The Zone - By Johnny Muscle Militia
Were in the “zone”. The “zone” is that state of mind where you live in the moment. Where everything has been practised and studied and performed over a thousand times. It is that place of comfort where you no longer have to examine what you are about to do, as if drawing breath or a blinking eye. I am not sure when I slip into this “state of mind” but I do know it is some time during the car journey to the gym. At some time, as if as unavoidable as a sunrise, conversation stops between myself and Richie my training buddy. The tunes on the stereo don’t register, and in fact I cannot truly recall directing the car to the gym, we simply get there.
MTV blasts over the gym, yet it seems distant. I don’t recall the changing rooms or who was on reception. The level of focus is in many ways spiritual, even Zen like. I recline onto the bench ensuring my scapula is pressed flat and true, my ass squirms to ensure every inch of spine is aligned to perfection and that load is spread evenly. Without instruction, my arms fall to the side, stretching out the anterior of the delts and pec wall, to return over my chest for a static contraction. Keeping blood in the area required after the warm-up, as it expected to do more than it ever has before.
The hypothalamus - the part of the brain that controls the endocrine system and all the hormone responses needed, is well aware of the task ahead. The adrenal glands are already sending little bolts of what feels like electricity through out my body. As if plugged into the mains, my body trembles slightly with energy that is stockpiled to deliver to a massive demand.
?Ready??
My arms elevate to receive the weight, a reply is never required. Richie places the first 60kg dumbbell into my left hand. Load under tension pushes my shoulder a further half inch into the bench. For that split second my mind lets go, and the thought “Oh my God that is heavy” drifts in, but the adrenaline is there to counteract, and by the time the second 55kg is placed in my right hand the warmth of confidence has returned.
“Pain is weakness leaving the body - you’ve got this” drifts around in the darkness of my head. Focus has returned. My hands grip the knurling. Due to the weight it is leaving an impression of its texture into my skin through a padded leather glove. My stomach dips as I draw huge gulps of air as I try to fill my lungs with oxygen. Slowly, as if demonstrating to a beginner, I lower the weight till the cold iron kisses the outside of my chest. I throw my muscles into lifting the weight, the pectorals and triceps elevate the weight as slowly as it fell, spent air explodes from my lungs. As my arms straighten there is a half second pause to tense at the top of the manoeuvre.
Focus is huge, but I am trying to not think about how many times I have to lift this weight. As if a mechanical piston, the muscle throws into reverse and the weight is lowered again, then raises/lowers/raises. By about the 8th rep acid has built up, the increasing pain is an early warning of the onset of failure. My arms tremble frantically as I elevate the weight again. I try to ignore the warning. Confidence drops with the falling weight, but Richie is on hand to rebuild as incisively as if the muscle itself, words of encouragement follow:
“Ignore it - its just your mind, let the muscles talk.”
Again the weight rises. This time very slowly, very shaky. An involuntary scream emits at the top as the air explodes from my lungs. The people who go to the gym for the social scene are beginning to stare. Confidence has yielded to aggression, your mind is now full of swear words
“C’mon just two more @&%*ing reps - C’MON!”
The word “Nope” hangs on your lips. Your muscles sense your doubt as the weight falls quickly. Confidence has deserted you only to be replaced with pain and fatigue. The weight hangs for a very long second as you search yourself for belief.
You bully your mind with “You can get this, YOU CAN GET THIS”
Determination is your last resolve. You grip tightens further as you gasp for air. Sweat stinging your eyes.Richie senses my agony and doubt and is on hand again:
“One more - I gotcha”
Veins swell, heart pounds teeth clenched in the face of such pain. Against all your body is shouting at you - you attempt to lift again. You know you have only about 3 seconds of agony left, and with that thought confidence returns for one last fight.
The weight begins to rise again, you screaming. Everything is as if slow motion.
Your arms don’t seem to move at the speed requested. Worse still they are failing half way through and 3 seconds seems like forever. Anxiety hits as the weight wins and your arms begin to fall against all your wishes. Everything you have is not enough, growling, your chest feels in flames.
Richie cups my elbows and aids me to completion of the rep. Relief followed by a rush of dopamine as your bodies natural reward washes over, and for that second you are truly elated, intoxicated and so alive.
Heart still pounding, you find it difficult to drink and draw litres of air into your lungs to fulfil demand, you cant help thinking “I could have got that last one.” Sanity soon returns as you are all to aware, after Riche’s set, you have to go through it all over again, 3 more times! Then there is the next exercise, then the next and then the one after that. But the pain is the effort and the prize size.
If you had just ran an exceptional time, put the ball into the back of the net or scored a fantastic try, people would stand and applaud. Instead on-lookers appeared to have witnessed madness! And look further puzzled when you settle down to attempt it again. Many times I have seen smug grins from people when failure comes early and bites you hard. Some draw satisfaction from seeing you fail. But that’s OK. These people don’t understand. Unfortunately, if you have to explain it - they will never understand. For these are the people who want an instant reward, a goal from a 90 minute game or a half year season. How do you make someone understand a game that has been raging for over 15 years, that lasts 24 hours a day and that you will never win. The only competitor is your self (and maybe the mirror!). How do you explain that you game is war, you literally eat, sleep and drink it and it hurts like hell. That you will never be big enough or lean enough. The commitment is such that you don’t drink at parties and you go home early, eat all day and yet fell as though you could give a little more.
If the above bothers you, you shouldn’t be into bodybuilding. You aint tough enough to endure it. If the above inspires you, and even if reading this at eleven at night after a tough day it makes you want to hit the iron. Well take warmth that you are a member of a very small but elite family. That you don’t have to come home with a cup to be a winner. That no matter what colour, race, ability, or sexual orientation, there are us that share your passion. No matter where over the world I have been, from Eastern Europe to Africa, I can find my “family” members. When you lift you truly never are alone.
Hell, lifting is my religion and the gym is my church?I pray every day!
R.I.P. to those who gave everything - we lift for you.
Jonny “Muscle-militia”
Bsc (hons) Dip. WABBA & Vegan