I Go Through Cycles

by Dave Draper

I'm late with my scrawny contribution to the newsletter this week. I
go through cycles... I think we all do. Sometimes I'm so full of
baloney I'll have three or four articles prepared in advance, and
sometimes barely a thought drags itself across my mind -- in one ear
and almost out the other -- before it collapses.

Get up, ya bum. You don't have to make sense... we'll fake it. They
don't care.

Laree, awaiting my gibberish, is at her desk evaluating stacks of
how-to strength books, kettlebell performance guides, Olympic training
outlines and Bigger, Stronger and Faster Made Easier pamphlets. I am
so glad I didn't have to read about this stuff and just did it
instead. So what, I'm no expert.

"Yes, dear; I'll have my IronOnline submission to you shortly, dear."
Editors and deadlines and biceps and triceps... gimme a break.

I'm inspired by politics lately, what with all the campaigning going
on in the USA, so maybe I'll go with a trendy message. How about
something global... fuel-wise... environmental... economical...
creative.

Save Oil -- Spare Iron and Steel.

I personally endorse the latest green-movement proposal to outlaw
weights and weightlifting, and require all owners of barbells and
dumbbells to release their equipment to federal authorities posthaste.
Iron and steel are becoming increasingly rare resources, costly to
procure, and in demand for the manufacture of products essential to
life. Bungee cords and comprehensive courses in freehand exercise,
yoga, Pilates and dynamic tension as alternatives to primitive
weightlifting is certainly the modern and sensible replacement * the
smart way to go.

"It's about time," declare the bombers at IronOnline in one voice.
Iron has enormous potential and that it's been tightly imprisoned in
bars, plates and kettlebells is unconscionable. And that they, the end
products, are wasted in the cruel and deceptive acts of pushing and
pulling and hoisting is criminal and inhuman. Give us the convenience
and resistance and flexibility of rubber bands and the mobility and
versatility and playful bounce of stability balls -- tools for our
health and the health of our planet.

She won't go for it. Nope! Smart cookie, that Laree. Here's my
alternative:

I was sitting on the bus the other day on the way to the gym when some
guy comes up to me and sez, "Hey, you Dave Drapeless?" To which I
respond, "Yes, pretty much."

He then asks me if it's okay to sit down and ask me some questions, to
which I respond, "Sure, it's a free country." We get talkin' and this
is how it went (I missed my stop, boy, was I mad):

Q: What was it like at Gold's back in the 1970s?

It was in the shadows of the Muscle Beach Dungeon's spare lighting
that I learned all I know about building muscle and power. There the
seed I brought from the streets of Jersey in '63 took root, grew deep
and bore a decent yield. I won Mr. America and Mr. Universe.

I then joined Joe Gold's gym in Venice in 1966 and continued to lift
the weights with quiet passion. But for an occasional burst of
training when a special occasion prompted me to work out twice a day
(posing exhibition, inner urges, the 1970 Mr. World), I was in and out
of the gym by 8 AM. Those two hours, six days a week, were major
events internally, but on the outside they were as ordinary as toast.

In the middle-late '60s Frank Zane made his home in Venice and our
workouts conveniently overlapped. Arnold appeared in California, with
Franco close behind him, and made his way to Joe's original Gold's in
'68. Ken Waller joined the group at a corresponding time, and various
seasons of the year brought champs from the corners of the world for a
plunge in the West Coast bodybuilding scene. Rick Drasin, Denny Gable,
Bill Howard, Dan Howard, Chet Yorton, Bill Grant and Superstar Wayne
Coleman are some of the tanned and sand-dusted faces I see fondly in
my memory.

Zabo ran the place and became known as the Chief. Eventually, Eddie
Giuliani headed the gym's secret service dept.

Q: What was the atmosphere like at Gold's in the 1970s?

I offer a narrow picture of "training at Gold's" during the '70s. For
all intents and purposes competitive bodybuilding was behind me. In
fact, I resumed the role I never left -- lifting weights for muscle
and might and the fulfillment and pleasure it offered. In 'n out, like
the hamburger, and off to make odd, oversized furniture from pier
wood. That's me.

The best times I recall at the original Gold's were the summer days of
1970. There were a series of competitions in the fall and five of us
were preparing for the shows: Frank, Franco, Arnold, Katz, Zabo,
Holland's Serge Jacobs and me. We trained twice a day and at least one
of those daily sessions was together.

The days were exciting, yet serene. The workouts were focused and
intense, yet loose and easy. The gym floor was some 2,000 square feet
of benches and platforms, pulleys and racks, iron and bars. No radio.
The sounds came from moving bodies, shuffling benches, jangling
weights, groaning lifters and muted thuds. We conversed, no one
chattered; we laughed, no one sniveled; we barked, no one bit. The
weights moved in the direction they were urged, and we grew.

