A LIFE IN THE DAY OF THE GOLDEN AGE
A Life in the Day of the Golden Age
Join Arnold Schwarzenegger as he lives the bodybuilding dream during the Golden Age
(Prologue
What transpired in the confines of Gold’s Gym, Venice during the late ‘60s to the mid 1970s is popularly referred to, and celebrated, as The Golden Age of Bodybuilding. And as the years tick by that iconic title seems to gain even more justification. The Gold’s of that time represented a muscular utopia where many of the world’s top bodybuilders were clustered under one roof curling and pressing in tandem and opposition to one another. Such a grouping of the elite in one location has never been repeated. The word most often used to encapsulate the spirit of that unique period and place is “camaraderie”. One man fostered and epitomized that word and was the leader of that legendary gym rat pack of yesteryear. That man was Herbie Bierbaum. No, of course the figure in question is Arnold Schwarzenegger who brought energy, purpose and fun to the gym floor and encouraged his fellow members to do likewise. This feature is a factionalized trip back in time designed to offer an insight, from Schwarzenegger’s perspective, of what is was like to be part of the camaraderie of that Golden Age. The interplay and incidents within this narrative did occur, but for literary expedience they are presented as happening in one1974 day in the lifespan of that never to be forgotten era.
CALIFORNIA MORNING
It’s 8.00am as the sun streams relentlessly through your bedroom window. You’re half awake – have been for some time – and reluctantly tell yourself it’s time to haul your massive frame out of bed. You stumble from the bedroom into the kitchen and on automatic start to mix a protein shake supplemented by four raw eggs. Looking out the window you blink a little at the blue expanse of another vibrant Southern California July sky.
It’s already 70 degrees, the start of another day in Paradise. Not for the first time you tell yourself, “Arnold Schwarzenegger, you’re a lucky dog.” And why wouldn’t you think such a thing? Here you are a poor farm boy from Austria living in a Santa Monica apartment just a set of walking lunges away from the Pacific Ocean. As the reigning Mr. Olympia with four wins on your resume you’re about to start your prep to defend your title three months hence. First workout today is chest and back.
Donned in shorts and a yellow tank top you maneuver your Volkswagen through the lazy streets of one of the most famous coastal towns in the world and with the clock nudging 9.00am arrive at your temple: Gold’s Gym, at 1006 Pacific Avenue, Venice, which is one block from the beach. As you saunter into the reception area, manager Ken Waller (he of the humungous gastrocnemius and soleus development) is behind the desk browsing through that morning’s edition of the Los Angeles Times. You shout at him, “Hey Waller why you doing nothing – is the calf machine broke?”
Waller, whose temperament matches his fiery red hair, snarls out an instruction that is anatomically impossible and probably illegal in most states.
You espy Franco Columbu knocking out a marathon set of sit-ups as a finale to his workout. Truth is even though you are best friends ever since meeting in Munich in 1965 (a bond that evolved into being roommates, and partners in a bricklaying business) you no longer workout together. This due to the Sardinian Samson having enrolled in chiropractic classes at UCLA and having to train early at 7.00am. “Besides,” you will confide to others, “The little bugger is too damn strong.”
THAT ‘70S SHOW
The Gold’s Gym denizens of that era, include, besides yourself: Dave Draper, Frank Zane, Eddie Giuliani, Zabo Koszewski, Ken Waller, Franco Columbu, Kent Kuehn, Denny Gable, Peanuts West, Don Peters, Roger Callard, Charlie Fautz and Ric Drasin while later on Robby Robinson became a regular. Out of towners visiting periodically were Ed Corney, Danny Padilla, Bill Grant, Paul Grant, Mike Katz, Pierre Vandensteen, Serge Nubret and Serge Jacobs. And capturing it all in photos that will become the most viewed in bodybuilding history is the inimitable lens of Artie Zeller whose work is helped immeasurably by the perfect lighting that occurs when the morning sun pours through the building’s fortuitously angled skylights. To complete this Who’s Who of the Iron Game, Joe Weider came by regularly to, “check how da boys are doing.”
Today’s training partners, Denny Gable and Kent Kuehn (both top tier amateurs, readying themselves for the Mr. America showdown) are waiting as you affix your training belt for what will turn out to be a 2-½ hour assault on chest and back. This morning you will superset pecs and back exercises but on other days you prefer to work each bodypart separately. In alternating chest and back exercises it’s your belief that not only is a great upper body pump achieved but that the overall execution of each movement is enhanced. For instance going to-and-fro with incline presses and barbell rows means that when rowing you have a huge pump in the pecs that helps stabilize the pulling motion. Then when inclining pressing your back muscles will be so pumped up that they gave a solidity and tightness to your lats that help support the weight.
