Michael AmramEXERCISING DEMONSChronic ataxia is a deficiency in muscle coordination. In my case it was the result of a head injury. On January 8, 1971, a car driven by a distracted 17-year old tapped my fragile skull. Three weeks shy of my sixth birthday, I entered a six week coma. During this time I received therapy to keep my muscles from atrophying. My face contorted. It twisted as I writhed in pain. I was discharged from the hospital on March 11. Soon a physical therapist was hired to come to the house. She'd begin my therapy wherever she found me. In the beginning, much of my therapy consisted of scores of excruciatingly painful abdominal exercises. Finally the ability to sit upright (precariously) was regained. Rehabilitative walks with my dad comprised the next two years. By the spring of 1973 I was standing with the help of wooden crutches. My dad thought I was ready for a new challenge. It was time for a new interest, something we could do together. We watched the documentary Pumping Iron starring Arnold Schwarzenegger, Lou Ferrigno, Franco Columbu and all the bodybuilders who made the sport popular. I was hooked. What I saw appealed to me, and I thought it was something I could do. Being a Mr. Olympia or Mr. Universe was probably not in the cards though. One day my dad brought home a fifty-pound barbell for me. It had a plastic-coated twenty-five pound disc on each end. We set aside an hour every night to do exercises out of a book. My dad was very methodical, scrutinizing an exercise and executing it with great precision. I watched him and performed the exercise to the best of my ability. He never expected me to be able to do them at his level of perfection. He knew my capabilities, but he also knew that if he didn't push me some, I probably would not push myself. Eminent halos of florescent lights of a small room in the basement room became our focal point. His big cast-iron weights, all black and shiny, made my small, maroon, twenty-five pound discs look like toys. He put 30 pounds on each end of a six-foot bar he had found in our attic. My bar was four feet long, brand new, and came with a set of dumbbells. A hex wrench tightened the screws on the small iron collars at each end of the bar. His had bigger, bell-shaped collars that tightened simply by turning the extended handle. We took turns "spotting" each other. Still having the precarious balance of a tight-rope-walker and the gait of a three-legged man, I braced myself over my dad to spot him. The reality was that I was likely ineffective as a spotter. Even so, he was always careful not to diminish my confidence. **** In the fall of 1977 I entered junior high. Being different and defenseless made me a target for bullies. It put a fire in me that manifested itself in misdirected anger and, at times, recalcitrance. My workouts began in the tiny weight room of the school. The air was stagnant and dry. A bitter-sweet sweat smell intruded on my nose and fed that fire like oxygen. I grew accustomed to the scent and a desire to rise above, or at least gain, the bullies' respect flourished. Dimly lit and uninspiring, my junior high weight room consisted of a rusted Universal machine, some dumbbells and a sit-up board. It was crude, but adequate for someone beginning training. Pent-up anger poured into the weights. I felt good about myself and it gave me confidence and self-esteem. The weight room became a haven from bullies. Eventually I craved something bigger. A friend and I rode our bikes a half mile to the YMCA. I never measured myself up against anyone. I never worried about what they were doing or what they thought I should be able to do. One thing I learned early on: If you want to get anywhere in weight training, your ego has no place. You must be secure. If my peers took notice, great; if not, all the more reason to work harder. Physically I really knew I could never be their equal, but I thought a few muscles and a show of discipline might someday earn their respect. I tried to keep a low profile in the Y's weight room. However, with a crutch in hand, that is a difficult task. My friend, who was deadly serious about his routine, went his own way. We rarely lifted together. The biggest obstacle for me was enduring the judgmental, condescending, or heroic reactions of the other lifters. They praised me for my diligence. Or they talked down to me, like I was not in there to lift seriously, like my able-bodied friend for example. Some were full of training tips and others just stared. "There he is, in for another workout!" Or, "You're not breathing right. On the bench press, exhale as you push the weight up." Well, yes, I guess that one might have been helpful. Generally, though, either they did not understand me or I did not understand their compliments and backhanded advisories. Part of my mind kept insidiously wandering to the question: Would they be giving someone tips if a crutch was not lying under the bench? In fact, I noticed a few other novices, some even younger than myself and no one ever welcomed them or gave them instructions. Eventually the Young Men's Christian Association