Glenn Buechlein (a.k.a. Power B, Apollo, or simply B) is a legend in strength. His accomplishments are many (and often absurd), Paul Leonard does a great job of chronicling them here. In addition to his status as a lifter, his commitment to giving back to his community and the strength community as a whole is admirable. When B and I met at a Be Activated course in 2017, I was struck by how genuinely giving he was.
My eyes light up when I get an email from him, normally it’s on a Saturday morning around 4:30 with the subject line: “Article from B.” I know that inside that email, there’s a depth of experience, humility, and honesty that I aspire towards. This article in particular is special because it tells B’s story from his earliest days, his drives and motivation, and ultimately his path to where he is today. We hope you enjoy it.
ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER
Birds do not fly
They ride the wind.
Fish do not swim
They are carried by water.
When I was young my passion was baseball. I collected TOPPS baseball cards and was a proud subscriber to Baseball Digest. I would describe myself as a walking, talking baseball encyclopedia. Back when I was still knee high to a grasshopper I had heard of the legendary hall of famer Dizzy Dean. Throughout the 1930’s Dizzy was regarded by many as the absolute best pitcher in baseball. In 1934 he won 30 games and still holds the distinction almost a century later of being the last pitcher from the National League to do so. It is abundantly clear that Dizzy was a great player, but he is perhaps better known for a seemingly insignificant injury that ultimately led to an early retirement from the game he loved.
Dean was on the mound in the 1937 All Star game and a low line drive struck him on the big toe of his left foot. Dizzy retrieved the ball and threw the man out at first. Later, legend has it that the trainers or staff informed Dizzy in the clubhouse that his toe was fractured. Dizzy responded, “Fractured? The damn thing’s broken!”
So what’s the big deal with a big toe anyhow? It’s only a toe. Tape or wrap it and be on the go. Hell, football players such as Ronnie Lott have trainers cut off fingers at half-time. Was Diz just not tough enough? Not the case at all just the opposite. Dizzy was motivated and somewhat prodded to return to the mound before his toe healed. He changed or compensated when throwing to lessen the discomfort when landing on his toe. Many would argue that this alteration in his throwing mechanics led to damage in his shoulder and his career ended. The seemingly insignificant injury to the toe wreaked havoc upon Dizzy’s movement pattern. His kinetic chain train was derailed. Subtle cheats may have developed and transformed how he moved his hips and this in turn may have changed how his torso was aligned and in turn may have led to him altering his arm angle as he threw. The human body will always adapt and find compensations when not moving in an effective pattern.
PAIN OR INJURY
Quidquid latine dictum sit altum videtur
Coincidentally, I can trace the genesis of my personal history of injuries back to the very game Dizzy played and I loved so much in my youth. The ripple effect of a knee injury cascaded into many waterfalls as time passed. I described the incident in the Tao of B.
The summer sandwiched between my eighth-grade graduation and my official entry into high school offered another life altering event that took place in the neighboring Bluegrass State of Kentucky. I proudly grew up a Hoosier. My summer baseball team and I were participating in a tournament in the river city of Paducah. I routinely played numerous positions around the old ball diamond, but on this particular day I was kicking up dirt at second base. In the latter innings, someone on the opposing team hit a can of corn to right field. The softly hit pop fly hovered over my head as I ran toward right field in order to make an over the shoulder snag. The ball did end up in my glove, but I also ended up a bungled heap on the turf. Apparently my spike got entangled in the Kentucky grass. I learned the hard way why they call it blue. A sharp pain emanated through my knee. As I looked upward with my right leg somehow buckled under my body I was forced to squint because of the glaring sun. I could faintly make out the outline of my hardcore coach. I knew what was coming next. “Pain or injury?” he inquired, knowing full well what my rehearsed response would be. “Pain,” I cried out. I valiantly played the rest of this game as well as the subsequent games in the tournament. Upon my return home, subtle things began to happen which indicated that perhaps I had given the wrong response after all. For instance, I awoke and ventured downstairs to enjoy some cereal when lo and behold I found myself face down on Mr. Linoleum. I put an Ace bandage on and forgot about it. Back in the day, Ace bandages were the cure-all rivaling the likes of the almighty duct tape. Later the same day I would miraculously pitch a five inning no-hitter in our local league. This proved to be all the machismo I could muster as I was forced to travel to a nearby city at the end of the week to seek a diagnosis from an expert. I was informed by the doctor that ligaments were damaged in my right knee and I would be forced to wear a full leg cast for the duration of the summer. My dream of playing in the big leagues was dashed. No more TOPPS card, Cooperstown, cancer from chew, or compulsive crotch grabbing for me.
