The Iron Game

Apart from the obvious benefits, I go to the gym to escape chaotic thought; to meditate. For the most part, it works. But there are 2 moments when the chaos returns, without fail:

1. Whenever I’m getting ready to do overhead presses. Old-school, standing with a barbell.

I damn near tore my arm out of its socket doing these a couple years back. I went too far and payed the price. Every time I stare at the bar, getting ready to clean it, even the music blaring in my headphones isn’t enough to prevent the image of me falling backwards with 200 pounds of iron suspended over my head. Or replaying the visceral fear in my eyes with theatrical quality.

2. Running. There are all sorts of great excuses for me not to run. And my mind presents them convincingly and with increasing urgency as I approach my limit.

Rationalization. I go to the gym to get away from that shit. My solution?

I rationalize back. I add another set. I run another mile. You’ve seen this behavior if you’ve ever seen a coach or drill sergeant in your life. The moment an athlete or soldier opens their mouth to whine is the moment they are choosing to fuck themselves.

Resistance is open to negotiation; it’ll backpedal the moment you use force. That’s all I do. I coach myself.