Draper here... The Day the Rains Came Down

The rain came down with mixed emotions -- glee, revenge, purpose,
generosity -- and was carried by winds and gusts sharing its moods.
The crowded trees heaved and bellowed, abandoning their hoard of
excess ruble and unsure limbs. Our little house looked up with resolve
as it countered the elements and fought off the barrage. A sound
shelter, there is nothing braver.

Laree and I packed the four-wheel with enough gear to last the
weekend. After comforting Mugsy, we proceeded to unwind our way to the
major arteries below. The road serving our hilly community looks
something like a wiggly length of spaghetti tossed on a heap of
meatballs; it manages to go in all directions at once. Around one such
direction was a fallen tree amid sparking wires and a snapped power
pole.

Nothing new on Redwood Drive, this twisted wreckage, a winter ritual
in the ancient forest. Help was on its way. "It'll be about three or
four hours while we clean up the mess, folks," said the crewman in the
pickup, and home we went. No power: fireplace, sit, read, nibble,
snooze, muse, fidget and wait and be grateful.

Our destination was Ventura, 300 miles directly south on the ocean's
billowing front and no storm was going to stop us. We were on a
mission, another sad celebration, a wake, as it was called by Billie
and Shawn and Danny. Dan Mackey went home to his Lord.

Dan was not much older than me -- a kid, one might say -- and we were
buds since the days of Vince's Gym. He ran the place while Howorth and
Scott hoisted weights to the sound of the Rolling Stones. Dan himself,
a pile of well-placed rocks, carried home the coveted Mr. California
and Mr. USA trophies thirty-some years ago... amid the golden days.

It was 1968 when we trekked down a Malibu beach balancing a longboard
on our backs bearing young surfer girls, as we searched for just one
more wave. You might remember the moment; it was the cover of Muscle
and Fitness magazine, June of ‘69. Don Peters was the forward dude in
the procession, without whose broad shoulders we could not have made
the journey.

Few musclebuilding champs have contributed to the sport as generously
as Dan Mackey. I joined forces with him and a handful of enthusiastic
Ventura muscleheads to build a gym called The Gym on Main Street in
the very-California community 60 miles north of Hollywood. Times they
were achangin, as the pop lyrics foretold. Dan wanted authentic and
enduring and found it in Ventura, and helped sustain it for 37 years,
from the day he opened The Gym's doors in 1970.

I added woodwork to the ironwork of the gym to ensure the real deal
steel feel. It remains today, a muscle-making haven, thriving and
pumping, compelling and building. Shawn, his beautiful daughter and
long-time personal trainer, carries the torch like the Statue of
Liberty. Billie, his dedicated wife and best friend, and Danny, his
youngest, ensure The Gym's setting in the grateful neighborhood.

I piloted our craft, Laree navigated. No police or citations visited
us from the time we loosed ourselves of dangling wires and branches
till the time we nudged our wet nose onto Main Street, Ventura. The
old and noble corner-bank-building-now-law-office hosting Dan's
memorial was absolutely filled with people, and the line outside
suggested an opening night on Broadway. Don Howorth and Gene Mozee and
Steve Downs and Bobbie Blake waved from amid the patient weave of
fans, friends and family.

We caught up and reminisced and renewed old friendships and
acquaintances and nodded and fought tears as memories flowed from
family and fond friends. Preachers preached, songs were sung and
historic videos were shown depicting a good life lived and shared and
perpetuated. The indelible effects of a true neighborhood gym smiled,
laughed and rejoiced as our hearts melted.

Long live The Gym and Dan. My mind can't help return to Reg Park, only
two weeks earlier.

Here's one message for us all: Got a neighborhood gym? Don't let it
go! Support it with your heart and soul, might and dollars. Once gone,
it's gone forever, like honor and truth and freedom. 24s and chains
are like cons in broad daylight... they two-for-one you into oblivion
while offering as much inspiration and motivation as the meat
department at Safeway. Forget global warming; save a gym.

World Gyms are a near-wrap since Joe's departure. No more Marina Del
Rey World where the remnants of Muscle Beach and the originals of Joe
Gold's gym trained, lived and breathed. Hello Planet Fitness, or
whatever. And many Gold's Gyms are becoming corporate gyms in the
throes of standardization. "Everybody now -- one rep, two reps, three
reps, four; five reps, six reps, seven reps more..."

Dave and Laree's World Gym, most recently Marie and Mark's Weight Room
of Santa Cruz, is performing its ultimate squat, making its last
pirouette, taking its final bow, before the curtain comes down. A
chain fitness facility with classes and private training is slipping
into place. Yup! Last-hope members confess they'll do anything to
retain the refuge, money is no object. Too little, too late... You
don't know what you've got till it's gone... put up a parking lot,
shoot the lowland gorilla.

Local bombers: You like magic, believe in miracles? How about
premonitions and visions? Be still! I have a feeling... I see the
Weight Room opening its doors without closing them. A little smoke and
mirrors, and voila... of course, genuine guts and determination work
wonders (Bomber 101). Keep the faith.

What a trip! I walk in the back door, survey the walls and mounds of
iron like a visitor, a potential member, an old musclehead, and say,
"What a shame."

You're still with me. How cool. All I have to offer is pocket change
today, but it's yours... all yours. Routine burns a hole in my pockets
lately and I need to dig deep for the best use of my resources. I'm
ready and able to work out with slam, but not always willing for a
prearranged cram. Same tricks, different order, better input and
outcome... a bit of spontaneity, Maestro, please... Let the show
begin.

It's Monday, anything goes. The body can use a dose of whatever I give
it. I'm neither fresh, nor under-trained, nor overtrained, nor
excited, nor apathetic. I'm me. I stand somewhere between the racks
and stacks with straps and wraps in anticipation. Little drama,
sufficient hope, usual wonder.... Let's do it.

The first set is the toughest... causing the dominoes to fall with
instinctive precision. This is what I did; this is what I was meant to
do.

Legs get the tail end of my attention since my rendezvous with the men
in white wielding scalpels nearly a year ago (you said it, time
flies... like a rock). They're due (the legs, not the doctors) for
their five sets of twenty reps of leg presses supersetted with
standing calf raises. No, not squats, but they'll do... hobbling
beggars can't be choosy. Still, I work hard and the movements feel
good and they knock me out. I'll hit extensions and curls in two or
three days to keep the pins tight and conditioned. No, not squats, but
yada yada...

Laboring through my supersets it becomes noticeable my entire back
needs powerful action (it feels hollow) and my arms are yearning to
tug (their pet activity). Seated lat rows supersetted with straight
arm pullovers solves that problem and satisfies that need: five
supersets of 10, 8 and 6 reps, increasing the weight as I go. Lower
back, mid back, lat width and length, and biceps and core muscles are
blasted.

Hmmm. Thinking. I could use some pec work, but prefer to do some
deltoid work, as long as it's not pressing. Pressing is for the birds
at this particular moment. I have come to enjoy and appreciate the
one-arm lateral raise to the side while grasping a stabilizing
upright. Battle wounds prevent standard sidearm laterals, yet one side
at a time enables the needed body positioning and focus and finesse to
accomplish the favorite musclebuilding deed. Five sets at 10, 8 and 6
reps. At 65 I want capped deltoids. Call me crazy.

Three sets of 35 standing rope tucks a la draper (for gut and such)
and I'm outta there. Drank my Bomber Blend in the jet on the way
home... Yum... I could feel myself growing.

Adios, farewell, see ya later and sayonara.

Got a sky to fly... bye bye... Draper

Source: davedraper.com