Shortly before my freshman year of high school started I got my cast removed and my leg was freed. I was shocked both how small it was and how much it hurt to flex it. The doctor assured me that the leg was just atrophied and I should be good to go if I listen to the therapists and follow their rehab guidelines. I never met any therapists. My parents had other things to deal with so I embarked on my own training program in order to strengthen my wilted limb. I had a goal of playing in the annual Labor Day Youth Softball Tourney. I found a cement block and wrapped an old belt around it. I then sat on a bench and did one leg extensions. I found some of Dad’s old work boots and laced those puppies up. I would run in place listening to a compilation of songs I recorded directly off the radio. I wore the cassette out keeping tempo to Queen, Foreigner and Journey. I jumped the fence behind our house and ran the trails stopping only to do multiple runs up the steepest hill.
My knee improved on a daily basis and I achieved my goal of playing in the tournament. I thought all was well. As time progressed I discovered that I had a hitch in my giddy up. My injured leg was shorter than the other. It was most pronounced throughout high school when I ran track. I was eventually prescribed a heel lift which I set aside and disregarded because in my eyes heel lifts are a sign of weakness.
My knee injury, in my opinion, was analogous to driving on underinflated tires. Under inflation is one of the main causes of tire failure. If a tire’s pressure is too low then more of the tire’s surface is in contact with the road which causes increased friction. The enhanced friction can cause the tires to overheat which can lead to premature wear and tear eventually resulting in tread separation or even blowouts. Blowouts could cause a catastrophic event such as a wreck. For six years I drove on an under inflated tire. Many times, I drove too fast and rather recklessly. My car had no warning lights. I crashed.
THAT’S GONNA LEAVE A MARK
Twenty–one and 200 lbs. of ripped, chiseled, and rock hard steel
Throw in a tan and mega doses of sex appeal
Sporting my snakeskin tights I sauntered up to the bar
I pulled the prodigious load, but the right side did not go as far
I struggled and asked what is this jive?
Two months later the removal of my ruptured L-5
During my early days of lifting back in the 80’s we had no Internet and certainly no local experts. Our primary source of lifting information was our high school coaches and Joe Weider’s Muscle and Fitness. Suffice it to say, if knowledge is power I was a weakling in regards to proper weightlifting technique and form. For instance, my dead lifting motto was grip it and rip it. I would simply walk up to a loaded bar without hesitation and pick it up. There was no thought of using proper mechanics. I thought how hard is this? Just lift it. I was pulling a Malcolm X; I did it by any means necessary. Sounds macho and hardcore and it was at the time, but you eventually are reminded that sometimes when we pray for rain we have to deal with the mud.
I am uncertain as to where to attribute the exact provenance of my ruptured disk. I have narrowed it down to two specific events. During the summer breaks from college I worked for the city park and recreation department. My primary duty was to mow on an old Massy Ferguson belly mount. When I was caught up or there were dry conditions I helped out the other guys with their duties. During the first part of August in my hometown we celebrate our German heritage by having a street fest, or Strassenfest. A broad variety of events such as log sawing, polka dancing, bratwurst eating and beer drinking are hosted throughout the festival and there is always a need for additional seating. We were charged with delivering bleachers to an event downtown. Per usual, when it came time to load the bleachers onto a flatbed, three or four guys got on one side while I flew solo on the other. We hoisted the bleachers onto the edge of the bed and without warning the bleachers shifted and began to fall off. I reacted and caught the load as it shifted and began to tumble. I saved the day, however, I was in a precarious position when I caught the load and days later my left glute began to hurt. A sharp stabbing pain shot through my ass cheek and down my left leg. I thought I tore a butt muscle. I am fairly certain I remedied the situation by rubbing Ben-Gay on my behind.
