It’d been about two months since our HC-6 Aviation Detachment [ie Air Det] left homeport in Norfolk, Virginia, steaming east onboard the USS Milwaukee (AOR-2). We’d crossed the Atlantic Ocean, conducted a NATO exercise in the Arctic Circle, sailed around the Mediterranean Sea, and had our first liberty-call in a French port called Marseille. I awoke one morning feeling the now familiar chug of the ship underway, engines clanking, hull wallowing through the water. I slipped into my flight suit and rubbed sleep from my eyes as I walked down the passageway to the officers’ wardroom. It was too early. Reveille hadn’t sounded yet. The ship was dark, airless. The p-way smelled like a dirty mop. The routine of navy shipboard life—bad food, bad sleep, bad smells—was wearing me down. I felt hung-over, even though I hadn’t had a drink in months.

As my senses sharpened, I realized the ship’s engines sounded louder than usual, straining against their workload. The whole ship seemed to vibrate, shuddering and moaning, a dull rumble echoing off the walls throughout the metal spaces. In the wardroom, I poured coffee from the half-full carafe into a white paper cup. It smelled old, fetid, like burnt leather. But I needed a strong caffeine jolt; my usual Diet Coke wasn’t going to cut it today.

Fresh milk wasn’t available; we’d already been underway too long. So, I stuck two foil packets of Cremora together, tapped it on the counter, tore off the top, dumped the beige dust into the sludge and stirred with a thin wooden stick. The liquid changed from Mississippi mud to burnt sienna. I took a hot sip and winced as the toxic liquid singed my insides. Cremora may advertise that it makes ‘good coffee taste even better,’ but it certainly made bad coffee taste even worse.

A couple of Surface Warfare Officers (SWOs) just off watch burst into the wardroom, their energy out of sync with the early hour. Aviation officers, like us [Airdales], called shipboard O’s Black Shoes. Airdales are fast and clean, screaming through blue skies at max velocity wearing brown shoes. SWOs operate in the dirty side of the navy world, chugging along, slow and steady, wearing black shoes to hide the grime. It’s a game with a long tradition.

Aviators blame all forms of shipboard absurdity on Black Shoes [aka Shoes]. A navy pilot might ask, “What’s the delay? When are we going to Flight Quarters?” Another pilot’s inevitable reply, “Who knows? Shoes.” After a while, the answer to most anything is just: “Fuckin’ Shoes,” uttered in flat tone with a slow shake of the head, reflecting the painful reality that Black Shoes must be patiently endured by Airdales in order to reap the ultimate pleasure: flying at sea.

“You feel it?” a Black Shoe said in my direction.

“Feel what,” I replied, taking another bitter sip, pretending the taste might improve.

“Twenty knots—ship’s making TWENTY knots.”

“Is that fast?” I said. But the Shoes had already moved on, pushing and shoving each other like giddy ten-year-olds.

I left the wardroom, climbed the ladder to the flight deck, and exited into the port helo hangar to join my crew: LT ‘Barge’ Bailey, and our two Aircrewmen, Timor and Rodriguez. Today, we’d be flying Zero-Seven.

“Ship feels weird,” Barge said.

“Yeah,” I said, caressing the helo’s steel nose, absently running my hand down the smooth plexiglass chin bubble, fingering the round rivet heads. Zero-Seven was a war horse. The old stallion would’ve been put out to pasture long ago in the Arizona sunshine and the Davis-Monthan bone yard if the navy had kept buying new aircraft. Since they didn’t, we just kept flying the old ones. Zero-Seven was one of the oldest. He’d taken shrapnel in his hind flank in Vietnam. Logbook showed a Da Nang field repair for battle damage, signed off in ‘67. You could see the metal patch aft, near the ramp, if you knew where to look.

Zero-Seven had power, toughness, dependability but he didn’t fly with the sweet awkward beauty of my Zero-Five. Poor old guy limped along like a lame horse with a one-per-revolution vibration that’d shake your teeth fillings out. We’d spent hours back on the beach before deployment tracking the rotors, changing blade weights, tweaking trim tabs. No one could seem to fix the vibe. You just had to ride it out.

“Shoes say we’re making twenty knots,” I said, still nursing my stale coffee.

“Holy shit, that’s a lot for a tub like this,” Barge said. “Wonder where we’re going in such a hurry?”

A few days later, the answer to Barge’s question became clear.

* * *

Our mission on this early Sunday morning was simple: fly Holy Helo transporting our ship’s chaplain to a series of smaller, chaplain-less ships, so he could provide counseling and religious services for the ship’s crew. We’d drop Chaps off at one small-boy, come back an hour later, pick him up, take him to the next ship. Only three ships were scheduled; the others were out of range. It should’ve been a Geedunk-flight [ie piece of cake]. Except for the fact that the Milwaukee’s Chaplain hated to fly. He’d hide below decks until we were up and spinning and then the deck crew would guide him out of the hangar, one on each side, and hand him off to our aircrewmen who’d help strap him in. Chaps was a small pudgy officer, like the Pillsbury dough boy. Nothing seemed to fit him right. He’d stuff himself into his white floatation gear, reflective helmet askew, head too big for his short round body. It was comical watching him waddle out, a look of terror on his face.

Small-boys don’t have a flight deck big enough for an H-46 to land on, that meant we’d hover over the ship and hoist Chaps up and down. He seemed to hate hoisting most of all. The key to hoisting is to relax, tuck the harness under your armpits and tight around your back, and then just hang, dead weight. Let the hoist and the aircrewman do the work. Chaps wasn’t too bad going down. Timor swung him out the helo hatch and reeled him down to the ship fast, before Chaps knew what was happening. But getting Chaps back aboard was a different story.

Once Timor engaged the hoist and lifted Chaps off the ship’s flight deck, he started flailing and kicking, which made him swing and spin like a human dreidel. It was impossible to get him aboard the aircraft. Timor had to dangle him next to the helo until Chaps ran out of steam and stopped flailing, and then he could swing him onboard. It was exhausting just watching.

I’d adjust the cockpit mirror—it’s like a rearview mirror in a car—so I could keep an eye on Chaps in back, wondering if he might puke or faint from fear. He prayed the whole flight, clutching his bible.

* * *

The next day, I was in the wardroom and Chaps came in, heading toward the coffee machine. Our eyes met, and he quickly turned to go.

“Hey Chaps,” I called. “I’m with the Air Det. I flew Holy Helo last time.”

He turned back, and silently went for coffee, pouring a cup.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” I said. “You don’t seem to like flying.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that—” he snapped and then caught himself.

Our eyes locked for a quick second, and then he broke contact, looking down to focus on stirring several sugars into his black coffee.

“Is it that obvious?” he said softly, and turned to leave, head down.

“Chaps, maybe I can help—”

“—It’s not you. I like your flying.”

“The other pilots scare you?”

“The whole thing scares me!”

“Why do it then?”

“I’ve got to. Hundreds of sailors rely on me. Officers too. We wear both,” he said pointing to the cross on one collar and his silver bar on the other.

“Guess I’m not as comfortable with this side,” he said pointing to the bar. “As I am with the other.”

I considered this point, not exactly sure what he meant. “What if I showed you around the helo, explained how things work?”

“What, like, now?” The terrified look returned.

“After chow, it’ll be nice and quiet up there. Nobody’ll be around. What do you say?”

He didn’t answer.

“Well, I’ll be up there. Join me if you’d like.”

* * *

After chow, I climbed up to the helo hangar and was sitting in Zero-Seven’s cockpit organizing the Nav-Bag, a canvas satchel that’s supposed to hold current navigation charts, pubs, and other important flying info, but often becomes a catch-all for pilot crap like candy wrappers, empty water bottles and other trash.

I heard the dull clank of someone dogging-down the hangar hatch.

“Hey Chaps,” I called, waving down to him through the chin bubble. “Come around,” I motioned him towards the main cabin hatch. He climbed the steps, stuck his head through the tunnel into the cockpit.

“Have a seat,” I said pointing towards the right seat.

He gestured a nervous ‘who me’ towards his chest, but didn’t reply. I busied myself with the Nav-Bag, giving him time to get acclimated. He seemed frozen in place, half-in, half-out.

“Just step over that. Put one hand there, and the other—yeah. That’s it. You got it.”

Chaps flopped down into the seat with a grunt.

“You can adjust up and down, it’s like a car seat—feel under—yeah, that’s it.”

I went back to the Nav-Bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him adjust the seat then look around, scanning the gauges in front, circuit breaker panels overhead, his hands glued to his legs, stubby fingers clutching his thighs.

“Side windows are nice,” I demonstrated how they moved, “Let’s in air. If you’d like.”

He slid the window sideways; fresh air blew through.

“You know all about this—all this stuff?” he waved a pudgy hand once around the cockpit, then returned to clutching his thighs.

“It’s not that much really. First of all, there’s two of most everything. See these are my instruments? You’ve got all the same ones, on your side. Here and here,” I pointed.

He followed my gestures, slowly nodding.

“Up here,” I gestured towards the overhead panel. “It’s mostly light controls and circuit breakers. That’s it.”

He looked up. I could see the carotid artery in his neck pounding a buck fifty.

“These are flight controls. One foot on each pedal, left hand here, right one there. Go ahead, try it.”

He shot me a fearful look, but then did as I instructed.

“How’s that feel?”

He shrugged.

“You gotta kind of slouch. You know, thug it up a bit. Dig your right elbow into your thigh. Like this. It’s the helo-slump.”

He hunched over.

“That’s good. You got it.”

He smiled weakly at my encouragement like he was just humoring me.

“Rest your hand here on the cyclic stick, grip lightly,” I demonstrated. “Like you’re holding a little bird—”

“—You got mirrors!?” he blurted. “You can see in back, like, when we’re flying around?”

I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I could see he was finally figuring it out.

“All the time?”

I nodded again. He looked away blushing.

“You know Chaps, helo flying is aviation’s most unnatural act. This helicopter is a loud, vibrating bucket of bolts. If we’re not leaking, we’re not peaking. We’ve got no glide capacity, like an airplane. Basically, we’re a flying brick.”

He glanced briefly in my direction.

“To fly, we pummel the air into submission.”

“That’s funny,” he said forcing a flat smile.

And then I told him about NAFOD.

“It’s alright to feel afraid. Everyone does now and again,” I said. “You just can’t let it control you. I think NAFOD. No Apparent Fear of Death. It’s a Marine thing, like keeping the faith.”

That answer seemed to calm him.

* * *

I didn’t draw Holy Helo duty for a couple of weeks. But when I did, something had changed. The Chaplain strode out of the hangar smiling and waving. Enroute to the small-boy he calmly looked out the window. While hoisting, he didn’t squirm around nearly as much, allowing Timor to get him back onboard in half the time.

“What’s up with Chaps?” Barge said. “He’s like a new man.”

“Yes sir, he high-fived me first time I hoisted him aboard,” Timor said.

I smiled, but didn’t say anything.

Let me begin this review of Dr Stacy Sims latest book Next Level by confessing I absolutely loved Sim’s first fitness book called Roar (2016). As I discussed in my previous Substack, Roar is a well-researched, accessibly written, highly relevant, and clearly supported book about women’s physiology, athletic performance, and nutrition, with compelling personal narratives that make it entertaining as well as educational. Roars premise—that ‘women are not small men’ and shouldn’t eat or train like them—is an effective framework that structures the discussion in a persuasive way. Regardless of your age, fitness level, or competitive aspirations, there is something helpful in Roar for you.

As a post-menopausal weightlifter and personal trainer, I looked forward to Sims next book with great anticipation: Next Level: Your Guide to Kicking Ass, Feeling Great, and Crushing Goals through Menopause and Beyond (2022, Rodale Books). Perhaps, that was a problem. Roar was so engaging, I may have expected too much from Next Level.

Some sections of Next Level lack originality and seem almost verbatim chapters from Roar. In addition, there seems to be less research and fewer personal narratives from successful women athletes, a unique feature I enjoyed in Roar. That said, given the stigma often associated with aging women’s bodies, I realize that there may simply be fewer published accounts and research studies involving menopausal athletes for the authors to draw upon. These shortcomings aside, there are some excellent discussions worth reviewing in Next Level, particularly if you are a woman athlete approaching or experiencing menopause, or someone who trains them.

At the outset, one of Next Level’s major contributions is simply to bring the discussion of menopausal athletes out of the shadows so people can talk openly about the unique challenges of this normal process of life. Whether its modern medicine, sports coaches, or personal trainers, few professionals are knowledgeable or comfortable advising women athletes about the changes experienced during this time of their lives. I found Sims candor refreshing: “Honestly, I’m not about that whole “60 is the new 40” thing” (p. 5), she writes. What she is about is providing information to help women be strong and healthy as they age, without leaving their fitness goals behind.

“I want you to be able to say, ‘Yes, I’m in menopause. Yes, I’m aging. But I understand this transition. I can work with it. I can be strong, and I can do all these new things’.” (p. 5)

The fundamental advice throughout Next Level is that women athletes do not have to lose their mojo and accept performance deterioration as they age, abandoning the physical activities they enjoy. Menopausal women can still train hard, enjoy challenging goals, and lift heavy sh*t as long as they fuel, hydrate, and recuperate appropriately. Sims clearly explains how the hormonal havoc of menopause affects women’s athletic performance as estrogen changes impact body physiology generating dozens of different symptoms from depression, anxiety, and mood swings to fatigue, joint pain and hot flashes.

Rather than focus on the inevitable body composition changes that menopause brings, Sims recommends women focus on their muscle mass and strength, tracking the weight they lift not the number on the bathroom scale.

“Stop dieting for good…seriously!” (p. 140).

Sims explains women’s normal body types such as ectomorph, mesomorph and endomorph, calling for more research on the ways these categories impact body mass and athletic performance. She debunks limitations of popular health metrics like BMI noting, healthy body fat for most women athletes ranges from 19-32%, due to higher muscle mass, not 18.5 to 24.9 as typically recommended. In addition to ignoring fad diets and inaccurate metrics, Sims encourages women to eat. Most active women should be consuming at least 2,000 calories a day, including proteins and carbohydrates, with at least 30 grams of protein within an hour of a stressful exercise session. Many menopausal athletes under-fuel leading to low energy availability (LEA), impacting their performance and overall health. Long term, LEA can lead to a serious condition called relative energy deficiency in sports (RED-S) contributing to brittle bones, thyroid problems, heart disease, and, incongruently, fat-gain as the body desperately burns muscle to meet energy needs.

In conclusion, although I enjoyed Next Level, if you were only going to purchase one of Sims’ fitness books, I’d still recommend Roar. Roar adequately addresses menopause, drilling down on topics like training, nutrition, hydration, supplements, and body composition for the aging female athlete. In fact, Roar’s Chapter 3 (25 pages) is entirely focused on “moving through menopause” by understanding the experience and how symptoms can be addressed. That said, Next Level makes an important contribution to women’s health and fitness by spot-lighting this timely topic, exposing cultural biases about women’s bodies and challenging fad solutions. Physicians, coaches and trainers would all benefit from reading Next Level so they can better serve the needs of millions of menopausal women clients.

In the training tips section my Substack, you’ve probably noticed I talk a lot about developing an actionable fitness program, bench press form and technique, and the value of developing a weightlifter’s mindset. I’ve also emphasized the importance of using a Spotter when bench pressing. By definition, a Spotter is an experienced weightlifter or trainer who can assist you in completing a safe and challenging lift. In this article, I’m going to discuss the Spotter’s job and explain how learning to Spot for other Lifters will help you to improve your own bench press performance.

What the Spotter’s Job?

A bench press Spotter has three main jobs:

• Spotter’s #1 job is safety,

• Spotter’s #2 job is to support the Lifter to achieve their goals,

• Spotter’s #3 job is to stay out of the way.

Let’s break it down….

1) Safety:

A bench press Spotter’s main job is safety. If you’re new to benching you should always use a Spotter to ensure you don’t lose control of the bar, drop the weight, or hurt yourself through improper form. In addition to rookies, all Lifters should consider using a Spotter any time they are pushing past 80% of their One-Rep Max (1RM). 1RM is the maximum amount of weight you can lift for one repetition while still using good form.

2) Support:

The Spotters second job is to support the weightlifter. Good communication between the Spotter and the bencher is essential. In particular, they must discuss the lift-off strategy, help-words, and amount of weight and number of reps intended, before attempting their first bench press together.