As has been the case since you relocated to Los Angeles in 1968 your weekly routine is of a six days on, one day off cycle. You train twice a day, with major bodyparts trained three times a week.
It’s now 75 degrees but with the large front and back doors open a refreshing Pacific Ocean breeze wafts through the premises. Before commencing the session you all stroll to the water fountain to hydrate in preparation for the pec and lat-busting labors to come. The fountain offers plenty of opportunities for your particular brand of humor. You’ll often tell newcomers, not to drink too much as the H20 contains the latest muscle enhancement solution from Europe, “Overdo it and your knuckles will double in size, while your manhood will go the other way.”
On this idyllic morning as Gable finishes sipping, you tell him, “Did you know muscle is 70 percent water?” The 6’2” Iowan nods knowingly.
Breaking into your familiar guttural guffaw, you bark, “Then Denny my boy, you better drink a few more gallons!” Gable can’t help cracking up.
OF REPARTEEE AND REPS
As you and your dutiful twosome make your way to the bench press area you catch sight of Franco hitting a double biceps pose in front of the main mirror. “Hey Franco, how many times have I told you to concentrate on posing your best bodyparts?”
The diminutive recipient of your remark stops flexing and asks your opinion of what you think is his most outstanding physical feature? Poor Franco he never learns. You shoot back, “Your height ….. lack of it.”
From the desk Waller asks in feigned bemusement, “Hey, anybody know if Arnold’s arrived yet?”
You join in the laughter. Truth is you are the cheerleader of this Gold’s Gym band of sweaty brothers. You know full well that they feed off your energy and upbeat personality. You know that, Franco apart, most of your fellow gym dwellers switch their training times to when you are in Gold’s holding court to live vicariously through your animated effervescence. Even if they’re not working out with you they’ll hear you bellowing at your training partners, “Come on sissy man, there’s no such thing as pain,” and dig a little deeper with their efforts. Your sheer zest for life and training is infectious. Your pithy summation of your effect is, “I’m a show-off – a typical Leo.”
Gold’s Gym is a melting pot of balls-to-the-walls bodybuilders freely exchanging training ideas for each other’s benefit. The shared mindset is to push and encourage each other to reach individual physique heights. You trained intermittently with Frank Zane, who is a thinker, and earned the moniker The Scientist for his analytical approach to training and diet. It was he who persuaded you to try non-lockout shoulder press: “To keep stress on the delts.”
When he asked you why you did barbell rows barefooted standing on a bench, you replied straight-facedly, “Have you seen the size of the mice in this gym?” Then you explained that standing lengthwise on a bench makes it hard, in terms of balance, to cheat with a heavy weight. To keep your balance the movement has to be done strictly. Being barefooted allows the toes to “sort of grip the pad of the bench”. You would lower the weight down very slowly and touch the toes. It had to be done strictly otherwise the prospect of falling off the bench and/or crushing the toes was a reality.
As you stretch in readiness for your quota of flyes supersetted with T-Bar rows Kuehn informs you that Ed Corney will be arriving in a few days for several weeks of Gold’s style workouts. You nod in approval. Corney lived in San Francisco but he would travel down to Venice for extended periods and when you hooked up with him as a training partner the result was some of the most spectacular upchuck workouts you ever experienced. Someone asked you how come Ed could endure such self-induced pain? You answered, “It’s second nature to him: He’s been married four times.” When he invited you to the last one, you apologized, “I can’t make it that weekend I’m in Europe ….. but I’ll come to the next one.”
WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH …..
Getting out those last agonizing reps of a set is all-important to you and your supersized crew. Taking the working bodypart to its limits and hitting muscular failure was the whole rationale for the previous reps: “That’s when you build muscle,” was your dictum. As the workout proceeds you all stand ready to spur each other on with vocal interventions.
On this morning as Gable commences his last set of incline presses, you yell, “C’mon Denny time to get serious, no pussyfooting around.” As he starts to strain and looks ready to rest the bar, you take a milder approach, bend toward him and whisper in soft tones for his ears only, “Denny, three more reps. I know you can do it. I can hear the announcement now, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this year’s Mr. America, Denny Gable’.” Suitably motivated Gable, with the veins busting out of his forehead, let’s out a piercing banshee of a scream as he fights with every fiber of his being to eke out those excruciating and previously impossible three reps. You nod your admiration as he, ashen-faced, staggers to the rest room to come face-to-face with the porcelain bowl and apply a personalized decoration.
As you await his return you tell Kuehn, “The guy who gets 100 percent out of a set by giving it everything and not cheating himself is the one who will beat the guy who only gives 99 percent.”
