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The New Rules of Lifting, a book Avery released in paperback last week, is the product of a lifetime of mistakes.
I started lifting weights in 1970, to the best of my recollection, and it's entirely possible that I started off with the worst workout program ever designed.
I began lifting for the usual reason someone took up exercise back before it was fashionable, at a time when the cool kids started smoking at 12 and the first faint whiffs of second-hand cannabis smoke occasionally drifted over to our postage-stamp suburban outpost. Something was wrong with my physiology, and I wanted to set it right.
I was a skinny kid - painfully, remarkably skinny. And when I say "remarkable," I mean that literally; total strangers would feel compelled to comment on my extraordinary lack of contractile tissue. The weights were my path to normalcy, the tool that would help me become big enough, strong enough, and fast enough to play sports without embarrassment and remove my shirt at the pool without shame.






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