Not a time on the clock but my new PR. After a month of the Christmas pummeling (mercifully gone, since Sunday, the radio now yielding again string trios and recorded live local concerts and piano sonatas) I needed something to cheer me up; even more so since the week has been full of niggling, stale-feeling year-end chores.
So I stuck a bunch of wheels on the sled press.
Can’t say much for the cell phone camera, but just in case something went wrong — it was twenty pounds more than I ever busted up before, and I usually stop around 630 — I wanted detectives to have a picture of the culprit.
Seven reps. Ahhh!
I peeled the sled after I was done and noticed, as I was finishing with calf presses and like that, a stranger asking to work in with the body shop guys, two regulars who come around the corner from a nearby Ford dealership at lunchtime in their blue poplin shirts with “Dick” and “Harry” embroidered on the left tit. They had three plates on each side of the thing. “Whoof,” said the unknown soldier after a set. “I’m not in you guys’ league yet.”
I noticed Harry smiling at me over one shoulder.
The weird thing is, I can’t leg-curl shit (or at least not more than half what I use in extensions). Glute-hams even I can do with a big plate clutched to my chest, firing the whole back of the leg and butt, and my hamstrings will stretch until I can plant my feet flat on the wall behind my head, but that single joint movement against resistance is one I’m still trying to catch up. But Harry says he has the same problem, so I don’t feel too bad. It gives me something to work on next year.