вобщем я конвертировал в ворд формат, но файл стал 87 мб... И винраром не жмется почемуто((( Могу 1ю главу сюда вставить книги. Так уже можно будет с лингвой переводить!
ForewordLet the record show...
On September 12, 2005, I walked into my gym with the goal of seeing how much strength I'd gained during my 12 weeks on Chad Waterbury's Total Strength Program, which is the heart of this book you hold in your hands. I could feel
that my 48-year-old body had changed during the previous three months, and
had heard a few compliments on my appearance. But I knew the true test of the program was the one I was about to take.
I had done the bench-press routine—which, as you'll see, is one of several versions of the TSP you can choose—with the goal of breaking my own meager records in the lift. I had two in mind: I had bench-pressed 260 pounds for one repetition roughly three years before, and around that time I had knocked out
four repetitions with 225 pounds. Both of those records were one-time events; I couldn't remember benching more than 225 pounds in the past three years, and even that was for just one rep.
So those were my targets on that Monday afternoon.
My first hint that this wasn't destined to be a record-setting day came when
I managed just three reps with 225. But I hadn't really pushed myself, since I
was also shooting for higher numbers on single lifts. I asked one of the gym's trainers to spot me for my next set, a single attempt with 235. I got it easily. Three minutes later, I asked him to spot me again with 245. I got it, although it wasn't
easy. It was more than I'd lifted in at least three years, but I didn't think I'd be satisfied unless I made at least one more lift.
So I slid a pair of two-and-a-half-pound plates on the bar, upping the total to
250, and asked the trainer to spot me one more time. I got the bar maybe three inches off my chest, and then shook my head. Not today. The trainer helped me
lift the bar back to the uprights, and that was that. I'd worked on this lift for three months, using a program I knew was unique and that I thought would produce unprecedented strength.
Don't get me wrong: I didn't feel bad about my performance that day. I was stronger than I'd been in three years, and I felt great. Experienced lifters know that max-strength programs can leave you feeling as if an insane carpenter has attacked your shoulders and elbows with a nail gun, and after three months on
this one, my joints still felt strong and healthy.
But then again, before this workout, my muscles had felt strong, too— stronger than ever, I'd thought. Unfortunately, they weren't. Not on this lift, anyway.
I did a restorative workout on Wednesday, the 14th, focusing on the
supporting muscles surrounding my shoulder and hip joints.
On Thursday the 15th, I went back into the gym with the idea that I'd wing it.
I'd do all my lifts with dumbbells, and just kind of make up a routine as I went
along. I hadn't done any presses—chest or shoulder—with dumbbells in the three months I'd been on Chad's program, and I figured my body could use a change
of pace.
I started with chest presses, warming up with sets of 40, 60, and 80 pounds.
It felt easy. I knocked out five reps with 90 pounds, still stopping short of truly pushing myself. Then it hit me: I may have just set a personal record. I flipped through my old training logs (I typically have months' worth piled up on the clipboard I carry around in the gym), and saw that I was mistaken. I'd done a
set of six reps with 90 pounds back in April. So I checked to see what my record was with 95. I couldn't find any evidence that I'd lifted it more than two times, so I thought I'd try for three.
To my surprise, I knocked out five. And I still didn't feel as if I'd maxed out.
I looked at the next set of dumbbells on the rack: 100 pounds. I didn't need
to consult my training diaries to know I'd never bench-pressed 100-pounders successfully. I could find one record of trying and failing, and suspected that wasn't the only time I'd missed with the triple digits. So now the challenge was clear: If I could do even one rep with 100 pounds in each hand, I could say honestly that I was stronger than I'd ever been in my life, at the age of 48, after
35 years of lifting.
I set the weights between my feet as I stood at the end of the bench, hoisted them to my thighs, sat down on the bench, then lay down as I kicked the
dumbbells off my thighs and rested them on the edges of my shoulders. I was flat on my back with 100 pounds of inert iron in each hand. I paused long enough to ensure there was no momentum from any previous movement, pushed, and felt
the weights moving up from my shoulders. They kept moving up, all the way to lockout, and a new record. Then I tried another rep, and although I struggled, I managed to complete the lift. I tried a third, got the weights moving an inch or so, but didn't really come close to finishing it.
Still: I had set two new personal records on a lift I hadn't tried in months, on a day when I had walked into the gym with no plan to test myself—no plan at all, in fact.
Since I was still making up the workout as I went along, I decided to knock out some sets of chin-ups and dumbbell shoulder presses, superseding the exercises with little rest in between. Again, I started with no intention to set a personal record. It had been months since I'd attempted any heavy shoulder presses, and in middle age I'd developed a healthy fear of exercises that I
thought might put my shoulder joints at risk of injury. I've lost count of the number
of trainers I've interviewed over the years who were convinced that overhead presses were the death of a lifter's shoulders. Although I didn't agree with those trainers, I'd had enough shoulder injuries in my youth to make me suspect they were at least partially right.
