The Causes of Failure, Part One - John McCallum (1972)

 

                                                      Originally published in this issue, March 1972. 

Note: For a time not long ago, a few people at the Drapers' site, IronOnline, had fun attempting to update The Keys to Progress, calling it Keys to Progress 2.0. We wanted to alter some of it (exercise selection, diet, etc.) without losing the whole approach and progression of the articles. No great changes, not changed into anyone's favorite approach, just a few updates that may make the series more productive. 

The six-page thread is here, and I'm the one with the name Neander who keeps realizing how little he knows about this whole affair called "lifting." 

The link to it is here:

https://www.davedraper.com/fusionbb/showtopic.php?tid/34966/tp/1/

and the first article in the series, The Time Factor, is here:

https://ditillo2.blogspot.com/2008/04/time-factor-john-mccallum.html

 

Feel free to comment there, and perhaps over time we can realize the dream from back then of this update, a free downloadable booklet that could be an add-on to the article series. It's a fine training series, dated somewhat and as always, there's things we learn along the way, individual things that are great to  share with likeminded, open-minded others. 

Not a big thing, just a thought is all. 

                                                           THE CAUSES OF FAILURE, PART ONE

                                                                       by John McCallum (1972)

He's well into the series at this point, I am sure quite confident in its success and the acceptance of his monthly submissions. Here, he stretches out a little in the intro and enjoys himself before getting into the training end of things . . . 

In a rundown section at the eastern border of the city there was, at one time, a small dusty area known rather generously as a children's playground. 

The playground, such as it was, lay three blocks from the harbor, slightly west of the Paine and McInley Marine Equipment Company [nope, no sign of such a place from the past online but it sure does have a nice sound to it, really nice word selection and easy-reading meter throughout this intro section], and directly downwind from the Western Transport Loading Dock #4, from which an endless stream of beef hides, nitrate fertilizers, bulk sulphur, and other odious commodities were dispatched to the outside world. 

On the other side of the harbor, a mile or so away, the oil refinery spilled its allotted quota into the water, sent up roaring flames from its exhaust stacks, and, when the humidity was just right, added its discouraging contribution to the already burdened atmosphere. 

The playground was bounded on one side by two square miles of combined freight yard and pool car assembly area. Two other sides consisted of shunting tracks and storage warehouses. The remaining side hosted a row of crumbling tenements and Fire Station #3. 

The playground, itself, was a pitiful sight. Ten years previous, in a flush of philanthropic fervor, a local service club had installed the customary selection of swings, teeter-totters, chinning bars, and so on. Time, however, had made serious inroads. The metal posts and bars were streaked with rust. The teeter-totter board and the seat of the one remaining swing were cracked and split with three-inch splinters. The flying rings had long since flown, and the ground, since no grass was ever planted, ranged from two inches of dust in the dry season to a field of mud when it rained. 

From early morning until well after dark, the playground was jammed with kids of all ages. Their presence was not, as you might suppose, a tribute to the playground. They had simply no other place to go. And, since the playground was not supervised, the children were left to their amusement which over the years settled into a fairly steady and predictable pattern. 

The little ones . . . pre-teen . . . ran around and got dirty and screamed and fought over the equipment. The older girls clustered in little groups and giggled a lot and pretended not to look at the boys showing off on the horizontal bar. The older boys pretended not to look at the girls. 

Larry French was a dark-haired, wiry lad who was born and raised two blocks from the playground. Larry worried a lot, and he slid into his teens with a growing concern regarding his lack of financial solvency.    

When he was fifteen, Larry attempted a giant swing and cutaway on the high-bar in an effort to impress a certain Sue Nero, a young of precocious and imposing development. Larry's hand slipped on the second revolution. He landed upside down and broke his left arm. Miss Nero snickered audibly and strolled away with another boy who had blonde curly hair and more sense than to get up on a high-bar in the first place. By the time Larry's arm was out of the cast, Sue, who would later go on to a career in large-breasted hirsute porn, had instilled in him an attitude of skepticism towards the fair-to-middling sex. 

