I remember when weights were 17 cents a pound, I grew like a weed and
muscle aches were some sort of mystery my parents grumbled about.

Recollection is an inevitable, involuntary and necessary process. It
can be profitable, instructive, entertaining and insightful and
painfully dull. And recollections, memories, can be ominous; guilt,
fear and doubt are not infrequently lurking in their shadows.

Occasionally I'll recall the past purposefully to awaken my brain,
arouse my wits, stir my thoughts and put current events into
perspective. Besides, wandering the halls of days gone-by can be plain
fun, snoozy and musey. I compare then to now and determine what's
next. However, when the moon is out-of-round and its smile faded,
retrospection leads to introspection, and often disappointment and
bewilderment.

Less than a smile, my past during those periods resembles an
edge-of-town junkyard littered with crumpled chassis, dismantled
engines, threadbare tires and rusting fenders. Battered witnesses
stand clutching the far side of the fence and stare inward. Imagined
voices from the deteriorating images call out as a mob, whatta bum,
getta job, grow up, what's it all mean, lift and shut up.

My blissful journey of innocent wonder started when I was 10 years old
with a heap of battered weights totaling 100 pounds. At ten, 100
pounds sounds serious, grown-up, impressive, huge and worldly.

You heard it all before, but what the heck: There they lay in my
designated space on the bedroom floor, dumb, heavy and inert. While my
brothers stepped over the dense and confined mess, I crawled under it,
into it. I proceeded to haul the clattering and merciless load
everywhere I went, like it was treasure, food and shelter, a matter of
life and death, the Holy Grail. Perhaps companionship -- he ain't
heavy, he's my brother.

Soon enough I was eighteen and the Newark YMCA was my first
introduction to working out in a gym. Ha! It was an afterthought
crammed into a space adjacent to the boiler room and clogged with
Olympic bars and benches from a defunct detention center. Order was
non-existent, and neither form nor focus were encouraged; grab 'n
hoist was the preferred MO. Move the iron, heft and toss it. I learned
something right in learning everything wrong.

When I benched 400 for the first time, I was 19 and training at the
far end of a snazzy Vic Tanny's in Jersey City. The place looked more
like a tawdry madam's house than a gym, with red carpeting and chrome
weights and mirror-covered walls and ceilings and strange electrical
devices that wriggled and vibrated various puffy bodyparts. A few of
the occupants -- trendy rascals -- wore leotards and tights.

And me, fresh from the Elizabeth Y -- and plumbers, carpenters and
cops, sweaty T-shirts, BO and expletives, splinters, leaky pipes and
cold steel.

Anyhow, I pressed the chrome bar adorned with 18 shiny 20-pound plates
(biggest in the house and gathered from all corners), two tens and a
pair of cutesy chrome collars. The contrivance was silly and unwieldy
and the racks upon which it balanced were spindly and chrome and
attached tentatively to a bench upholstered in gold-flecked plastic. I
could hear the tinkle of weights amid the muzak in the background.

I considered asking for a spot, but the consequences of the request,
should it be accepted, were unimaginable. Better alone than assisted
by a dapper dude with trembling hands clasped over his tightly shut
eyes. I warmed up, paced, peered out the second-story windows at the
sparkling nightlife of Journal Square, pawed and sucked in air like a
rhino and knocked out one good rep. Nobody cared. Better that way.

It's all history now, in a nutshell, where it belongs.

Nevertheless, next stop, new job, another phase, the warehouse of
Weider Barbell Company, alongside Leroy -- you remember Leroy -- for
seated dumbbell alternate curls and overhead triceps extensions. A
brief stint in Hackensack at American Health Studios precluded a
flight destined for LA and the doorstep of Muscle Beach Gym, AKA the
Dungeon, the home I'd been looking for.

Good day, sunshine. Hello, Southern California, 1963.

My second outstanding recollection of bench pressing four plates and
change -- 440, if my shaggy, braggy memory serves me well -- was
shortly before dawn in the dim yellow light of the silent, empty, grim
and wonderful Muscle Beach Dungeon. I stared at the bent bar long
after the clang of the last plate had ceased. What a stark contrast to
the perky atmosphere 3,000 miles east and six months earlier. Freedom
in captivity.

The clearly homemade-in-the-USA wooden bench had no shortage of
splinters and wobbles and incorrect body-accommodating measurements --
low to the ground, wide as an ironing board with short, precarious
uprights. No padding.

First attempt, after numbing doubt, resulted in the ever-popular,
noisy and embarrassing survival movement -- slowly tipping the bar to
the right and then swiftly tipping to the left, a graceless method of
unloading the bar of excess plates. Slam Bam.

Second attempt, after self-castigation and vigorous rib-rubbing, the
bar now bent convincingly across the chest, was rotated from the
sternum to the hips, where movement ceased, and I was forced against
all laws of physics and degrees of tolerable pain, to sit upright and
maneuver the deadly iron from my lap to the floor several light-years
away. I saw stars.

Third attempt, after unacceptable thoughts of failure under the bar
and unbearable images of ascending the gym steps in defeat, I blew out
one honest rep. At the same moment, early-morning strongman, Steve
Merjanian, emerged from the sunlit Netherlands above and greeted me
with cheers, "What's up, Drapes?" Not much, Steve.

What elevated the weight is beyond me: muscle and might, power of the
mind, fearful emotion, peaking energies, dumb luck, resident ghosts,
coincidence, or the right combination of them all? Go figure.

Three years and a lifetime later, Joe Gold, the Maestro, opened the
original Gold's Gym, and I merged and evolved -- for good and evil --
with the '60s. A few contests and a few hoorays and a few years and a
few beers and it's off to Central California and a few World Gyms.
They come and they go, they came and they went, along with 15 or 20
years. Ask Laree, if you don't believe me.

Hello, IronOnline and bombers in the sky and 1999. Welcome 2000.
Greetings, Brother Iron, Sister Steel.

Growing up is hard to do, and lifting weights apparently slows down
the process. I've never met a musclebuilder who isn't part kid, the
better part. Some try to fake it -- me man, me woman -- but it's a
bust when they get that last rep or an outstanding pump, and break
spontaneously into hulky pirouettes across the gym floor, howling
incoherently something like, who's ya momma now, or I'm cool, I'm bad.
I think it's healthy and hopeful... endearing and authentic... and
dumb.

I feel like a kid at times playing with a bunch of scrappy toys worn
out by years of rough-housing. Duct tape works wonders to hold loose
ends together, and most wear and tear gets by with a coat of
rust-resistant paint or a shot of lubricant. Occasionally, some
damaged parts have got to be fixed by a pro.

There ya go, Bomber, good as new. Thanks, Doc.

Alas, some nifty bits and pieces are beyond repair and will be missed:
wheels fall off, wing missing, stuffing sticking out. You know, the
usual. But that doesn't mean ya can't play and have fun. Kids become
increasingly inventive and clever as they grow older.

I go to the gym in an hour, dragging my wagon of toys bumpity-bump. No
wings, no wheels, just air and high hopes. Ready for change, ready for
the fundamentals.

Maybe I should run for president.

The Bomber

Bomber Blend for a strong, secure, prosperous and happy America.
Lift weights and give thanks.

My name is Dave Drapeless and I approve this message.

source: davedraper.com