A Bodybuilder Is Born: Generations

The town I live in isn’t exactly a ‘small town’ in the classic sense. When I think of a small town, my mind conjures up a place with one stop light, a single general store complete with crusty old guys holding court in rocking chairs on the porch out front, and the same guy serving as town sheriff, minister, and small-appliance repairman. Also, there are only three different last names for a couple hundred people and they all share some dark, horrible secret that involves ritual human sacrifice, or worse – multilevel marketing.

My town, which was incorporated back in 1726 when this part of the New World was still a British colony and we only had one Dunkin Donuts franchise, isn’t anything like that. But you still see the same faces at the gym, the supermarket, the bank, and the cheesy strip club. Wait, scratch that – as my wife knows, I certainly don’t frequent that degenerate establishment! And there is a perfectly good reason why I keep a stack of one-dollar bills at all times: to make sure I always have change for the church donations every Sunday morning.

It was at the bank that I ran into Jeff, the father of my one and only personal training client, Jared. It was an unseasonably hot day in late May, just over ninety degrees, and Jeff was wearing a tank top and cargo shorts, to which were clipped three different cell phones. He did supervise a large number of contractors and other employees in his building and remodeling ventures. He finished whatever transaction the teller had been helping him with, then turned around and saw me.

“Ron! Hey buddy, haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Not since we had snow on the ground, at least,” I said. “You’re looking good – arms are still jacked, and apparently me telling you that your back sucked lit a fire under your ass. It actually looks like you train it now.” Jeff smiled, recognizing this as a compliment. I am not one to heap endless praise unless it’s truly warranted. This personality trait has caused some bodybuilders to love my blunt honesty, and still others to dismiss me as a bitter has-been or never-was (funny how I can be both at the same time) who can’t say anything nice about another physique athlete. It’s why I am very clear to tell anyone up front when they solicit any type of physique evaluation or critique not to ask unless they want to hear the truth.

Of course everyone says they want the truth, but most of them just want to be told how awesome they look. A rare few will take criticism in the helpful, constructive manner in which I offer it. Most will just get upset when you point out weak points. They would rather focus on what’s already good and live in denial about areas that need improvement. You don’t see too many of them winning contests. Skinny legs? “Yeah, but my chest is the best in this whole show.” No back? “So what bro, I beat ‘em all in the front poses.” Don’t ask me why we meatheads call each other ‘bro,’ either. Why do surfers and stoners call each other ‘dude?’ These are mysteries that will never be solved; just like how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop.

I made my deposit, then walked over toward the exit to catch up with Jeff for a minute.

“Looks like you’ve been a lot more consistent with training,” I told him. The last time I had seen him in the gym, long work hours had him frazzled and his body had been looking the worse for it.

“Yeah, things have calmed down with the business and I have been hitting the gym right on schedule. In fact, I’m thinking about entering the Masters in that contest there’s a flyer up at the gym for in September.”

I knew the show he was referring to. It was being put on by a natural federation out on Cape Cod. I’d seen photos of their events and I knew that Jeff would fare pretty well. But one look at him in a tank top and I knew he wouldn’t have enough time to get in shape for it.

“Yeah, I saw that flyer too,” I told him. “You could do it, but I would advise against it.”

“What, why?”

“Because I am competing around that same time and I am just about to start my sixteen-week diet, I know exactly how much time you would have to get in shape, and you’re carrying too much bodyfat right now to pull it off without losing a good portion of muscle mass in the process.”

“Seriously?” He wasn’t sure yet if I was having him on. I wasn’t.

“I’m just estimating here, but – pull up your shirt for me, would you?” Jeff was reluctant, but he did it. I nodded in confirmation once I saw the completely smooth surface, devoid of any trace of abdominals to be seen under the layer of chub. “Okay, that’s fine.” He let the shirt come down again. “You’re probably close to twenty percent bodyfat right now, and you shouldn’t be any higher than around twelve if you wanted to compete that soon.”