Before the lift

Some bench pressers prefer to have the Spotter help ‘unrack’ or ‘hand-off’ the bar before beginning their lift, which is a perfectly acceptable practice and legal in powerlifting competitions. Using the Spotter to help unrack by lifting the bar off the supports and into position can prevent injury, particularly shoulder strain, improve bar path travel since you’re starting from a position directly over the chest, and allow the Lifter to conserve valuable energy and direct it towards the lift itself.

When unracking the bar, the Spotter bends their knees and grips the bar firmly with an opposing hand grip. The Lifter—NOT the Spotter—counts down when they’re ready to start, saying for example: “OK ready, 3-2-1”. On command, the Spotter lifts the bar and positions it over the bench presser’s chest and then verbally ‘hands-off’ the bar to Lifter when they are ready to receive it by saying “It’s yours” and removes their hands.

Some bench pressers prefer to unrack the bar themselves, either out of habit, or to maintain more control over their lift and avoid miscommunications or miscues with the Spotter. In either case, the Spotter and bench presser should be clear about the lift-off strategy before executing the lift.

Before attempting a bench with a new Spotter, it’s also a good idea for Lifters to discuss help-words detailing how and when they might like assistance during the lift. For example, the Lifter should contextualize each particular lift saying, for instance, “This is a warm up set, I’m trying for ten reps. I’ll lift myself” or “I’m trying for a new personal best. I’ve never lifted this weight before. I’ll take a lift-off and do one rep.”

It’s perfectly acceptable for the Lifter to coach a new Spotter, for example, stating “If I say ‘help’, I’d like a little assistance to keep bar moving. If I say, ‘take-it’ the lift is over, and I’d like you to re-rack the bar”. As the Lifter, don’t be afraid of being too direct or sounding bossy. It’s your lift and the Spotter is there to assist you.

During the lift

During the lift, the Spotter’s focus shifts to the movement of the bar. The Spotter should only touch the bar if it starts to descend unsafely or the lifter specifically says ‘help’ or ‘take-it’. When offering assistance, the Spotter should bend their knees and use an open palm and a few fingers, gently applying upward pressure using their legs—not arms—to relieve some of the weight.

Usually, 5-10 pounds of relief is enough for a stalled Lifter to regain their momentum upwards. Once the Lifter resumes movement on their own, the Spotter should release the pressure and let them complete the repetition themselves. If the Lifter continues to struggle, the Spotter can increase upward pressure to help the Lifter regain momentum.

The Lifter decides when the exercise is complete. They may decide to end early by stating ‘take it’ or they may extend the exercise by saying ‘one more’. This is another point where clear communication is essential. The Spotter can vocalize encouragement, but should not yell at Lifter to ‘grind one more out’, for example. When the Lifter has completed their reps, the Spotter should once again grasp the bar firmly with both hands in an opposing grip and firmly rack the bar back into the bench stand. Once the lift is complete, it’s also helpful to debrief the spot, discussing what went well, points of confusion, and the goal of the next lift.

Common Spotter mistakes

• Intervening too soon and not letting the Lifter push through their sticking point.

• Intervening too slowly, creating a potentially unsafe situation.

• Intervening too aggressively, snatching the bar away from Lifter.

• Using your arms, not your legs, during the assist, pulling the bar away from the Lifter towards the rack, rather than providing a vertical assist upwards.

3. Stay Out of the Way

The Spotters third job is to stay out of the way, physically and mentally, and let the Lifter complete the exercise. It’s their lift! Encouraging words, especially using the person’s name, are great—”You got this, Jane”, “All you, John”—but yelling is not. Don’t rush the Lifter. Let them go through their pre-exercise process at their own pace. Don’t interfere by talking about BS, acting impatient, being hyper, or otherwise distracting. During the lift, be present and ready to help but don’t crowd the bar. And watch your gym etiquette: Don’t drip sweat on the Lifter, watch your clothes/exposure. The Lifter doesn’t want to see up your shirt or shorts while they are laying under the bar trying to concentrate on their bench press.

How does Learning to Spot Help Improve Your Bench?

Learning to be a good Spotter is a great way to improve your own bench press performance. As a Spotter, you notice bar plane movement or how the bar moves down and up during completion of the bench press motion. It becomes clear, for example, how some Lifters lose mechanical advantage by holding the bar too high, over their face or neck, rather than centered over their chest. They may not fully lower the bar to their chest, limiting their range of motion and minimizing the effectiveness of the exercise. As a Spotter, you’ll notice the importance of form, grip, breathing, and establishing a replicable routine. Lifters who use their core and legs for strength and stability are clearly more successful than those who do not. It’s also evident how some Lifters try to bounce the bar off their chest, or drop or dump the bar quickly during the downward phase, risking loss of control and injury, rather than smoothly lowering the bar, loading their chest muscles for the upward drive, like pulling back a bow string before shooting an arrow.

Finally, as a Spotter, you’ll notice where bench pressers get stuck during the push-phase of their exercise. This information is helpful as a way to further improve the Lifters strength and performance. For example, if the Lifter’s sticking point is close to their chest, additional pec exercises such as dips, bench press pause and punch, or inclined dumbbell press could prove useful. If they get stuck in the push-phase mid-point, extra shoulder work might be helpful. And if they struggle to close out the bench press at the top, additional tricep exercises and close-grip benching will be important.

Concluding Thoughts

At this point, I have hopefully convinced you of the importance of learning to Spot and using a Spotter yourself when bench pressing. What if you’re new to lifting, in general, or trying a new gym—how do you get a Spotter? Do not be afraid to ask someone to spot you when bench pressing. It’s 100% acceptable—and considered a sign of respect—for you to ask someone to spot you. My first choice is usually a fellow bench presser. You can spot each other and make a new friend. What if you’re working out at home without a Spotter? You can still safely bench. Stay within 80% of your 1RM and only push to ‘near failure’. It can still be a great workout. Remember, one great way to become a better weightlifter is to become an experienced Spotter. Try it!

Our Navy ship set sail for the Mediterranean Sea, passing the Faroe Islands. I wasn’t unhappy to leave the fjords of Norway behind, as intriguing and unnerving as they were. The next day, a North Atlantic storm hit us hard. It started with a shift in wind, a cold blast up our wake that got everyone’s attention. Sailors battened everything down that wasn’t already fixed in place. Then came the sea swells. Standing on one side of the flight deck, you could lose sight of the horizon on the other, as the ship wrestled with the waves. We toyed with the changes. You could get light on your feet as the deck rolled out from under, and when you crouched and jumped at the perfect moment, the ship launched you airborne like a kite. Just about the time we perfected that dance, the sky started to match the ocean’s anger, turning dark gray as the clouds moved in, dense and low. Then the rain came, a torrential downpour that drove everyone inside.

The 1MC confirmed our confinement: Now hear this. Secure all weather decks. Set material condition Zebra. Dog down all hatches. Weather decks are closed until further notice.

I’d never seen anything like it. It was too rough to fly, too rough to eat, too rough to sleep. If mother nature could throw a 40,000-ton navy ship around like a ragdoll, what else could be in store for us. Zero-Five was locked down in her hangar with extra chains, groaning against the restraints. The crew felt the same way. Half of us were sea sick, the other half hungry. Mess cranks couldn’t cook. Wardroom staff couldn’t serve. Anything put on the table like a plate or cup became an airborne projectile. If you were lucky, you might get half a sandwich, a handful of crackers: Only food you could eat with one hand. It was impossible to sleep, head rolling side-to-side in sync with the ship’s movements. Pilots get grumpy when they can’t fly. We got on each other’s nerves, fought over silly things. Tired, hungry, bored.

I knew the weather had finally broken when I awoke early one morning, feeling rested, not like I’d been thrashed about all night. The ship also felt at peace, no longer sighing and straining against the forces of mother nature. I dressed in my cotton khakis, blue ball cap and spit-shined boots, and climbed topside. The rain had stopped. Winds were light, and a rosy dawn was just breaking the horizon, its pinky hue reflecting off the placid ocean waters. The fading night sky cast purple-black streaks like a healing bruise.

I climbed the ladder to the bridge and found the Milwaukee Skipper, Captain Atticus Beauregard, sitting outside in his high back chair, feet propped up, finishing a black cup of coffee and sucking on an unlit pipe. He was a salty old combat pilot who’d flown multiple bombing missions in Vietnam. After a successful squadron command tour, up and coming Skippers like Beauregard cut their teeth in the surface navy running fat-boy ships like ours, aiming to eventually captain an aircraft carrier. His star was on the rise. He was an inquisitive, hands-on kind of officer. You’d find him all over the ship, talking to sailors, asking questions, climbing on stuff, getting dirty. I admired him.

“Morning Captain Beauregard,” I said. “Mind if I join you, sir.”

“Well, hello there young lady,” he said in his Southern twang, turning toward me. “Not at all, please do. Fine Navy morning, isn’t it.”

“Yes sir.”

“We don’t see many of your group up this end of the ship.”

“No sir, you know how that goes.”

“I do indeed. Need their ‘eight hours of uninterrupted rest’,” he said, quoting Navy Regs. He seemed happy to have company.

I was happy to be free after so many days in lock down. I breathed deeply as I leaned my elbows on the metal railing, looking over the side, enjoying the outside freshness.

“Whoa, what’s that? Over there,” I pointed about a thousand yards out. “Do you see that, Captain?”

“I do,” he said, pulling on his pipe.

“Wow, looks like a mini-tornado,” I said, feeling excited. “And look! There’s another. And another.”

Dozens of small smooth sided shafts of spinning moisture danced between the ship and the horizon, snaking from the ocean’s surface to the flat base of the low level cumulous above. Then they melted as quickly as they formed, one by one, dissipating into a fine mist like fairy dust as another popped up nearby.

“Sea tornados?” I said.

I looked back toward the captain. He was studying me with an amused expression. I felt self-conscious, wondering if I’d crossed some line or violated some shipboard protocol being on the bridge so early, speaking so freely with the ship’s captain.

“Sorry sir,” I said, trying to calm down. “I just—I’ve just never seen anything like this before.”

“Be well assured that on our side, our challenged oceans fight. Though headlong wind and leaping tide, make us their sport to-night,” the captain said with a twinkle in his eye.

I squinted, trying to figure out what he was talking about, what I should do next, all the while keeping a watch on the amazing tornados. Three more had formed in just the last minute.

He seemed to sense my confusion, “Know Kipling?”

“Sir?”

“Rudyard Kipling. English poet?

“Oh no, no sir. I’m not much into poetry.”

“Through force of weather, not of war, in jeopardy we steer. Then welcome fate’s discourtesy whereby it shall appear.”^[i]

I listened, taking in his words: in jeopardy we steer? Welcome fate’s discourtesy—is that what he’d said? I didn’t know how to respond.

Then the 1MC crackled alive: Reveille, reveille, all hands heave out and trice up. Give a clean sweep down, fore and aft. Smoking lamp is lit in all authorized spaces. All hands turn to.

I was saved.

The next day I walked into the Air Det office. The Chief was busy updating maintenance entries in the aircraft logbooks.

“Captain’s mess crank dropped that off ma’am,” he said, without looking up, motioning with his head toward a manila envelope on an adjacent desk.

I picked up the package and unwound the red string. Inside was an old leatherbound book, The Fringes of the Fleet by Rudyard Kipling (1916), and a handwritten note in flowing penmanship signed by Captain Atticus Beauregard: “By the way Ensign, they’re called fair-weather waterspouts.”

* * *

That afternoon, the ship went to Flight Quarters and we launched Zero-Five for the first time in a week. It was a glorious feeling being airborne again. Zero-Five and me in welcoming embrace. Our battlegroup was reassembling after scattering during the storm, so our mission was simple: loiter on-station conducting meaningful training, otherwise known as burning a bag of gas, in pilot jargon.

My favorite way to ‘burn a bag’ at sea was to go cloud fucking. With few obstacles to worry about in international waters, cloud fucking was a free pass to flagrantly violate several FAA regulations at once governing collision avoidance and cloud clearances. It wasn’t smart but it sure was fun. If winds were light and clouds were right—open and puffy, about one to two thousand feet above ground level—it was prime fornication conditions.

The process was simple. First, climb to altitude and zoom amongst the cool cumulous. Next, find a blue-sky gap between two white puffies, and rocket for it, pulling power and climbing hard and fast. As the helicopter crests the cloud top, shove the cyclic forward to dive over the edge and then bank hard, riding the canyon of white fluff like a snowboarder until you locate another gap to exploit: up, down, around, through, figure-eight zoomies in fresh powder like backcountry skiing. I felt lucky, like we’d won a secret lottery or were getting away with something bad: a kid playing hooky from school. The air felt cool, smelled fresh, clean. It was exhilarating. A well-earned reward for our days of prison-like confinement onboard ship. And Zero-Five floated gracefully, free, smiling, willingly skimming the cloud surface like an eager paramour.

Then I heard it. A high-pitched whine. At first, it was a background squeal, over-powered by the constant hum of the heavy turbine engines. I listened closer, scanning the caution panel and gauges. Everything looked normal but something didn’t feel right.

I called to the aircrewman, “Timor, take a walk around. How’s everything look?”

“Roger, ma’am. Up in back.”

The aircraft commander, Lieutenant Toby ‘Barge’ Bailey, gave me a sideways glance from the right seat, but didn’t say anything.

I listened harder. Had I become unaccustomed to Zero-Five’s noises?

Timor stuck his head into the cockpit. “We’ve got some hydraulic oil on the deck, ma’am.”

“How much?” I asked.

“The usual, maybe a bit more. You know, if it ain’t leaking, it ain’t flying,” Timor tried to joke, but his voice was tight and laugh forced.

The H-46 has been a Navy mainstay since the 1960s. Although there’d been airframe overhauls and systemic modifications over the years, not all changes were improvements. Upgraded hydraulic pumps increased systemic pressure by 15 percent, improving fluid flow to power subsystems. However, increased pressure also increased the risk of leaks, and combustible hydraulic fluid could atomize into vapor and ignite.

“Do you hear anything, like—I dunno, abnormal?” I said.

“Let me check again,” Timor said.

I realized I’d already descended and started flying back towards our ship.

Barge gave me another sideways look. “What’s up?” he said cooly.

“I’m not sure. Call it a hunch. Do you hear something, like a high-pitched whine?”

He didn’t answer. I assumed he was listening for it. And then I felt a subtle vibration, first in my feet resting on the rudder pedals. And then in my seat. Something was out of balance.

“You’re right ma’am. I think we’ve got a cavitating hydraulic pump back here,” Timor reported. “There’s a mist. Definitely smells like hydraulic fluid.”

“Let’s head back,” Barge said, as he broke out the emergency checklist and contacted the ship. “Tower, Zero-Five. We’re inbound and declaring an emergency. Need a Green Deck ASAP, over.”

We flew on in silence. The smell of vaporizing hydraulic fluid flooded the cockpit. There was no doubt we had a leak but the hydraulic pressure gauges remained steady. That was confusing but unsurprising. Old hydraulic pumps had a safety feature designed to stop running in the event of battle damage or mechanical failure. New pumps, like ours, were designed to withstand combat damage and run without fluid, ensuring we could still fly after the loss of a pump. But it was a risky trade off. Running a dry pump increased the likelihood of overheating and possible explosion.

Barge and I discussed our situation. Was it better to fly low and slow in case we needed to ditch into the sea, or fly high and fast to get to the ship quicker? I opted for fast. If we had to ditch, the closer we were to the ship, the greater the likelihood we’d be successfully rescued.

I did a quick calculation in my head. At this distance and speed, we could be safely on the Milwaukee’s flightdeck in seven minutes: Not an eternity, but not a comforting thought either. Minutes felt like hours. Then, I saw our ship on the horizon, low and flat, cutting through the waves. We were going to make it.

As we got closer, I could see the flightdeck status light—RED—not authorized to land. They weren’t ready for us. Barge radioed in.

I tried to stay calm. I took a deep breath and flashed back to my Marine creedo: NAFOD. I scanned the horizon, scanned the gauges. How long could a dry hydraulic pump run?

I willed my mind to think of something else as we awaited a green deck for landing. What did Captain Beauregard say—“Welcome Fate’s Discourtesy”—what did that even mean? Accept one’s predicament with grace. Embrace your destiny with civility—Timor popped his head into the cockpit.

“Green deck, ma’am!”

“We’re cleared to land,” Barge confirmed.