Shortly after the bleacher fiasco I decided to pull some weight in the local commercial gym. Looking back my decision was probably dictated by someone challenging me or lifting something within 100 pounds of my personal best which I perceived as a challenge. I confess that I tend to be an alpha and if another competitor ventured into my domain I generally reacted by marking my territory. I recall loading over 600 lbs. on a bar and without much of a warm-up gripping and ripping in an attempt to dead lift what was at that time three times my bodyweight. To my utter amazement one side went flying up while the opposite side failed to cooperate. I continued to pull and struggle similar to a deep sea fisherman cranking and yanking in an attempt to land a monster sized sword fish. Eventually the weight won. I dropped the ponderous load and immediately began to investigate what occurred. I quickly discovered the culprit was a bar sleeve that slid out approximately 6-8 inches. Essentially the bar broke and caused the weight to be dispersed unequally. My backside hurt the next morning so I slipped on my shoes without tying them. I thought to myself Oh Jeez; I hurt that darn butt muscle again.
In late August I returned to Indiana State University for my senior year of college. I had intermittent bouts of pain, but I carried on with my lifting and my life. In October I recall taking a test in Dr. Sung’s International Law class and I was so distressed my fingernails were sweating, not from the exam but rather from the agony I was experiencing through my posterior and down my leg. I was writhing around in my desk in an attempt to find a comfortable position. The law professor was from Taiwan and was actually not very fluent in English, but the universal language of pain was written all over my face. He asked me if I needed help and of course I said no. I did appreciate his concern. I managed to finish what was required and I drug myself back to our apartment where I informed my wife, then girlfriend, that I needed to go back to my hometown to see a doctor. She drove me home and I was able to see an orthopedic doctor within a few days.
I saw my doctor on a Monday and his prognosis was rather dim. He said surgery was required and needed to be done as quickly as possible. I had a ruptured disc and it was causing nerve damage that could lead to permanent paralysis especially in my left leg. Two days later I had surgery and was told I would never lift again. I was back at school in one week and I thought to myself if I can read and study then by god I can press and pull things. Again, there was no rehab or l follow-up, and again, I confess that this was not real bright on my part. Perhaps my name too should be Dizzy, or Dumbass.
All these years later and with increased knowledge I wonder, accidents aside, if my knee injury played the key role in my back injury. Did my one leg being shorter than the other put stress on my lumbar? Was I structurally out of kilter and thus moving out of pattern? Did my reliance on compensations mean I was more susceptible or predisposed to have a significant crash?
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
The back surgery in 1989 was and continues to be the most encumbering item that I carry in my life’s backpack. Its omnipresence has dictated my adult life in many facets. The overarching factor is how I move. For decades I realize that I was walking and moving like I had a corncob up my backside, shuffling with an erect posture from the outside in instead of inside out. My drivers were my calves, arms, shoulders and neck and jaw. I became quad dominant as well. I was imploding and this put more stress on my lumbar.
1-2-3 was not for me, more like 3-2-1 and that is no fun. Maybe I was Nero...an absolute 0. I too, fiddled while Rome burned.
