A few years ago I had the chance to work out with the Michigan football team, for a six solid weeks. I lifted more weights than I any writer should, followed by an ungodly number of sit-ups, pushups and pull-downs.
Just fifteen minutes into my first work out, I was sweating like a pig and panting like a dog. You could have taken my pulse by touching my hair. It wasn’t long before I was running to the trashcan to get rid of my breakfast.
After these workouts I could barely walk, stand, or sit. I was going through something called “hypertrophy,” which is when you push your body so far past its limits, the rapid expansion of your muscles makes it hard to do the simplest things, like brush your teeth. Former strength coach Mike Barwis told me, in his famously raspy voice, “It’s basically a catastrophic event to your body. Like a car accident.”
But after three weeks of weight training, I was beginning to think I might just make it, until one day Barwis announced I’d be joining the rest of the team for 30 minutes of laps, sprints and suicides after each work out.
Barwis told me, “If you’re going to go around claiming you did this, you have to do all of it.”
We ran in two groups, the “speedsters” and the “fat boys.” Barwis put me with the fat boys, of course, but I couldn’t even keep up with the long snap center, who was recovering from a broken toe.
Near the end of our next workout, Barwis told us that we had to run the width of the field and back, three times. “Y’all got to finish in 50 seconds,” he said. “Bacon in 60. But Bacon, if you don’t make it, everyone else has to run again.”
Now, I hadn’t come within ten seconds of that time before, but the menacing glares the players gave me were all the motivation I needed. I figured if I didn’t make it, they’d kill me. On the other hand, if I tried to finish under 60 seconds, I’d probably die trying. But at least that way, they could say, “Man, that guy gave his all for his profession.”
When Barwis blew his whistle, I took off like I was being chased by a tiger. But with one lap left, I was only on pace, not ahead of it, and I was running out of gas. This was not good. I knew I had to find something extra. After the players finished, they came back to yell at me, huffing and puffing. “Move that white ass, Bacon!”
I dug deep, and pulled and lurched and thrashed every limb of my body toward that finish line. It was not pretty. But when Barwis yelled, “Fifty-six! Fifty-seven! Fifty-eight!” and I finished, I knew I had made it.
The players cheered and walked up to high-five me, but I ran right past them straight for the trash can, puked again, wiped my mouth, and got back on the line for more sprints. After just four weeks working out with the Michigan football team, my threshold for – well, just about everything, had doubled.
Afterward, Barwis told me, “That’s the first time I saw you run, when I didn’t want to punch you in the jaw.”
It doesn’t get any better than that.
* * * * *
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John, Rich Eisen deservedly got to be an honorary captain this year; for the same reasons (even more so) so do you!
Coach, if you are reading this comment;
John U Bacon (our fellow classmate, even though he lived in WQ) should also be an honorary captain for everything he has done for Michigan and College Football with his books and commentary!
Dave Alter MD 86 AB 89 MPH
Classmates, because I was also a freshman in 1982 and living in SQ
Sounds awfully familiar to what I witnessed in Y2K at Huron H.S.
Message (Required)
Bad typing.
How did that compare with Cirque de Soleil?
Poetic justice, Coach. Sounds like payback for all the sprints you made us do.
One more thing we have in common, John. Hats off to you for getting through that during what must have been your mid-to-late forties? Back in the mid-to-late eighties I had the pleasure of knowing Mike Gittleson, and the great displeasure of having him work me out on a few occasions while in my twenties. At the onset of our first workout, during a period in my life where I felt in Peak condition, Coach Gittleson explained to me the importance of nutrition before a strenuous workout. The man knew his nutrition and explained in detail the metabolic breakdown of various proteins, carbohydrates, and fats. He explained all this while making two bologna, relish mustard and mayonnaise sandwiches. I listened intently as any good student would, and asked the important questions such as, “why so much mayonnaise, Mike? “Fat content,” he replied. “Fat content is good”.
After inhaling two of these sandwiches and feeling sufficiently full and a bit concerned that it may impinge my workout, Coach Gittkeson assured me not to worry. The sandwiches would burn off during a light warm up before getting into the heavy stuff? I distinctly remember thinking, what light workout could possibly produce the caloric burn off of 2 rather large bologna, relish mustard and mayonnaise sandwiches? The answer, unsurprisingly, is none.
After a few minutes of light jogging and the not so pleasant feeling of a full stomach while doing so, I began to feel that maybe 2 sanwiches may have been over kill, yet Gittleson continued to reasure me that the benefits of a good meal before a workout was paramount. I felt as if I was on a journey of sorts… placing me smack dab at the point of no return.
I got through the run without any loss of lunch but a sly grin on coach Gittleson’s affable mug gave me valid reason for concern.
Adrenaline, in general, is a good thing; life saving even. Adreanine added to a fool stomach aint. Things were about to get very uncomfortable.
After finishing the jog, Gittleson lead me to one of many “state of the art” nautilus squat machines. As we approached the apperatus I remember a distinct sinking sensation washing over me . The kind of feeling you experience when you know you are in deep deep trouble. A feeling I hadn’t felt since the age of 6 when I borrowed Jimmy Morans bicycle from his garage without permission. His father, a former Michigan State lineman, spanked my ass for the act.
I knew I was in big trouble and initially felt the urge to feign some injury to get me out of said trouble. Muscle cramps, a pulled hammy, bad arch supports, mononucleosis, ect… I wanted my mommy. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let Gittleson know that. I was already fighting a slight bout of nausea before I had even completed one rep on that damned machine. Things were definitely not looking favorable for me.
I began looking around to see where I might dispense of the undigested bread, bologna, relish mustard and mayonnaise that I was beginning to burp up; you know…just in case.
Like onlookers of a cataclysmic volcanic eruption, Gittleson and his staff, as well as a few players, watched with seeming giddy anticipation as I strained against the machines resistance. After 1 set of 12 reps I began to experience the tingling sensation in my jaw and the watery mouth that occurs just before one… loses control, if you will. I had 30 seconds before my next set and knew it was a matter of time. Pacing didn’t help. Auto reverse psychology didn’t help. Trying not to puke didn’t help. And the more I resisted the more Gittlesons smile broadened. I felt it a challenge at that point . A rite of passage so to speak. An event that inevitably would shape my life if only I could hold my lunch.
Back on to that damned machine and off I went. Down up 1. Down up 2. Down up, Oh Damn! Off the machine I sprang to cheers and sprinted the shortest distance between point A and point puke. What a relief. Thank God it’s over I thought. Why I fought it for so long must have been from a sense of embarrassment. But looking back the buckets were everywhere. It wasn’t as if I would have been the only one in that day, perhaps, to lose it. Jovial slaps on the back, a few “attaboys”, a distinct what took you so long and from Gittleson, a laughing smile and ,”Good! Now get your ass back on the machine.” Rite of passage indeed.
Good times, brothers. Good times.
Too kind, Doctor! Glad to see at least one member of our class went on to healing people, instead of opining about football!
Rick,
It was not as much fun. 😉
-John Bacon
Dr. Commiskey,
I can see where it might, with all the running and the puking. The Rats were a tough breed, my friend, and you were at the forefront.
-Coach B.