I landed Zero-Five in the center of the flightdeck and we shut her down fast, not wanting to risk a cavitating hydraulic pump explosion. A fine mist of pink-colored hydraulic fluid covered the rear of the aircraft. I patted the side of Zero-Five’s wounded fuselage as I exited. She’d saved my life once again.

If you’re like me, you like to indulge your curiosity and expand your knowledge by researching and reading about new topics. I added this new section, Reviews, to my existing Substack so that I can report my findings in this area.

In this article, I will review two very different but equally compelling books that debunk gender stereotypes about women’s fitness and weightlifting.

Roar: Match Your Food and Fitness to your Unique Female Physiology for Optimum Performance, Great Health, and a Strong Body for Life

by Stacy T. Sims (2024, Rodale Books, 378 pages)

Roar by Dr Stacy Sims of Auckland University of Technology in New Zealand is one of my favorite instructional weightlifting books about women’s fitness and nutrition. I often recommend it to my personal training clients for its detailed discussion of exercise physiology, nutritional science, and women’s bodies. Don’t let the bad ass babe on the cover intimidate you, this is definitely a book for EVERY-body.

Roar is not only a solidly researched book, it is also accessibly written and clearly supported with relevant personal narratives, making it an entertaining read and valuable resource for professionals and novices alike. At the end of each chapter ‘Roar Sound Bites’ list helpful summaries of the previous discussion.

The premise of the book is refreshingly simple: “Women are not small men. Stop eating and training like one.”

Why did it take so long to get here in sports physiology?

I see my former-athlete, younger-self in so many bad examples Sims provides:

o Training too much,

o Eating too little,

o Sleeping too sporadically,

o Ignoring clear bodily warning signs, and then

o Wondering why I wasn’t making the fitness gains I desired.

Unfortunately, this pattern was the norm for so many female athletes for decades, frequently reinforced by coaches and trainers, as women under-fueled and overstressed their bodies, often resulting in injury, or just giving up.

One of the best aspects of Sim’s book is the way she debunks numerous fitness myths about the female body, providing essential insights about hormones, menstrual cycles, and performance peaks that every athlete, coach and trainer needs to know. For example, compelling research reveals female athletes may feel strongest and perform best during the low-hormone phase of their cycle, which ironically starts the first day of menstruation.

That’s right, some athletes perform best while they’re bleeding.

For example, in 2002, British long-distance runner Paula Radcliffe was experiencing her period and menstrual cramps when she lopped 89 seconds off the previous world record for the fastest marathon. That’s almost a minute and a half!

Another compelling observation Sims offers is about the absence of menstrual cycles. Previously considered a training intensity ‘badge of honor’ in some sports, Sims observes amenorrhea is not physiologically normal and should serve as a warning sign of disordered eating behavior, low energy availability (LEA), overtraining, and impending injury. I also really enjoyed the ‘Brain Training’ chapter, which challenges gender stereotypes and explores the unique mind-body connection of female athletes.

I particularly appreciated the specificity of Sim’s nutritional recommendations, meal plans, and detailed explanations. She observes that active women should eat between 2,300 and 4,000 calories a day depending on sport and body type, including 30 grams of high-quality protein within 30-45 mins of training. And peri- and post-menopausal women should eat closer to 40 grams post-workout. Broadly speaking, Sims recommends that women ingest 1.7 to 2.4 grams of protein per kilogram of body weight per day or about 1 gram of protein for every pound of body weight, and about 30 grams per meal.

Most women simply do not eat enough.

And under-fueling not only impacts real time performance, it has long term implications for your brain, neurological and musculoskeletal systems.

Another compelling insight is Sims’ hydration recommendations and exploration of the ways sugary-salty high-carb sports drinks can actually dehydrate female athletes who often sweat less and store more heat, compared to men. Admittedly, this 15-page hydration chapter may be too detailed for some readers. But I found ‘Hydration is Power’ to be a fascinating read.

Finally, as an older woman, I appreciated Sims’ inclusion of menopause in her discussions throughout the book as well as in specific chapters and recommendations:

In summary, ‘Roar’ is a great book. I recommend every woman interested in understanding her body read it—cover to cover—and then pass it on to a friend.

A Physical Education: How I Escaped Diet Culture and Gained the Power of Lifting

by Casey Johnston (2025, Grand Central Publishing, 256 pages)

In this memoir, author Casey Johnston reflects on her growth from a cardio-obsessed youngster—fixated on minimizing her body size and physical space in the world—to a blossoming woman, unafraid of showing her strength and taking up space. There’s a contagious, feel-good undercurrent running through this book that makes it hard to put down.

Johnston slays cultural dragons such as negative childhood scripts, America’s ubiquitous diet culture, insecure, controlling boyfriends, and disappointing employers in ways that will feel both invigorating and, sadly, overly familiar to many female athletes.

After years of obsessive running and dieting, a late-night internet session leads Johnson to discover a whole new fitness world: weightlifting. Her self-conscious, culturally-programed, thinness-seeking brain cannot initially grasp the weightlifting body recomposition process of lifting heavy, less cardio, and more eating. I really enjoyed the way Johnston busts myths like ‘getting bulky’ and explains things like the impact of cardio exercises verses strength training on the female body.

At the same time, for me, this is where the book became confused about who it’s trying to speak to.

Is the audience, an uninitiated novice eager to learn weightlifting basics? In that case, the discussion can become, at times, overly detailed and technical, while at other times superficial, glossing over important subtleties a rookie-lifter needs to know.

Or, is the audience someone like me, an experienced weightlifter and personal trainer? In that case, discussions were often too rudimentary, leaving me longing for more information about powerlifting culture or technical details about powerlifters’ nutritional plans and workout routines, for example.

Given the theme of the book, it seems like a lost opportunity not to investigate the nuance of women’s growing participation in the fascinating sport of powerlifting.

Nevertheless, A Physical Education is an excellent memoir and worth reading, regardless of your weightlifting experience level, if only to cheer as one woman wrestles herself from the destructive grips of diet culture, validating herself through weightlifting, not shrinking her body through GLP-1s.

In previous Substacks, I discussed the advantages of weightlifting for aging adults and the importance of bench pressing, in particular—My favorite exercise. In a recent article, I described a step-by-step process to physically complete the traditional flat bench press safely and effectively.

In this article, I discuss the complex mind-body connection involved in benching by addressing three questions:

o What makes me shake when I lift weights?

o Why is my whole body tired after I lift?

o How can I bench more weight?

Strength training is not just a muscle building process. It is a neurologically challenging one. Every time you lift, your Central Nervous System (CNS) releases chemical signals that activate neuron firing to simultaneously coordinate muscles, tendons, joints, and nerves to complete the complex compound movement patterns required to bench. Ever found yourself shaking while lifting weights? It’s a completely normal neurological response to your first bench press routines.

Research demonstrates that as you grow stronger, a main source of bench press progression is not just muscle hypertrophy but an enhanced CNS due to neuromuscular adaptation that allows trained muscles to be controlled more effectively. Smaller muscles fatigue faster than larger, primary muscles, causing shaking as your CNS struggles to recruit new muscle groups to help complete the exercise—a specific example of neuromuscular adaptation at work.

For new lifters, this means most initial strength gains are often more neurological, than musculoskeletal. Although your body’s muscle mass determines your potential strength, it’s your CNS that dictates how much of that potential strength you can activate in your lift on any particular day. Stressing your CNS like this creates whole-body fatigue as your body enters an ‘after-burner’ period of Excess Post-Exercise Oxygen Consumption (EPOC), raising your resting metabolic rate as you cool down, burning more oxygen and calories for as much as 48 hours, while repairing micro-tears in muscle fibers, removing lactic acid, and replenishing muscle glycogen stores post-workout.

Visualization

Bench pressing requires visualization. For me, my bench press starts on the way to the gym as I think about my upcoming workout. I visualize my lift: what would I like to achieve, how much weight will I attempt, how many reps, how many sets? I visualize a successful lift I experienced in the past and recall how it made me feel in the moment—excited, powerful, victorious—and for the rest of that day—strong, healthy, confident.

One of the things I enjoy most about benching is honing this mind-body connection. Perhaps more so than any other exercise in the gym, your mind-set matters when benching. Exercise machines and single-joint exercises, such as tricep extensions or bicep curls, require minimal CNS input. In contrast, compound movements like squatting, pull-ups, and benching challenge the body’s CNS to provide rapid, synchronized electrical signals to recruit the correct muscles, at the right time, in the right plane of motion to move the desired amount of weight.

Overcoming Fear

One of the most exciting aspects of benching is embracing and overcoming fear. Let’s be honest, it’s completely logical—and entirely reasonable—to be concerned about lifting heavy weights over your face. I once trained a group of high school girls who called weightlifting “Scary-fun, like a roller coaster!” Bench pressing is roller coaster scary offering an adrenaline rush of excitement and a dopamine hit of mood enhancement, culminating in a huge sense of accomplishment by overcoming fears and controlling a potentially scary situation.

o How can we meet the challenge of scary fun situations?

Once in the gym, as I prepare to lift, I quiet my mind and breathe deeply. I check-in with myself, sensing any frustrations in my life, and then I channel that rage into my lift. As I lay back and take my grip, I give myself a positive script thinking: “I got this”, “I’m good at this”, “This is an easy weight for me, or “I’ve lifted this weight before”.

While positive scripts are critically important, it’s also essential to avoid negative scripts—and people who provide them—when weightlifting. I often hear new lifters sabotage themselves from the outset with negative scripts by saying things like “This is heavy,” “I don’t know if I can lift this,” or “I’ve always had a weak upper body”.

That said, everyone occasionally experiences self-doubt. So, it’s important to learn how to re-script your thinking. If you’re beginning a set and negative thoughts creep in, step away from your lift, walk around, take a sip of water, and start your routine again with a clear head and positive script.

Rituals

Studies show rituals act as a regulatory mechanism for controlling arousal, attentional focus, and task expectations, making people feel like luck is on their side, thereby boosting feelings of self-efficacy and confidence. From ball bouncing before free throws in basketball to stutter steps before penalty kicks in soccer, most professional athletes develop a performance ritual to help focus their mind and calm their nerves before execution of key activities. It can be almost anything as long as it’s established, repetitive and performed in sequence.

To advance your benching, I suggest you develop a bench press ritual, like the one I previously described—grip, pull, push, tighten, lift—and infuse it with a successful mindset and positive script. If self-doubt or negative thoughts creep in, stop and rescript it. At the same time, don’t over think your lift or be afraid to experiment as you gain more experience benching.

Tracking

Tracking your weightlifting routine in a notebook or mobile phone application is one of the best ways to ensure that you are making progress with your bench press. Yet, most people don’t do it. I suggest you consider your bench like a self-imposed research project: Record the type and order of exercises, amount of weight lifted, and number of reps and sets. Pay attention to your feelings. What’s working, what’s not working, where are you getting stuck, when do things feel smooth?

There are several advantages to tracking your lift. First, tracking allows you to continue to challenge yourself through progressive overload. If you don’t know the amount of weight or number of reps you lifted previously, you cannot continue to stress muscles in ways that lead to strength gains. Muscles quickly adapt to resistance. If you don’t continue to challenge your body, you will limit potential improvements and likely plateau.

Second, tracking allows you to establish a baseline, set measurable goals and document improvements. After initial fitness gains, muscle growth and strength gains can feel frustratingly slow. Tracking your goals and seeing measurable results demonstrates in hard data that your fitness program is working and your body is getting stronger. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, tracking provides motivation, allowing you to celebrate your weightlifting success, even if it is just one more rep benching the same amount of weight.

Conclusion

In sum, developing a consistent replicable bench press routine through rituals, scripting, and tracking will provide a reliable strength gain return on your time investment. Keep a long-term perspective, weightlifting is a marathon not a sprint. At the beginning gains may come quickly. However, over time things may slow down. Focus on learning, improving your technique, achieving small goals, understanding your body, enjoying feeling strong, and making new like-minded friends in the gym. Consistent strength training, especially through compound exercises like benching, improves the mind-body connection over time, allowing the brain to more efficiently recruit more motor units and tolerate higher levels of tension to move greater amounts of weight.

This means that experienced weightlifters don’t just lift heavier weights because their muscles are stronger. They are stronger because their mind and CNS, literally, stops holding them back.

Good news: You can train yours to stop holding you back too.

About a week after I met Buster, the Ole Milwaukee dog, our ship arrived in the North Atlantic for a NATO exercise. It was cold flying around the fjords of Norway in January, real cold. Under the thirty-five pounds of flight gear we usually carried, we wore drysuits: watertight jumpsuits designed to minimize hypothermia in the case of crash and maximize discomfort the rest of the time. The ships were playing NORDO—as in ‘No Radio’ war games—turning off all electronics and hiding in the Nordic waterways. Although it was beautiful scenery, it all started to look the same, posing a navigation challenge, particularly when the weather got bad which was most the time.

One afternoon we were flying back to the ship after a particularly long day, tired, hungry, uncomfortable. The stiff metal zipper across the chest of my dry suit had a way of digging into my arm pits, leaving deep purple bruises on the tender flesh of my inner biceps.

Lieutenant Toby Bailey was the helicopter aircraft commander and Petty Officer Timor and Airman Rodriguez were our crewmen in back. Lieutenant Bailey’s call sign was ‘Barge’ because he had a bulky physique, a slow delivery, and played offensive lineman at the Naval Academy. We’d only flown together a few times so I was still getting used to his mannerisms.

Barge was flying low and slow, inching our helicopter along the waterway, his large frame hunched forward as if protecting himself from something hard and heavy about to drop on his head. I was diligently leaning forward, looking for our ship, which was hiding in the fjord.

“Fog’s rolling in,” I said. “I can’t see shit.”

“Me neither,” Barge mumbled.

The fog tried to envelop us into its misty grey world as warm air settled over the water’s cool surface, obscuring the steep mountains on either side of us.

“Are we even on the right waterway? It’s like the canals of Amsterdam out here,” I said.

“Pretty sure this is the right fjord. Ship’s gotta be here somewhere. Keep looking.”

We flew onward in silence, tension building, as we searched for the USS Milwaukee. I squinted, desperate for any sign: ship’s super structure, lights, wake, exhaust.

Timor stuck his head in the cockpit from the back. “It’s weird, fog’s like cool whip laying between these peaks, then blue skies to the moon.”

“Yeah, strange. I can see water below, but forward visibility is really limited,” I said. And I noticed our rotor noise had changed, sounding loud and tinny, bouncing off the granite face of the surrounding cliffs. Then the air started to smell dank and earthy.

“Wait, I see something,” I yelled.

“What?” Barge snapped.

“I got breakwater! Ten o’clock low. Must be the base of a cliff. Come right ten degrees!”

“Coming right.”

“Make it twenty—twenty degrees right!” I said, holding my breath. Why couldn’t he turn faster.

“We’re clear!” I exhaled. “Water’s smooth and glassy below,” I said. “Hold this heading. Fly zero-eight-zero. That should work.”

“Zero-eight-zero,” Barge repeated.

We fumbled onward in silence, the dirty white murk blending with the grey green water in a horizonless cist. We were alone and blind in this world, NORDO hands stretched outward, groping through the fog.

Timor was back in the cockpit. “Can’t we radio in, Sir, ask them to fire up the TACAN so we can find the ship?” he asked, his voice an octave higher than usual, tight and shaky.

“We’d have to declare an emergency. They’d have to cancel NORDO,” Barge said, straightening, squinting intently over the instrument panel. “Could get ugly.”

“Sir, all due respect—this shit’s already ugly,” Timor said, and then disappeared into the back.

“Let’s wait-a-lit-tle long-er,” Barge said slowly. His voice was calm, but I could see his jaw clenching, unclenching, hands tightly gripping the flight controls.

I peered ahead and swallowed hard, searching for any clue that could help us. Then I caught a whiff, that earthy dampness again.

“I got breakwater again, twelve o’clock. Hard right,” I said. “Hard right!”

“Got it,” Barge said. “Coming right.”

“Heading one-two-zero. That should work,” I said, exhaling.

“One-two-zero.”

I checked the gauges and instrument panel, calculating the fuel remaining. “Lights clean, gauges green, two-zero mikes fuel.”

“Shit,” Barge snapped.

No one spoke; we all knew what he meant. Twenty minutes of fuel meant low fuel lights could come on any minute. Fuel starvation would follow and engines would fail shortly thereafter. We’d have to autorotate to the water. Dry suits or not, life expectancy would be minimal in this environment. We’d seen icebergs floating around for Chrissake. The shock of cold-water entry can cause instant cardiac arrest or an involuntary gasp that leads to drowning. Extremities become numb and useless within seconds. Pain crowds out rational thought. Hypothermia sets in within minutes. No one could rescue us in time.

