Bodybuilding and School Memories - Part 1

By Robert Drucker

Dethroned Thanks to Clarence Ross

When I was in 6th grade, many of the boys would arm wrestle in class to see who was the strongest in the school. I was a decent arm wrestler, as I could beat the majority of my classmates. Norman, Bruce, and Eugene were the exceptions. These three guys were the arm-wrestling Kings at Stonestreet Elementary School in Louisville, Kentucky.

There was one fellow, Greg, who was pretty strong, but not strong enough to pin my arm to the table. We had numerous arm-wrestling matches during our 6th year at Stonestreet Elementary, and, for the longest time, I was always the one who prevailed. But, one day Greg challenged me to a rematch, and he brought my arm down to the table quickly and with a mighty force. My defeat was rather humiliating, as the whole class witnessed my dethroning. Furthermore, I was puzzled. Just a few weeks beforehand, I had beaten Greg in our arm-strength competition. I couldn't figure out how, in such a short period of time, his arms had become so much stronger.

I found the answer I was looking for a few weeks later. It turned out that Greg had secured an old copy of Joe Weider's Muscle Power from his father. The old magazine featured an article about building strong arms, and it was penned by former Mr. America, Clarence Ross. Greg took Ross's advice to heart, and he trained his arms hard with some heavy dumbbell curls. This was my introduction to the power of weight training, and the beginning of my devotion to the iron game.

Mike Mentzer Invades Chemistry Class

When I was in ninth grade, and a student at Jesse Stuart High School, one of my least favorite classes was chemistry. Listening to lectures about orbital theory, free energy, entropy, and chemical equilibrium was nearly beyond what I could take. To ease the boredom of the daily chemistry lectures, my remedy was to sit at the back of the classroom and secretly read my favorite magazine, Muscle Builder. I would cover the magazine with my class folder so that the teacher and the other students couldn't see it, and then read away.

One day, our chemistry teacher was explaining to the class how he wanted each of us to organize our class folder. He happened to be close to my desk when he was talking, and I was taken by surprise when he abruptly said, "Let me show you Bob's folder. His folder is organized the way I want everybody's to be." Then, before I could respond, the teacher reached down to my desktop, grabbed my folder, held it up high, and opened it wide for all of my classmates to see.

Suddenly, the whole class bursted out in laughter. Our teacher, quite puzzled by the their reaction, turned the folder around so that he see what the class was amused by. What he saw was a copy of Muscle Builder stuffed inside one of the folder pockets, and Mike Mentzer's mighty chest was prominently displayed on the cover. Our teacher stared at the cover shot of Mentzer for just a brief moment. Then, without uttering a single word, he closed my folder, placed it gently back on my desktop, and walked back to the chalkboard. It was quite an embarrassing moment.

8th Grade Math Class Turns Into Push-Up Contest

Chris was a good friend of mine during my days at Stuart High, and we were in the same math class during the 8th grade. One day, Chris and I made the mistake of having a side discussion about push-ups while our teacher was lecturing. We had attempted to talk quietly and discreetly, but, despite our best efforts, the teacher had picked up on our bodybuilding discussion. This was the start of trouble. Aggravated by our inattention, our teacher ordered us to follow him into an adjacent conference room.

"What's all this talk about push-ups during my lecture," our teacher demanded to know after he shut the conference-room door behind us. I tried to think of a good excuse, but, before I could utter a single word, the situation took a turn for the worse.

The teacher went on, "You guys like push-ups, huh? Well, good. You two are going to have a push-up contest. The loser will get some hard whacks with this ruler here. The winner will walk away with no further punishment. Now, both of you, down on the floor and get going. I want to see FULL push-ups, no sissy stuff. The first to pause gets it!"

I couldn't believe it. Suddenly, right in the middle of math class, I was in a push-up contest with my friend, and the stakes were high. However, the contest was in my favor. I was rather muscular, and, at the time, I regularly practiced the standard push-up movement. Chris, in contrast, was relatively thin, and he was still a rookie in strength training.