Don’t think for a second that one cannot perform at a high level or lift lots of weight because of being out of pattern. I could. For instance, I performed ten reps with 500 lbs. using a safety squat bar off a 15 inch box…with no belt of course. Through my 30’s and up to my early 40’s I routinely could hold my own sprinting with high school and collegiate athletes. At the age of 40 I jumped out of a 55 gallon barrel. The human body is miraculous in its ability to adapt and recruit from other areas in order to survive based on the demands placed upon it. Everyone runs patterns of survival that affects how we move, feel and behave. I have always trained hard and heavy. The problem is that I was actually training and enhancing my cheats. As all educators know, if you cheat you will eventually get caught.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Four-score Men and Four-score more,
Could not make Humpty Dumpty where he was before.
Your body says if you do not take care of yourself I will stop you. Throughout the 90’s and the better part of the first decade of 2000 I managed to avoid any significant injuries. This time period was marked by sporadic issues with my lumbar, namely spasms that would put me down for a day or two. Torn hamstrings and sore shoulders were occasional guests at my house of pain. I blew these things off and chalked it up as being part of what I do-it comes with the territory.
In July of 2005 I competed in a bench press contest held in Nashville, Tennessee hosted by Wade Johnson. I am unsure why I decided to take this on because my daughter, Taylor, had just been born three months prior and I had lost my competitive mojo. I was not feeling it on the drive down, nor even in warm-ups, however, on my second attempt with 700 lbs. I certainly felt it. I recall pressing the weight but my right side was just short of lockout. I pushed and strained for what felt like an eternity when suddenly an intense searing pain shot through my right shoulder. I finally gave up and the spotters took over. My immediate reaction was to get some ice and place it on my anterior delt. The pain referred to that area. Many hours later when I returned home I happened to walk by a mirror and saw what appeared to be a horn sticking out my back. I soon discovered that I had injured my supraspinatus and then some. I have included some of the doctor’s notes below.
A shoulder exam reveals limited range of motion in all planes, with forward elevation limited to 120 degrees bilateral, and an external rotation to 0 degrees, bilateral. He has internal rotation to L2 and abduction to 120 bilateral.
The patient’s X-rays reveal moderately, severe advanced degenerative changes of the glenohumeral joints bilaterally. A mild spurring is noted, and lateral tilting of the distal acromion and hypertrophic changes are noted at the A/C joint.
An MRI with arthrogram of the right shoulder revealed a focal defect seen in the cartilage of the mid glenoid area. There was fluid evident within the bicep tendon sheath. There were marked edematous changes seen in the region of the supraspinatus muscle and the adjacent fascial planes. Degenerative spurring was seen inferiorly at the A/C joint facing the underlying supraspinatus. Multiple degenerative cystic changes were seen in the humeral head.
When I first read this and consulted with my doctor it was like lint on a bottle cap, it meant nothing to me. My only question and concern was when I could get back to lifting. I did adhere to the rehab protocol from my doctor that primarily focused on ART, active release therapy, pioneered by Dr. Leahy from Colorado. In addition, I consulted with Dr. Michael Hope from New York and his advice was spot on. I was back at it in ten weeks with the only lingering effect being a slight clicking or catch when pressing. Within months, this soon seemed to disappear.
The Scheiße HITS THE FAN
“Chaos is a friend of mine.”
- Bob Dylan
A year or two passed by and I got the itch to compete again with my sights set on breaking some existing master’s records now that I was 42. I succeeded both in achieving records as well as being one of only a handful of individuals to press over 700 lbs. in the 242 lb. weight class regardless of age. I was at my peak strength.
I was asked in 2009 to do some demonstration lifts for a relative’s website. I did my usual warm-up, but something just did not feel right. My left pectoral was twitching and felt a little balled up. I informed my cousin that I would still help him out with his video, but I was going to tone it down. I decided to rep 455 lbs. for 10 off of 3 boards. On the decent of the 3rd rep my left pectoral let go. It felt like a wet towel being torn starting from my inner chest and travelling to the musculotendinous juncture where it fluttered. Everyone spotting knew something had happened, but they were unsure of what. It was so quiet you could have heard a mouse piss on cotton. I stood up from the bench and calmly shared that I just tore my f---ing pec.