The first set of shoulder presses, with 40-pound weights, felt easy. So did
50 pounds. I quickly flipped through the pages of my training logs, trying to find some record of my best-ever lifts. I found one set of six reps with 55 pounds, and saw that I'd failed to do a single rep with 60 on the next set.
That seemed about right to me, at least regarding the 60 pounders. (To tell
the truth, I was surprised to see I'd done that many reps with 55 pounds. I guess I'm the opposite of most lifters, whom I suspect have a tendency to adjust their memories for inflation, convincing themselves they've lifted heavier loads than
they really have.) The idea of setting a third personal record in this workout suddenly seemed realistic.
So, after my final set of chin-ups, I grabbed the 60-pound dumbbells and hoisted them to my shoulders. The first rep went up easily. So did the second, third, and fourth. The fifth was a struggle, so I didn't attempt a sixth.
It wasn't until I put the weights back in the rack that the strangeness of what
I'd just done came into focus. How could I knock out five reps with a weight I'd
never successfully shoulder-pressed even once? This on a lift I hadn't attempted, according to my records, in the previous five months.
Something different had happened.
What now?
I'd be the first to tell you that a single lifter's success with any given program
is predictive of nothing. It doesn't say anything about your chances with that
same program. I've managed to write four books about strength training without ever once using my own experience with the programs as a selling point. My feeling was—and still is—that if the program comes from a trainer with the sort
of talent and track record that merits inclusion in a book, my own results with the program are irrelevant. That's not to say I take their word for it; I always
test-drive programs before I recommend them to readers, and in that sense my reaction has always mattered. If I hadn't gotten bigger, stronger, and/or leaner in the programs designed by Mike Mejia, Ian King, and Alwyn Cosgrove, I wouldn't have included them in Testosterone Advantage Plan, Home Workout Bible, Book
of Muscle, and New Rules of Lifting.
But there's a downside to being my own crash-test dummy. Because I've done so many programs designed by so many of the world's top trainers, my
body has made just about all the adaptations it's going to make. Thanks to what
I learned from Mejia, King, Cosgrove and others (including my friend Craig Ballantyne, who designed the program on which I set my personal records in the barbell bench press), I had hit personal bests in all the major lifts throughout my fifth decade of life, even during my fourth decade of lifting. That's while taking
ever-greater caution against injuries, maintaining a steady body weight of about
185 pounds, and never being tempted to try a steroid.
Until Chad told me about his program, I figured that I was truly at my limit in terms of muscle mass and pure strength. I didn't fret over my limitations; on the contrary, I saw my maxed-out muscles as a sign that I'd done as much as I could with the time and energy I choose to devote to my favorite recreational pursuit. In fact, the idea of trying to push past my maximums seemed ill-advised at my stage
in life. Why not enjoy what I'd accomplished? I knew I could maintain most of my strength and size, since I'd done exactly that for the past several years. I had no desire to put any more weight on my skeleton, and my ego certainly didn't need any gratification. Would I be a better man if I benched or squatted or deadlifted
more than I had in years past? Would my wife and kids love me more? Would my books sell any better?
I did, however, want to write a book about strength—that's why Chad and
I were in contact with each other in the first place. I was looking for a unique program to build the book around, and was impressed enough with Chad's work that I thought he might be able to provide one. And, of course, I knew I'd try whatever program I was considering for the book, whether it came from Chad or another trainer. But I don't recall thinking that I'd actually get bigger and stronger
in the process. I just hoped I'd find a program that would be fun and challenging. Instead, Chad showed me a program that made me, against the odds,
stronger than I'd ever been.
I was so impressed with the Total Strength Program that I abandoned my own idea for a strength book, and began working with Chad on Muscle Revolution.
The program was too unique, too innovative, too interesting to squeeze into someone else's book, even if I was that someone else. It needed to be the centerpiece of Chad's first book, surrounded by his other cutting-edge ideas
about the best ways to get bigger, stronger, and leaner. And I needed to fade into the background as an editor, rather than putting my own spin on his ideas as an author.
1 think Muscle Revolution is as substantive a book as you'll find on the subject
of building strength and mass for intermediate to advanced lifters. And I freely admit I'm biased when I say that—biased toward my own work, that is. Oh, I still like my own books just fine. I'll keep writing them, too. But this is one I couldn't have written, and one I'm glad I got the chance to edit.
Once you've tried the Total Strength Program, I think you'll know exactly what
I mean.
- Lou Schuler