I'm an old school Gym Rat. I've been working out for over twenty-five years, gained and lost two hundred pounds of muscle, remember when aminos were the hot new supplement, seen the low-fat/high-carb, low-carb/high-protein wheel revolve around at least twice, gone from the single set to failure mindset to high rep/low weight and on to the heavy and hard and the “less is more” (more or less) attitude. I have eaten so much chicken in my life that my face is on the Most Wanted board at the poultry post office.
I am not a true bodybuilder; I like my biscuits and beer a bit too much to live the perpetual diet of a true devotee. I eat, and drink, and then feel guilty about it. I try to keep height-to-weight and strength-to-weight proportionate, i.e., strong enough to pick up the heavy end of things when moving furniture, and big enough that it is assumed that that is the end that I will get. I have reconciled myself to the likelihood that I may never again see that last row of abs, but still enjoy being used as the example when my friend's wives ask, “Why can't you stay in shape like him?”
My personal theory is that you make a decision at some point in your adult life that you have already been as good as you are going to get; that you give yourself permission to get old. Some do it at thirty, most do it (consciously or unconsciously) at forty, a few hang in there for the long haul. Some give it up for ten years and come back, and a few have a medical wake-up call or personal epiphany, but the hard-core gym rats are in it for life.
Bodybuilding has to be the most misunderstood avocation that there is. There is a pantheon of athletes that are touched by the hand of God, genetically ideal for their chosen sport or endeavor; Wilma Rudolph, Mickey Mantle, Arnold, Tiger Woods. How many of the millions of golfers in the world can realistically aspire to be as good as Tiger?
The uninitiated think that we are all trying to be Arnold, with a back wide enough to show a movie on and arms bigger than their legs. They knowingly comment that bodybuilders are not as strong as power lifters, to which I reply, ”Yes, power lifters are five times stronger than you, and bodybuilders are four times stronger than you.” The concept that you just want to be fit and strong is too realistic of a goal for them because it is attainable; they cannot be Arnold, so they don't have to try.
Most of us Lifers still read the magazines, keep up with the sport, and secretly think that it peaked with Frank Zane or the Schwarzenator. It is difficult to relate to the current round of behemoths with the frog's leg thighs and veins like a roadmap of Connecticut. As a rule, about number twelve in the contest looks better to me than number one. I can appreciate the discipline that it takes to be that shredded, and size is always impressive, but long-timers like myself tend to think that symmetry and proportion have become the “redheaded step-children” of the sport; part of the family but relegated to a lesser level of importance.
I have always traveled in my work, which is related to heavy construction and environmental remediation. Since no one with money wants a paper mill or power plant in their back yard, and money stays close to the city, this for years meant country motels and roadside diners. Gyms were few and far between in the smaller towns, often a one-room affair with a bench, lat pull, a homemade squat rack of dubious engineering design and materials, and the ubiquitous Universal Machine. Wherever Mr. Universal now resides, he should be living in gracious splendor. He must have sold one of these contraptions to every YMCA, high school gym, and upwardly mobile motel owner with delusions of grandeur in 1970's America. Many of us who started on the Universal got an unpleasant reality check when we discovered the difference in doing 300lb. on the Universal bench station and on the free-weight bench. Still, the worst gym on the road beat evenings riding the wild barstool with my fellow workers, so I stayed at it.
I also developed some innovative motel room workouts, featuring elevated-leg push-ups and dips between kitchenette chairs, squats done water skier style, with a towel wedged in the closed bathroom door, and pull-ups on any object that looked like it might bear my weight. I still have the set of 25 lb. dumbbells and ab-roller wheel I took on longer jobs. Almost any town now has a facility of some sort within driving distance now, but there is still no shame in pushups and running some motel stair sets. The muscle doesn't care where the pump comes from, and the pump is what it's all about.
