Training

In my current off-season, I do not have a day solely dedicated to training my shoulders.

I’m in the off-season and I’m still utilizing “daily undulating periodization” (DUP) for my training. DUP is a template for planning how your training will be structured and how it will allow you to make progress with in it.

Isolated vs. Systemic All too often I find people looking at training as something that is specific to a particular muscle group.

No matter who are or what your goal, it is safe to say that you will likely find yourself on the road, away from home and outside of your normal routine.

It is not an uncommon sight. As a matter of fact, I see it pretty regularly. The imaginary luggage-toting wannabe, with arms angled out at peculiar degrees, strutting amongst the normal folks like his shit don't stink.

The back is the most important portion of the bodybuilder's physique. It is a vast and complex muscular area that requires the utmost of focus and intensity if it is to be brought to fruition in dynamic fashion.

If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a thousand times. It all comes back to that age-old adage, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Dudes in gyms across the country and around the world bust their ass to blow up their quads and then do a couple of sets of leg curls, if that, before they head on out the door.

It begins. The apprehension grows as the hours dwindle. Leg day is coming and you fucking loathe it. You hate the unbearable pain. You hate the tons of defiant steel. You hate what you must become today.

With the possible exception of the forearms, no body part is so often brutally exposed to the collective vision of the outside world as the calves.

There is no ability, in this peculiar subculture of ours that is valued as greatly as the ability to press ponderous poundage. Be it the bench press, the military press, barbell incline or decline or simply tossing around some three-figure dumbbells, the power to push some serious weight is a priceless resource in the world of iron.

Arms. Bulging, peaked biceps, gnarly brachialis, freaky forearms and jagged, thick triceps that resemble sides of beef are needed if you dare to bang heads with the fucking big boys.

If you saw Atlas, the giant who holds the world on his shoulders, if you saw that he stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the greater his effort the heavier the world bore down upon his shoulders—what would you tell him to do?