Cutting
I want to lighten things up a bit and discuss something not so critical: cutting weight. Cutting, for bodybuilders (a group I haphazardly consider myself a novice member of) means losing fat. One of the coolest things I learned when I started lifting weights was that I needed to eat more. Oh, man, I love to eat. Pile it on. Bodybuilders try to eat lots of protein, clean carbs (less simple sugars) and generally low fat, but they eat. You can't gain muscle unless you gain weight; and you can't gain weight unless you take in more calories than you expend.
I was very into this. Instead of eating a salad and climbing on the stairmaster for 30 minutes, my past perception of getting into shape, you lift big and eat eggs, steak, milk, chicken. And it's a great feeling. If I overdo it a bit and think, man, today I really shouldn't have had that second helping at dinner or that burger at lunch: well, so what, I'm sore all over and the calories and protein are all part of rebuilding the muscle. Recover. Ah, what a word.
Problem is it's nearly impossible (or so I'm told) to gain muscle and not some fat. I don't really know how much muscle I've gained, though I'm a good bit heavier than I've ever been with the current waistline; I'd risk a guess and say eight to ten pounds heavier. Guess that's muscle. Or maybe I'm bloating. But whatever, I'm 205 and I've never been over 200 in my life and my pants still fit.
But of course those pants were getting tight, and so now I'm trying to cut. I'm still lifting the same, but I'm taking in noticeably less calories, feeling a little hungry much of the time actually, and trying to do cardio at the end of my weight work out, even twenty minutes. I have to drive twenty minutes to my gym so it's hard for me to alternate cardio and weight days, though I'm told that's ideal. But those elliptical cross trainers are kind of fun; my heart rate goes up without any real stress on my joints, and with martial arts out of the picture, for now at least, I need something.
And I think, maybe, my waist is shrinking. Not much so far, but I think a little. It's much, much harder to diet than it is to bulk. Bulking muscle makes me feel like a teenager, growth hormones and test raging (my own natural hormones, of course). Cutting...well, I'm not trying to get super lean like those guys who compete. But like I said earlier, my pants were getting tight. I turn 40 in September (9/11 to be precise) and I'd like a 33, or maybe even a 32 inch waist by then. I was 32 inches for a long time, the first few years I dated Steph. But not since then. She just cooks too damned well, and I developed a taste for wine and the pre-dinner martini.
Which is something else I'm doing very little of, at least as opposed to say six months or a year ago. Alcohol really is empty calories and doesn't help my fitness goals much. Still, we split a bottle of wine here and there with dinner. Wine is a true love of mine and something else I want to talk about eventually on my blog (and I'm amazed these things aren't even more popular; this is like having my own radio show; it's therapeutic and productive, but also nakedly narcissistic, as is all publication or public speaking).
So I'll let you know how the cutting goes. Since I've learned I can feel hungry and not die (the first few months I lifted I was never hungry, never; I ate six times a day) I think this will work. I don't believe my primary reason for lifting is vanity, but it is a powerful feeling being able to take control of the shape of my body to some extent. Many people over, say, 25 feel like victims of their muscle and fat proportion; they are what they are and wish their bodies were different. I've been very pleased how much weights already made an impact for me in how I feel and look. It's a good thing, to quote St. Martha. Like cleaning my room. Only it takes a lot longer to see results and time, age, is always creeping in, even subtly. But I said I was going to stay light. And my stepson wants to go to the pool.
Be well all. I had a good work out today and ate pretty well and hope the same for tomorrow. And again, if you haven't heard of Dave Draper, check him out. He's part of the reason I began blogging. He has these amazing weekly emails he sends out on lifting and fitness, and he writes better than I do and is funnier to boot. Peace.
I was very into this. Instead of eating a salad and climbing on the stairmaster for 30 minutes, my past perception of getting into shape, you lift big and eat eggs, steak, milk, chicken. And it's a great feeling. If I overdo it a bit and think, man, today I really shouldn't have had that second helping at dinner or that burger at lunch: well, so what, I'm sore all over and the calories and protein are all part of rebuilding the muscle. Recover. Ah, what a word.
Problem is it's nearly impossible (or so I'm told) to gain muscle and not some fat. I don't really know how much muscle I've gained, though I'm a good bit heavier than I've ever been with the current waistline; I'd risk a guess and say eight to ten pounds heavier. Guess that's muscle. Or maybe I'm bloating. But whatever, I'm 205 and I've never been over 200 in my life and my pants still fit.
But of course those pants were getting tight, and so now I'm trying to cut. I'm still lifting the same, but I'm taking in noticeably less calories, feeling a little hungry much of the time actually, and trying to do cardio at the end of my weight work out, even twenty minutes. I have to drive twenty minutes to my gym so it's hard for me to alternate cardio and weight days, though I'm told that's ideal. But those elliptical cross trainers are kind of fun; my heart rate goes up without any real stress on my joints, and with martial arts out of the picture, for now at least, I need something.
And I think, maybe, my waist is shrinking. Not much so far, but I think a little. It's much, much harder to diet than it is to bulk. Bulking muscle makes me feel like a teenager, growth hormones and test raging (my own natural hormones, of course). Cutting...well, I'm not trying to get super lean like those guys who compete. But like I said earlier, my pants were getting tight. I turn 40 in September (9/11 to be precise) and I'd like a 33, or maybe even a 32 inch waist by then. I was 32 inches for a long time, the first few years I dated Steph. But not since then. She just cooks too damned well, and I developed a taste for wine and the pre-dinner martini.
Which is something else I'm doing very little of, at least as opposed to say six months or a year ago. Alcohol really is empty calories and doesn't help my fitness goals much. Still, we split a bottle of wine here and there with dinner. Wine is a true love of mine and something else I want to talk about eventually on my blog (and I'm amazed these things aren't even more popular; this is like having my own radio show; it's therapeutic and productive, but also nakedly narcissistic, as is all publication or public speaking).
So I'll let you know how the cutting goes. Since I've learned I can feel hungry and not die (the first few months I lifted I was never hungry, never; I ate six times a day) I think this will work. I don't believe my primary reason for lifting is vanity, but it is a powerful feeling being able to take control of the shape of my body to some extent. Many people over, say, 25 feel like victims of their muscle and fat proportion; they are what they are and wish their bodies were different. I've been very pleased how much weights already made an impact for me in how I feel and look. It's a good thing, to quote St. Martha. Like cleaning my room. Only it takes a lot longer to see results and time, age, is always creeping in, even subtly. But I said I was going to stay light. And my stepson wants to go to the pool.
Be well all. I had a good work out today and ate pretty well and hope the same for tomorrow. And again, if you haven't heard of Dave Draper, check him out. He's part of the reason I began blogging. He has these amazing weekly emails he sends out on lifting and fitness, and he writes better than I do and is funnier to boot. Peace.
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