightful little image fails to capture the gangsta tagging along the outer wall (if you look very closely you can see it), amateurs, probably the most average tagging I've ever seen. So here I am in the hood, living the thug life.

the truth about my condition

I am unashamedly deluded. No matter how many times it happens, I still think I'm untacklable, is this wrong? Every time I do get tackled, which never happens, I truly believe that it's an aberration and that next time I'll happily run over the top of my opponent and score a try. This is the only thing in my whole life where I have 100% unshaterable confidence and I don't know why and I could almost say I don't care, but wouldn't it be nice for this brash dogged egotism to branch out into other areas of my life? Well, come to think of it, if this were to happen, most people probably couldn't stand to be around me at all, this type of hubris isn't exactly endearing, I'll just have to settle for being able to run 'em over. Yehah! P.S. Got a nines tourney this weekend!

There is such a thing as Australian country music and I'm living it

A week in Tamworth is worth two in the bush or almost anywhere else. Famed world wide for it's giant golden guitar which allegedly gave birth to Elvis Presley himself, you'll find throngs of Memphis pilgrims trudging in their blue suedes here in the mighty New South, perhaps they're lost, they must be, since when was Elvis filed under Country Western (the only thing allowed to play on any radio here by law). Do enough line dancing and everything starts blending together, one great big blob of monotony. Then you meet the people, crazy, irrational, insane, people just like everyone else. Wow, people who listen to country music are people too. Some of them even buy Austar off you. I gave up one week of league training for this, so I'm happy I'll have some money to show for it. There's nothing else to do out here except heel and toe, one , two, three, (at a seedy bar) and/or look at that magical monument to Elvis greatness. We settled for the latter (Alt: I will insert the photo here when I track it down) and left our country friends with the unrivalled joys of satellite television. Rock on.

quench me please

Look at them aren't they beautiful. When you're body type profusely perspires at the slightest provocation and add to that a job where you walk around in temperatures similar to those found in the atmosphere of Venus, one thing you must always remember to bring is your water bottle. But not just any bottle will do, I've been through many during my time, sifting through all the pretenders, some too big, others too small, most ultimately unsatisfying. It's a question of taste, what I'm looking for is an elegance of design that most bottle producers just don't offer. Then I saw her for the first time, absolutely perfect: The sleek elongated body; the roundness of the measurement of her volume, 1 litre; the tasteless refreshing gulp of her flower extracts. She's a keeper all right.Oh yes, this is the water bottle for me. This endorsement of Balance's water bottles is in no way endorsed by Balance Water.

grasshopper you have much to learn

They're not asking much really: 5x100 meter sprints followed by 5x200 meter sprints, with 1 minute rest periods between each cycle. I get out of the blocks quickly on the first 4 runs or so. I wonder what my dust tastes like. Got Nathans running on either side of me. How's it going, I'm Loren, nice to meet you. Later boys. I'm good like that generally. Yep, I'm pretty much the life of the party when I get going, making connections, putting myself out there, don't let my Kiwi southern drawl fool you, I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security before I pounce. I don't want to get too self congratulatory, but I'm pretty much the man.

Ahem.

Cough.

OK.

As I was saying I was running and sometimes I find myself moving back to front here on the field, sometimes here I start fast and finish crap. I blitz the rest of the boys for the first few 100s and before I know it my body runs out of ATP stores and I go into coast mode for the rest of the evening. Gold coast mode, like she's right mate, no worries. I believe it was the honourable Vince Lombardi who said "Fatigue makes cowards out all of us." ATP can be replaced no matter how depleted, but bad habits aren't so easily reversed. Fatigue what have you done to me?!? As the "sprints" wore on I found myself inclined to decide before they even began, hey I'm gonna dog it on this one. Yet if I decided otherwise I could have gone a lot better. Friends, esteemed colleagues, children of the revolution this is no way to live life. "Save secondary efforts for secondary occasions." I came here to do one thing and that was to be the best. To be my best. Maybe I'm not quite the man I thought I was. Not yet, but it's coming, oh yeah baby it's coming. Next training's gonna be seick mate.

get rich or die trying

So this is what it feels like in the desert of the real. In a few short weeks I'll be completely broke. I'm walking a tight rope without a safety net. It feels awesome. If I fall along the way then my feelings may change on the matter.

