Lee Waldman

“We want to get rid of this notion that body-builders are kooks and weirdos and homosexuals.”

The contestants parade on stage in scanty swim suits to the hoots, whistles, and applause of an appreciative audience. They pose, hoping to impress the panel of judges with their best features. Toes are daintily pointed for the judging of best legs, and eventually the sweet fragrance of baby oil drifts down to the spectators.

The hair is a little longer, they are a little older, a little bigger, a little more muscular and poised than their predecessors.

Lee Waldman

This carnal spectacle is the Mr. San Diego Contest, in which ten of the most serious, dedicated, and gifted local body-builders compete for top honors in the San Diego area.

Bob Janis is the self-proclaimed “meat promoter and organizer” of the event. He is a tall man, midforties, trim and tapered in that wedge-like fashion that tells you he was probably Mr. Somebody somewhere along the way.

Perhaps he is a little aloof in the beginning because he and his sport have been made the butt of some wisecracking joutnalist’s joke one time too many. “We want to get rid of this notion that body-builders are kooks and weirdos and homosexuals,” he says. “These guys are like any other group—as much men as anybody. They’re out drinking, running around. Most of these guys are married with kids. It’s the weirdos and hangers-on that gave the sport a bad name.”

In its bumpy 20-year history, Mr. San Diego enjoyed its heyday, then fell on hard times in the 60s, and now is struggling to make a comeback. According to Janis, interest has flagged because these contests are such a chore to promote and organize without substantial financial backing. “We’re lucky to break even,” he says, “but it’s all for the cause.”

The cause of which he speaks, of course, is physical culture; and for the sheer zeal and inexplicable, punishing dedication that it excites among its devotees, it must surely rival marathon running. Understand that these men put in one to three hours a day working out with weights; understand that their strict diets call for heroic abstentions; and, finally, understand that only a handful can make a living at it— most make nothing, competing only for the love it it.

What’s to love? In the opinion of school teacher and contestant, Gordon Helper, body-building is a way of life—one that leads to lifelong health. “Competition forces you to stay in peak condition even when your body would ordinarily begin to slide.” Another competitor simply started working out to gain weight, liked the results, and has been at it ever since. Still others started out in life with poor mental attitudes, and have used body-building to boost confidence. “It’s an ego trip,” one guy admits. “You start to get big and tough—you feel good about your manliness.” You can see it in the way they walk-defiant, prideful, maybe arrogant, daring any bully to kick sand in their faces.

The setting for Mr. San Diego is the rather Spartan Oceanside High School gym. The wooden rafters, which once echoed the cheers of basketball games and the murmurs of PTA business, now vibrate to the beat of another tune. Now, ardent fans send up shouts of praise and encouragement for their favorites, while scratchy recordings of 2001 and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly theme music accompany them in their routines. Still, the folding-chair austerity fits the occasion, and, besides, it’s about as far as a $150 rental fee will take you these days.

Just as stereotypes grow up surrounding the practitioners of body-building, the followers and spectators have come to be caricatured as well—either as drooling rednecks and slow-witted jocks, or as effete homosexual groupies. If there’s any smoke to this fire, it’s not readily apparent. In this audience of about two or three hundred, you can pick out middle-class family types, a lot of young servicemen, high school kids, and couples. They do tend to be young, clean-cut, and athletic-looking.

They, too, have their reasons for being there. One man in his fifties is there ..because he once lifted weights and has friends in the audience. His potbelly alone could set the sport back years. Like many spectators, a group of high school boys admit to having a participatory interest in body-building. Others simply saw the contest announced in the paper and they were curious: “We like to look.” There are far duller ways to spend a Saturday evening in Oceanside.

Three giggly, embarrassed teen-aged girls are attending because they know a contestant. They have never been to one of these competitions, and they’re curious about the big muscles. What do they expect to see? “Guys!” “Muscles!” Contrary to the myths, some women aren’t necessarily attracted to the immense muscular development which these men toil so hard to attain. “I think it looks ridiculous sometimes; it’s too much,” offers one young woman.