I had an acrid taste in my mouth. My stomach felt tight as a feeling of futile hope crept over me. Hope is a dangerous feeling in aviation. It distracts from rationality when you start to hope: Hoping we’d have enough fuel, hoping we’d avoid the mountains, hoping we could find the ship. It implies a passivity, a futility that doesn’t belong in a cockpit. It suggests we weren’t in control, making rational decisions based on facts as we knew them. No, hope was the wrong word for this situation. Hope infers we didn’t plan properly or we’d made bad decisions and now wished things were different. Children hoped for things like Santa Claus on Christmas, hoped for gifts on birthdays, not Naval Aviators. No, hope was the wrong fucking word in this situation because we did plan properly and execute effectively. The word we needed now was faith. Pilots are a superstitious bunch. In times like this, we had to have faith. Faith that we could cash in our chips—chips won playing it safe, abiding by the rules, respecting the goddess of flight—so we could cheat death and live to fly another day. Faith that—

Timor bounced into the cockpit “—Ma’am, I got green hills below. There’s houses, three o’clock low.”

I strained to see them through the chin bubble, “Got it!”

We let out a collective sigh. This was a game changer. We could always land near the houses, wait out the weather. Get the ship to come meet us. It wasn’t optimal. Hell, it’d be downright embarrassing. But we wouldn’t die. Right now, that was all that was on our minds.

“Looks like the fog is starting to break in patches,” I said. “Waterway’s opening up too.”

“Let’s give it another ten,” Barge said. “No joy, we’ll circle back to the houses.”

Away from the steep cliffs, the air lost its earthy fragrance and our rotors phwapped smoothly, rhythmically. I smelled burning fireplace wood from the houses below.

“Got it! Ship’s in sight, one o’clock, about five miles out,” I yelled.

There she was. The squat Ole Mil, barely making wake on the fjord’s glassy surface, waddling along like a fat old lady down a garden path, picking flowers, smelling rosebuds, humming a song to herself, oblivious to our plight. Flight deck status lights twinkled green through the mist as we followed the ship’s wake, hot stack gases burning a tunnel through the fog. We breathed a collective sigh of relief and landed.

Once onboard, the deck crew ran out, chock and chaining Zero-Five to the ship, and we were safely tethered together again. After we shut the aircraft down, Timor stuck his head into the cockpit, his face ashen. “Pardon my French, ma’am, but that was some fucked-up shit!”

“No kidding,” I said.

“Yeah,” Barge said. “Never seen anything like that before.”

And then we laughed. A hysterical laugh, too hard for too long.

Funny how you never feel more alive than after you’re almost dead.

* * *

That night, I made my rounds delivering the next day’s flight schedule. After visiting the ship’s bridge, my last drop-off before bed was the detachment maintenance office in the helo hangar. The brisk night air slapped my face as I stepped out into the deck’s darkness. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the bright night sky. The sea breeze was a refreshing change to the stale ship smell and I walked aft across the main deck, sea spray on my face. It was a clear night. The stars glittered in greeting and bioluminescence made the ship’s wake glow an eerie green. I stopped at the bottom of the outside ladder well, rolled up the remaining flight schedules, slid them under my jacket at the small of my back, and climbed the ladder. My hands gripped the salty metal as my boots hit the aluminum rungs, tink, tink, tink. When I got to the top, I opened the hatch and stepped over the knee-knocker into the grey light of the port helo hangar, dogging the hatch closed behind me.

Zero-Five was chained down, her glorious rotating wings folded aft like a slumbering sphinx, forty-five feet and 23,000 pounds of aerodynamic wonder. I whispered my hello as I caressed her wide metal nose and smooth plexiglass smile, ran my hand aft along her fuselage. Her sides were smooth and cool to the touch, her hatches closed watertight. I stopped my caress at the curvature where her stub-wing joined the fuselage and looked up at the engine intakes, remembering the engine wash, the crewman tasting the water, the green flash. I walked aft around her stub-wing, placed my right boot in the foot hole, my left hand on her flank, and climbed up, stepping onto the nonskid strip. I stood there, ten feet off the hangar deck, legs wide for balance, the ship gently rocking. I put both palms on the cool helicopter surface in front of me and felt her firmness, then I spread my arms wide and slid my hands outwards until my chest was flat against the metal. My cheek touched the tight skin of her fuselage. I stayed like that for a while, spread eagle, breathing in her smells: jet fuel, hydraulic oil, metal, rubber, plexiglass. The ship pushed through the water, the sea pulled back, the helicopter vibrated in sympathy.

Zero-Five saved my life that day.

There was no evidence of what happened. Nobody else knew what we’d overcome. Only Zero-Five knew. I turned my head, laying my other cheek on her smooth skin, the surface warm where I’d been against her, and then I did it. I kissed her. At first, just a brush of my lips against her taught skin. It felt smooth and cool. I licked my lips. They tasted metallic and salty. I kissed her again, longer, slower. And then I licked her.

A noise roused me from my trance and I lifted my head, listening. Nothing. Maybe just the Ole Mil creaking and moaning, as usual. No, there it was again. A noise.

“Hello?” I called.

I climbed down and circled behind Zero-Five. “Hel-looo?”

There was Buster, in the shadows, eyeing me, ears back, neck fur raised, a low growl.

“Oh, so it’s you again, Buster.”

The dog’s ears pricked up. He stopped growling when he heard his name, but his fur stayed ruffled.

“I know you’re just trying to protect your territory, Buster.”

He tilted his head sideways, ears forward with a quizzical look.

“You think I’m an intruder. I get it, Buster.”

The fur on his neck smoothed and his tail started to wag a little.

I stepped out of Zero-Five’s shadow. “Look Buster, I’m not the enemy.”

He seemed to like to hear his name, his tail went into full wag.

“I’ll admit, I am more of a cat person. But still…maybe we can be friends?”

I put my hand out.

“What do you say, Buster?”

He moved toward me, sniffed my hand, and then licked it.

Previously, I discussed reasons why I recommend that everyone—particularly post-menopausal women—add the traditional flat barbell bench press to their strength building routine. Benching is a fun, challenging, and highly effective way to build strength, improve bone density, and increase muscle mass, offsetting the body’s natural aging process.

As a ‘compound exercise’, benching engages multiple muscle groups and joints simultaneously, using the chest, shoulders, biceps and triceps to move the bar, while also recruiting legs, back and abdominal muscles to support and stabilize the movement. Orchestrating this multi-muscle exercise stimulates the Central Nervous System (CNS), releasing chemical signals that activate neuron firing in ways needed to coordinate the complex movement pattern required between multiple motor units.

Cumulatively, this whole-body experience promotes brain health and improves posture, endurance, and—perhaps most importantly—everyday functional athleticism and power, combining strength, balance, coordination, and speed for completion of daily tasks like carrying a laundry basket upstairs, lifting groceries or children, and avoiding trip and falls.

This complex mind-body process makes the bench press very nearly, a perfect, full-body workout. Yes, that’s what I said: A full-body workout.

If you’ve only got time for one exercise, this is the one my friends!

STEP BY STEP GUIDANCE

For many new weightlifters, the question is not whether they should bench but, rather, how can they get started. Just like many workout routines, there is a lot of confusing advice online and bad role models in the gym. In the following discussion, I’m going to provide simple, step-by-step bench-pressing guidance for rookie weightlifters to get started safely.

New weightlifters should always use a Spotter when benching. A Spotter is an experienced lifter or trainer who can assist you in completing a safe and challenging lift. (More about Spotting in a future Substack).

Positioning

As you approach the bench, ensure the apparatus feet are grounded, bench is level, the barbell is centered, and the surrounding area is clear of lose weights, bar clips, and other sorts of trip hazards. Position yourself sitting centered on the end of the bench, feet flat on the floor, slightly wider than hip distance, knees at a ninety-degree angle.

Note: One of the most common initial mistakes new lifters make is to rush the positioning phase and not align themselves properly on the bench.

Lay back straight, with your body flat and parallel to the bench, back arching naturally, hips, shoulders and head contacting the bench. When you’re positioned correctly, your eyes will be directly below the barbell, shoulders perpendicular to the bar, and four body parts—feet, hips, shoulder blades, and head—will contact the floor and bench providing leverage, support, and stability for a safe and successful lift.

If you’ve been to a gym lately, you may see a power lifter using an extreme back arch, like this photograph. The aim is to shorten the distance the bar travels to reach the chest, allowing the lifter to potentially press heavier weights during weightlifting competitions.

Note: I do NOT advise this technique for beginners.

GRIP, PULL, PUSH, TIGHTEN, LIFT

Grip

Once lying flat and correctly aligned under the bar, it’s time to take your grip which can vary from person to person, based on body type and size, and weightlifting goals. For beginners, I suggest the following grip technique:

The Olympic barbell has knurled and smooth textures embedded in the metal. Align the tip of your thumb with the edge of the smooth section in order to position your hands equidistant from the center of the bar. Let the bar settle into the fleshy pad at the base of your thumb and extend along the meaty side of your hand, called the ulnar. Now, close your fingers and grip the bar firmly.

This alignment process should allow your wrist and forearm to align vertically, 90 degrees to upper arm, and move straight up and down as if you are punching the ceiling as you lift. In addition, your elbows should be slightly tucked towards your sides at a 45-degree angle, which reduces stress on your shoulders and ensures a better chest workout by engaging pectoral muscles and providing a greater range of motion by getting the bar fully down to your chest.

Over time, you may experiment by widening your grip for better pec engagement, or taking a thumbless or ‘suicide’ grip, which positions the thumb aside the fingers allowing for more vertical wrist alignment. However, for beginners, the traditional grip is a good place to start.

Note: Again, do not hurry through this phase. Take your time and ensure you have a solid, firm grip centered equally on the bar.

Pull

Now that your grip is set, you can move on to preparing your body for the lift. I do a few small pull-ups as I take deep breaths, pressing my chest upwards while tightening my back lat muscles and squeezing my shoulder blades together as I lift my body off the bench. Bringing my shoulder blades back and down while pressing my chest out creates a natural arch in my lower back. Deep breaths oxygenate my lungs and blood and calm my sympathetic nervous system, which lets me channel my body’s fight-flight instinct and focus on the mechanics of my lift. By creating intra-abdominal pressure, deep breaths stabilize the spine and torso, maximizing power production during the push-phase of the lift. Once my back is engaged, I hold my muscles tightly and brace my head and shoulder blades firmly into the bench creating stability and leverage.

Push & Tighten

With my grip set and my back and shoulder muscles activated, I reconnect with my feet, pushing into the floor, tightening by leg muscles, engaging my hips and squeezing my core as if preparing to take a gut-punch. Although I keep my hips, shoulders and head firmly on the bench, I envision my body taught and levitating, parallel to the floor, as I continue to breathe deeply.

Note: If you don’t activate your body before un-racking the barbell, it’s likely you’ll slide towards the bar later in the lift sequence when you push through your feet, creating a potentially unsafe situation.

Lift

Now that my body is taught, I’m ready to lift the bar off the rack. If using a Spotter to assist during lift-off, I will count down “Three, two, one. Go!” signaling the Spotter to help unrack and center the bar. The Spotter then states ‘It’s yours” as they release. I take the bar, holding it, straight armed, over my chest, pausing a moment and feeling the solidity of the weight. Then, I inhale as I slowly lower the bar with control to a four count [one, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; four, one thousand], lightly touch the bar to my chest, and then push up with an exhale, to a two-count [one, one thousand; two, one thousand].

A controlled descent is key. As I lower the bar, I envision slowly pulling the weight towards my chest and ‘bending the bar’, creating torque on the bar as I push into my ulnar, engage my lats, and tuck my elbows slightly.

Note: Avoid dropping, dumping, or bouncing the weight off your chest as you lower the barbell.

Once the bar lightly touches my chest, I push the weight upwards, releasing the energy built-up in my chest and shoulders, engaging my biceps and triceps like I’m punching the sky. This explosive push syncs the mind-body/brain-chest connection, as I push through my legs and hips, driving my feet into the ground, providing stabilization and a final kick for my upper-body push to close out the lift.

Note: Don’t race to rack the weight after your last repetition. Instead, steadily push upwards and finish strongly with triceps extended and bar locked out over your chest, and then allow your Spotter to help you safely rack the bar.

BREATHING

Proper breathing while benching is essential. Although personal preference varies, lifters typically inhale during the eccentric phase (lowering the weight) and exhale during the concentric phase (lifting the weight), facilitating intra-abdominal pressure control and movement rhythm. Some old school lifters prefer to hold their breath the entire time or release as they close out at the top. However, recent studies demonstrate that breath-holding can have a detrimental impact on blood pressure and cardiac function without providing any significant performance improvement.

HOW MUCH WEIGHT SHOULD YOU LIFT?

For beginners, start by lifting the 45-pound Olympic bar without any additional free weight plates for ten repetitions (called reps). The aim is to complete three sets of ten reps with a 2-minute rest minimum between sets. If you struggled to complete ten reps with the bar alone, continue benching the bar without additional free weight plates. If ten reps felt light—as if you could’ve easily done 12-15 reps—consider adding weight for the second and third set. Discuss the options with your Spotter. Even adding just 2.5 pound plates will increase the challenge. As you gain more experience over time, you will likely add more weight and sets to your workout routine.

Note: Initially, your goal is to learn and execute proper bench press form—Not lift your maximum weight. Too many rookie lifters sacrifice good form in order to lift heavy, developing bad habits and eventually hurting themselves.

Shaking is OK

Shaking is okay and a completely normal neurological response to your first bench press routines. Smaller muscles fatigue faster than larger, primary muscles causing shaking as your CNS struggles to recruit new muscle groups to help. There are significant strength gains to be made by pushing through the shaking and completing the eccentric ‘negative’ phase—or downward barbell motion—even if you need your Spotters assistance to complete the upward motion. As you build confidence and strength over time by lifting consistently, your CNS gets more efficient and shaking diminishes.

Thanks for reading my Substack and keep an eye out for more about benching and spotting in coming articles.

While I was deployed, I’d try to get a run in whenever I could. Not an easy task on a navy ship underway. After Flight Quarters, I’d pull on my PT gear and go where I usually went: three levels down to the freight deck, the longest continuous section onboard the USS Milwaukee. You could run nearly the entire length of the ship down there, as long as you didn’t have claustrophobia or mind dodging forklifts and inhaling diesel fumes.

Ten laps equaled a mile, but I couldn’t think of it that way. It’d make me crazy: Counting fifty laps for a five-mile run? Instead, I’d run through both sides of my homemade mix-tape, stopping to flip the cassette in my yellow Walkman: Tears for Fears, Wham!, Eurythmics, B52’s, INXS, Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys, R.E.M., Culture Club, Kate Bush, 10,000 Maniacs.

Although the plastic cassette player had a belt-clip, it was too heavy for running shorts, plus the music skipped if the cassette got jostled. I had to perfect a kind of delivery guy maneuver, holding the Walkman steady in my hand like a sweaty pizza.

It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. The dark timeless quality of life deep below decks and monotony of running in circles was like a maritime labyrinth. My mind floated away to other times and places. I envisioned running along a beach or down a forest path, feeling the warm sunshine, smelling the fresh air, listening to nature, feet barely touching the earth, running light, fast, free.

Other times, I thought about my life.

Growing up, neighborhood girls always wanted to play the stupidest games. It started with Barbies. One would brush the doll’s hair or put on a new outfit. Another would join in, and then another.

They would lay together on the green shag carpet on their bellies, legs bent skyward, ankles crossed at the Bobbie-socks, swaying back and forth. I’d sit on a foot stool in front of the fireplace, hugging my knees to my chest, watching, confused by their Barbie-play. Barbie never did anything, just got dressed and undressed. I didn’t see how that was fun. And why were Barbie’s tiny white feet mysteriously pointed, perennially awaiting a high-heeled shoe like a plastic Cinderella. After a while, the girls inevitably added another curious element to the Barbie-game: “Who do you want to marry?” Followed by, “How many kids do you want?” Their stamina for these topics baffled me. I’d keep mum until I could slip away, making-up an excuse to leave.