Sometimes I feel like Theoden in the battle for Helm's Deep, "Is this it? Is this all you can conjure Sauruman?" and then there's a massive breach in the fortress wall. Who knows what could happen. At times like these I prefer to remain philosophical though, Victoria Holt seems to have the right idea "Never regret. If it's good, it's wonderful. If it's bad, it's experience."

THE PRODIGAL SON RETURNS HOME or THE RETURN OF THE KING

Oh gym, how I've missed you. Let me count the ways. I'm more broke than Windows Vista (OK, so they fixed it, I know), but not even that could hold me back, from returning to where I rightly belong: In the centre of a crowd of strangely dressed, smelly, health fanatics.

It is said that King Arthur will return to save his people in their time of most dire need. Today I was King Arthur, the gym was my Camelot, the bench was my Excalibur, Guinevere was that really hot chick that left when I was walking in, my knights were, um, and the dire need part... the analogy is breaking down, but who cares, I'm back! Bring on DOMS tomorrow.

early morning sunburn

Loren awoke to the melodious sound of early morning alarm bells. Technophonic trajedies sprung a leak in his cellphone, rupturing his dream time connection. Why wake up at 6:00am, when sleep is still a posibility? He had training at Main Beach, he knew it, his team knew it and there was no way he could deny it. Off to training!

a penny for my thoughts

Another leisurely stroll down Moralla Ave, which becomes Government Road and something else in between. I have to placate my thirst by rehydrating and I do so by making another unnecessary purchase when I could have used the taps outside of the rest rooms, at training, for free, but I can't get out of my mind what I did to those toilets just a couple of days ago.

Vitamin water, watermelon and strawberry flavour, emmm, tastes disgusting, but it'll tide me over till I get home. Ah, home, at least a mile and a half away. I walk with my empty bottle, that I downed faster than a shot glass in front of an alcoholic during happy hour. I continue to walk and I notice a pattern forming, there continues to be no rubbish bins anywhere along the foot path.

I'm in Runaway Bay this is the rich retired Florida part of the Gold Coast, at least the multiple octogenarian in fancy clothes sightings would suggest as much. A sign to my right informs me: No dumping rubbish, maximum penalty $300. Where do rich people put there trash? I walk the entire length of my journey and there's not one rubbish bin till I'm about 2 minutes from home (yes, I live in the destitute bogan part of town). Does the threat of a fine and the absence of rubbish bins prevent thoroughfare by the poor through richman's territory. Do the rich have some kind of elaborate underground network of plastic pipes and capsules setup whereby they dispose of all the rubbish that doesn't seem to pollute their collective properties? It's classism all over again. Where's Michael Moore when you need him, shouldn't he be making a documentary about this or something?

I chuck away the bottle and shake my head, I think all this walking is getting to me just a little.

when disaster strikes

Tuesday circa 6pm

wave 1:
I had a slight bugbear impede on the ever loving sanctity of my league training the other day. There I was running like Ben Johnson on steroids and my stomach decides it's time to start messing around me. Usually my stomach and meself get on swimmingly, even the best of relationships faces it's hardships I suppose. I manage to contain myself to the end of the fitness session. Now I don't want to get too graphic but lets just say that once I'd found the appropriate facility to handle the situation at hand, in abject darkness (the lights we're out of order) I began peeing out of my bum. This was the first sign that things we're going south for the evening.

wave 2:
I survive training without further incident, although a constant burning feeling in my nether region serves as a plucky reminder that there's more to come. Much, much more. I bike home across a 3km stretch of road (it's probably more), half way to my destination, one of the peddles falls off. I thank my lucky stars that I bike like an old-lady on a walker at a nursing home. Strapped for options I "decide" to walk the rest of the way. Strangely the walk feels harder than the training I've just been through.

wave 3:
Gradually my stomach and ultimately my entire body turn against me. As I lay down to try and accumulate some much needed rest, I'm struck with the head splitting notion that I'll not be sleeping at all tonight. No the fates have something much more insidious in store. The first times the best because I've just chugged back at least 2 litres of fluid and it all comes out. When I get to about the seventh go round, I'm puking up my stomach lining and just waiting for the digestive acid to start eating it's way through the stomach and into the rest of me. Between puking my guts out and doing training I'll train any day of the week. Some time Wednesday morning I finally fall asleep.

wave 4
Wednesday circa 7pm
wake up wondering wtf just happened.

three strikes

"If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?" -- Chuck Palahniuk

yep.