Mr. North County, a preliminary event, gets underway when the ten entries are brought onto the stage. They are enormous, massive, and the stage can scarcely hold them. What must the Mr. San Diego group look like? Six or seven of them are Marines, three are black. Now they come out singly and begin their posing routines center stage under a spotlight. They glisten—oiled, dimpled, rippling under the strain of flexing. Marine buddies from the audience lift up fog-horn voices in repeated shouts of encouragement, “You got it number 9! Number 9!” Suddenly a certain pose will stir a tumult of shouting and excitement, and you realize that the true believers know something you don’t.

After a while they all start looking alike, and you wonder how the judges can ever decide. The informed will tell you that there are four criteria for judging a man’s body: symmetry, definition, proportion, and muscularity. In the larger contests where the bodies are uniformly superb, hair, teeth, and skin become factors in judging. No apologies are made for the fact that the goal in body-building is to look good; strength is secondary. Ideally you strive for large arms and chest and a small waist.

The Charles Atlas posing, which may look a little silly to the uninitiated, is considered an art which becomes at least as important as the body in judging. Some bodybuilders spend as much time practicing their poses as they do working out. Gordon explains the fine points: “You’ll notice some guys are too rough or jerky in their posing. Others will glide gracefully—not feminine graceful—but smooth.” No one relaxes on stage; no one slouches or folds his arms, even when a rival is under the spotlight. Aside from the self-pride, there is always a sense of being watched. The judges are vigilant and everyone knows it.

The final warm-up before Mr. San Diego is a great crowd-pleaser. It is billed as a “strongman act” a^d it features the master of ceremonies who, when he strips to a gym shirt, boasts a pretty good physique himself. To the accompaniment of grunts and panting, he begins by tearing the Las Vegas phone book in half, follows by breaking a board, karate style, over his head, and finally suspends himself between two chairs while a former Mr. America takes a sledgehammer and breaks a flagstone which is placed across the poor man’s abdomen. The crowd loves it, and the unscathed strongman retires, smiling, to his more sedentary duties.

Without further fanfare, the ten Mr. San Diego entries are introduced. One by one these machinists, firemen, and schoolteachers stalk across the stage, unsmiling, never looking at each other. The hair is a little longer, they are a little older, a little bigger, a little more muscular and poised than their predecessors on this stage, and the spectators sense it. They appreciate the elevation in class, and respond accordingly—this is what they came to see. Everyone has his favorite, and no one is particularly shy about announcing it.

Time after time contestants are called back to the platform to compare a certain body part with that of an adversary. The judges bark out orders: “Number 3, gimme a back shot-OK, hit it! Number 8, gimme an arm shot—hit it!” The mental image of a slave auction appears like a slide frame, then disappears.

The same two men keep getting called back, and it’s pretty obvious that the judges have winnowed the field to the finalists; Number 5 is a tall, tanned, long-haired student with dazzling muscle definition and a real flair for showing it off. As far as any of them could be said to be slender and graceful, he is. The other, he number 9, is a huge black man with panther muscles who seems an to have developed the human body to its natural limits.

They take turns on the platform, stoic and concentrating, to not seeing the crowd, each other, or saying anything—attentive only to the commands of the judges. The live stage clears and then there is only gi< the wait. si<

The waiting is not long. Prizes A: for best body parts are awarded se first to build tension toward the he climax. Best abdominals, best legs, A: and. “most muscular” go to number 5, with number 9 sweeping best arms, best back, and best chest. “It’s a real barn burner, in ladies and gentlemen.” To maintain the suspense, the awards are made in ascending order, and by the time second place is announced we know the winner. The audience roars approval, and the somber pose of a Nubian slave dissolves into the broad grin of a victor. Now everyone is smiling and acknowledging congratulations of crowd and colleagues, but, just as quickly, the house lights go up and that moment of evanescent glory, so dearly bought, has passed.

Certain questions occur. Is it sport or art? Is it vain primping or noble dedication to a high-minded cause? And finally—why?

In the film Stay Hungry, which b has as its backdrop this strange and fascinating business of body-building, one character remarks, “It doesn’t really matter what you do. To make something of life it d is only necessary that you do something, and do it unsparing.” Maybe that explains a lot of things.