I just wanted to ride my bike, feel movement, airflow, the wind in my face. I wanted to go, even if it was just riding in circles. I loved to ride in circles, tighter and tighter, faster and faster, until I got dizzy. Then I’d lay on the lawn and look up at the puffy clouds as they flew across the sky, my bicycle lying on the grass next to me like a best friend.

When I was eight, I got a new bike; my brother’s hand-me-down. My father and I went to the hardware store, and I picked out the paint color. Purple with little flecks of silver that sparkled when the light hit just right. While my Dad bought the spray-paint, I wandered around the bins of nuts and bolts, nails and screws. I liked how neat and organized it was, each fastener perfectly symmetrical, created for a specific use in its own special place. After the hardware store we went to the bicycle shop and I picked out a purple banana seat, chrome sissy bar, and matching rubber handgrips with two-colored streamers, purple and white plastic. When we got home, we disassembled my inherited bike and soaked the chain in a blue Maxwell House can. I learned how to use an adjustable wrench: righty-tighty, lefty-loosey. Once the frame was stripped bare, we hung it from the garage rafters and spray painted it, two coats. I liked working outside and the waft of oily metal, using tools, getting dirty.

I stopped running and knelt to tie my shoelace, my forehead dripping sweat onto the metal ship deck. I realized in that moment that it never occurred to me to ask for a new bike. I wondered why? I was just a little kid. Maybe I didn’t know where you could buy bikes new. Maybe I just knew we couldn’t afford it. Anyway, my new-hand-me-down bike was better than any store-bought-new bike could’ve ever been. And I remembered I didn’t pretend to like playing Barbies anymore after that.

As I stood up, a dog ran out from between two tall stacks of wooden pallets, growling, white teeth barred, black ears back, scruffy dark fur ruffled. I jumped back, almost colliding with a forklift, dropping my Walkman, shattering the plastic cover.

“What the heck—” I cried out, backpedaling, my heart racing.

The sailor operating the forklift stopped and jumped down. “You okay, ma’am?”

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to regain equilibrium.

“That’s just Buster,” the sailor said, reaching down to scratch the dog’s ears. Buster wagged his tail but still eyed me warily. “Ship’s dog.”

“There’s a d-dog…,” I stammered, swallowing hard. “Onboard a Navy ship?”

“Well, technically Buster’s the Captain’s dog. But that makes him the ship’s dog. Anyway, he pretty much goes where he wants to.”

“I see that,” I said, pointing to a big pile of Buster poop nearby.

“Oh, I’ll get that cleaned up,” the sailor said walking off.

Once we were alone again, Buster’s ears went back and he sniffed me suspiciously as I tried to retrieve my broken Walkman.

* * *

Three days later, I was on my nightly rounds distributing the flight schedule to different departments on the ship, one of my collateral duties. As Assistant Operations Officer, my job was to gather battlegroup messages requesting helo support and then organize the next day’s flight schedule, matching flight crews and helos to meet mission requirements. Inevitably there’d be changes, then changes to the changes, and then more changes after that. I often had to distribute hard copies of the final flight schedule around the darkened ship after Taps.

That night, I felt something behind me in the dim ship’s passageway and turned to find Buster following me, warily sniffing with a low growl.

“What is it with you?” I said, pushing the dog away as the ship’s Executive Officer (XO) rounded the corner.

“He’s not used to women.”

“What?”

“Women onboard ship. He’s used to men,” the XO said, patting Buster’s head. The dog grinned, tail wagging. “You smell different.”

“Okay, well thanks for that observation, sir,” I snapped. It was late. I was tired. This dog was annoying. And I wasn’t in the mood for games.

“No, to Buster I mean. You know you are the first?”

“First what?”

“First woman,” he said, like it was common knowledge I should’ve known. “First woman to deploy onboard the Milwaukee. I mean, we’ve had women guests, like in port. Wives and such. No women on deployment.”

“Really? I knew I was the only one onboard now, didn’t know I was the first one ever.”

“Yup. Combat exclusion policy. Women can’t be permanently assigned to a combatant.”

“Isn’t this a combatant—fast combat-support ship?”

“Yup, but Air Det’s TAD—temporary additional duty,” he said, scratching Buster’s ears, causing the dog’s back foot to scratch the air in sympathy.

“That’s how you get around it,” I said, thinking there were lots of secrets around the ship I wasn’t aware of. “Temporary assignments?”

XO nodded. “I’ll take him,” he said, leading Buster away. “He’ll get used to you eventually. Just takes time.”

Since you’ve been reading my Substack, you already know I love to lift free weights. If the goddess of the universe swooped down from on high and said “You can only do one exercise for the rest of your life—pick one!”. I’d pick the traditional flat bench press. As a compound, multi-joint exercise, the bench press primarily involves the chest (pectoralis major), shoulder (anterior deltoids), and arm (triceps brachii) muscles while also recruiting legs to provide power and biceps, back and abdominal muscles to support and stabilize the movement. This makes the bench press very nearly, a perfect, full-body workout.

PHYSICAL BENEFITS OF COMPOUND EXERCISES

There are several physical benefits of compound exercises such as bench press, squats, deadlifts, lunges, overhead press, and chin-ups.

1. Real-World Application

First, by mimicking everyday body movements—such pushing a grocery cart, carrying laundry upstairs, squatting to lift a child, or pulling sheets off a bed—compound exercises improve intermuscular coordination, dynamic balance, and real-world power. Recreating the push, lift, squat and pull of daily life safely and effectively in the gym through compound exercises enhances overall wellness and ultimately prevents slip and fall accidents by engaging the body’s full kinetic chain.

2. Cardio Benefits

Second, because compound exercises involve several muscle groups and large amounts of muscle tissue, there are cardio benefits as well. During compound exercises, heart rate increases to pump blood to muscle groups to keep them fueled and responsive, providing aerobic as well as anaerobic health benefits.

3. Calorie Burn

Third, since the body burns five calories of energy to consume one liter of oxygen, compound exercises burn more calories than isolation exercises which target one specific muscle group like a bicep curl or leg extension.

4. Excess Post-Exercise Oxygen Consumption

Fourth, as I previously discussed,[v] compound exercises offer a secret ‘afterburner’ affect called Excess Post-Exercise Oxygen Consumption (EPOC) which raises the resting metabolic rate for up to 48 hours after weightlifting, burning more calories as the body repairs damaged muscle tissue, removes lactic acid, and replenishes cells.

5. Anti-Aging

Fifth, by gradually increasing weight and reps using progressive overload techniques, benching increases metabolic stress improving every aging biomarker from bone density, balance and muscle strength to disease prevention and a stronger immune system.

6. Best Cost-Benefit Tradeoff

In sum, these physical factors combine to mean compound exercises provide the maximum fitness benefits given the time and effort invested. But, there are other benefits of the bench press as well.

OTHER BENEFITS OF BENCHING

I love the challenge of benching. It requires both physical strength and mental focus. Unlike cable and exercise machines, where a plate’s actual weight is subjective, you know exactly how much weight you’re lifting when you bench. The Olympic bar weighs 45 pounds, the free weight plates are all clearly marked. It takes time to master the bench, to learn the form and even longer to hone your technique. And even then, not every lift is perfect, making each attempt a personal experiment fraught with potential failure. Some days you have it, some days you don’t. And you just have to accept that fact and forgive yourself for your shortcomings.

WHY NOT GIVE IT A TRY?

I believe everyone should bench, particularly older women. Seems incongruent, doesn’t it? When was the last time you saw a 60-year-old woman benching at your gym? That’s the problem.

Research consistently demonstrates how women, in particular, lose muscle strength as they age. Disuse causes muscle wasting and bone loss; physical activity increases muscle strength and bone mass. These facts should make bench pressing a go-to exercise for women. Why don’t most even try it?

Admittedly, bench pressing looks intimidating. Mostly men seem to congregate in the free weight areas of the fitness floor making ‘those areas’ feel like a foreign and inhospitable land to new lifters. When I worked as a Personal Trainer at a big-box fitness facility, at least half the women I trained said they’d never been to the free weight area. Yet, they “always wondered what went on over there”. Although they’d train in the free weight area with me, they were often reluctant to venture there themselves unaccompanied. The amount of weight lifted and general attitude and tone of benchers, can feel aggressive to the initiated. The potential for injury and/or humiliation looms large in unseasoned lifters’ minds. Of course, this makes overcoming those fears and realigning potential misperceptions an exciting learning opportunity in the right environment.

Getting Started

Maybe you’re eager to try benching, but not sure how to get started. In my next series, I’m going to breakdown the mysteries of bench pressing—and bench spotting—for the average person. For the uninitiated, a spotter should be used for all heavy lifts and, in particular, for those lifters new to bench pressing. The spotter’s job is to help the bencher complete a safe and challenging lift, but also stay out of the way and let the lifter concentrate. Spotting is a real art and worth exploring in its own right.

Please join me in my upcoming posts about benching and spotting.

In 1987, I finished Navy Flight School and received orders to Helicopter Combat Support Squadron-Six flying the H-46 Sea Knight—the giant green, tandem-rotor helicopter you see in old Vietnam movies. The H-46 is beautiful in an awkward, ugly sort of way—a cross between a hummingbird, a pelican, and a dump truck.

The US Navy’s job is power projection at sea, so I went to sea for six months on a fast, combat support tanker called the USS Milwaukee. The Iran-Iraq war was going strong and our battlegroup was assigned to deploy through the Suez Canal, head toward the Middle East, and then loiter outside the Persian Gulf. Three days after we set sail from Norfolk, we had our first operational assignment: fly Vertical Replenishment (VERTREP), slinging parts and supplies externally under our helo via hook and cargo net[i], while our ship refueled the battlegroup aircraft carrier and another ship alongside.

I walked around the Milwaukee’s weather decks as the ships pulled into position. Waves crested in sync, white caps breaking, spray misting the air behind like fairy dust. It was a whole new world; everything fascinated me. The air felt fresh and clean as the wind slapped my face. I’d trained for VERTREP but never done a real one. I was eager for the experience, ready to test my skills and prove my mettle. But I was also a little scared. Scared in a good way. The kind of fear that wakes you up, sharpens your survival instincts. Any pilot who said they weren’t scared flying off a ship would be a liar. Or a fool. It’s too easy to screw up, everything moving fast, obstacles close, danger everywhere. The slightest mistake, you’re in the drink.

I zipped my leather flight jacket higher and flipped the faux fur collar up against the windchill. I thought about an old Gunny I served with back in the Corps. He’d said the biggest aspiration for a Marine was to get his service record stamped ‘NAFOD’—No Apparent Fear of Death.

“Sometimes—back in ‘Nam—when we really hit the shit,” he’d said, spitting tobacco juice into the dirt. “You know, a high pucker factor situation? I’d think NAFOD. Cleared my head, helped me lock-in, focus on the task at hand.”

NAFOD became my credo.

I met my crew to brief and preflight our helicopter, Zero-Five, in the ship’s port helo hangar. It was warmer and safer than out on the open flight deck. Then I strapped into the cockpit and rode Zero-Five out onto the flight deck. As the deck crew pushed, a watchful sailor sidestepped next to the landing gear, ready to throw the heavy yellow chocks around the tires if the ship took an errant roll. Once aligned on the white flight deck markings, the crew chocked and chained Zero-Five down. I started the auxiliary power unit and spread her folded rotor blades, preparing to spin her to life. I could’ve let the mechanics ride her out, align her, spread her. I could’ve gone below deck, taken a break, had a coke. But I wanted to ride her out. My name was painted on the side of Zero-Five; she was my bird.

The ship’s public address system, the 1MC, came alive: On the Milwaukee, Flight Quarters, Flight Quarters. All hands man your Flight Quarters Stations.

My aircraft commander appeared fully suited up and boarded the aircraft, wiggling through the tunnel into the cockpit, folding his large frame into the right seat. I finished the checklist and the rotors began to spin. Zero-Five jumped to life, sounding thunderous yet oddly comforting. On our signal, the deck crew broke down the chains and pulled the chocks, sprinting out from beneath our belly. We were free, untethered from the ship. I lifted the helo, slid right and spun until we were perpendicular to the ship. Pausing in hover, we did our last safety checks, then I pulled power, dipping Zero-Five’s nose with forward cyclic, climbing skyward in a tornado of downwash: A goodbye kiss to the Ole Milwaukee from Zero-Five.

I loved listening to the helo’s familiar sounds as we swung between ocean and sky, suspended by the physics of aerodynamics: lift overcoming weight, thrust overcoming drag. There is music in a helicopter’s clatter, a symphony of sound: rotors phwapp, the airflow hums, the engines purr, the hydraulic pumps whine, and the radios crackle as we skim the sea at just a few hundred feet, fast as a race car.

The battlegroup needed to sail northward to rendezvous for a NATO exercise in a few days, that meant strong starboard winds for flight ops. I’d have to fly it all from the left seat. I felt a familiar knot of excited anticipation twist in my stomach. My heart beat fast, high up in my chest. But my head was clear and my hands were steady. I was ready. The tower gave us a green light. The aircrewmen opened Zero-Five’s hell-hole, a trapdoor in the helo floor, then laid on their stomachs on the deck, looking down to guide us for the first hookup.

I slid left over the Milwaukee’s fantail, hovering low over the flight deck, as a deckhand ran underneath to hook the external load, then raced clear. I lifted the load gently off the deck then circled hard right behind the two ships steaming in formation. Astern the carrier, I kicked right pedal, pulled a little power and pushed left cyclic, floating up the carrier’s wake sideways for the drop. It was exhilarating, pure seat-of-the pants flying, like when I was a kid, skidding my bicycle sideways on gravel. Then I dove forward to the Milwaukee flight deck for another pick, lifted and circled hard right again, dragging the aircraft nose along the watery horizon that filled our windscreen until the carrier’s wake was visible again. We slung pallets of milk, eggs, toilet paper, shipboard supplies, and aircraft parts. An awkwardly beautiful dance between human and machine: pick, circle right, slide and drop, dive forward; pick, circle, slide and drop, dive; pick circle drop; pick circle drop.

We refueled and flew some more. Zero-Five felt nimble, tight and powerful, dancing under my touch as I caressed her, gently pushing, pulling, urging her to go where I wanted. Zero-Five’s music spoke to me, calming me, reassuring me she could do whatever I asked. NAFOD helped me relax. I saw where we needed to be and then we were there, like magic. We were rider and beast, telepathically connected. Time slipped away. Runners stopped jogging on the carrier’s flightdeck, sailors crowded the weather decks on both ships. Everyone wanted to watch our dance. But Zero-Five and I were alone together, lovers in a crowd, in sync in a sacred space of our own.

We refueled again.

Next, we flew bombs, three to a steel crate, half a sixpack. Although the heavy crates were less likely than the light cargo pallets to oscillate in flight, they had no aerodynamic capacity. Sheer deadweight. Zero-Five and I adjusted. She groaned as I pushed her nose down, snapped her tail around, coordinated pedal and cyclic, sliding sideways, pulling power to slow my rate of descent, then opposite cyclic to slow the slide. Her twin tandem rotor heads dumped a pillow of downwash on the carrier’s broad deck and we alighted in a cushion of air. She sighed, settling into a hover as we dropped the heavy load, and then we dove forward light and free for another pick, engines growling as she strained to lift the weight. Finally, the forklifts slowed, the deck started to clear and we landed.

Seven hours of flight time had sped by.

* * *

Helicopters have to be rinsed at the end of each day; the engines washed clean of saltwater residue. That was my job.

“Cranking one,” I said, moving the engine control level to fire-off the turbine engine.

“Roger ma’am.”

I watched the engine light off and stabilize. “Good start.”

“Water’s going in ma’am,” the crewman confirmed.

“Roger that,” I said, sitting back, sliding the side window open. A fiery orange sun had begun its dip toward the horizon and I smiled to myself, resting my hands loosely on the flight controls, scanning the engine gauges. It’d been a fun day and I felt a sense of pride. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was doing exactly what I was meant to be doing. And I was good at it; damn good at it.

“Water’s still running through, ma’am. Couple more minutes,” the crewman said.

Nightfall approached. The sun was a brilliant orb burning a hole through the darkening sky, the horizon clear and cloud-free, the ocean calm, softening to a gentle grey-blue. I watched the sun’s trajectory. The fireball seemed to accelerate downward once it touched the horizon. I blinked and looked away to clear my eyes. The sunset colors were mesmerizing; I had to look back. The sun was falling fast now, the lower part of the sphere darkening to amber as it contacted the water, melting into a perfect half circle, then a lopsided third. The sky behind vibrated a brilliant orange as the ocean faded to black.

