Terminator Pull Ups, a Lesson Learned at the Bar

My 14 year old likes to go out for long walks or bicycle rides.  He has explained that he uses the fresh air and quiet to regroup, all in all a pretty healthy coping mechanism for a kid in the throws of high school.  Much to my surprise this year, all he asked for for Christmas was a pull-up bar.  Such a curiosity to me in the age of air pods and souped up electronics.  He is not really a formal exerciser, but he explained his love of being in motion has made his lower body strong, and left his upper body weak.  So, his solution was a simple pull-up bar.  I figured that seemed logical, so Christmas morning he found himself in our home gym with his first steel free standing pull-up bar pounding out ten at a time Sarah Conner "Terminator 2" style.  Ahhh.... youth.

What I did not anticipate with his gift was the personal reaction I would have to said piece of steel.  I suppose it is the PTSD of being the fat kid trying to earn the Presidential Fitness Patch in the 70's.  At that time, pull-ups were part of the deal for boys, as was the coveted,"flex arm hang" for girls.  Honestly?  It didn't really matter what it called for on this torture device, I certainly was not going to achieve it.  I grew to loathe the pull-up bar and the humiliation associated with it.  Yet, here I am at age 50 with that very thing taking up residence in my basement. 

When I think about my past year of Spartan racing, yes, I have a pile of shiny medals, and fancy finisher's shirts, but the truth is, my racing was different this year.  Adding 15 pounds of muscle, as I focused on strength training, suddenly made the already difficult hanging obstacles simply "Amy's burpee stations."  I did not effectively cross even one this race year, which was certainly a change from last year.  My mounting frustration over being able to lift super heavy and yet not cross the rings like I had in past years became quite the mind game.  So, I did what I always do when I cannot take the turmoil, I ratted myself out to my accountability partner and commit to doing pull-ups every day to try to prepare for Spartan Race Season 2020, because 2019 held way more burpees than I cared to repeat. 

The first time I approached the bar, I knew it wasn't going to work.  I could do little more than hang.  My childhood humiliation and frustration came flooding back to me, and I found a hatred for this piece of steel that came from deep within.  I found myself on Amazon ordering the freaking bungee assist, because that's what independent badasses need, a stupid bungee cord.  Why couldn't I do this?  Why did I promise my partner I would?  Screw it.  Will take the burpees.  I hate burpees too, but let's face it, I could do those.  The only flaw in that logic is it is much easier to let myself down than it is someone I made a promise to, so here I was locked in.

So, off I went in week one, five full assisted pull ups, only I could not do them five in a row..... I could do three then two.  This was going to take a while, and to be honest, I found myself giving this steel contraption of horror the bird every time I had to walk by the stupid thing, as if the steel could somehow absorb my anger with it all.  Yet I did it anyway.  I should probably clarify, this is a lot of bird giving.  The bar is on my way to the laundry room.  With six humans under my roof laundry is my second full time job. 

I would go on to do what anyone suffering through difficult training would do, I whined to my trainer.  This was hard.  I was not getting anywhere.  Apparently, I thought he had a magical wand to wave to make it somehow easier.  He didn't have that, but he did have a simple piece of advice.  Try a chin up.  Wait... aren't those the same thing?  No.  Reverse the grip to underhand and use the biceps I have worked so hard to gain.  Much to my surprise I could do those.  I still needed an assist, but I could do them, even five in a row.  Somehow finding this little change gave me enough success to keep working toward the bigger goal of full on  Terminator  badass pull-ups, just like my kid.

My experience working the bar has made me think about the frustrations of life.  How many times do we direct long standing frustrations over seemingly insurmountable past circumstances to the proverbial pile of steel we are currently trying to overcome?   Maybe the better answer is to seek out those who see our potential better than we do, let them help guide us to change our technique to use what we have already gained, and not be afraid to push past the pride of being an independent badass and use the assist to grow into what we really hope to achieve.

So, here we are in March.  I suppose I should give a status update on Operation Terminator Pull Up 2020.  I still do them every single day.  I have decreased the amount of times the steel is shown the bird and increased the pull ups and chin ups to 8 apiece with the assist, except on laundry days.  Then it is the usual 16 plus two per load, making the walk by less about the bird and more about the work.  It's still frustrating, but the deep seeded trauma of the Presidential Fitness Test 1979 seems to be fading.  As for my son?  He's up to banging out 15-20 at a time and has biceps that rival my 23 year old's.  It just goes to show, if we celebrate the small victories sometimes we get the glimpse of the best things that are surely yet to come.