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Me and the Old Man
|Two months out from the contest, and I have it going on. After two and
a half hours working this muscle hard, I spend twenty minutes posing out in
the locker room mirrors, like I do after every session now. My buddy Todd
trains with me now, helping me with forced reps, which really gets the muscles
sick full bloat. Today, I can barely force my forearms up into a double bi,
my arms are so massively swollen with pump. But I do it anyway, and can't
help but grin when I see these mountain peaks top out at 19.5 veiny inches.
measured out my bodyfat at 7% today, so I have eight weeks to get it down to
3 or 4. No problem, I thought, as I hit a lat spread, and watched my
obliques pop out like thick fingers on my sides. Todd had left for work
I was watching my muscle show on my own. Fine with me. Sweat was dripping off
me in buckets...I was standing in a puddle of it, and my posers were so
soaked thru, I'd have to wring them out before packing them away in my gym bag.
No one was gonna be able to beat the jacked up phenomena I was looking at in the mirror. Just I was shaking out my quads, watching the thick muscle slide back and forth before I tightened them up into a striated flex, the old man walked in. "Whoa," he said, as he saw me flexing, "get a load of the Muscle Machine!" I kept posing as he came up behind me. He tossed his gym bag on a bench and watched me for awhile. A month had gone by since I'd met him here, and he was wearing the same sweats. Hopefully the old dude had at least washed them. "You look amazing there Anthony," he said. "Remember me from the other day?" "Yeh, I remember," I grunted, as I hit a side-chest shot. "Damn, bud, you could rest a glass on that chest of yours," he said. "Let's see." He went to his bag, and pulled out a bottle of a sports drink. My first reaction, as he came toward me with the bottle, was to tell him to get the fuck away. But the old dude had my curiosity up. "Heave it out farther," he said to me. I puffed up my chest, and damned if it didn't inflate even more than I thought it could! "Yeah, that's it," he said. He put the bottle on top of my mounded pec. It wobbled at first, but he got it centered. Then he let go. What a rush it was to see that bottle balanced on my huge pec shelf! "No shit, " I said, amazed. "See there bud, I knew it. You are ready to kick butt." "Nah, I still gotta get shredded up." "You kidding me? You look ready to go to me. Pop that bottle to me." I flexed my pec hard and the bottle flew off. He caught it midair and threw it into his bag. I had to give it to him, the old guy was smooth. "Speaking of shredding up, I should have gotten into this lifting stuff along time ago. Since I saw you last month, the fat has been melting off me like warm butter." He patted his stomach, making a solid thudding sound. He walked over and stood by me. "I've been hitting the crunches real hard too. Here, give it a punch." He put his hands on his side and looked down at his midsection. "I'm not going to hit you, man," I said. Crazy old dude. "Come on, muscleman. What good is all that size of yours, if you're not gonna use it once in awhile? Give it a shot, let's see what you got." I rolled my eyes, and gave the old man a half-hearted sock in the gut. Underneath the sweatshirt, I connected with solid gutmuscle. "Don't tell me that's all you've got, ya pantywaist," he said, mocking me. "I didn't even feel that one, do it again." I wasn't even sure what a pantywaist was, but I didn't like the sounds of it. "Wait," he said, "let me lift the shirt." He lifted up his sweatshirt, and I'll be damned if the old fucker didn't have a set of abs. Even through the grizzly salt and pepper hair all over it, and some fat, I could see a good set forming. And it looked flat too. Then he tightened it up even more, and I could almost see a set of eight showing. "Come on, musclehead, bring it on," he said. This time I reared back and hit him pretty solid. I heard him huff out a little air, but he didn't budge backward at all. Just stood there, smirking, holding his shirt up. "Not bad for 59, heh?" he said. "Dude, you're 59 years old?" I couldn't believe it. He looked like he was in his forties. Shit, my grandfather was 59 years old! "Yep. Be 60 in January. Like I said, shoulda gotten into this along time ago." He flexed his abs in the mirror, admiring his new look. He rubbed his hand up and down the sections. "In fact," he said, "I'm thinking about entering
that contest of yours...the one in two months?" "Oh yeah? That could be cool. The Master's division might not even have another dude in your weightclass. You could come home with a trophy." "Uh-huh," he said. "That's sort of what I'm thinking. And my workouts have been a lot more focussed since I thought about it too. Anyway, gonna hit the weights...hope to see you again, Anthony." He turned and walked toward the gym. Was his back broader than the last time I saw him?...so hard to tell thru the sweats. Must be just from him losing the gut. On my way out of the gym, I turned to see Ron. He was working chest, doing bench presses. He had the bar loaded. With 315lbs. He laid down on the bench and pumped out ten slow steady reps. With no spotter. It was like he had no clue how heavy that was. He sat up and saw me looking over. He smiled and waved. Then he stood up and loaded two more 45's to the bar. I couldn't watch. The crazy old dude was going to hurt himself. As I turned to leave the gym, I told the gym attendant that he might want to keep an eye on the old guy. The guy looked over and shrugged. "OK," he said, "but he looks like he's doing fine to me." I went out the door, shaking my head. Crazy old man.
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