The sun’s decent seemed to slow, the smooth fiery orb resisting the last few degrees of descent into the ocean’s inky surface. I blinked, not wanting to miss anything. When I opened my eyes, the edges of the descending sliver had become ragged and tapered like a white-hot pyramid sinking into the sea, a fiery ‘Eye of Providence’ keeping watch. Then a fuzzy green haze started to blur the edges of the pyramid and a bright green oval slowly appeared, hovering like a space ship over the last sliver of the day’s sunlight and then Bam—a green ray burst like a neon explosion and a beam of luminous green shot up and out in all directions, hanging there for a split second, then dissipating into velvety darkness.

“Holy shit, did you see that?” I said over the helicopter intercom.

“Yes, ma’am. Me and the guys, we were just saying,” the crewman replied.

“Heard about the green flash but never seen it,” I said. “Thought they were yanking my chain—”

“No, ma’am. It’s for real.”

“Did you see how it just exploded—the whole sky flashed green, just for a second.”

“Yes, ma’am. Do enough sea time, you’ll see lots of ‘em. By the way, ma’am. We’re done on one. Ready on two.”

“Roger. Shutting down one. Cranking two,” I said. “Good start.”

“Water’s going in, ma’am.”

“Roger,” I said, taking it all in. “So, what causes a green flash, anyway?”

“I hear it’s like a mirage. You know, part optical illusion, part physics? Like a prism breaking up the light, makes a rainbow.”

“Amazing,” I said. I’d lived all my life near water, never knew about this. What else would I learn out here?

“Water’s running through on two, ma’am. Almost done,” the crewman said.

“I’ve got another question.”

“Ma’am?”

“How’d you know when it’s done?”

“I taste it ma’am.”

“What?”

“The engine—I taste water coming out. If it’s salty, I keep runnin’ em. If it’s clean we’re done.”

“Hm, okay, good to know.”

Remember that 1980’s television sitcom, Cheers, where ex-Red Sox relief pitcher, Sam ‘May Day’ Malone, owns a Boston bar that attracts an eclectic group of Beacon Hill locals who drink and socialize, poking fun at each other while sharing the happenings of everyday life? Nearly cancelled during its first season, Cheers eventually caught its stride, earning Outstanding Comedy Series nominations over all 11 seasons as well as 28 Primetime Emmies, while spinning off three new sitcoms. Today, Cheers is cited as one of the greatest network TV comedies ever. I loved that show.

What made Cheers so magical?

Clues to the Magic of Cheers

Clues to the magic of Cheers and the longevity of its popularity can be found in the lyrics of the sitcom’s theme song: “Where everybody knows your name and are always glad you came”. Humans are, by nature, herd animals. It’s in our DNA to socialize and we value the comfort of environments where we feel recognized and accepted.

Further clues to the magic of Cheers are represented in the reoccurring jokes of bar regular, Norm Peterson. When he enters the bar, everyone yells “Norm!” as he beelines for his usual barstool. Bartenders typically ask Norm how his day’s going, giving him the chance to provide a snarky response like “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m wearing Milk bone underwear”.

These examples send a clear message that Cheers regulars can be themselves—warts and all—in a playful environment that includes social connection and good-natured ribbing. No one is pretending they aren’t flawed. Rather, they accept their imperfections without concealment, creating a safe and kind environment where people can share life’s challenges.

What does Cheers have to do with breaking down the mysteries of strength training for average adults—the mission of my Substack?

Cheers & Physical Literacy

Cheers came to my mind when I read a recent Danish study of a supervised exercise program involving thirty individuals (aged 49-88) with Type 2 Diabetes (T2D). I know, kind of strange, right? Please hear me out.

Since T2D is strongly associated with a sedentary lifestyle and unhealthy eating habits, researchers at three Danish hospitals hypothesized that creation of a patient-centered exercise environment, respectful of individuals’ personal preferences, could help improve diabetes-related outcomes. Results of the study are compelling.

Supportive Social Environment

Study findings emphasized the importance of a supportive social environment, where participants were not made to feel judged, ashamed, or different from their peers. Social connection with like-minded individuals with similar ailments proved critical. For example, participants commented its “Good to hear others’ experiences” and “We all have something to deal with”. They specifically cited exercising with others and developing camaraderie as motivation for lifestyle changes: “Suddenly we were a team”.

Improved Body Awareness

As participants became accustomed to exercise, they reported improvement in body awareness (“You actually feel it in your body”) and learning new things about their bodies (“I learned that it is good to sweat—it feels good as well” and “I can challenge myself more than I thought”). This contributed to an increase in self-confidence and created a sense of empowerment, developing motivation for exercise many hadn’t experienced before.

Peer Group Accountability

As the 12-week training program came to an end, participants had concerns about self-management and their ability to stick with an exercise program on their own, unsupervised. One participant noted the importance of their peer group for accountability: “I am scared as hell that I don’t find some allies then it won’t happen”. Another emphasized safety concerns, commenting, “If I went to the fitness center, no one would keep any eye on me”.

Learning Physical Literacy

In sum, the Danish study results indicated that supportive patient-centered exercise classes promoted a transformation of motivation leading to enhancement of physical literacy. As I previously discussed, research demonstrates that in order for people to develop an actionable fitness program, they must first learn “physical literacy” which is defined as: “the motivation, confidence, physical competence, knowledge and understanding to value and take responsibility for maintaining purposeful physical pursuits/activities throughout the life course”. In other words, most people don’t intend to adopt a sedentary lifestyle or unhealthy eating habits. They just don’t know how to develop an actionable fitness program, particularly as they age.

Motivation Takes Many Forms

In several of my previous Substack stories, I describe an unkind and unsafe military environment that nevertheless motivated me to succeed. I’ve seen a similar sort of harsh, military-inspired motivation technique used for weight training in some civilian gyms: yelling, taunting, belittling, shaming. Admittedly, this approach works for some people in some situations. Fear can be a strong motivational force. Staff Sergeant Sylvest and Gunny Leatherwood motivated me to become a Marine, eventually earning my naval officer commission and pilot’s wings. I get it.

However, as a Personal Trainer today, I’ll stick with my learning about motivation from Sixth-Try and the findings of the Danish study. Participants in the Danish study felt most comfortable experimenting with exercise and learning physical literacy, successfully modifying their lifestyle in a Cheers-like environment where people accept their imperfections without concealment, sharing the ups and downs of life. I’d argue, for some people, motivation is best found in a safe, kind place where people know you, accept your limitations, and support your fitness aspirations. This is the kind of climate I aim to foster in my boutique fitness studio, We Lift Heavy. A safe and kind space where everyone knows your name and is always glad you came.

It was now a full week since the Rifle Run and I knew I was in deep shit: I’d questioned authority, violated an order, took matters into my own hands. I knew there’d be hell to pay. A Candidate Officer yelled into my barracks room as I was studying, “Fraher, get to the DI hut. Gunny wants you. Double-time.”

The day of reckoning had arrived.

I stood at attention in the passageway outside the Drill Instructors’ office, waiting, my mind wandering back to the first day of officer candidate training. We’d braced the bulkhead along both sides of this same p-way, wearing ill-fitting green World War II fatigues, civilian running shoes, and chrome dome helmets with our names handwritten in magic marker on masking tape; a not-so-subtle message that DIs could erase our existence and reissue our gear to the next idealist, eager for the chance to earn Navy Wings.

That’s when we met our Senior Drill Instructor: A six-five dark green Marine with several Vietnam tours under his shiny belt. He wore his wide green Campaign Cover tilted low over his dark sniper-like eyes, flat brim almost touching his nose, like he was peering out of a covered foxhole at the enemy.

“I am Gunnery Sergeant Hunter Leatherwood, United States Marine Corps, your Senior Drill Instructor for the next thirteen weeks here at Aviation Officer Candidate School,” he yelled, pacing between us. “You will obey my orders quickly, to the best of your abilities. You will conduct yourselves at all time with the utmost dignity, honor and respect. You will not lie, cheat or steal, nor tolerate those among you who do. Do you candidates understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” some of us yelled. The rest stood in stunned silence.

Then the PT began. Must’ve been over a hundred candidates crammed together, smashing into each other, air dense with body heat, sweat, and damp smelling cotton, saturated with the bodily fluids of hundreds of candidates before us, permanently embedded in our recycled greens.

“Pay attention to instructions candidates,” Gunny continued. “Use the grey mass between your ears. Execute immediately. Be a leader. That is the job of a Naval Aviator. Your life may depend upon it one day. IF you make it.”

We shouted another pathetically disorganized “Sir, yes, sir.”

Gunny marched up and down our row, heels clicking on the linoleum. He had a perpetual look of dissatisfaction on his face, nostrils flaring like he was offended by a horrible odor: the smell of aspirational overreach.

“You want the Navy to give you keys to a multimillion-dollar aircraft, you better start sounding off like you’ve got a pair, children,” Gunny yelled. “You hear me?”

“Sir, yes sir,” we yelled a bit more coherently.

“You DO realize half of you will NOT graduate from my program. Hell, a third of you won’t make it through my first week.” He’d laughed, a deep ominous belly laugh. “I won’t need to do a thing—most of you will Drop on Request: D-O-R.”

Gunny Leatherwood’s prediction proved true. Our class went from a hundred and twenty to seventy-eight in days; ten women down to six. Candidates failed the initial run times, swim quals, piss test. Most got the NAMI-Whammy from the Naval Aerospace Medical Institute. Flight Surgeons discovered vision issues, hearing problems, heart arrythmia, neurological factors. The smallest infraction was a disqualifying event—took Ritalin for ADHD as a kid. Zap, you’re NAMI-Whammied. Didn’t know you had a heart murmur? Zap again. Not 20/20 that particular day—done—you’re going home. And plenty DOR’ed. Poof! Just vanished. MIA like a POW.

Gunny moved with an uncanny grace and inhuman quickness. He seemed to be everywhere, see everything, all the time. And then he stepped in front of me.

I caught my breath.

He did a crisp left face, filling my field of vision, and we aligned toe-to-toe, inches apart. Him: towering over me. Me: staring at his Adam’s apple. He smelled like coffee and Aqua Velva. I knew not to meet his eyes and stared straight ahead; confident he wouldn’t find anything wrong with my Parris Island posture.

Then he surprised me again. “You ain’t gonna make it candidate,” he whispered. “You know that, right honeypie?”

His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like he was stating the obvious: the time of day, the sky is blue, you ain’t gonna make it.

I felt like he’d slapped me. “No sir. This candidate will make it, sir.”

“No way, girlie. Not gonna happen. Uh uh. Nope. Odds are definitely against it.”

He bent sideways, whispering in my ear, “I’m going to call you Goldfish. Know why?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“Cause Goldfish die within a week.” His hot exhale hit my ear, giving me a chill. “You like that name, Goldie?”

A booming voice rousted me from my memories, “Candidate, get in here.”

I marched smartly into the office, centered myself on the desk, waited at the position of attention. I could feel Gunny Leatherwood’s glare burning into me, but I refused to break military bearing.

“Tell me, Goldie, what exactly were you trying to accomplish on that Rifle Run?”

“Sir, this candidate was trying to encourage others, be a leader, sir.”

“A leader? I ought to fail your ass, make you run it again for that little stunt.”

I wasn’t expecting that. I didn’t answer.

“Well, candidate, no reply? Just a two-thousand-yard stare. That’s the best you got?”

I considered my options: do the Rifle Run again or DOR.

“Aye-aye sir,” I yelled.

“Aye-aye what?”

“Sir, this candidate will do the Rifle Run again, sir.”

He looked me over with a quizzical expression. “Why would you do that?”

“Sir, this candidate doesn’t want any favors and is not going to DOR, sir.”

He paused; a painful silence filled the void. I felt a cold trickle of sweat form under my t-shirt.

“Why do you think we do the Rifle Run, Candidate?”

A list ran through my head—hazing, sadism, culling weakness, strengthening the herd—but I didn’t answer.

“The primary mission is simple: Teach candidates how to think under pressure, process when you’re in pain, push yourself when you’re tired.”

I thought about Sixth-Try.

“Look at me, Candidate,” he said.

I resisted the trap.

“I said look-at-me.”

I felt anxious. I wished he would just PT the shit out of me and be done with it, but if that was going to happen, I’d already be on my face. I thought about Staff Sergeant Sylvester and our Marine Corps Payday. No, this was a new kind of DI game. I wasn’t sure how to play.

I shifted my gaze down to meet his eyes. He was leaning back in his chair with one shiny boot propped on the edge of the desk. In his hand he held a slinky, and began to shift the silver coiled wire slowly from one hand to the other.

I waited, the slinky tinkling oddly as he passed it back and forth.

“See, I’ve got a problem, Candidate Fraher. Maybe you can help me. You disrespected three of my DIs on that Rifle Run. What am I supposed to do about that?”

Wait, was he actually asking my opinion or was this another trick?

“There’s gotta be consequences.” Tinkle, tinkle. “What do you suggest I do?”

How to answer? I didn’t want to do the Rifle Run again, that’s for sure. Maybe he really was trying to help me get out of this predicament.

“Sir, this candidate requests permission to speak freely, sir,” I said, stalling.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake—Speak.”

“Sir, this candidate suggests that the Senior Drill Instructor could reward the Junior DIs,” I blurted. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I wanted to seize the chance to fix this situation before I became a second-try candidate on the next Company Rifle Run.

“Reward them? Explain that to me, Fraher. How should I reward them?”

“Yes, sir, congratulate them for, um, helping the Sixth-Try candidate to finally achieve her Rifle Run qualification, sir,” I stammered. Yeah, that was it, that sounded good.

“Congratulate them?”

“Yes sir, the DIs, um, motivated Sixth-Try to finish. They helped her graduate, helped get her commission, sir.”

He didn’t answer, just tossed the slinky back and forth between his massive palms, gradually increasing speed until it built up enough momentum to move on its own.

“You still haven’t answered my question, candidate. What exactly were YOU trying to accomplish?”

My mind went blank. The slinky sound jingled rhythmically like cowboy spurs in a wild west movie. I pictured us counting off paces in an old western gunfight: ta-clank, ta-clank, ta-clank.

“Did you think that candidate was being treated unfairly?”

Whoah, what was this? A new DI head-game. I didn’t want to get labeled a complainer. I wanted to get my commission and go to flight school; not come off like some whiney non-hacker, criticizing the leadership.

“Answer me, candidate. Do you think women are being treated unfairly?”

I recalled my own rifle run experience, Junior DIs hassling me but not the men. That said, it pissed me off so much I was motivated to finish.

“Sir, this candidate thinks motivation takes many forms. Different candidates are motivated different ways, sir.”

“What the fuck does that mean? This some sort of cryptic touchy-feely bull shit. You some kind of feminist—hate your government? Blame the world for FE-male problems?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Sir, some candidates—like Sixth-Try—may not need to be yelled at so much, sir.”

He straightened, looked me square in the face, then slowly leaned over his desk, his large square jaw just inches from my face. “You better watch yourself, Goldie. I got my eye on you. You either fit in or get lost. Got it?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” I said and marched out of the office.

I jogged up the ladder well back to my barracks room, a wave of relief crashing over me. I smiled to myself. I’d learned to successfully navigate the Senior DI’s games, thinking under pressure in new ways. I was one day closer to earning my Navy Wings of Gold.

(*Writer’s Note: This is a work of fiction informed by my military experience.)

I spent the summer of 1981 learning about myself: A 19-year-old New Englander out of my depth in South Carolina, and US Marine Corps recruit training. About halfway through bootcamp our Senior Drill Instructor, Staff Sergeant Sylvester, marched out of the DI hut and called our Platoon to the quarterdeck.

“Ten-hut. Listen up, Recruits. Today is your lucky day.”

In front of the DI hut, there was now a table with a metal strong box, a chair with a dispersing clerk, and a Sergeant-at-Arms wearing a wide white belt and a Glock.

“The Marine Corps has decided to pay you dirtbags. Last month y’all got your standard issue gear, uniforms and such. This month y’all get cash.”

An electric vibe sizzled through the Platoon: We’re going to get paid—in cash?

“Each of you will approach this table. You will sign this Gunny’s ledger and you will put your right hand out to be paid.” Staff Sergeant Sylvester paced up and down our cordon, punching her fist into her palm in cadence. “Four hundred and nineteen dollars and forty cents.”

