If you’ve been following this month’s challenge, you’ll have noticed we don’t go to failure. The kettlebell guru Pavel Tsatsouline came up with the phrase greasing the groove (GtG) as a way to describe the process of creating a neurological groove for your muscle fibers to fire in a certain sequence and intensity. Rather than trying to break down muscle tissue for more growth, Pavel’s theory is that training perfect reps rather than max reps is the way to go. More theory here and here if you want it. Or you can just jump right into the challenge:

Count out 15 coins and put them in your left pocket. Then do

5 push-ups (beautiful & perfect)
4 high jumps (get high!)
3 push-ups (beautiful & perfect)

and move 1 coin to your right pocket. Each time you do a round of that, move a coin. By the end of the day, have 15 coins in your right pocket. 15 coins of gorgeousness, each one representing 8 beautiful, perfect, wonderful push-ups. Go be gorgeous, pusher-uppers, all day long.

Today’s poem is from rising star David Tomas Martinez, from his first collection Hustle (2014).

The Cost of it All
David Tomas Martinez

Trade is the buckle of this world’s belt, shiny with dollar signs.

And I know Tibetan windstorms necklace the waking bodies of San Diego. And I know why Muhammad Ali stood over Sonny Liston flexing.
And I know as we age our tongues grow numb from lying.
And I know in a biblical sense the gust of a humid afternoon.

And I know in chronological and alphabetical order, nothing.
And I know riding in an elevator is a close as one can get to the present.
And I know devotion and honor flicker in Atlanta strip clubs.
And I know why the Chevy Nova couldn’t sell in Mejico.

Moon beams of finely threaded rope sway in the wind. At their end, price tags.

But I wish John Lennon was born with Ringo’s nose.
And I wish there were more virgins for me to find and report.
And I wish when she called, the phone protected me.
And I wish every time the moon three-point turns in the asphalt night.
And I wish on continental spots of leopards that California broke into the sea. And I wish Che’s face symbolized more than pimpled years of angst.
And I wish upon a pan with a skiing square of butter headed for steam.
And I wish to tiptoe and hear over the fence of my own teeth.

I have tried to figure the cost of it all with lint and paperclips.