One July evening stands out above the rest. Artie Zeller, one
beautiful guy, carried his camera around the gym like a stealth pilot.
He was there, but under the radar, silently exposing film at just the
right moment. The gym was simmering, each of us off in different
directions. Frank was benching, Mike Katz was doing pulldowns, Franco
was doing barbell rows, and Arnold and I were squatting. Not a false
move was made. We appeared like moths around a nightlight, we moved
tons of iron like cranes, and we encouraged each other with authentic
and willful persuasion, and a strong arm when needed.

And the best part -- beside the fact that it's in black and white --
we never viewed each other as competitors, challengers or rivals. No
revolting egos. No one wore designer gear, carefully torn sweatshirts
and look-at-me low slung tank tops. We were all unique with strengths
and weaknesses to overcome, aches and pains to endure, and hopes and
dreams to realize. We were friends of an unusual cut. Not that we
considered it a very special thing, but we were a rare breed of
musclebuilders yet to be displayed, yet to be archived and yet to be
imitated.

Time moved on, the gym's location and ownership changed and the core
dispersed, lost cohesion and became diluted by the crowd. That what
time, people and things do.

Q: What were some of the problems you encountered as a bodybuilder
back in those times?

There was no problem in identity. I was impervious to the
misunderstandings from the average folks around me. I, in fact,
enjoyed the distinction from those to my right and left. There were so
few top names in the '60s, you knew them all: Howorth, Pearl, Scott,
Gironda, Zane, Yorton, Zabe, the local guys and Ortiz, Poole,
Ferrigno, Abbenda, Boyer. Each was a mystery, each an inspiration,
each a friend.

Being a top bodybuilder was easier, once you got past discovering the
sport, becoming fascinated with it, and engaging it with passion and
zeal long enough to understand it and achieve some muscle and might.
The rest was hard work, sacrifice, perseverance, time, patience,
commonsense and luck.

Q: Who were some of the more entertaining Gold's members?

Each lifter was a character upon which a book could be written. That
includes the mild nutsos no one ever heard about, the Joe, Bob 'n
Amys.

Zabo, his workout complete by dawn, sat in his shorts and flip flops
with the sun on his back as he read an important paperback. "What's it
all mean?" was his philosophy and answer to all questions. No one got
past the Chief without a terse comment that summarized the day. Shut
up and train.

Superstar Wayne Coleman strode into the gym with no bones to pick or
bodies to toss. He specialized in heavy bench presses, dumbbell
presses at the far end of the rack and an attitude as soothing a
Tupelo honey. He was like quiet, distant thunder.

Arnold and Franco were a pair, two restless race horses in the
starting block with an absolutely fundamental approach to training and
life. They seemed to ride their own wave, the crest I might add, and
they a pair of middle European decent. Come on in, the water's fine.
In fact, it's fantastic.

Frank Zane slipped in at daybreak and we supported each other with
pullovers and presses and endless gut work. We spoke silently and
incessantly, and the communication was ideal. What went on between our
ears and minds is anyone's guess. We never missed a workout, seldom a
set or rep.

Joe Gold cruised the gym -- his creation, his humble palace, his
emerging empire -- and spoke little and said a lot. He observed the
muscleheads in their passionate and aimless activities devising ways
to make them more productive and palpable. Bigger pulleys, deeper
racks, thicker handles... whadaya think?

Q: Sounds like a great time. Why'd you drop out?

The early '60s were a mild time in bodybuilding. I trained hard in the
Dungeon and worked regularly for Weider in his pint-sized office and
shipping department. I had a young wife and daughter, no dough, lots
of promise and promises and was busy with daily survival. There was
some TV, a few side jobs to pay the bills and I had some friends in
both Vince's gym (Howorth, Scott, McArdle) and the Dungeon (Zabo and
some neat local lifters). We had lifting in common, it was the bond,
but we didn't talk about training or nutrition or muscles -- shop talk
-- when we hung out and played and explored.

At the same time there was a sharpening rise in bodybuilding interest
as the '60s progressed. Three or four big Weider shows in New York
smack in the middle of the '60s set things off: the Mr. Americas, Mr.
Universe shows and the Mr. Olympia. The zealous NY audience started a
stampede. Sergio arrived on the bodybuilding scene, Arnold was in
California toward the end of the decade and the launching pads were
ready.

In the '70s we saw bigger mags, more coverage, and greater
participation in the gyms, contests and audiences worldwide.
Musclebuilding became an industry overnight. Hello, Pumping Iron.

At the stir of this phenomenon I resisted and returned to lifting for
the same reasons I began 15 years earlier as a snotnose kid: for its
calm truth and simplicity, pain and fulfillment, muscle and might. I
was not the star type nor a muscleman groupie. Thus, I did not
submerge myself in the developing bodybuilding world of the '70s. I
performed my delicious musclebuilding out of sight of crowd and
crowd-pleasers.

With that my new found friend sez, "This here's my stop, Drapster,"
and jumps off at the unemployment office leaving me in a rage cuz I
missed my stop at the gym a mile before. I'm walkin' back the way I
came thinkin' there's a lot more to tell. If that dude doesn't get a
job, maybe I'll see him again and we can talk some more.

So this is aerobics... DD

Source: davedraper.com