Behind the Smile BY DAVE DRAPER The Blond Bomber describes life behind the scenes at photo shoots during the Golden Age of bodybuilding MUSCLE & FITNESS, a colourful and energetic riot of musclemen and muscle-building information, isn’t a recent publication that gained popularity overnight. It has gone by a variety of names over more than half a century and was reared by a guy named Joe Weider. Joe, dubbed the Trainer of Champions, dragged it from the ink-smeared pages of a manual printing press in his mother’s Montreal apartment and gave it dramatic life based upon his vision of muscle and might. I was one of the characters who played a role in his elaborate vision, a Mr. America and Mr. Universe in the dream he presented to the world. Appearing on the scene in the early ’60s, I filled the pages of his magazines, adorned their covers and, through inspiring pictures on California beaches, conveyed stories of delight, promise and hope to the young and young at heart. Back in those halcyon days, I smiled broadly, flexed my muscles and frolicked with beach bunnies on lazy, crazy sunny afternoons. The blue Pacific rolled in mightily, billowy clouds with silver linings caressed the horizons and dogs playfully chased seagulls along endless sandy shores. Hop in. The water’s fine. Life is grand… A DAY AT THE BEACH IS NO DAY AT THE BEACH [ Santa Monica, CA — Summer ] Hold it there. Back up 20 feet and take another look. There on the beach is a distressed cameraman and his elaborate gear in a heap of cases, containers and bags; I see a guy — that must be Joe — in half a suit with his sleeves and trouser legs rolled up; off to the side a group of sticky, uninterested bystanders mope about, kick sand and suck on water bottles. They must be the delighted characters in the delightful pictures awaiting a moment of delight. The sun pours down, hot and relentless, and more baby oil is applied to the muscular bodies. A pump is sought to give vibrancy to fatigued and dehydrated muscles; instead itchy sand is distributed generously to far reaches of the body — ears, eyes, nose and every known crack and crevice. Are we having fun yet? Now the sun is going down, and neither the cameraman nor the subjects can delay the untimely process. Joe flails his arms, while Artie Zeller or Russ Warner or Jimmy Caruso — bless their hearts — tries hopelessly to interpret his wild gesticulations. Reflectors are brought in, the location is moved, the ocean grows calm and the dramatic lighting is lost to soft shadows suitable for capturing romance, a bottle of wine and thou. Not good. But wait! The sun’s lowering rays join their own reflection off the ocean’s surface and the bodies amid the stunning light are spectacular. Everyone is, by some freak occurrence, in the right spot at the right time and in the right mood. Joe screams at Artie, whose nose is deep in his film bag, to take the picture now, now, now. Art Zeller is a master photographer, and physiques are his speciality. He knows what to do, when and how. The digital camera is not even a dream of the future and, alas, our patient and sensible lensman fusses with his ol’ reliable Roloflex. Joe tears at his shirt and performs what appears to be an Indian rain dance, whooping, “Artie, Artie! Shoot the picture! Shoot the picture!” Without hesitation Artie shouts, “Joe, the camera is out of film!” Joe, with a child’s authority and desperation shrieks, “Shoot it anyway!” Artie does. Joe is pleased. Another day at the beach. The pretty models go their way — they couldn’t care less for the muscleheads — and the muscleheads go theirs. The first thing on their minds is protein and then getting in a workout missed due to the fun and frolic at the beach. But it’s worth it, isn’t it? Maybe your mug will be in the mag, and you’ll be famous. Back in those days, fame and glory in a muscle magazine and 10 cents got you a cup of coffee. Hey, buddy, can ya spare a dime? CALIFORNIA DREAMIN’ [ Venice Beach, CA — Winter ] Though snow does not fall, nor do the temperatures drop below 50 in Southern California, winter is winter is winter. ’Tis the season for hibernation, losing the tan and gaining weight to accommodate heavy off-season training. Repair and grow, relax and attend life beyond cuts and striations is the bodybuilder’s theme. Let’s go to the mountains, the deserts or visit the folks back East. Throw in a few year-end parties and you’ve got bulky, round and white all over. “What’s that you say, Joe? Pictures on the beach this Saturday? What beach? I thought the beach dried up in the winter, was evacuated, dismantled or closed for repairs.” “An upcoming summer promotion needs to be shot now, Bomber, or I’m out millions of bucks.” Oh! In that case, I don’t want to lose that $85-a-week shipping clerk’s salary. Sure, JW, see ya there…bright and early…I’ll bring coffee. The grazing white rhinoceros in my trunks will be me. I’m training hard, strong as a hippo and about as shapely. Put me on a beach and big-game hunters from miles around will gather to claim me as a trophy. You can’t do this, Joe. I’m too young to die. Not the beach. Cover boy is as white as a blank billboard and