When he was sixteen, Larry had a fistfight with a new boy in the neighborhood, a tall, bony lad with dark little eyes and a pimply complexion. The new boy's stock in trade was the left jab. The punch, delivered with astonishing precision reduced Larry to ruin in something under five minutes. 

Fights were common in the neighborhood, and Larry, being gifted with a better-than-average mind, decided to acquire a slight edge over the opposition. He weighed the relative merits o the switchblade and the wool sock full of sand (hockey pucks if a Canuck) and wisely discarded both as being just slightly more lethal than the circumstances warranted. 

Oh-oh, this best not be heading where I think it is . . . 

Larry, six months after that Get Big Drink discovery.

Larry considered all the angles and decided that muscles, being inexpensive, relatively inconspicuous, and perfectly legal, were the solution to his problem. His visits to the playground became regular and purposeful.

The only equipment in the playground adaptable to formal exercise was the horizontal bar. He did them front grip, reverse grip, wide grip and narrow grip. He did them to his chin and did them to the back of his neck (an example of how short The Keys to the Inner Universe could have been). He did set after endless set and, slowly but surely, his biceps and forearms grew hard and muscular and his lats took on a different shape. 

Larry did dips on the parallel bars with the same fervor. He did numerous sets and he squeezed the maximum number of repetitions out of each one of them. Larry's triceps grew strong and defined and his pecs began to grow. 

When he finished his chins and dips, Larry went to the teeter-totter board and did situps on it. And while the practice generated a certain amount of friction between himself and the little kids who happened to be using it at the same time (get off our lawn! not one of us, one of us!), the equipment itself served admirably. Larry would lay on the board, head down, hook his toes under the central bar, and do situps until his stomach screamed He performed the situps as faithfully as the cheens and deeps. 

Note: at this stage of the game's evolution, 

there weren't three 24-hour film-studio gyms on every block. 

When Larry turned eighteen, he moved to the other side of the city and got a job. But he'd been bitten by the muscle bug pretty hard and he missed his old exercise sessions at the playground. He did pushups and situps without fail and without hyphens in his bedroom for a while, got bored with that, and finally enrolled in a small commercial gym. 

Weight training and Larry got along well together. 

He asked a lot of questions of the owner, and got a great deal of advice. 

He ignored most of it, but made good progress anyway. He had a good foundation from his workouts at the playground, and the equipment in the gym let him expand his program enormously. 

He did squats and cleans and curls and so on. He worked on the benches and pulleys and anything else that was available and gradually he added muscle. 

Larry made good progress for a while. He wasn't bulky, but his muscles were shapely and well defined. His progress, however, eventually came to a halt. Larry trained hard for three more months with practically no results. Finally, in desperation, he went to see the gym owner.

The owner we tilted back in his chair with his feet up on the desk and an open can of protein tablets in his left hand. He fished out a tablet with his right hand, flipped it into the air, moved his head slightly, and caught the tablet in his mouth. He tried it again. The tablet landed on his throat and slid down inside his shirt. 

"That's a kinda messy way of eating them, ain't it?" Larry asked. 

"Could be worse," the gym owner said. "Imagine if it was Energol." [nice product placement with a touch of humor and sans blunt hammer!] He took his feet off the desk and sat up straight. "What's the trouble?" 

"I need help," Larry told him.

"My boy," the gym owner beamed. "You've come to the right man. 

"As long as it doesn't involve work or money, I'll be delighted to assist you. What would you like?" 

"It's my training," Larry said. "I ain't making no progress." 

"Right," the gym owner said. "I know." 

Larry blinked. "You know? Why didn't you say something?" 

"Larry, my boy," the gym owner said. "I've said something a hundred times. You either don't listen or else you don't believe me." 

Larry shook his head. 

"Well, go finish it and then come back," the gym owner said. "You're doing something very wrong, and I think maybe now you'll listen to me." 

"Tell me now," Larry said. 

The gym owner shook his head. "After your workout." He leaned across the desk. "The mistake you're making is one of the principle causes of failure. Every unsuccessful bodybuilder does it. I want you to think about that during your workout, and then come back and we'll have a long talk about it." 