The group let out an involuntary gasp.

“Shut it! Shut your fucking pie holes,” she stopped pacing until silence fell. “You will sign the ledger. You will put your right hand out. You will be paid. You will put that money in your footlocker, and you will lock it up.”

“LOCK-IT-UP.” She paused for emphasis. “Then get back up here.”

“Now, let’s go. Fall out, line up, heel-to-toe. Move it.”

The Platoon shuffled forward silently, each woman received her cash in small bills and coins, dropped into an extended right hand that quickly clenched into a tight fist. I’d never held that much cash in my hand before.

That night we shined our boots and ironed our Cammies and whispered about what we planned to do with our money.

The future seemed boundless.

***

The day after payday, the Platoon was called to attention standing at the foot of our racks. The Company Division Officer marched in, a tall, thin Second Lieutenant in heels with a tight brown bun. Our DIs stood at attention on the quarterdeck in their dress Charlies, looking like they’d been called in front of a firing squad.

“It has come to my attention that there is a thief in this Platoon—a thief. A recruit that can NOT be trusted,” the Lieutenant said, pacing with a long smooth stride. “There is also a recruit in this Platoon who failed to follow instructions.”

She strode around, heels clicking on the deck like a war drum, and stopped in front of the DI line-up. “When you were paid yesterday, Staff Sergeant Sylvester ordered you to lock your money up. Correct?”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” we yelled.

“Now a dumbass recruit left her footlocker unlocked and a dirty thief stole sixty dollars.”

She looked at the DIs, “Staff Sergeant Sylvester failed to effectively lead this Platoon.”

“And you recruits failed to follow orders,” she said, turning back to the Platoon.

“Until that money is recovered, there is no liberty.” She scanned the area, hands on hips, “NO LIBERTY.”

The DIs did a crisp right face and marched off in sync, leaving us in stunned silence.

***

I tossed and turned all night. In the morning, I knew what I had to do.

I went to the DI hut, pounded the doorframe three times and entered, standing at attention. A junior DI sat behind the closest desk in PT gear, bowed over her boots, spit shining the black surface to a mirrored finish.

She spoke without looking up, “What do you want, Fraher?”

“Ma’am, this Private has a…a suggestion…about the missing money, Ma’am.” I was surprised by my voice. It sounded garbled, shaky, like a big hawker was stuck in my windpipe.

A short DI beelined towards me from across the room, “What do you know, recruit—Did you take the money?” Her breath smelled like stale coffee.

“Ma’am, no ma’am.”

The boot shining DI spat, intent on her work, lovingly massaging saliva into the toe. “I say again, Fraher. Out with it—what—do—you—want?” she sing-songed.

I swallowed hard and took a deep breath, hoping to spit the words out in one go. “Ma’am there are fifty-two recruits in the platoon and sixty dollars missing if each recruit donated one dollar and fifteen cents, we could pay the, the—.” I stumbled, running out of air, gasping like a drowning victim.

“The dumbass recruit?” coffee-breath offered.

I took another deep breath, tried again, “Ma’am, yes, ma’am. If each recruit could donate one dollar and fifteen cents the platoon could pay the dumbass recruit back and we could all go on liberty.”

There, it was out. I thought I might vomit.

“A donation?” coffee-breath mocked, eyes bulging, still inches from my face. “Did you hear that? Fraher thinks we should take up a donation, like Girls Scouts. What’s next? A fucking bake sale. Cupcakes?”

The boot shining DI paused, dropped her hands to her lap and looked directly at me for the first time. I opened my mouth to respond but thought better of it.

This had been a bad idea.

“Staff Sergeant Sylvester,” boot shine said, still staring at me. “You hear Fraher’s brain drain?”

“Brain fart more like it,” the short DI said, coffee-spit hitting the side of my neck on ‘f’.

From somewhere in the back, Staff Sergeant Sylvester appeared, taking control of the three-way humiliation. “You some sort of Semper-Gumby, Fraher?” she said, casually leaning on the edge of a desk, filing her nails with an emery board.

Unsure what the right response was, I just stood there, body frozen, mind abuzz. I pictured myself vomiting, right there in the DI hut, hurl all over the floor, barf chunks on the Senior DI’s shiny boots. They’d probably PT me to death, right in the middle of the puke puddle. You could suffocate on your own vomit; I read that once.

“Tell me, Fraher. Did the Platoon find the thief?”

I felt my face flush. “No, ma’am.”

She stopped filing and folded her arms across her chest, talking with a soft voice I’d never heard before. “Did the Platoon find the dumbass recruit?”

“No, ma’am.”

This calm Staff Sergeant Sylvester was scarier than the maniac one.

“Let me get this right, Private Fraher. You don’t even know who was robbed?”

“No, ma’am.”

“So, the Platoon hasn’t accomplished much has it, recruit?”

“Ma’am, this Private has a—”

Coffee breath stepped between us, “Shut the fuck up, recruit! Answer the Staff Sergeant’s question.”

I stood paralyzed in place, unsure how I could shut the fuck up AND answer Staff Sergeant Sylvester’s question. Another wave of nausea washed over me and I swallowed hard. Why had I voluntarily entered the DIs’ lair of punishment and pain? Saliva pooled in my mouth. I was sure drool would run down my chin if I tried to speak. It just kept coming no matter how fast I gulped, like I needed a tampon for my saliva glands or at least a maxi-pad—

“Yooohooo. Ground Control to Private Fraher. HELLO,” the boot shining DI said. “Major Tom’s calling. Can you hear me?”

I blinked hard, trying to focus.

“Did the Platoon accomplish its mission? Yes or no, recruit. It’s a simple question.”

“Answer recruit!” coffee-breath yelled.

The nausea was gone now. A new feeling of clarity washed over me. It felt terrifying, yet oddly exciting to be someone all three DI’s found worthy of yelling at in unison.

“No, ma’am,” I screamed.

Then the crazy Staff Sergeant Sylvester returned. “You really worked your bolt on this one, Fraher. I give you that,” she growled, moving toward me. “You think this suggestion of yours—one dollar and fifteen cents—is the best way to un-fuck this shit-show?”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”

“That’s the best you got, recruit?” she yelled, inches from my face, eyes ablaze, veins throbbing in her neck.

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Dismissed.”

“Aye-aye ma’am.” I stepped backwards and double-timed away.

***

Outside the pressure cooker of the DI hut, the Platoon was calmly completing its usual routines, preparing for the morning run. The contrast was surreal.

Staff Sergeant Sylvester’s voice bellowed out from the DI hut, “Shockey, you get the Platoon up here on my quarterdeck and you better be moving at the speed of a God-darned blur.”

“Aye-aye, ma’am” Shockey said and we raced up, sitting on the deck in our PT gear.

After a while, the DIs appeared, dressed in PT gear too. They marched in, right faced, snapped to parade rest. Staff Sergeant Sylvester addressed the Platoon, “Private Fraher came up with a suggestion. Now, I want to know—and I want to know now—which of you other Einstein’s were involved in this cluster-fuck of a plan?”

Quizzical looks passed from recruit to recruit as Staff Sergeant Sylvester towered above us.

“None of you knuckleheads were involved in Fraher’s masterful brain-drain?”

No one spoke as the senior DI strode back and forth, a caged animal eager to pounce. She stopped in the center of the room, stance wide, fists on narrow hips, muscular thighs bulging from her shorts like a Tour de France cyclist. “Shockey, you behind this?”

“No ma’am.”

She rattled off a few more names. “Of course not. No takers. Private Fraher, front and center. Mountain climbers, begin.”

“Aye-aye ma’am.”

I began to exercise, happy for the chance to vent my anxiety. Staff Sergeant Sylvester circled our group, hands clasped behind her back like a professor strolling around a lecture hall pondering the curiosities of the universe. Her voice sounded scary calm again.

“Private Fraher took initiative to attack the Platoon’s obstacle. She attempted to improvise, adapt, and overcome—Private Fraher took action, she exercised leadership, like a fighting Marine. Now, this Private is sacrificing, and you recruits are slacking. Is that right?”

“No ma’am” the Platoon yelled in unison.

“That’s correct. It is NOT right. Are you slackers?”

“No ma’am.”

“Side-straddle-hops, begin.”

The Platoon jumped to its feet, exercising with enthusiasm. Sweat drenched our t-shirts and streamed down our faces. Junior DIs silently circled, looking for weakness but found none.

“On your feet,” Staff Sergeant Sylvester said.

We jumped to attention.

“Liberty is restored. Platoon dismissed.”

***

We ran for the showers elated, high fiving each other. A steamy mixture of Prell and Irish Spring formed a cloud around the head.

Someone said, “Hey, who do y’all think the thief was anyway?”

“If there was one,” Shockey muttered, shaving an arm pit.

“What’d you mean by that?” I asked, rinsing my hair.

Others stopped bathing, stepping closer to listen.

Shockey shrugged. “Never mind. Come on everybody, finish up. Time for liberty.”

“Oooorah!” the platoon yelled, laughing as our words echoed off the tiled walls.

Shockey was right. It didn’t matter if the DIs made the whole thing up just to screw with us. We lived in the bounded reality they created. But we were salty and strong, and we came together as a Platoon, a team, confident and unafraid. I fought back a smile. I learned that I kind of enjoyed being in the DI hut, on the hot seat. I learned that I could think under pressure.

(Writer’s Note: This story is a fictionized account of an actual military experience in my life.)

Photo by Kaeli Baker, www.kaelibaker.com

As I previously wrote, there’s a lot of white noise out there about fitness—how much, how often, what kind. Then there’s expensive nutritional advice, supplement bundles, oxygen treatments, genome sequencing, full-body scans, blood plasma exchanges and stem cell therapies all aimed at increasing longevity. We’re left wondering how—EXACTLY—does the average person stay strong, healthy, and active as they age?

In this article, I will debunk three exercise myths that may help clear-up some of the confusion.

Myth #1: Walking is Enough

Walking is widely considered good physical activity and often recommended by healthcare professionals. Yet, it’s not great exercise when aiming to stay strong and active for healthy aging long term. Yes, walking is cheap, flexible, convenient, and certainly better than no exercise at all. Walking also has a calming, restorative effect that can ease brain fatigue and accelerate stress recovery, especially when walking in green spaces like parks.

However, walking does not effectively build muscle or repair bones to offset the aging process.

Myth #2: 10,000 Steps is the Goal

Similarly, although your fitness app may urge you to hit the 10,000 daily step mark, there is no reliable science supporting this specific requirement. The myth of 10,000 steps dates back to 1960s Japan where mass-production of a popular pedometer created this fictional fitness aim, and this number was subsequently programmed into contemporary fitness trackers and mobile apps.

Today, both modern research and professional guidelines, such as American Heart Association, recommend 150 minutes of moderate-intensity cardio per week. That equates to about 6,000 to 8,000 total steps per day—the step-count sweet spot for most people—not 10,000.

Myth #3: Aerobic Exercise is Best

Aerobic (cardio) exercise such as walking, running, swimming and cycling, elevates the heart rate and increases breathing, causing muscles to burn more oxygen and the body to burn more calories. In contrast, anaerobic (strength) exercise involves short bursts of strenuous activity such as high-intensity interval training (HIIT), bodyweight calisthenics, and weightlifting, creating metabolic stress and microscopic muscle tears that, when repaired over time, lead to stronger bones and muscles.

One hour of aerobic/cardio exercise burns approximately 400 to 800 calories, depending on body type and exercise intensity, while one hour of weightlifting burns about 300 to 500. This makes cardio/aerobic initially seem like the best form of exercise.

Weightlifting’s Secret Afterburner

However, weightlifting offers a secret bonus called Excess Post-Exercise Oxygen Consumption (EPOC) during which the body repairs from the stress of anaerobic activity. This EPOC ‘afterburner’ affect raises the resting metabolic rate, enabling the body to continue to use more oxygen and burn more calories hours after exercise as the body cools down, repairs damaged muscle tissue, removes lactic acid, and replenishes cells. While cardio activities burn more immediate calories per minute during exercise, the EPOC-afterburner continues to be impactful for up to 48 hours as the body recovers after weightlifting.

The Takeaway

In sum, although cardio has numerous benefits, there’s nothing magical about 10,000 steps, and walking alone, as an anti-aging strategy, is not as effective as adding strength building options like weightlifting when considering long term health. Strength building is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s important to not over complicate things. My recommendation: Develop an actionable fitness program and get going. A personal trainer helps. Start with the basics, and progress slowly. And most importantly stay consistent: commit to an established routine and be patient, give your body time to respond. It will work if you commit to it.

By 1984, I’d finished my stint with the Marines, graduated from college and was looking for a job. Nadda. Reaganomics had taken hold and few opportunities emerged. After a year working the same job I had in college, I decided the military wasn’t so bad and maybe I should give officer programs a try. By the end of ‘85, I’d shipped off to Aviation Officer Candidate School (AOCS) in Pensacola, trying to earn my Navy Wings of Gold.

One morning our class fell-out at dawn, standing in formation for the rifle run. A golden sunrise was shimmering across the flat Florida sky, not a cloud in sight, signaling another sweltering day ahead. We were issued ten-pound wooden M14 rifles, clunky World War II relics that we jiggled nervously against our legs as we waited.

A dozen candidates from other classes within our Company joined us, candidates re-qualing due to previous failure. Rumor had it one candidate was on her sixth attempt, the only thing holding up her graduation and commissioning as a Navy Ensign. Drill Instructors in PT gear surrounded our formation, all male Marines, looking us over hungrily. A sickening feeling grew in the pit of my stomach.

The heavy oak doors of our barracks banged open and Gunnery Sergeant Leatherwood, our Senior DI, marched down the steps in PT battledress: Cammie trousers, combat boots and a red USMC t-shirt stretched tight across his broad chest.

Gunny called the formation to attention, then to port arms, our wooden rifles held across our chests. We started marching. It felt good to be moving, to get this thing underway but we were out of step, uncoordinated, and this stoked the drill instructors’ ire.

Eventually we started double-timing, the formation jogging slowly, repeating Gunny’s Jodies:

I want to be a Navy Pilot,

I want to wear those wings of gold,

Don’t know what you’ve been hearing,

But Navy Pilots are mighty bold.

We did a loop around the base, sucking wind, dripping sweat, struggling to stay in cadence and keep our rifles up. We did another loop. Candidates started to fall out and straggle behind the formation, some unable to sustain the pace, some unable to keep the rifle to their chest. Junior DIs nipped at their heels like border collies, tightening the herd, as we struggled to repeat Gunny’s chants:

I don’t know, but it’s been said,

Air Force wings are made of lead,

I don’t know, but I’ve been told,

Navy wings are made of gold.

We did a third loop and hit the straightaway along the quay wall. The wind whipped hard off the water slowing our pace. As the formation doubled back, I could now see about half the class had fallen back.

DIs attacked, blood was in the water. They wanted DORs (Drop on Request):

“You can end this pain right now candidate, D-O-R.”

“You’re not going to make it anyway candidate, D-O-R.”

“You KNOW you’re not navy pilot material candidate, D-O-R.”

Only the strongest, most motivated candidates stayed in formation, a combination of running stamina, upper body strength and sheer attitude. I was in the last row of the pack, holding on, the only woman still in the herd. A junior DI appeared beside me, “You want to quit don’t you, candidate? Want to fall out.”

“Sir, no, sir,” I yelled,

“Sure, you do,” he said. His tone was almost friendly, like he was trying to help me, be my buddy, offer a way out. “You really think you got what it takes, sweat pea? You really want to be a NAVY pilot?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

I wondered why he wasn’t harassing any of the guys around me.

“Wouldn’t you rather be an AIR FORCE pilot? Come on, it’d be easier.”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“Hell, how about an AIRLINE pilot? That’d be way easier.”

It went on like that for a while. Him, pissing me off. Me, yelling back. I was so enraged I didn’t realize we’d reached the finish line until I saw Gunny checking off names on his clipboard. He cast me a sideways glance but didn’t say anything.

I walked in a slow circle, catching my breath, feeling exhilarated. I’d made it!

“I don’t want to see nothing coming out of your slimy mouths,” Gunnery Sergeant Leatherwood yelled, kicking a candidate who’d fallen to the ground. “Stand up, get some God damned military bearing.”

“You want to be an officer?” he yelled at another. “Get off that weapon. It’s not your mammy’s shotgun.”

“This is an embarrassment,” he said to our group. “You may have completed this event, children, but this is just the beginning. Your ass is mine for thirteen more weeks.” Then he laughed.

