What is WIM?

Since my sixteen weeks have expired, you might notice I've been writing a bit more holistically - diluting the chore of logging with the personality-laden art of blogging. Today, I'll be whining (more) about my not-so-recent-to-recent stalls, positing various hypotheses for why, and donning my aluminum-can-crushing, concussion-dodging, jock braincap to delve into the ineffable, implacable notion of WIM. 

"Why'mInotgettingstronger," I bellyached to F. It'd been nearly two months of not successfully squatting the winsome weight of a hundred and ten pounds; my bench press, once on a victorious trajectory, had sputtered to a standstill at 85, and the deadlifting 165 pounds still inspired a covert tendency to cheat. The important takeaway answers from the conversation were:

Strength is range-of-motion dependent. What's that mean? Lifting a small child off the ground won't improve my ability to lift a small child over my head; squatting 110 at half the depth won't affect squatting 110 at the correct depth. Very important! I'd been operating under the assumption that gradations of depth were accessible - when I couldn't make a weight, I'd just waive it at half-mast, expecting a partial effort to contribute to a robust one. Apparently a dismal waste of time. 

Rest. Eating poorly and sleeping inadequately used to be a point of pride for me - back in the days where we were young and raw enough to turn hypothetical (hyper pathetical, in actuality) desert island "survivorbility" into a pissing contest. Strength is gained during rest periods. Cardio, insomnia, and beer benders aren't restful activities, and will inhibit the build of strength.

WIM.


You'll turn up empty if you Google, UrbanDictionary, or Wikipedia Want It More. I'm in fact not confident that I have a firm grasp on the concept - owing, of course, to swinging in higher-brow recreational circles than the term typically habituates. In context, it's a (grossly) brutish turn-of-phrase employed by sports writers to describe the ephemeral quality of athletic chutzpah. As I understand it, it toes the realm of philosophical qualia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qualia) - an anima that transcends any measurable talent or learnable skill.

Not being a sports enthusiast myself, the best demonstrative visual I can call upon is Michael Phelps' seventh gold medal race at the Beijing Summer Olympics - the 100m butterfly.

I know a thing or two about swimming. Swimmers fall in one of two categories: distance, or sprint. It's a broad delineation, but it dictates training programs, lineup strategy, nutritional demands. True sprinters are the rarer breed - the 50m and 100m are simply too short for technical aptitude or developed stamina to make much of a meaningful impact. Distances of 400m and up, on the other hand, are somewhat "fairer" races - won or lost through a confluence of more 'controllable' factors.

The 200m is a dead zone - a no-man's land too long for true sprinters, but too brief for swimmers relying on superior stamina. Because it favors neither party, the 200m is arguably the most compelling and accurate battleground (certainly, the most common) for all-around, hydrodynamic superiority.

Michael Phelps isn't a sprinter. He certainly sprints very well, but like the majority of swimmers, he's primed to excel at longer distances. The Serbian butterflyer, Milorad Cavic is a sprinter. He's not as balls-out talented as MP (who is?), but there's a distinct and devastating advantage in having a killer 50m when you're competing in a 100m race. It takes the distance swimmer too long to get "fired up" - by the time his acceleration plateaus and the sprinter's stamina gives out, it's too late: a deficit of a mere 5m is too great to overcome in the last quarter of the race.

In my favorite virtual recreation (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3paiELa7mA), you see that Phelps - sluggish at the start, lopping languidly and inexpertly on Cavic's turf, the 100m - is lingering in the third or fourth position entering the final meters of the race. (For context: twenty meters is covered by world-class swimmers in fewer than ten seconds.) We of course knows how the story ends, but it's no less incredible or impossible upon a tenth, twelfth viewing. One commentator, I recall, remarked that Phelps won the race even though he was slower, which feels strangely accurate. I guess he just wanted it more.