became boring to us. We had each reached a plateau. My friend entertained thoughts of competitive bodybuilding. At that point, I just wanted to train like those guys in Pumping Iron. I was satisfied with how my plan had worked with the bullies. The confidence in myself was enough—then. Both of us—for differing reasons—needed to be surrounded by people who were as serious as we were. We began biking even further to a place simply called "The Gym." The gym's air was moist and caressed my face. It was the adrenaline charging sweat smell I had learned so often in the small, rudimentary junior high weight room. I was home. I proudly walked into the gym on my own two feet. It was an early graduation. The eclectic smell now included Ben-Gay. Weights clanked in corner apparitions and I heard the pssss of respiration. They were the souls for our inspiration and I felt intensity and focus. No one talked or stared. Every sound was heard and sounded right, echoing the aspirations of each individual. Great bowls of chalk sat on tall pedestals. They were usually half- full and the white residue from grips released coated the floors. Mirrors looked on with faces lined in pain. The images were of men and women heaving weights and grimacing their best productive pain. They lifted correctly, extracting everything a movement had to offer. Egos were not at stake there. If they were, they usually were not by the next week. The ones who stayed did not "cheat" like I had seen so much at the YMCA and voluntarily call muscles into action not intended to be exercised. There were no personal trainers or motivators. It was everyone's objective in that gym to get big. The bodybuilding stage was their goal. Massive muscles rippled out of sweat-soaked shirts and showed me where I wanted to go. One of the "Bigs" at the gym, who I think achieved some stature in the bodybuilding world, was Bill Covington. My friend meticulously recorded his amounts of weight, number of sets and number of repetitions in a notebook. With less discipline and a margin for error, I did the same. He went through more books than I did. At times we compared notes to see what was working and what wasn't. He took a very methodical approach to lifting. My friend had all the bodybuilding books. He followed the routine of people like Frank Zane and subscribed to Muscle & Fitness. "Don't talk to me," he said during our workouts at the gym. I never did. We encouraged one another. He knew what I was running from, and I knew where he wanted to go. In high school no one bullied me anymore. The high school had a much bigger weight room. I often worked out before school, always noting the sign at the door that read: Wishing Won't Work, Working Will. The subliminal message of that sign worked itself into my mind. **** By 1991 I thought I should take my pursuit to the next level, competitive bodybuilding. After half-hearted lifting and poor diets through five years of college, I was the fattest I'd ever been. At 5 feet 7 inches, I weighed almost 220 pounds. I had at least 50 pounds of body fat to lose. My job at the time was very physically demanding. I worked out five days a week and ate six small, low-fat meals a day. Pounds flew off and muscle started to make an appearance. But I was burning more calories than I was consuming, which is not good in order to build muscle. The objective to "cutting up" is to lose the lighter weight of body fat while retaining the heavier weight of skeletal muscle. I upped my caloric intake. Eating enough (of the right things) is not as easy as it sounds. A lesson I learned about the bodybuilding diet that first year was not to cut up too fast. If you "peak" too soon, it is very hard to keep the mass. The timing must be right. Keep eating, always, but the right foods. Make sure at least a half hour of cardiovascular exercise is included in your workout. Over the course of three months, I incrementally decreased my protein intake while increasing carbohydrates. For every two grams of protein I had one gram of carbs in my diet. During the three months preceding a competition, I went from four small meals a day to eight smaller meals a day. Gradually, I decreased the carbs until my daily intake was protein-rich food like water-packed tuna or chicken. I ate so much tuna that there was a concern about my mercury level. I began my diet in the late spring of 1993. By September I had that "ripped" look for competition. Muscles held their shape and the skin was solid to the touch. With scant fat to carry, my energy was abundant. It felt great. Friends said I walked less awkwardly (that was the word doctors had used to describe my gait). It made sense that the less dead weight I had to balance, the better I'd walk. That fall I entered a local competition promoted by the NPC (National Physique Committee). My able-bodied competitors may have had professional aspirations. They were all bigger, had the coordination to pose well, and had the symmetry that is so crucial to bodybuilding. I have a left hemiparesis which means the muscles on my left side can only expect barely measurable growth from resistive