I wiped my sweaty face on my t-shirt and walked back to the finish line to cheer the others on. About twenty men and women were still stumbling in.

The candidate on her sixth try was in back, shuffling along, hard to miss. Three DIs surrounded her, screaming in her ear, demanding her DOR, telling her there’s no way she’d finish, no way she’d be a Naval Aviator, no way she deserved a seventh try. She had a pathetic faraway look on her face, a vacant there-but-not-there kind of stare.

I started to jog back toward her. At first nobody noticed, there was so much commotion. “Come on, you got this,” I yelled.

I wasn’t sure why I did it. I knew I’d get in trouble. Maybe it was Gunny Leatherwood or the DI who’d harassed me to quit. Maybe I was just pissed, tired of being treated like a girl, a less-than-candidate, a certain washout. Maybe I wanted revenge—for myself, for Sixth-try, for all of us. In that moment, I just didn’t fucking care.

“You’re almost there,” I yelled. “Don’t give up now.”

At first, Sixth-try didn’t hear. As I got closer, she saw me jogging toward her and a quizzical look passed over face, then her eyes lit up, her posture changed. She seemed to realize what I was doing, realize today’s rifle run might have a different ending than her past five attempts, realize her dream to fly Navy might be within reach.

“Three minutes, tops. You’re done, finish line’s just around the bend,” I yelled, pointing as I jogged backwards. “You can make it. Go for it. Dig it out. You’ve just got to finish!”

She hugged her rifle tighter to her chest, picked up her knees, quickened her pace. The DIs noticed, shocked by her second wind. Then they saw me and honed-in like heat seeking missiles: “What are you doing, candidate? Get back in formation. Shut your trap.”

I started chanting, “I want to be a Navy Pilot!”—Loud as I could yell.

Sixth-try had passed us now, well on her way to finishing. She chimed in, “I want to wear those wings of gold.”

The DIs were livid, yelling at me: “Shut the fuck up candidate. Leave her alone. Don’t you talk to her. Get back in formation.”

And then Sixth-try was done, over the finish line, a look of elation on her face. She thrust the rifle above her head. “Navy Pilots are mighty bold!” she yelled.

I laughed, running toward her. Her success felt exhilarating, a big FU to all those who doubt women. Gunny Leatherwood jumped in front of me. I almost smacked right into him, his large frame blocking the way. I snapped to attention.

“What in the name of Chesty-fucking-Puller do you think you’re doing candidate?”

“Sir, this candidate—”

“Shut it. I don’t even want to know. You and me are going to have a little personal time. You can tell me ALL about it. Now get out of my sight.”

Nine candidates in our class failed that day, six men, three women. I was the only female pilot candidate left in the class. Sixth-try made it. I never got a chance to talk to her. She graduated, shipped out. I knew there was going to be hell to pay. But it didn’t matter, I was glad about what I’d done. I’d done it for myself. I’d done it for all of us.

(Writer’s Note: This story is a slightly fictionized account of an actual military experience in my life.)

Maybe you’ve heard about the science behind weightlifting—I’ve written about it myself. Research shows that losing muscle mass is a by-product of aging; a natural process called sarcopenia. It will happen to everyone. Following muscle mass peak around age 35, and accelerating after age 60, we lose about 1/3 of our body’s muscle mass. This loss impacts every aspect of our lives from strength and endurance to flexibility and balance, increasing the risk of falls and injury. Women, in particular, are vulnerable to bone loss and osteoporosis. As women enter menopause, their bone density can decline up to 20% in the following 5-7 years making exercise particularly critical in offsetting bone loss.

In her book Roar, exercise physiologist Dr Stacy Sims discusses the unique aspects of the female physiology, observing that, first and foremost women are not small men and should not train like them. Although there’s no way to stop the ticking-aging-clock, we can slow the decline through exercise using progressive overload. The National Academy of Sports Medicine (NASM) defines progressive overload as the gradual increase of stress imposed on the muscles, bones, and nervous system in order to drive adaptation and improve muscle growth by systematically increasing the difficulty of workouts. By gradually increasing weight, reps and sets while decreasing rest, we increase the stress placed on our body during exercise, thereby improving every aging biomarker from bone density, balance and muscle strength to disease prevention, enhanced metabolism and a stronger immune system.

It’s all solid research and valid advice.

But why do I love to lift weights, in particular, heavy free weights?

Keeps me in the moment

As a cancer survivor, it’s sometimes hard to stay positive and not dwell on the likelihood that my illness will return. Although the two surgeries and six chemotherapy sessions I endured saved my life, the experience of invasive medical procedures over a six-month period left me feeling like my body had been attacked. In fact, it had been. Managing the physical and emotional scars by adapting to the ‘new normal’ post-cancer isn’t easy. But lifting weights and challenging myself to improve every week, keeps me in the moment, less concerned about the future and things outside my control.

Best version of myself

I like the challenge of developing my exercise program and pushing myself to beat my lift numbers from the previous week. That’s one of the reasons that lifting free weights is so important. Exercise machines only provide a vague sense of the force required and often vary from machine to machine—you may have noticed that the 30-pound plate on one cable machine feels significantly different than on another. When exercising with free weights, you know exactly how much you’re lifting and therefore how much you’re improving. The Olympic bar weighs 45 pounds. Dumbbells and free weight plates are all clearly marked. More precisely monitoring my performance by using free weights allows me to recognize and celebrate my weightlifting successes as well as accept and forgive my failures, helping me to become the best version of myself.

Feels good doing it, feels good afterwards

When I’m lifting, I’m in my happy place feeling healthy and strong. Research shows that exercise can pump-up production of the brain’s feel-good neurotransmitters, increasing a brain chemical called beta-endorphin that creates this happy feeling while also diminishing pain. Overtime your body learns to diffuse daily stressors through exercise, providing mental clarity and calm focus that can increase optimism and energy both inside and outside the gym. I often find myself mulling over a concern when I arrive at the gym and begin my routine. By the end of my workout, I’ve either developed a solution or realized the issue wasn’t that important after all. I find the confidence I build in the gym spills over into the rest of my life where my increased physical strength allows me to go about my daily activities with more courage and self-assurance.

That’s why I’m having a love affair with my free weights.

Staff Sergeant Sylvester, USMC, Senior Drill Instructor in Charge of Platoon 10B, 1981

The first time I tried to do a pull-up was in bootcamp in 1981. I enlisted after high school and quickly found myself on a bus to Parris Island, South Carolina for US Marine Corps recruit training. We sat two by two on cracked vinyl benches, sweating in the Southern night like runaways; young women of all colors, shapes, sizes. Nobody said much. I stared out the bus window feeling guarded excitement, my face reflecting back at me off the dark glass. I didn’t know what I was after, I wanted something to believe in, something I could trust.

Early one morning during our second week of training our Senior Drill Instructor, Staff Sergeant Sylvester, demonstrated proper pull-up technique using the pull-up pit aside the Confidence Course. She gripped the bar, dropping her torso down and then easily lifting her chin above the bar, narrating the Marine Corps requirements all the while.

“Listen up, Recruits,” she growled in her Texas twang as she banged out one pull-up after another. I lost count. “The goal of this event is for Marines to execute as many correct and complete pull-ups before dropping off the bar.”

We sat cross-legged on the grass, looking up at her.

“The exercise starts with correct body position, motionless at the bottom, like this, feet clear of the ground, arms fully extended—this is called a ‘Dead Hang’”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” we shouted in unison.

“You WILL come to a COMPLETE Dead Hang.”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.” We were mesmerized.

“No body-swinging or leg-kicking allowed. You will NOT rest your chin on my bar. Hear me, Recruits.”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

“And no kipping,” SSGT Sylvester barked, demonstrating a partial dead-hang followed by a full-body swing to get her chin over the bar.

She jumped down, landing hard on the ground, hands on hips like Wonder Woman. A total bad ass. “You WILL do one chin up before you leave my Island. None of MY recruits fail the PFT—And I mean EVER!”

The DI pointed in my direction, “Fraher, get up here, Recruit. You’re first,” she said gesturing towards the bar.

A hushed gasp emanated from my peers.

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” I yelled jumping to my feet. I thought I was going to vomit.

“Mount the bar, Fraher” she instructed, but I struggled to get a firm grip.

“Shockey, get up here and give her a leg up. Assistance is authorized. Hurry up, Recruit.” Shockey hunched over and dangled her interlaced fingers. I stepped into her cradled hands, and she hoisted me skyward. I grabbed the bar overhand, just like SSGT Sylvester did.

“Ready. Begin. Dead-hang, that’s right. Now engage your shoulders, pull them back and down, squeeze your core, Fraher. Get up there, Recruit. UP!”

The nausea was gone now, replaced by a new feeling of confidence. It felt terrifying, yet oddly exciting to be someone the Senior Drill Instructor found worthy of yelling at.

I didn’t do a pull-up that day, or the next day, or the day after that. But I did learn something important about myself that day. I discovered what I was after, what I could believe in. I wanted to be bad ass like SSGT Sylvester. I could believe in myself.

(Writer’s Note: This story is based on 45-year-old memories and therefore likely an unintentionally, partially-fictionalized account of my actual military experiences.)

Fitness and health recommendations aimed at offsetting the aging process bombard us from every direction. We should exercise, lose weight, improve our diet, engage our mind, lower our stress, adopt an animal. In theory, who could argue with these recommendations? I own two cats myself.

When it comes to physicality, how can we break through the white noise in order to develop an actionable fitness program?

Aside from telling patients they need to exercise, research demonstrates that there’s a lack of understanding in healthcare about how to prescribe an actionable fitness program. To start, beginner workouts aren’t so easy.

I’m tired of reading headlines like the ‘5 Exercises You’ll Ever Need to Stay Fit’, only to discover you’d have to be Simone Biles to actually complete them—pull-ups, side plank, kettlebell Turkish get-up. And when’s the last time you jumped rope? These are not beginner exercises for average adults. Then there’s the ‘non-workout workouts’ or the ‘simple 10-minute workout’. Is this really a sufficient amount of exercise to generate health benefits—What gives?

Fortunately, there’s some helpful guidance emerging.

Wellness Discovery by Heather Hausenblas, PhD

You're Doing Two of the Three Things. Here's What You're Missing.

Most fitness advice rests on two pillars…

Read more

5 months ago · 24 likes · 9 comments · Heather Hausenblas, PhD

A recent Substack by Heather Hausenblas, PhD highlighted the importance of three factors and their relationship to health and longevity: cardio, strength, and flexibility. Dr Hausenblas cites an important new study that suggests aerobic, muscle-strengthening, and flexibility activities lower the risk of mortality. This finding may not be surprising, but at least it provides more specific, actionable advice.

However, once again, we’re left wondering how—EXACTLY—does the average person incorporate these three activities into our daily life?

A (Not-So) Different Exercise Philosophy

At our boutique fitness studio, We Lift Heavy, we integrate aerobic activity with muscle-strengthening like weightlifting activities, and balance enhancement and flexibility through yoga, all offered in one location. Although thousands of individual gyms and yoga studios exist, we believe offering yoga and weightlifting together in small groups has special advantages.

Yoga supports physical and mental health and well‑being, highlighting the importance of breath, while reducing stress and enhancing balance and flexibility. Weightlifting builds muscle and remodels bones, improving skeletal strength that helps stabilize yoga poses. Yoga stretches muscles, helping to reduce risk of injury, soreness, and recovery time after a heavy lift. It’s a symbiotic relationship. But once again, how can this be achieved?

Four Foundational Ideas

At We Lift Heavy, we design the integration of yoga and weightlifting programs around four foundational ideas:

o Keep it small

o Keep it real

o Keep it grounded

o Keep it fun

We’re not proposing that any of this is new, per se. What we are suggesting is that this innovative combination in the right setting can provide an actionable fitness program for average people.

Keep it Small

If you’ve ever tried to exercise in mega-sized gyms like Planet Fitness or Cross-Fit, or community-based gyms like the YMCA, you know the visceral experience: Noisy, chaotic, confusing, unsanitary. You might feel awkward, vulnerable, exposed, even intimidated; forced to breathe recycled air, witness questionable fashion trends, and tolerate unhygienic human attributes up-close. It’s not pleasant.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve worked—and worked out—in these types of environments for years. They’re ubiquitous, convenient, and cheap. I get it. They’re just not ideal for everybody. Research demonstrates that for some people, exercising in small, supervised groups provides a “safe and kind” environment to experiment and challenge themselves in new ways, fostering group belonging and enhancing motivation. For many adults, keeping it small works best.

Keep it Real

In mega-gym’s manmade jungle of cable and steel, people often seem fixated on Darwin’s theory of natural selection, creating a hyper-competitive environment. What’s lost is that Darwin hypothesized that the key to ‘Survival of the Fittest’ was adaptability, not physical strength. Thus, collaboration and flexibility are the central characteristics for survival not competition. At We Lift Heavy, we find that participants prefer a personalized, peer-group experience with direct supervision, requiring instructional groups to be supportive and collaborative. Recent research demonstrates that both older and younger adults reported a positive preference for exercising in classes as long as the group was comprised of others of a similar age.

Keep it Grounded

At We Lift Heavy we ground our yoga and weightlifting programs in academic research and exercise science. Our aim is to develop programs that are simple and repeatable for all body types and skill levels in a welcoming environment. Research demonstrates that in order for people to develop an actionable fitness program, they must learn “physical literacy” which is defined as: “the motivation, confidence, physical competence, knowledge and understanding to value and take responsibility for maintaining purposeful physical pursuits/activities throughout the life course”. This is best achieved in collaborative, small group environment where people can safely challenge themselves.

Keep it Fun

Finally, the workout you like is the workout you’ll do. As a Personal Trainer, I’m often asked “What’s the best workout to lose weight” or “the best workout to gain strength.” My reply is always the same: “The best workout is the fun one you’ll actually do.” Find a routine you enjoy and stick to it. Consistency is key to achieving results. It’s also great to exercise with others.

In sum, finding a fitness program you like with similarly aged peers in a small, authentic and collaborative environment is the key to developing a sustainable exercise regimen. It’s helpful to be held accountable and motivating to share your success with others. There’s plenty of evidence that developing social networks, a healthy mindset and sense of purpose help us age well.

My 1^st year as a Personal Trainer I received a free VIP ticket to the Perform Better Functional Training Summit in Providence RI, about an hour from my home in CT. I jumped at the chance to meet my continuing education requirements, curious about how a Personal Training conference might compare to professional conferences I’d attended in my former career.

It turned out to be a large, chaotic event, with lots of young, Personal Trainers running around flexing, wearing tight muscle shirts and Lululemon. Not exactly my scene.

Vowing to make the best of my situation, I tried several different activities, eventually landing in a workshop facilitated by Brian Nguyen called Radiant Renewal. Brian was knowledgeable and engaging, and interspersed his lecture with short writing prompts such as “What stories give your coaching meaning?” and “How would your clients describe you?’ We were instructed to ‘not over think’, just jot down our initial response. It was fun.

As our time together came to a close, Brian provided one last prompt:

You’re walking down a forest path. It is shady and cool; a musty smell emanates from the surrounding trees. Eventually, you break out of the forest into warm sunshine and a grassy meadow. You approach a fork in the path. There you meet your future-self, ten years hence. What would your future-self ask your younger version?

Without contemplation, I quickly wrote my response: “Why didn’t you open your own gym?”

My response shocked me. I looked at the words, scribbled in my notebook in blue ink. My loopy penmanship, part cursive, part block letters, never quite staying within the lines.

On the drive home I reflected on my response, “My own gym?” I had no idea where the thought originated. I’d never consciously considered starting my own gym, never talked about it, never played out the pros and cons, as I usually would. That said, the idea excited me.

I knew I had a knack for breaking down the mysteries of weight training for average people. And as a cancer-survivor, I knew the challenges of overcoming serious illness and rediscovering what my post-chemo body was capable of. It excited me to think of helping others on that journey.

I realized that I wanted to share my passion for weightlifting and health research, and help other adults interested in building or maintaining strength and stamina as they age. I wanted to build a community of people; not those interested in quickly fading fads or suspiciously simple gimmicks, but people interested in learning the science behind exercise and how to lift weights safely and effectively.

That’s what this community is about: Learning how to lift heavy and why it’s important to your long-term health.

Six months later, we cut the ribbon at We Lift Heavy, a boutique fitness studio at 12 River Road, Pawcatuck CT.