I'm a door to door salesman. A smooth talking go get'em closer without the gift of the gab. The ability to form a coherent setence is a lost art, or at least for me it is. Articulating a sales pitch or whatever it is they call a presentation these days should prove mighty challenging. But if I can move to a new country with no plan, no assests and some crazy idea that I'll play rugby league, at the very least, semi-professionally, why can't I pretend I'm a salesman too. Times they are a changing. Anyone want to sign up for Austar?

there's a glitch in the matrix

"If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?" -- Chuck Palahniuk

sure could.

I now wear thongs. Don't look at me like that. I can explain. In New Zealand we call them jandals; in America, slippers or flip flops; but in the Aussie vernacular they're thong, tha-thong, thong, thongs.

"Thong" evokes powerful images especially when applied to my (astonishing) person, most of which are extremely disturbing unless I'm involved in a male beauty contest, like Mr. Universe where this kind of wardrobe choice is the norm. I'm no oiled up grease monkey though, I don't wear circus pants (only gymaholics will know what I'm talking about here), no it's nothing but thongs for me, Oz style.

I'm not cheating either, this isn't part of the new Loren by virtue of my calling these jandals by a different name. My transformation extends far beyond the pedantry of semantics. When it comes to foot wear, I believe that feet are better heard and not seen.

What's that you say? You're feet's noise pollution is next to nothing. So much the better, they probably afflict society in other more obvious ways. Excuse my personal prejudice, but I feel feet are close to being the most disgusting things ever. Both in appearance and odour. Walking is better than not walking I suppose, so the best we can hope for is that people cover their bad boys up with something (please).

It's not that I feel that my feet are exceptionally offensive or anything, but as a matter of principle I shroud them with the hope of maintaining some form of dignity. I must say though, that in comparison to most I may possibly be sporting the "Andre the Giant" of feet. I rest easy in this fact: big or small, ugly is ugly. Why not try to make the world a better place, some one's got to do it.

So, here I am a changed man. One of my personal vendetta's abandoned in favour of common sense. It's really fricken hot here. That's one more pair of feet exposed to an unsuspecting world. It could be worse, I could start wearing the other type of thongs too.

warning: double/triple irony is very hard to detect without vocal inflection.

speaking of Chuck

"If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?" -- Chuck Palahniuk

Yes, I could.

I touched down on the unhallowed ground of a nation built on the backs of criminals no less than 3 days ago. Am I on hostile ground? The fauna would suggest so. The harsh environment (when contrasted with New Zealand) , seems to breed a form of life that compliments it's inhospitablity.

Truth to tell, everyone has been very nice and I haven't seen any bugs or snakes at all. The people of the Gold Coast seem like a pleasant blend of country bumpkiness offset by a city-wise practicality. If you get the chance check it out.

It Begins...

I am about to engage in an enterprise of unprecedented proportions (in my own experience). An anthropological experiment, if you will. Before I hang up my boots once and for all, it's time for one last ride just for old times sake. The results could be explosive, I foresee many an aching muscle in my future. I hope my bones are no less brittle than they have been in the past, I've never broken one before; I don't intend to start now, but there's a first time for everything. Over the last few months I've been running, hitting the weights, laying the ground work for the rigours of the season to come.

Chuck Palahniuk of Fight Club fame, once mentioned the minor craze of including food recipes in the pages of chick lit, his reaction was to include recipes for making napalm and other explosives in his writing. My aspirations are only slightly less violent. Each work out I post here is another ingredient in the recipe of my evolution into a human wrecking machine, preferably the wrecking will be done to my opponents and not myself, which is a particularly nasty sentiment. Oh the glories of socially acceptable violence. The journey continues...

chins 99*15,10,10

bench 50*15, 90*8,92.5*7,95*5,60*19

bench row 60/2*10,6

back extensions 7.5*12,10/2*10