Despite his disadvantages, Chris put forth an impressive effort. But, his stern determination could not keep his fatigued and thin muscles from failing, and he collapsed after about one minute into the match. When the contest was over, I walked away without a scratch. In contrast, Chris paid quite a painful price for talking during the teacher's lecture.

220 For Five!

Don, who was Chris's older brother, was one of my best friends during high school, and he was also my training partner. Four days a week, after school hours, we trained together in my parent's basement. Our gym consisted of a multipurpose bench, a pair of squat stands, a chinning bar, a calf machine, and a few standard barbell sets. We didn't have a fancy place to workout, but it was perfect for hard basic training.

My parent's house was located just about three blocks from the high school, and Don would often walk home with me after school on training days. On one occasion, as we were walking to my parents house after school, Don and I were getting ourselves psyched up for a squatting session. Don had been struggling to squat with 220 pounds for more than a rep or two. But, on this day, he was determined to end his training rut. My training partner passionately announced, "Bob, don't matter what, I'm going to squat 220 pounds ass to the floor for five solid reps. Watch and see!"

Just a few seconds after his declaration, one of the buses from our school approached along a road that was adjacent to the walkway. It was a relatively hot day, so nearly all the windows on the bus were wide open. Just as the vehicle started to pass us, Don yelled towards the bus as loud as he possibly could, "220 FOR FIVE!" None of the students on the bus had any idea what Don yelled about, but the spontaneity of his outburst gave us quite a laugh. Minutes later, Don took a 220-barbell from a pair of squat stands, and he cranked out five solid reps - just like he said he would.

Insane Training Leads to Smashed Light Bulb

One afternoon, several weeks after Don accomplished his record squat performance, we decided to try a "MEGABLITZ" leg workout. The idea was to "shock" our leg muscles into growth by forcing them to undergo a do-or-die situation. The plan was simple, at least on paper: Do 15 ball-busting sets of full squats, each to failure. Then do 15 sets of leg curls, each to failure. Then do 15 heavy sets of calf raises, each to failure. We also planned to knock out two or three assisted forced reps at the conclusion of each set for good measure. It sounded like a great plan, and we were anxious to put it into action.

After the details of our new training routine were ironed out, Don and I prepared for the big workout. We stocked up on water, grabbed our favorite Led Zeppelin tape, and psyched ourselves up with some heavy-duty pep talk. We also opened the basement windows to make sure that there would be plenty of life-support oxygen available. And, as an added bonus, opened windows ensured that my neighbors would hear one heck of a show.

Just before we hit the weights, I can recall Don saying with a powerful and vigorous tone, "Bob, It's time to get f--king serious. Our days of baby workouts are over. Get Zeppelin blasting, and Let's go!" Moments later, the music was cranked well into the high decibel zone, and the workout was underway.

Our training session began with a short warmup. We did a bit of stretching and a few light sets of squats. That was it. The weight on the squat bar was then increased for my first and heaviest work set.

"Get to it," demanded Don. Not wanting to disappoint, I quickly got underneath the supported barbell and took it off of the stands. The weight felt very heavy as it pressed against my shoulders and upper back, but there could be no retreat. This was going to be the best workout ever, and giving up was not an option.

With the heavy barbell held across my shoulders, I slowly lowered myself until the back of my legs touched my calves. After a momentary pause, I then drove the weight back up with a sudden explosive effort. My form was good, but the first rep was very taxing. At best, I figured, I could manage two, maybe three more reps without assistance. Unfortunately, Don viewed things a bit differently. In a loud and militaristic tone, he exclaimed, "That's one rep. Now, I want to see five more in perfect form!" After hearing his words, I knew that this was going to be the workout from hell.

I'm not sure how, but somehow I managed to grind out five more unassisted reps. After doing so, I was exhausted and close to passing out. I wanted nothing more than to put the barbell back on the stands and end the set. But, once again, Don thwarted my plans. "THREE MORE REPS," he yelled out. And, he was dead serious.

So, back down I went with the heavy barbell. I managed to control the descent rather well, but once I made it to the bottom position, I got stuck. My legs just couldn't drive the weight back up.

