One Hundred And Ninety Five example essay topic

The Road Less Traveled People often go through their life working-out and going to the gym to get "buff". For ninety-five percent of Americans that do work out, few can say that they have pushed themselves as hard as possible, but I have the distinct, and often painful, pleasure of knowing that there is another way to work out. This option is unlike any other that I have ever personally been through; and is a way that I would not wish on any average American. 4: 55 a.m.

Seventeen degrees Fahrenheit, a mild breeze of ten miles per-hour -- for the fifth day in a row and second consecutive month, it is time for me to wake up, make the face-numbing, core-hardening walk through the snow to the Mildred and Louis Lasch Football Building. After the half-mile hike, a swipe of my student identification card opens the door. A quick walk to the locker room takes the prisoners of pain into line for their uniform. We pull on stale, manila shirts; manila, of course, from previous uses. Each resembles an old Mexican poncho, failing to conform to our bodies. The matching shorts follow; both shirt and shorts are embossed with one simple letter, "S".

The men, clad in uniform and barely awake, file out of the locker room, silently shuffling down the dimly lit back hallway, dreading the impending infliction of pain. Each socked foot becomes heavier, latching onto each fiber of carpet, but human will, not muscle mechanics, moves our warm, muscle bound, ligament and tendon attached, skin encased carcasses to the double doors. Thirteen feet away, the pungent smell of hot rubber, cool iron, moldy sweat and old coffee collides. Most men gag at this point, but the leader of the pack enters the room and there is but one choice. Thirteen thousand square feet of machines, weights, ropes, chains, and pain. The fluorescent lamps fill the room with an unnatural light.

Sunlight, just like excuses, is not allowed in Satan's lair. Each horse is paired up with his driver. A seven minute warm-up is prescribed by the trainer, and so it starts. I jump on the stationary bicycle. A light breeze against my bare legs blows gently attempting to cool me, but does little to diminish the internal burn of the quadriceps and hamstrings.

Upon completion of the warm up, John Thomas, former Navy S.E.A.L., commands me to join him at the manual neck resistance station. There I am, lying on a bench, neck limp at one end, feet anchored to the floor at the other. Pulling my neck up, immediately I am met with resistance. Twelve repetitions is the goal, but with this vein-popping resistance, five seems to be a much more realistic goal, but Mr. Thomas thinks otherwise. Feeling the flood of blood to my head, my eyes close mostly from the throbbing but also because the visible color spectrum is becoming remarkably dull with each repetition.

"Fight, fight, fight... resist at the top... down and good", the coffee laden breath of J.T. hits me, and it is off to the next exercise. Literally working our way down from neck to calf, the next exercise focuses on the trapeazous muscles of the upper back. The commander calls for his soldier, and there I am. A vertical row seems easy but with one-hundred and ninety-five pounds, this movement becomes much more difficult. The salty sweat is beginning to form a solid stream down my temples, cascading down my neck and settling in the collar of my shirt. The knots now formed from pushing through fourteen repetitions burn deep into my spine with the heat of an oven turned on broil.

Two exercises down; eight left to go. Do not be fooled though; today is a "light day". Onto the MXP pull down; this is a plate loaded machine, designed for the lattimus dorsi, biceps and triceps, and front deltoid muscle groups. Seated perfectly upright, much like the spine of a hardbound book, so too am I. I pull down the cool, steel, diamond cut grips to my chest. The fury of intensity and the pleasure of pain numbs the torn flesh as the blisters burst underneath the calluses and soon the trickle of blood slides down my arm and adds to the saturation of the cotton shirt. Now with half-a-dozen skin flaps on my hands, the next exercise is designed for grip.

A five foot long bar, six inches in diameter with an eight foot welded chain hanging from the middle resembles a weapon used in the Coliseum during the times of Roman Antiquity. Standing against the cinder block wall of the torture chamber, I drop my knees into ninety degree angle and remain in this position for the remainder of the exercise. I begin rolling the rust encrusted bar, hand over hand, until the last link of the chain has reached the top of the bar, and then back down in the exact same fashion. Forearms-a-fire, I leave the bar moist with my sweat and blood for the next victim of the wrist roller. Four yards, diagonally to my left is the next piece of equipment, the Nautilus rear deltoid machine. I am locked in by two vertically padded bars with an adjustable sternum pad.

Placing the outside of my elbows inside of the padded bars, I begin to push outward only to be faced by a weighted resistance. John Thomas, the general of the agonizing grimace, stands over me, just as the crow flies above his prey, anticipating muscular fatigue, ready to pounce on my failure. However, with the sultan of sweat standing parallel to my position, I complete the final rep and gently set the weight down, as if to say, "That was nothing". Yet in all actuality, my rear deltoids burn like the fires of hell. Lower body is next, and that is where personal pride fuels the effort, as the majority of my adrenaline has been utilized. The first exercise, one to be repeated twice more in today's workout, is the leg press.

Blue padding covers the metal bucket seat, a foot placement area is two feet from my waist, thus facilitating a ninety degree bend in my knees, and finally a padded shoulder harness locks me into position. The one-hundred pound black iron plates are loaded one at a time with a dull thud as they settle into place. "One, two, three... LIFT!" I begin to press and my quadriceps and hamstrings abruptly meet an unyielding resistance. After eighteen repetitions of five-hundred forty-five pounds, my first set is complete. Staggering like a prize fighter after a powerful blow, I stumble my way to the seated calf machine.

Only a twenty-five foot walk, the cross-country trek between machines works out some of the lactic acid from my muscles through aerobic respiration. I set myself on the seat, lower the padded bar of resistance down onto my lower quadriceps and watch the first hundred pound plate placed onto the rack. Eyes closed, I listen to the second and third and push through fifteen quality reps. Following completion of the calf exercise, I'm back to round two with the quad killer.

The once strong steed, stands steadfast, silently suppressing the urge to vomit, and mentally preparing for the second "go 'round" in the ring of fire. Five-hundred eighty-five pounds promptly placed on the bar, feet securely fixed on the rough metal platform, shoulder harness latched into place, and with one tough grunt, chapter two of the book of leg press is in progress. I conclude the second chapter with several violent screams and one final push, and it is off to the leg curl station. Lying face down, dripping with sweat, on a flat padded platform is quite the reprieve; however, that does not last long, as John Thomas' hot splash of coffee on the back of my leg lets me know that I must lift the three-hundred twenty pounds that is waiting, rather impatiently, on me. I place the padded steel resistance bar on the back of my ankles and begin to curl the weight up to my gluteus maximus, with the axis of rotation being the knee. Rather than yelling, I shove my sweat-stained face into the bench and constrict my hamstrings until reaching the top of the rotation, only to do it all over again.

This Process takes place thirteen times and ends with one final grunt. The third volume in the series of leg presses is six-hundred fifteen pounds, one man, and one challenge. Screaming like an eagle contributes to the seven forced repetitions. One final noise is heard, a sigh; the sigh of relief that the work-out is over, and a sigh of pride in what I have just accomplished. There are many different ways to work out, and most people say that they have "worked as hard as they can".

I'm not saying that they are not working as hard as they can, I am just explaining that there is another level, rarely reached by the average person. One of the popular phrases in today's society is: "It takes a little more to be a champion". Well it is true, and that "little more" is not necessarily the most enjoyable experience, but is what separates the accepted understanding of a work-out and my version.