𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

Welcome, dear reader, to the first edition of what is sure to be an ongoing love letter dedicated to the journey I have thus far taken with my lionized Brother Iron and Sister Steel, an exceedingly formidable duo that has scratched, clawed and gnarled its way into being the most prominent constant of my life. At times, it feels as if I can vaguely remember the days prior to my falling in love with the lifting and tossing of all things metal, massive, heavy, and burdensome. Okay, okay, I can recollect a few of the months and years of not dutifully loading up my gym bag and venturing some 20-60 minutes away from home, solely for the sake of experimenting with some snazzy new barbell, dumbbell or colossal apparatus, but those days just didn't hold the same fulfillment that rooms full of heavy, hefty and weighty toys seemed to provide. I'm going to postulate that my meek beginnings with gyms in general began between 2009 and 2010, when wandering into the college gym, flanked by two swell companions, supplied us with entertaining ways of eating up time spent between lectures. Back then, I faintly knew what I was stumbling upon, but what I was actually about to discover would change the course of my entire life. Who says a blog post can't be dramatic? What I would come to unearth was that the weights, with all of their lovable handles, pulleys and knurling, would provide me with a daily satisfaction so fathomless, that I eventually didn't want to go 24 hours without it. Over time (the perennial theme of this post), my esteem for nearly everything, from people, to food, to my own body and its near boundless capabilities (I'm a tough, strong dude), changed for the greater. I would look forward to nothing more than being treated to another morning bolt of adrenaline, inspiration and confidence, tightly packed within that musclebound rod of electricity I called bodybuilding. I was bit, hooked and obsessed, so much so that I would make it to a gym, any gym, as early as I possibly could, bulldozing through whatever weather Mother Nature erroneously thought would stop me. I figured  (in my cosmic wisdom) that if wrestling myself underneath 405 pounds would make for the highlight of my day and deliver me to my own personal penultimate point of happiness (PPPH for short), that I should get to it as soon as humanly possible. What made even more good sense regarding an early morning tussle with the bars and bells was that I could ride the high that they would inevitably gift me all day afterwards, having visited with them before any other people or situation required my attention, thus also eradicating the feasibility of a missed workout. Never miss a workout. Doing so almost always makes you feel like you're lame, lumpy and on the losing end. The mental focus that was a matter of course when handling load and tonnage (well, maybe not that heavy) would keep my mind crisp and clear-cut for whatever tasks followed. Come dinner time, I knew I had earned the salary that was about to be paid out to me by way of palatable sustenance, confident that my ten or more sets of barbell squats, deadlifts or bench presses would find next to any food agreeable and appreciated. Did I mention that I've been a vegetarian for the past 16 or so odd years? Well, I'm a vegan now, but how I arrived at that ultimatum is a post for another day. I'm hip, fancy and fascinating. Or so my three Pomeranians tell me. As it happens, I could fill an airport hangar with my awe-inspiring retellings of muscle and might, nutrition and nature, but I'll torment you with some of those adventures another time. Until then, be well and be happy.

PEF

forteriemuscle@gmail.com

Fort Erie Muscle HQ (Liftus Maximus)