Gold’s, Venice has more pull than Bill Kazmaier in a truck towing contest and topline overseas competitors flock to its 3,500 square feet domain to sample the blood and guts ambience of bodybuilding’s Shangri-La, which has fast become known as the Mecca of Bodybuilding. One notable is Serge Jacobs, Mr. Belgium and Mr. Universe contender.
You dub Jacobs Mr. Style because, “He’s the best dressed bodybuilder I’ve ever seen.” Let’s face it Arnold, you’re not a fashion hound. Italian cut suits are not your …. well, strong suit. Impressed by Jacobs’ dress sense you asked him for some advice on outfitting yourself with some classy threads. After checking your wardrobe the Belgian advises you to first call the Salvation Army and that what is needed is a few, “Striped shirts – they’re in now.” With that sartorial thought in mind he drove you all over Santa Monica and Venice visiting more stores than Paris Hilton on speed. The two of you (whose contrasting heights made you look uncannily like the lead duo from Twins in which you would star with Danny DeVito some 14 years later) scoured each emporium for striped shirts in size 58” chest and 32” waist. Guess what? Your search lasted hours and you returned shirtless.
A few yards away Danny “The Giant Killer” Padilla, who at 5’2” is three inches shorter than Franco Columbu, is, dumbbells in hand, struggling to get up off the bench after completing a set of flat flyes. You call out, “Hey, somebody fetch Danny a ladder to get down from that bench.”
The pint-sized Rochester, upstate New York native hurls back the riposte, “Don’t sweat too much big fella – your mascara will run.”
It was Danny who advised you to do a three-quarter movement on cable crossover to carve out inner pec striations so as to augment your most muscular pose. When you reported the efficacy of that advice, Danny (many people’s pick as the best built short bodybuilder ever) replied, “Told ya! Ya gotta train like the midgets.”
SERGIO’S PRESENCE
In 80-degree heat you are approaching the conclusion of your punishing expedition through the machinations of beating the bejesus out of pecs and lats. As you pull and strain your way through your final set of close grip chins, it’s Gable’s turn to force you to go that extra mile. Your target is 12 reps but at nine – after a Herculean and pulverizing upper body odyssey -- your 240-pound frame feels like you have Franco strapped to your neck. With ankles hooked together and knees bent you’re hanging motionless caught in a muscular limbo, gasping for oxygen. Your hair is matted to your skull and perspiration cascades from your elbows. Your lats are begging No Mas. Cognizant of the crisis Gable hits the inducement bull’s-eye: “Arnold, Sergio would do the last three.”
Your rejoinder is a blood-curdling “Arghhhhhh!” as with a colossal effort you raise yourself heavenwards so your pecs almost touch the chinning bar. With all the speed of pulling yourself upward through cement, you repeat the motion one more time, then another to complete that lat-tearing third rep.
“Great job,” exclaims Gable.
You remain hanging at arms length, frantically gulping mouthfuls of air, and splutter,
“Not finished – I need four.” Reaching deep down into your training soul and summoning all the will power endemic to your Teutonic heritage you, powered more by an intangible force than muscle, begin the agonizing ascent toward the chinning bar. Slowly, slowly, very very slowly, your pecs approach the bar and when they feel the cold touch of innate steel, you with deliberation – so as to keep the lats under pressure – begin the journey back to the arms straight position. At that point you fall down from the bar, and slump into a seated position on a nearby bench. Between lung-heaving breaths, you tell your awed partners, “Sergio does three – I do four.”
As was the Gold’s Gym’s brethren’s philosophy, your partners have once again kicked and bullied you through a sticking point. One of your more mutually successfully training alliances was with The Blond Bomber, Dave Draper. Fact is back in Europe before anyone had heard your name in international circles you idolized the guy. He was the dude on the beach with the California chicks: the message being, “Get the muscles, get the girls”. Your interpretation was, “Okay, I’m sold. Get me to America – and quick.” Seeing Draper in the 1967 movie Don’t Make Waves with the gorgeous but doomed Sharon Tate, only increased your dream to train and bask in the Californian sunshine.
That dreams do come true you discovered in 1968 when you landed in LA and it became your new home. Even better, Dave – that mythical and adored figure – befriended you and was like a big brother to you. He took you to a car dealer and arranged for you to lease a Volkswagen. He gave you a TV. Unbelievably – Dave was an expert carpenter --he even built you a huge bed.
People were surprised you two buddied up so well. You are the ultimate extrovert, while Dave is very private and keeps a lower profile than Kevin Hart in a limbo contest. But in the gym you and he gelled and had some tremendous workouts during which Artie Zeller captured you and the Bomber taking each other to exhaustion with iconic images that have thus far inspired a couple -- and counting -- of generations of bodybuilders.