This was the first time since my back surgery where I truly felt scared. Scared that I may not get to do what I love so much. I was distraught because it was a major part of who I am. One cannot hardly call themselves Power B and have no power. This should have been no real surprise to me. Ever since the supraspinatus strain I has issues with my opposite side pectoral. I believe I developed a cheat because my body was protecting the right shoulder. Something had to give.
This incident put an abrupt end to my competitive lifting. I recovered from this initial pectoral tear in approximately ten weeks and at that time I accepted the fact that my days on the competitive platform were over. I became content with breaking gym records and felt blessed that I could still do what I do.
Ever play bull in the ring? I asked my crew this sometime in 2009 at the end of a Saturday workout. Of course no one responded with an affirmative so I felt compelled to demonstrate what I was referring to. I grabbed an orange strap and put my hand in the end loop. I then asked for a volunteer to grab the other end. I explained that the idea was to be in a clearly defined circle and the individuals opposing each other would try to push, pull, drag or drive the other person out of the ring using the strap. This soon turned into a one on one tug of war between me and another member of my crew. He took it much more serious than I. I eventually told him to go ahead and pull with all his might using both hands and I will use one. This childish escapade went on for a minute or so with each subsequent tug increasing in force and intent. I began jerking the other guy around like crocodiles fighting over the hindquarters of a Cape buffalo. I was going to unleash my coup de grace when I found myself floating horizontally in the air laid out similar to Neo in the Matrix. I came crashing down near my basement window. I was lucky to have not gone through it. I managed to absorb the impact primarily on my butt. I quickly jumped to my feet and the crew scattered. I was not happy. The debate still rages over whether or not this was intentional. Either way it caused me much unnecessary grief that I still deal with today.
Days after my fall I had excruciating pain down my left leg. The same leg affected by my back surgery. It was determined that the impact had greatly aggravated my sciatic nerve due to the impact. The pain subsided with therapy but I soon noticed something no man wants to deal with-shrinkage. That’s right; my left calf began to atrophy. In a brief amount of time it became ¾ of an inch smaller than my right calf. I was assured by doctors this was nothing to be greatly concerned about because I have rather large calves. The concern was that something was causing the disintegration of my lower leg. It was explained that much like kinking a running hose to lessen the water flow my nerve signals and neuromuscular response had also been restricted. As with my other injuries I adapted and moved on.
I have always trained using a variety of methods and styles, but the fact I could not compete in bench meets pushed me to branch out even further and to challenge myself in whole new ways. Driveway sessions using the Rogue sled proved to be an especially pleasing workout because it took me out of my element. We pulled and pushed the sled. We used a 100 ft. rope and reeled in the sled. We team pushed the sled around the neighborhood. Really anything you could think of we experimented with. As with most guy things, our outside concrete time became a battleground of trash talking. I suddenly was called an old man and other not so appropriate age related names. Pushing and pulling with heavy loads would not suffice. I threw down the gauntlet and barked that we needed to make sparks fly doing timed sprints with that bad boy sled.
I had a history with occasional minor hamstring tears that tended to be on my left side. The tears or strains were probably the result of being quad dominant leading to an imbalance in the strength ratio to my hamstrings. My poor hammies were pulling double duty as they essentially were also serving as my glutes. My incredible shrinking calf also did not help matters.
I harnessed up on the first timed sprint with the sled and took off like a bat out of hell. I knew when I finished that I had left the young whipper- snappers in the dust. It was not even close. Someone suggested and or challenged me to go even faster. They all assured me I could do it. What the hell I thought. I may as well rub it in. This time I erupted from the starting line like a whole pack of hellhounds and these were no name dogs-there was no calling them back. Again, I instinctively knew as I neared the finish line that a new standard had been set. However, as I crossed the line it suddenly felt as though I had been shot or bitten by a King Cobra, not that I really know what either would actually feel like, as I toppled to the pavement. This was one of those times where pain makes you do and say strange things. I spoke in tongues as I beaded up with sweat and tried not to lose my cookies in front of everyone. I was a crumpled heap shivering on the ground like a horse shedding flies. The timing for this was impeccable. My wife happened to return home and could not pull in the drive-way because my carcass blocked the entrance. The pec tear and bad fall had occurred only shortly before and she screamed now what have you done. The boys loaded me into the bed of a pickup and delivered me to my front door. This was no typical tear. This was a work of art- a colorful masterpiece.
