As per my GT VI training, I’ve been amalgamating several workouts into a regimen I believe will yield satisfactory results in a short amount of time. Most are the vanity workouts of celebrities that I’ve always flirted with throwing myself headlong into, but the rest happens to be a combination of recommended strength workouts from, say, Men’s Health and the accumulated intimate knowledge I’ve gained from eight years of putting my body through physical exertion. I’ve got bits of expert advice, bits of old cross country workouts, bits of Taylor Lautner and Christian Bale bulk-up plans all vying for my attention and keeping my poor muscles in a constant state of confusion.
Today saw me blasting the ‘arms’ portion of Brad Pitt’s routine for Fight Club. It’s four exercises. Three sets of each. In my hubris, beforehand I figured ‘Shit, four exercises? Surely there’s more to it than that. Know what? I’ll throw in a two mile tempo run and some hardcore abs to balance things out. Maybe then I’ll sweat.’ All of this on a severe calorie deficit, mind you.
I am an idiot.
See, even at my most out-of-shape, my hungriest, most tired, most hungover state I can still strap on my trainers and run for miles and miles. Watching me try to lift weights, however, is akin to watching a baby deer take its first tentative steps and falling over. My arms haven’t been this sore in a very long time, not since long before I started training. I nearly dropped my protein shake when I got back, I was trembling so badly.
I’m shooting for sleek for GT VI, and don’t really need to be lifting that heavily, just conditioning. Still, when filming is done and I move to my fifty-pound promise, this could be a major roadblock to getting huge.
tl;dr version: Whaaaaa, exercise is hard. Back to writing depressing stories about fields and snow.