Thoughts of Draper and Zeller prompts you to remember an occasion when the photographer was shooting Dave on the beach. With Joe Weider directing proceedings, the sun was fast going down as Dave hit a classic pose. The Master Blaster commanded Zeller, “Artie, shoot the picture.” Artie responded, “I can’t I’m out of film.” An exasperated Weider waved his arms and yelled, “I don’t care, shoot it anyway.”
MORNING JOE
From behind you, a salutation rang out, “Good morning Arnold. How ya doing?” The distinctive tones of that nasal Canadian drawl could only belong to one owner: Joe Weider. Seeing you were in the throes of an Olympia winning workout Weider says, “How about lunch at the Rose Café?”
Without hesitation you accept, “Sure, be about forty minutes.”
“Bring Denny and Kent with you,” said the legendary publisher as he turned on his heel.
You always felt that Joe brought a certain energy to the gym. Whenever he visited – and often he would train – he would talk to all the guys and offer encouragement. He was like a second father to you with all the good and not-so-good factors that such a familial relationship brings. He would always keep on your case. While you were extremely confident about retaining your Olympia title, Joe would warn, “You gotta look out for Franco – he has that back and midsection. You can’t afford to screw up.”
Five minutes later he would be telling Franco, “Listen, you have the goods to beat Arnold. Yes, he’s bigger but you can be better.” You smile, knowing full well that was Joe’s style: urging everyone on to excel, acting like the father he was. Sure you would surmise some complained that they were taken advantage of, and even exploited, by Weider. For you such carping smacked of sour grapes. Your mentality was once Joe opened a door for you it was up to you to walk through it and reap the full benefit. You’d often comment, “With Joe, it was like do you give someone the fish or do you teach him to fish? He taught us to fish.”
Knocking out five sets each of stiff-arm pullovers as a “finishing” exercise, you and your compatriots have now come to the end of your 2 ½ hour 46 set back and chest offensive. Time now for a series of iso-tension contractions to give the exhausted muscles that final burn, and some posing to check out your handiwork. As Gable hits a few upper body shots you badger him: “Nice pair of pants but they’re going to look funny onstage – who do you think you are, Joe Weider? Let’s see them thighs and calves.”
The object of your attention doffs his pants and flexes his quads. You turn away with the dismissive barb, “Okay you were right -- put your pants back on.”
With that you and your partners in crimes against the human body trudge toward the locker room for a shower and change of clothes before meeting Joe Weider for lunch. Later in the day you’ll all be back to hammer thighs, calves and abs.
THE END IS NIGH
You didn’t know it at that point, but much further ahead lay the final closure of the Gold’s Pacific Avenue doors, retirement from bodybuilding competition, Hollywood superstardom, the Governorship of California, marriage, children, divorce, and then new fields and conjecture to conquer. But at that post workout moment in time it was just another Golden Age day running its course. To you and your fellow Golden Agers it was the best of times. A time when training was everything. A time when all weaknesses were improved in the gym through blood sweat and tears. A time when, even for you – the top bodybuilder in the world – there was no great financial gain in having the planet’s top physique. A time of working out because you just loved it. For you and your select band of shirt-busting brothers there was a purity of purpose in what you were doing. This was the place in which you belonged; the place that defined who you were. The place where you and all like-minded individuals, who “got” this bodybuilding thing, congregated to worship at the benches and racks of your collective spiritual home. It truly was a Golden Age being played out in a non-descript building in Venice, California. Forty years since the last barbell was curled in the now shuttered premises the legend and aura of that time and place, and its cast, continue to intrigue and inspire every true bodybuilder. There is a lyric from the musical Camelot that reads,
“Don't let it be forgot,
That once there was a spot,
For one brief shining moment that was known
As Camelot.”
Substitute Gold’s Gym for Camelot and that sentence still works. As long as weights are lifted the bodybuilding community will never forget that “brief shining moment” when you and your inimitable ‘70s gang repped your way into immortality to give us forever The Golden Age of Bodybuilding; an era that is now frozen in time and, therefore, indeed timeless. We’ll never see the likes of it again, and those that had just the briefest taste of it, and, poignantly, even those of us who didn’t, miss it terribly.
(Sidebar One)
ARNOLD’S GOLDEN MEMORIES
I have great fondness for those times. Even though I still go into everything with a sense of team spirit I’ve never experienced that type of togetherness. They were fantastic times and I sometime miss them. I got so much from those days, and not just in a physique sense. It’s that word camaraderie. That’s what we had, true camaraderie. Even though I have the reputation of being a prankster, I was always there supporting the other guys. Making them believe they could be Mr. America or Mr. Universe. Mr. Olympia? Forget it, I wouldn’t push them that hard. So yes, I miss those days in the gym. But you cannot get stuck in a certain time: you have to move on. That’s part of growing up.
-- Arnold Schwarzenegger