Now, Don was a slave driver, and getting stuck was no excuse for not continuing the effort in his mind. He grabbed my hips, and he yelled, "PUSH!". Then, Don assisted just enough to get me past the sticking point, and my weakened and exhausted legs slowly made the journey back to the top position. Once upright, I tried to pause a bit before going for another rep, but Don pushed me on. "Two more - Now!", he ordered. It took his help, but those "two more" reps were done.

At the completion of my first set of squats, my legs were throbbing and wobbling, and my heart was pounding. I wanted to collapse onto the floor and rest, but my desire was nothing more than wishful thinking. Before I could catch my breath, Don pushed to get his first set going.

With Don eager to go, we quickly adjusted the weight on the squat bar, and then he attacked the barbell fiercely and without hesitation. Don managed to grind out seven impressive reps before he finally failed to rise up with the weight. At his failure point, I grabbed his hips and assisted just enough for him to complete three more reps. During each of these three forced reps, Don's screaming and creative use of expletives were much more intense than the loud music that was emanating from the gym speakers. Surely, the neighbors must have covered their ears.

Prior to this workout, I always rested two or three minutes between each set of squats. However, during this training session, Don would not allow me to rest any longer than it took him to complete his set, which was about 30 seconds. As soon as he finished his set and racked the weight, he would scream out, "Get going - Now!"

As we weakened from fatigue, each subsequent set of squats was exponentially harder than the one before it. But, despite the escalating torture, we kept up the pace. We were on a mission, and nothing was going to stop us. Not a pounding heart. Not burning lungs. Not cramping muscles. Not a feeling that we were going to pass out from exhaustion at any minute. Not anything.

To keep things going, we had to decrease the weight on the squat bar with each set. This was necessary for us to continue meeting the target number of repetitions, which was about five to seven. By the time we started the 12th set of squats, the weight on the barbell was half the initial poundage, and we were both living in total agony. Had Don not been pushing me so hard, I would have collapsed and fell straight to the floor at this point. Something about being called a "wimpy and pathetic little coward" kept me on my feet.

After Don and I finished our 15th and final set of squats, we were both lightheaded and barely able to stand up, least alone walk over to the leg curl machine. As such, we were forced to take a small break. But,we rested only long enough to regain our composure and our sense of life. A five-minute rest did the trick, and then we wobbled over to the leg curl machine for 15 sets each of leg curls.

The leg curls were a breeze compared to the squats, but the excessive number of sets and forced reps caused severe and incredibly painful hamstring cramps. It was quite funny, really. The cramping caused Don and me to dance around the gym floor like circus performers. We would have looked ridiculous if anybody had seen us.

While the leg curls gave us somewhat of a break, our calf training proved to be brutally painful. At the calf machine, the action was fast and furious, and our lower legs burned like they had been soaked with gasoline and lit on fire. We both discovered very quickly that performing heavy calf raises to failure, and following up with forced reps and negatives, is about the most painful thing you can possibly do. Additionally, we discovered that performing several "all-out" sets of heavy calf raises may cause you to do some crazy things.

Take Don, for instance. While performing his 15th and final set of calf raises, he went mad and grabbed a light bulb that happened to be sitting on top of a nearby table. Then, with all his might, he threw the bulb against the gym wall, and the impact force shattered it to smithereens. I mean small pieces of glass went flying everywhere. The whole gym floor was littered in glass, and you couldn't walk an inch without hearing a crackling sound.

It is hard to explain why, but the sound of the shattering glass provided the gym with a sudden and powerful burst of energy. It was symbolic of our victory over the weights. And, it ended our workout with a grand finale that we will never forget.

IMPORTANT

Do not attempt to train the way that is described in this article. Our "MEGABLITZ" workout was a one-time thing, and it turned out to be a huge mistake. I cannot begin to tell you about the soreness and misery that Don and I both experienced following the described training session. Let it suffice to say that neither of us could walk the day after to save our lives, and it was three weeks before we sufficiently recovered enough to resume our training. The net result was loss of strength and muscle. And, only good fortune kept us from experiencing cardiac arrest during the squats. Enough said.