Masters - Robert Friedman

Robert Friedman

   Geezerlifting, Chapter 1 The federations call us masters. Anne, my 14 year old stepdaughter, prefers the term "geezers." If you're 40 or more and love to lift, you are a geezerlifter. It doesn't matter whether you're male or female. It doesn't matter whether you're a beginner, a "journeyman" or a 30 year veteran. In the eyes of the very young, you're a geezerlifter.
        Now I'm no credentialled expert. I'm a middle-aged lawyer--and former college professor--who likes to lift and who has written a lot elsewhere and about other things. This little article is therefore, by necessity, more a matter of sharing observations and experiences than anything else. Oh, it is a matter of one other thing: allowing my enthusiasm for lifting to creep out. Maybe that will tempt a few more middle-aged people to lift.
        Let me talk a bit about training and recovery. I read Anthony Ditillo's article in June's Milo. He observed that you have to train hard and heavy and long to achieve elite status in the strength sports. Most of us, of course, can't do all three at once. And even if we might have once upon a time, after 40, damn few of us can. I turned 44 at the end of July and I like to train hard and heavy--though I won't tell you my bench press because there, heavy for me is a breeze for a lot of you. Anyway, 45 to 50 minutes in the gym working hard on 3 or 4 lifts fries me good and proper. Nowadays, that's especially true on Sundays, when I do squats for reps and sumo deadlifts for singles.
        I don't have the knowledge to claim that this is, physiologically, the best way for me to train. I do know I like training this way so much that it's a major motivating factor. The wisdom and discipline we geezers like to let younger folk think we have can only take us so far. If I hadn't come to love my training, I'd be nuts to keep doing it. Anyway, I can't train the way I do and train long. I need my recovery. I also need something to eat!
        I learned this well when I set out to do the famous old-fashioned 20 rep squat routine. I got myself a copy of Super Squats. I read it and got all fired up about getting stronger faster. I did have enough foresight to go for the super-abbreviated routine: squats, dumbbell pullovers, bench presses and rows. I got up, and drank some double strength coffee and some liquid supplement or another. I showed up a the gym at 6:00 A.M. three times a week. (Some are now saying, "This guy is a loon.") I added weight at each workout. (That came to a screeching halt in the bench press.   Big surprise.) Those squats, though, just kept going up. I kept gritting my way through the last 5 of each set through sheer bloody-mindedness. I'd go home, shower, eat breakfast and drink more coffee and go to work. On foot. ("I knew he was a loon.") A funny thing started to happen.
        Now I like my office. It's in a building that's on the National Register of Historic Places. It's not ornately furnished, and it usually reveals an organized mess. But it's sunny and bright, even in the winter, because it has two windows that face south and one that faces west. All that afternoon sun can be very relaxing. While I was on my way to becoming Lexington, Kentucky's newest squat fanatic, I found myself awakening from daily--and unintentional--afternoon naps in my chair. My middle-aged body was giving me the following message: "I love to squat. I also love to recover after you make me squat like a demon." I'm thankful I wasn't participating in a trial then. Imagine the following transcript:
        Judge: Mr. Friedman, is this Court keeping you from your beauty rest? [Powerlifters are
                not all exceptionally ugly. Not even the old ones.]
        Client: Hey, Bob. The judge asked you a question.
        Mr. Friedman: Zzzzzzzzzz.
        In my bloody-mindedness, I had only been hearing the first part of the message. I cut back to two of those workouts per week until it was time to take a week off and return to a more conventional workout. Most of us over-40 types know, in some kind of personal way, that we're going to die someday. There's no use hastening the moment, especially if there's a decent chance we can be lifting much of the time between now and then. By the way, I did get stronger faster.
        In December 1973, I traveled to the west coast with my parents and my sister. My dad introduced me to some relatives I hadn't met before. Almost 25 years later, I only remember one. I don't remember her name. I don't remember exactly how she and I were related. I only remember that she was 90, that she went to the gym twice a week, and she looked about 68. (I'm sure she wasn't a powerlifter. That was 1973 and she was 90.) There's a lesson there for any middle-aged person who thinks s/he's too old for this foolishness.

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