TRAIN KEPT A ROLLIN
The pain is all you ever feel
A concrete will and a back of steel
I give my soul unto the wheel
It may or may not be surprising that I encounter some strange things while serving as assistant principal at a high school. Things really seem to get amped up when there is a full moon. One day I returned to my office from bus duty and received a frantic call from a concerned bus driver. The nature of the call revolved around an alleged case of self mutilation on the bus that was said to have horrified the younger students because of the quantity of blood splatter and droplets left behind. I promptly informed our school resource officer and we made our way to the supposed injured student’s home believing someone may be in need of immediate medical attention. We arrived at the residence and were invited in. It was apparent that the student was none the worse for wear. He was unharmed and in good spirits. Thank goodness. A weapon of sorts was produced as was the fake blood that served to traumatize the youngsters. This was actually a bigger deal than the young wannabe thespian had envisioned. It took an hour or so to sort out what had occurred and why it required school discipline. If the Pope rode through my kitchen on the back of a giraffe it would be no more surprising than the extent that some parents go to in order to cover for their child. Lots of ifs and buts are unleashed. Yeah and if a frog didn’t have long hind legs, he wouldn’t have squat to jump with. We eventually exited the home on fairly decent terms, but I knew deep down that this family would not be sending me a Christmas card.
It was beginning to get dark as the officer and I stepped from the porch and made our way down some steps to his waiting patrol car. We engaged in some small talk about the weather because it had started to lightly snow. As we began our descent on the second flight of stairs I stepped down on my left foot and as soon as I made contact with the concrete step my calf ruptured. I grimaced and probably muttered a dizzying array of expletives. My friend, the officer, asked if I needed any help. I told him not to touch me. I made it to the car and got in. Only then did I explain that I am certain I just tore my calf. I did not want the family watching us from the porch experience the pleasure of my pain.
The following morning I awakened to a lower extremity that would now be better described as a bull, its calf days were over. I managed to make it to school where I was advised by our nurse that I needed to seek medical attention. The concern was that a clot may develop. I tended to agree and I was also concerned because the injured calf was hotter than the devil’s anvil. I saw a doctor and actually adhered to his request that I go to therapy and wear a boot. The boot got old pretty fast. The therapist tried to plead and persuade me to strap on the boot for 6-8 weeks. I gave it the old college try, but 3 weeks was all I could commit to. There was nothing much I could do with this sort of injury. All you can do is roll on.
The gastrocnemius injury in 2015 was, without a doubt, directly linked to the fall I had resulting in the atrophy of the left inner calf. When I walked I dispersed my weight and adjusted my stride so that the outside of my calf would bear the brunt of the load. I compensated and this is where the tear occurred.
In the summer of 2016 the local newspaper was winding up a feature article about my home gym. The article focused on my open door policy. If someone wants to come and train at my basement they simply can walk in. This is actually more complicated than it seems. First and foremost people are unaccustomed to venturing into residences where they have never been. Many are afraid of me for some reason. Some are intimidated because of stories they have heard. The death metal music blaring and the sentry like gargoyles may turn a few away. However, those that eventually attend are always pleasantly surprised. Their fears are quickly vanquished by the outpouring of support and camaraderie that exists. I have hosted in the neighborhood of 2,500 free sessions since 1997. The newspaper caught wind of this and asked to do a story for the Saturday edition. A reporter spent months experiencing the way of the B and his crew. As the run date approached a photographer was sent to capture images of a typical workout.
