Drop Dead Healthy by A. Jacobs (books to read to increase intelligence .TXT) 📕

gym I’ve ever been to. No blaring Black Eyed Peas songs. No sweaty Lycra-clad runners pounding away on whirring treadmills. No clanging barbells. It’s like working out at an ashram.

The floor is home to a collection of sleek, white weight machines. Three other clients are lifting. And I don’t see a drop of sweat on anyone’s face. One gray-haired businessman is doing shoulder presses in his oxford shirt, his tie slung over his shoulder. My kind of gym.

The owner is a man named Adam Zickerman, a broad-chested former medical equipment salesman and longtime trainer.

Here’s his theory in a nutshell: The key to being in shape is to exhaust your muscles. Push them to failure so they can rebuild. Cardio is one way to do that: You can exhaust your legs by running three miles. But that’s inefficient, plus there are dangers (knee problems, for instance). The best way to exhaust a muscle? By lifting heavy weights superslowly for about two minutes at a time once a week. You’ll stay in shape, get toned, and lose weight.

It’s a startling notion. But one I don’t want to dismiss outright: There are several hundred trainers in America doing slow-cadence training, and they have the support of a handful of academics.

I meet Adam in his office, and we talk fitness under the watchful gaze of a framed photo of Albert Einstein. I love Adam, partly for his enthusiasm, and partly because he’s prone to making sweeping statements, always good for a journalist.

“Aerobics is a creaking edifice,” he declares.

To him, mainstream exercise theory is deluded. It’s based on superstition, cobwebbed tradition, and pseudoscience. It’s like creationism, but with lactic acid and electrolytes.

One of the major villains of our time, according to Adam, is Jane Fonda, but not for her support of North Vietnam. “When we look back, I believe we’ll know Jane Fonda and her ilk as the people who destroyed America’s knees.” He laughs, knowing he sounds extreme.

But he continues: “Why would you spend six to twelve hours on cardio, when you can get the same exact thing in twenty minutes once a week?”

Cardio defenders are fitness Luddites. “It’s like saying that the only way to type a letter is with a typewriter. You could argue, ‘When I was in college, I used a typewriter and I got through fine.’ Yeah, it got the job done. But why the F would you use it when you have a word processor?”

Adam started his gym on Long Island in 1997, and over the years, has gotten an avalanche of publicity. He wrote a New York Times bestseller called the Power of 10. He’s been profiled in GQ and The New York Times, and featured on 48 Hours.

Talking to Adam, I can see why. You can’t help but get swept up. He’s got preacherlike charisma. He speaks of the “fetishization of the Krebs cycle” and how aerobics release dangerous free radicals. He stands behind his desk and thrusts his arms in the air to make a point.

After an hour, he stops. “I think I pontificated enough for now. We should work out.”

Off we go to the workout room. I sit down at a leg extension weight machine. We won’t have to do the three typical sets of fifteen lifts. We can do it all in one shot. I’ll simply lift eighty pounds slowly till I can’t stand it any longer.

“Ten seconds up, ten seconds down. And then repeat. Your goal is to reach muscle failure. You’ll be out of this freakin’ torturous machine in a minute and a half.”

I push on the foot platform with my sneakers.

“A little slower,” he says.

I slow down to octogenarian speed, the speed of Keanu Reeves doing kung fu in The Matrix.

“That’s perfect.”

I’m pushing hard. Without the momentum to help me, the weights kill my legs. I glance at Adam. “Don’t look at me for sympathy,” he says. He adds, mockingly, “Mommy, it burns!”

But, Mommy, it does burn. It’s like having the flu and an eight-martini hangover in my thighs. I grimace and keep pushing. My legs start to shake.

Finally, Adam counts down five-four-three-two-one . . . and I’m allowed to let the weights down.

“Thank you for that,” he says. I had gone all the way to muscle failure. “Failure is success,” he says.

I do five more grimace-inducing exercises—including shoulder, biceps, and chest—and say good-bye to Adam till next week.

When I get home, I boast to Julie that I just did all my exercises for the week. She should try it instead of sweating on the elliptical every day at the gym.

“You’re saying that what I do is bad?”

“Well, it’s probably inefficient. And hurting your joints.”

I expected her to roll her eyes, and maybe agree to give InForm Fitness a shot. But Julie is angry. Attacking aerobics is sacrilege, like taking on her family or her beloved Philippa Gregory novels.

“You find one study that says aerobics is bad, and you latch onto that one!”

When Julie is mad, she stomps. When she leaves the room, I hear the glass table rattle.

I went to Adam’s gym a few more times, but in the end, I decide Julie has a point. I have to continue cardio.

First, frankly, it’d be a little anticlimactic for my project to settle on a once-a-week workout. It feels like cheating, like taking a funicular up Mount Everest. It reminds me of what Adam said when I told him he should be a consultant on The Biggest Loser. “It’s not good for TV. Twenty minutes and it’s over. Okay, see you next week.” No drama. No sweat equity.

Second, the science behind slow fitness isn’t solid enough for me, at least not yet. It may turn out to be true. It’s not inconceivable. But it needs more study. I pray it pans out. I’m all in favor of shortcuts.

Stress-Free Friendship

“I’m taking Alison out to cheer her up,” says Julie.

Alison is sweet. She’s been one of my wife’s best friends since second grade. They bonded over their mutual love of Charleston Chews