"Okay," Larry said. "Don't go away." He turned and walked out of the office. 

The gym owner put his feet up on the desk again, tilted back in his chair, and flipped up a protein tablet. He moved his head and caught the tablet in his mouth.

"Fantastic," he told himself. 

He flipped another, moved his head, and the tablet hit him on the eye. 

Larry French finished his workout. Then he showered, dressed, and walked into the gym owner's office. 

He motioned Larry over. "Take a look at that," he said. 

Larry glanced out. 

"Take a look at what?" 

"The shoe store," the gym owner said. "Look at the prices." 

Larry looked out again. The store directly across the street was draped and garnished with enough ribbon for an Easter pageant. Large, brightly colored signs in the window blared the news of a storewide clearance of men's quality footwear at the most sensational price reductions since the original vending of Manhattan Island. 

The gym owner popped the rest of the tablets into his mouth. "Stay here," he said. He squirmed into his jacket. "I'm gonna slip over and pick up a couple pair." 

"They're factory rejects," Larry told him.

The gym owner paused. "Factory what?" 

"Rejects," Larry said. "Factory rejects. The soles are made of cardboard, the uppers come off, and the whole store full ain't worth ten bucks." 

The gym owner blinked his eyes. "You're putting me on." 

Larry yawned. "My uncle owns the store." 

The gym owner peered out the window. "That's unreal. How could your uncle handle junk merchandise and still run a store?" 

Larry snickered. "I'd own the Taj Mahal if I could meet a yokel like you every day of the week." 

The gym owner took off his jacket. He walked behind his desk and slumped into the chair. "Larry," he said. "You gotta be the most discouraging son-of-a-gun I ever met." 

"Not discouraging," Larry told him. "Realistic." 

"Maybe so," the gym owner sighed. "Maybe so." 

"Anyway," Larry said, "it's beside the point." 

"Really?" the gym owner said. "What was the point." 

"My lack of progress," Larry said. "That's the point. You were going to help me. Remember?" 

"Of course I remember," the gym owner said. "Do you think I'm an idiot?" He straightened up in his chair. "Er . . . he cleared his throat . . . just give me a brief summary, will you?" 

"Certainly," Larry said. "I haven't gained an ounce in the last six months. Is that brief enough?" 

"Perfect," the gym owner said. "Concise and to the point." 

"And if I don't start gaining pretty soon," Larry said, "I'm gonna take my business elsewhere. How does that sound?" 

"Not too good," the gym owner said. He pushed back his chair. "Fortunately, however, that dire event need never transpire. I know exactly what your trouble is." 

"Then how come you never told me before?" Larry said.   

"I have told you," the gym owner said. "I've told you a dozen times. You just don't believe me."

"Tell me again." 

The gym owner took the can of protein tablets and et it down in front of Larry. "The reason you aren't gaining is because you aren't getting enough protein." I keep telling you to take a supplement." 

Larry snorted. "I don't need that stuff." 

"You do need it." The gym owner sighed. "You're so bloody suspicious you think everything is a ripoff." He got up and went to the filing cabinet and started rooting through it. He pulled out paper by the handful, scanned it, and dug deeper into the files. "Got to get this in order, someday," he muttered. 

Larry waited patiently. 

The gym owner began to hum softly to himself. He tapped time with his foot and the music got louder. "Dum, dum, de dum, de dum," he sang, "de dum, de dum, de dum, de dum dum, dum dum." 

"Catchy tune," Larry said. 

"The Anvil chorus," the gym owner told him. "From 'Il Trovaote'."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHrA1sRoTxM 

"Pardon?"

"It's an opera," the gym owner explained. "'Il Trovatore.' It means 'The Troubadour'." 

"Like in a bullfight?" Larry asked.

"No, no," the gym owner shook his head. "You're thinking of a matador." 

"I thought that's what stood in front of a hotel." 

"That's a revolving door." 

Larry thought about it for a moment. "Listen," he said. "That isn't exactly what I had in mind." 