I had one more set to go. It was early June and I was back to squatting. I generally begin the summer with work sets around 315 and I add fifty pounds per week. One summer years ago I was able to do 500 lbs. for 10 reps off a 15 inch box. My goal was to get back to that. The bar on this day was loaded to 405 pounds and I was to perform 10 reps. I walked into the power rack and got set under the safety squat bar. My common practice was to slightly turn out my right foot. This is how I felt comfortable and safe. I never really bothered to ponder why I had to set up in this fashion. I had no doubt in my mind that this would be an easy set. I figured I could then lead our outside workout that was more strongman event themed. I un-racked the weight and methodically began executing slow and controlled reps. All was well until the sixth up transitioned to the 7th down. I thought to myself, “Oh no! My VMO just let go.” The photographer was snapping away oblivious that something significant has just occurred. My crew knew and they dutifully took the weight and helped me rack it. No questions were asked and I said nothing. We did not want to scare our guest.
The vastus medialis or teardrop muscle is one of four muscles that make up the quadriceps. This muscle is involved in knee extension as well as correct tracking of the patella, or kneecap. As expected, my right leg above the knee swelled to a disproportionate size. It is sad to say but I was actually getting used to this sort of stuff. I did not seek an orthopedic doctor but I did seek the help of a physical therapist who guided me to a quick recovery. Inside my mind I knew this could not keep happening.
The trouble was that I did not have any idea of what stone to upturn to find solutions. I began to believe that this is just the way it is. KEPT A ROLLIN
I don't care what you say anymore, this is my life
Go ahead with your own life, and leave me alone
Throughout this article I shared most of my major injuries and why I believe they are ultimately linked. When injured the human body will try to rush you back to service in order to survive. This primal response exists because if you cannot move, then you are dead. My personal history of accidents and injuries is akin to a computer that has been reprogrammed, but there are error codes that pop up. The operating system does not function as it did originally.
The last two years something has markedly changed. No, I have not opted for surgery or joint replacements. I have not secured Dr. Feelgood to partake of his pain pills. I do not sit in a recliner or live a sedentary lifestyle. In a nutshell, I have discovered the mind body connection and the miraculous power of the body to heal if provided the time and opportunity. I have not experienced a single weightlifting related injury nor have I seen so much as a chiropractor, etc. for the last two years. So what was my fix or cure? There was no panacea but rather a collection of tools and practices I now use to improve my quality of life. Life is about using the whole box of crayons.
The following is my Top 10 list:
Talking to my pain-Dr.Sarno
No soft drinks
Following the 80% eating rule
Use of Turmeric/Curcumin
Some cold therapy
Magnesium Threonate or Citrimate
Use of Arginine/Citrulline
**Another article will be forthcoming explaining the details and specifics of the items above.**
This article has focused on movement and movement patterns and my ability to self-reset and maintain a better movement pattern. 1-2-3 has had a dramatic effect on my physical and mental well being. People have noticed a clear change in me. Some remain doubting Tom’s and I have no problem with that. They want data and facts as well as concise explanations of what is going on. I cannot provide that. I can say that the proof is in the pudding. By altering the nervous system of an individual there is a powerful, measureable impact for people. There is a desired outcome. I need no more proof and I do not harbor the need or desire to convince others that what I have chosen to do works.
Recently someone at the school where I work expressed in exasperated manner that, “man you are really in to eastern medicine.” I responded by simply nodding my head in approval. His response was that I really needed to debate his medical doctor friend. No, I do not need to waste precious time debating anyone. This rubbish is similar to some of our school’s cheer block. I consistently stress that rather them wasting energy cheering against the other team; it would perhaps be more beneficial to actually cheer for our team. As Tim Tebow recently stated, "You’re always going to have critics and naysayers and people that are going to tell you that you won’t, that you can’t, that you shouldn’t. Most of those people are the people that didn’t, that wouldn’t, and that couldn’t."
Keep moving and keep breathing.