exercise. At one of the NPC shows I did, my competitors were not just naturally big. They were freakishly big and steroids coursed through their veins. That was sickening to me. They were cheating not just me but themselves as well. The closest I ever came to using any kind of performance enhancer was a brief dalliance with a fat burner called ephedrine. As I recall, it was eventually taken off the market. My trainer said I did not need it, and my metabolism was fast enough to burn fat. The NPC competitions took place at local high school auditoriums mostly. I tried not to let my confidence waver. Walking down the halls of the high school I sized up my competition. Sharp jaw lines passed my eye. Not feeling like they'd edge me out of competition before I stepped on stage was impossible. Smudgy, tan painted faces hid behind rice cakes. Baggy "zubas," and sweat pants ensconced chiseled quadriceps. Those over-stuffed sweat shirts I had seen at The Gym now hung looser with tight muscle. It was impossible not to second guess myself. These guys were huge! My confidence took a beating. Getting to the stage and training hard and natural is the most fun for me. I thrived on the challenge the competitions offer. In the back of my mind I think I knew then that I really did not have an honest chance of winning anything against able-bodied athletes. "Are you having fun?" the promoter asked as I came off stage with a patronizing lilt to his brow. To be honest, the guy was exactly right, although I have to say part of me was frustrated that no one saw me as a serious competitor. Was it even conceivable that I might someday actually beat someone? I had no real expectations of winning but could I place and not just show? It burned me that the concept of someone with a disability actually excelling seemed foreign to them. I was always dead last. I once took a copy of the judge's score sheet just to see this on paper. It was a bitter pill to swallow. **** In the winter of 1996 I was in a health club when a bodybuilder told me of an organization that had divisions for "physically challenged" athletes, those in a wheelchair and those who stood. The ABA (Amateur Bodybuilding Association) is a California-based organization that has divisions for everyone regardless of age or ability. I could now really compete and, ostensibly, I could win. Invigorated by the doors now open to me, I trained harder for a New York competition in the summer of 1997. For the next six years I competed with the ABA, choosing one or two shows a year around the country. I really felt like a contender, like those guys in Pumping Iron. A guy with CP (cerebral palsy) became my chief competitor. We were always in contention, he and I, and often came within a point or two of each other. A morning pre-judging is where most of the decisions are made. You line up with the others in your class and are instructed by a panel of judges to hit certain poses. "Front-double biceps, rear lat spread," or "side triceps, " they asked politely to see. We did our best. I often tried to get in my opponent's head. I distracted them or smiled down the line at them, patronizing them like I once was. The evening shows were mostly formality. Beautiful women all dressed to the hilt milled around the trophy table. The women backstage competing were an attraction, but the final showing was both grueling and enticing. I did my little routine?a few dumbbell flys or push ups—to pump blood to the muscles. Or, sometimes, another competitor held out a towel and I tried to pull it away from him. I pulled it in to my chest with both hands, thereby pumping up my latisimuss muscles. I watched all the glamour. I heard the music and applause at the end of each individual posing routine. Finally my number was called. By my third show with the ABA, my nerves were in check, at least to walk out for my routine. The music began, music for which I had perfected a routine. I hit poses that were my favorites, not the judges'. The audience grew louder with each pose. This was a drug I guess, a performance enhancer. After my class—PC standing—was through, we might be called back. All five of us came out on stage to settle a score, a contention that could be altered by the tweak of a muscle. (I did this at the 2001 natural olympia and won gold. I actually flexed my biceps and tweaked the top.) The "pose down" was the cream of competition to me. It did not get better than that. I loved the comradely and adulation—the final reward for all the hours in the gym. And you knew your first full meal of hedonistic proportions was coming soon. It was usually done to loud trendy music that shook the rafters. We struck poses timed to the beats. We smiled frantically and toed a line on the stage with our feet. It was the mark from the morning and we all vied to be first. Then the beautiful women in evening gowns hung medals around our necks. The trophies were always awarded in ascending order. "Third place…second place…" That left first anti-climactic. With the ABA physically challenged I won some. I placed in a few. I always was able to do more than just show.
|