"No matter," the gym owner said. He pulled a folder from the cabinet. "Here we are." 

He walked back to the desk and opened the folder. "Take a look." 

"That's nice," Larry said. "It looks like the herringbone pattern on a twelve dollar overcoat." 

The gym owner traced his finger across the lines. "Do you see the significance." 

Larry studied the graph. "Frankly," he said. "No." 

The gym owner pointed to the left-hand margin of the card. "Here's where you start ed. See how all your lifts and measurements started to climb?"

"Yeah," Larry said wistfully. "I gained real well for a while." 

"Right," the gym owner said. "Due entirely of course, to my invaluable assistance and expert supervision." 

"And my hard work," Larry said. He tapped his fingers on the graph. "And I wasn't taking a protein supplement then, either." 

"No," the gym owner said, "you weren't. But you were a beginner. You were bound to make rapid gains no matter what you did. Furthermore, you had a real good foundation to build on from all the exercise you did in that playground you hung around in." 

"Yeah," Larry said. "I wish I had a buck for every hour I spent in that place." 

"You said it was getting pretty beat up. Do you ever go back there?" the gym owner asked him.

Larry shook his head. "The city sold the property to an auto wrecking company. They put a high board fence all around it." 

"I don't suppose they installed new playground equipment, did they?" 

"Not exactly," Larry said. "They installed two hundred junk cars and a Doberman." 

"Too bad," the gym owner said. "There's a moral there somewhere if you could put your finger on it." 

"I suppose," Larry said. He touched the card. "But let's get back to this." 

"Okay," the gym owner said. He pointed to the graph. "Now, see where your gains slowed down and finally quit altogether?" 

Larry nodded. 

"Well, that's where you got past the beginner's stage," the gym owner said. "And that's what happens to about ninety percent of all bodybuilders. They make good progress for a while, get to about the intermediate stage, and then bog down. They put in all that work and then, just when they're getting to the point of building up a sensational body, their gains stop." 

"And what causes that?" 

"One of two things," the gym owner said. "Either their training is faulty or their nutrition is. It's gotta be one or the other." 

"What about my case?" 

"Simple," the gym owner told him. "There's nothing wrong with your training, therefore your nutrition is faulty." 

"How do you know there's nothing wrong with my training?"

"Because," the gym owner said . . . he coughed modestly . . . "I designed your program personally." 

"You shouldn't be so shy about it," Larry said. 

"So the answer to your problem is very simple," the gym owner said. "Improve your nutrition and you'll start gaining again." 

"And how do I improve it?" Larry said. 

"You must be hard of hearing," the gym owner said. "I just told you." He held up the can. "Take a good protein supplement." 

"And I just told you I don't believe in that stuff," Larry said. 

"Then forget about training," the gym owner said. "You're just wasting your time." 

Larry took the can of tablets. "It can't be that important." 

The gym owner leaned back in his chair. "Larry, my boy," he said. "I'm gonna lay it out for you just one more time. If you still don't believe me, then there's nothing more I can do for you." 

He held up four fingers. "In the whole history of bodybuilding, there's been four radical improvements. Four things of absolutely devastating importance to bodybuilders. There's been lots of minor improvements and variations, of course, but only four major ones." 

"What are they?" Larry asked.

The gym owner bent one finger. "First," he said, "there was the development of the heavy breathing squat as a growth stimulation exercise." He bent another finger. "Second, was the refinement of the multiple set technique." He bent another finger. "And third, was the introduction of food supplements." He closed his hand and let if fall into his lap.

There was a long pause. 

Larry leaned forward. "What was the fourth advancement?" 

The gym owner beamed. "My entry into the field," he said. "I thought you'd never ask." 

Larry rolled his eyes upward. 

The gym owner leaned back and put his feet up on the desk. "Larry," he said, "pay attention, 'cause I'm gonna lay something very heavy on you. You ain't never gonna gain properly until you take a protein supplement, and I'm gonna tell you why." 

Continued in Part Two . . . 

Enjoy Your Lifting!