The Meathead Manifesto. Brody McVittie

y-line/>

      The Meathead Manifesto.

      Brody McVittie.

       Foreword

       This is advice for guys.

       Guys who workout as hard as they party.

       Guys who know what the ‘Mr. Olympia’ is.

       Guys who subscribe to Flex.

       Guys who know 38 variations of the chest press;

       Guys who are probably clueless when it comes to women.

       Guys like me.

       When I was asked to write a series of bodybuilding articles for a renowned fitness website, I was thrilled.

       Pumped.

       I could do this in my sleep—and the result of that series, more or less, makes up Book 1: Meditations on lifting heavy things, (many times in a row.)

       There’s advice in there for everybody, but be warned—if you don’t know your ‘Dexter Jackson’s from your ‘Branch Warren’s, you’re gonna need Google nearby.

       Bearing that in mind, the message is for everybody who ever wanted to get the most out of their time in the gym.

       When I was asked to write a series of relationship advice articles for a popular Toronto lifestyle website, I. Was. Terrified. Bewildered.

       This was harder than seventh grade math—which was, coincidentally, about the time of my last mature, meaningful relationship.

       I fooled my editor, though, and the articles contained in Book 2: Meditations on Girls, and stuff are the result of countless failed conquests with dozens of disappointed women.

       When I was asked to write a series of articles on Nutrition, it was by me. To fill out the contents of this book.

       I was pretty happy about it.

       Bear in mind that I’m not a certified nutritionist—I’m just a guy who took an interest in building muscles, and the science behind feeding them.

       Book 3: Meditations on Nutrition . . . and Supplementation (. . . and other stuff I’m grossly unqualified to give advice on) pretty much shares everything I’ve stumbled upon up to this point.

       As a Certified Personal Trainer, I want to help my clients reach their fitness goals. As a writer, I want to give people the knowledge (and, hopefully, some motivation) to take their physique to the next level.

       I know I’m trying to, everyday.

       Hopefully, if you’re reading this, you can learn something from this meathead’s mistakes.

The Meathead Manifesto, Book I

       Getting Through That First Week

      . . .

      So you took a chance, joined a gym.

      Great.

      You should know, there’s more to it than flashing the pass on the end of your keychain; you’re paying the cash, you better get in there, tough guy.

      Sure, it’s scary the first time. The lights are bright, the girls are beautiful and the guys—well, for every average-sized one walking around, there’s two that could give He-Man a run for his money.

      And He-Man is a big dude.

      Yeah, there are dumbbells with numbers higher than you remember there being numbers, and He-Man in the corner has been putting them up since you walked in the door, but don’t worry, little man.

      There’s a place for you in the free-weight room, and you better believe the monsters will respect you for getting in there and finding it, day in and day out.

      Respect, a lot more than the guy peeking at you from behind the Smith machine.

      . . .

      Yeah, Mondays are tough, you tell yourself, but if cinnamon-skinned Sally can bust an hour on the elliptical, then you can get your lazy ass to the gym.

      . . .

      Sure, you injured yourself on the couch last night, but its Tuesday, and you know damn well Jack Bauer wouldn’t hide from the Squat rack.

      . . .

      Wednesdays—well, Wednesdays suck for all of us.

      Go to the gym.

      Conventional wisdom states that you need an offday; Thursday ain’t it. The bench won’t press itself, and you want to look pumped for the weekend, so Thursday might as well be Monday, because you’re starting over.

      . . .

      By Friday, you’ve got to be feeling good—maybe good enough to smile at the walking L’Oreal commercial on the treadmill beside you—the one who’s probably noticed your newfound commitment.

      And not just because it’s her favorite word.

      . . .

      Now, the weekend—the weekend could be your downtime. You could kick back; admire the hard work you’ve put in over the last five days.

      Could—but you know damn well what Arnold would say, and Saturday is just two shy of Monday, so why ruin a good thing?

      You’re already the envy of the wimp hiding behind the Smith machine.

       The Importance of the Training Partner

      . . .

      Okay, so you’re a little nervous.

      You’ve got every right to be—maybe it’s been awhile, maybe you’re worried you’ve still got some coleslaw on that dumb smile stretched across your face.

      Relax—first dates are tough on everybody, superstar—just bat those pretty eyes, pick up the ‘35’s, and curl ‘em until your ears bleed.

      It’s your training partner’s first time, too.

      . . .

      So what if he’s got zero after the two on the measuring tape wrapped tightly against his arm?

      Fourteen and a half ain’t bad, and that fifteenth inch you’re gunning for won’t add itself to your bicep.

      . . .

      Working out with somebody new for the first time is hard on everybody, no matter if 35 pound dumbbells represent their max curl, or their bare minimum—but you can bet the best way to impress Arnold over there is to get on the bench, and just rep, coleslaw or not.

      Because any bodybuilder worth his salt respects drive and determination over forced negatives and three plates.

      Now, mind you, three plates aren’t all bad, either, but the only way you’ll get there is making the kind of call-in-sick-tomorrow lifts you’ll need a spotter to cap off.

      Think about it—nothing will make you feel better about adding that third plate than having someone there to share it with; someone who’s been there for the times two almost broke you; the times wife-beaters were just bad dudes on the six o’clock news, the times coleslaw made you think twice about smiling at Sally.

      . . .

      So all you new meatheads, don’t