Jeff’s jaw had literally dropped. I knew he thought I was exaggerating. As I have said many times, bodybuilders are often way off in their estimation of how much fat they are carrying, and somehow they are always guessing much too low. I have never once seen a shredded dude (or should I say, ‘bro’) with deep, clear muscle separation and veins popping out of every inch of visible skin who reckoned himself to be any higher than three to five percent bodyfat. But I have seen countless examples of bodybuilders with just the hint of a six-pack boldly declaring that they are at five or six percent. The real hilarity to me is when guys send photos to FLEX magazine and purport to have only one or two percent bodyfat. This is lower than just about any pro bodybuilder has ever achieved, and the would-be Shredators that submit these photos certainly don’t have cross-striated glutes and hamstrings, and lower back ‘Christmas Trees’ so sharp and clear that you can seen their spleens. I’m not even sure they own mirrors. They damn sure don’t have a set of Parrillo Bodystat calipers.

One medical doctor I talked to about this actually laughed out loud when I told him some bodybuilders claimed to have taken their bodyfat down to one percent.

“They must have been making these claims through psychic mediums,” he informed me, “because you would be dead with such a low amount of fat in your body.”

Jeff here was in no imminent peril of getting so dangerously lean. I explained to him that he would not be the first bodybuilder to allow himself to add too much bodyfat in the off-season, nor would he be the last. Even the pro’s have been known to miscalculate. A few weekends before this, I had watched three guest posers at a big regional contest in Boston. The two were the reigning Mr. Olympia, Dexter Jackson, and two-time O champion Jay Cutler. Both were a full twenty weeks out from their next contest, the Mr. Olympia, yet were in very respectable condition. They both looked like they could be ready in five or six weeks if they had to.

Another guest poser was my friend Jose Raymond, quite possibly the greatest drug-free bodybuilder of this generation. Jose was less than two weeks away from making his pro debut, but I could see he needed more time than that to really dial in. I was right, and he took eighth place in a lineup of pro’s 202 pounds and under that he would have stood a much better chance against had he been in his usual trademark ripped-to-shreds condition. But I had seen Jose a few months before, ballooned up to a hefty 260 pounds at 5-3. Even then I had a feeling he was going to have a rough time getting in shape. Jose had never let himself get so heavy, so he really had no idea how long it was going to take him to shed all that fat. As it turned out, his estimation was off by about two or three weeks. This is a guy who had won his weight class at all the toughest national-level shows and who was known for destroying his rivals with insane cuts.

“So you see Jeff, it’s all about staying within striking distance of your contest condition. You don’t have to stay super lean all the time, but you should keep your abs visible at least. Then you shouldn’t ever need more than twelve to sixteen weeks to get into truly awesome shape.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed. “I was buying Parrillo Protein Chew Bars™ for a while, then I got lazy and started getting these big boxes of protein bars at Costco that are made by the same company that makes regular candy bars,” he informed me.

“That should have been a red flag right there,” I said. “But the bars are just the tip of the iceberg, aren’t they? You look like you have been eating a lot of crap, no offense.”

“Yeah, yeah I have. I get lazy and stop packing clean meals with me and just get fast food on the road whenever I get hungry.”

“Cardio? Doing any?” He shook his head.

“Nope, need to get back on that again too.”

“Well Jeff, obviously you know exactly what you need to do. Get yourself in semi-decent shape and then I’ll help you start looking for a show that you can really be ready for.”

I walked out of the bank into the blazing sun, and shielded my eyes. Directly across the street was the town’s bowling alley, and next to it, our strip club. It was Thursday, so that meant Tubby Tina was dancing – at least, that’s what I hear. You know how people in small towns are all in each other’s business. The sign outside the strip club read ‘100 Beautiful Las Vegas Showgirls.’ What was not visible from any distance was the tiny asterisk at the end of that marquee, and the fine print at the bottom in type you would have to climb the sign and break out a magnifying glass to read:

“The Vegas Showgirls are out in Vegas. We have aging, not particularly attractive dancers who could stand to lose a few pounds.” Thank God for that. It meant the stack of ones in my pocket would go to the church – at least, most of them would. Tubby Tina needs to eat, ya know!