twice as big. The only definition I have goes something like this: bulky, rounded, colourless, foolish, unwilling, miserable, pouty. Breaking News: Unidentified Blimp Hovers Aimlessly Over Southern California Beaches. No Details at This Time. Smiles form with difficulty on frigid lips. The air is cold and nippy breezes supply shivers in spasms. The unlikely crew of plump and pasty bodies huddles under beach towels to stay warm and protect themselves from blasts of sandy wind. The ocean is ominous, the beach is desolate and the seagulls are inland hiding under bushes. Dogs and their owners are home where it’s safe and cosy. February is no time for these shenanigans. Joe is quite a character and has more colour than a rainbow and twice the gold found at its end. He loves the bodybuilding scene, gives it a stage upon which to play and does more to present it to the world than anyone. Anyone, that is, except the players themselves. Praise be to musclemen who, driven by passion and desire, do what they do because they have to do it. The smiles on the beaches are hard earned and their payment is gained in the dark confines of gyms filled with heavy iron. Weights — barbells and dumbbells — are the source of resistance that built the muscles that built the men that built the magazine. I, and the guys before me, lift the cold and noisy metal not for a moment on a page of paper, but for reasons — wonderful reasons — too numerous to count. Oh, heck! Let me give it a try. I’ll be brief: There’s health, muscle and might for starters. Not bad. There’s the fun of lifting weights and the exciting challenge it presents; the physical pushing and pulling and stretching; the intelligent formation of exercises, movements and routines; and the tantalising pumping, burning and striving. Weight training is a dynamic diversion, providing strong camaraderie, identification and hope. Be sure of this: few pastimes provide more benefits, rewards and fulfilment. Training builds discipline, perseverance and patience. With these superior characteristics, mountains are climbed, lives are saved and nations are shaped. Tough exercise puts order and rhythm in our lives, diminishing confusion and reducing stress, and that’s worth more than a few trips to the psychiatrist’s couch. As quality is added to life, so is it extended with enduring, useful and enjoyable years. When once we said, “I can’t,” after gaining fitness and well-being through dedicated exercise, we say, “Don’t just sit there, let’s get moving.” A strong back and strong heart match one’s courage and confidence, four natural byproducts of working out and regular lifting. And, though personally pleased, true ironheads don’t brag about their accomplishments — one more modest attribute gained from solid cast-iron training. I said I was gonna be brief. IF I CAN MAKE IT THERE, I’LL MAKE IT ANYWHERE [ New York City — Summer ] Then, there are the eight- and 10-story abandoned buildings in the old garment district of Manhattan. Somehow we gain admittance to these deteriorating fire hazards and are dragged by chattering and screeching cables of old industrial lifts to forsaken levels high above alleys and skips below. After clearing a corner of overturned benches, worktables and indeterminable debris, we settle into serious photography. A white backdrop is hung in contrast to the dust, mould and spiderwebs as thick as tapestries in a haunted house. The rats keep to themselves; I’m more concerned with the warped floorboards that shake perceptibly as we traverse our surroundings, soldiers in a minefield. The camera sits on its tripod, the lights and reflectors and umbrellas are in place, and the champion stands on his mark, all objects precisely determined by strings with signifying knots in measured placements. The oil is smoothly applied after a hint of a pump is gained by flexing in place. Swell! Move from your mark, you get smudged and grimy, splintered and wounded, infected and quarantined. The trouble starts when a thirsty star asks for a slug of water. It’s hot and stuffy in NYC in August. No water. It worsens when he goes to the men’s room. Ha. No plumbing. No problem is too big or too small for a band of smiling bodybuilders. “One, two, three and flex. Again, and this time, Dave, twist harder and don’t forget to flex your legs. Jimmy, is he standing in the right spot? One, two, three and flex. That was good, Bomber. Once more — this is for a cover. Twist and bring your arms higher…flex your legs. No, no, no! Caruso, you tell him! Twist, flex, arms higher, higher…smile.” I’ll tell you this: no one got the poses and the photographs like Joe Weider. ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST [ Los Angeles — Summer ] I stand in the centre of Century Plaza on the granite edge of a stunning fountain. The size of a tennis court, the fountain is framed by towering 30-story glass-fronted office buildings to the east and west. Water gushes brilliantly toward the sky, and I nonchalantly busy myself while glowing with oil in my black posing trunks, waiting for Russ Warner to prepare his camera, position himself and position me. It’s high noon, lunchtime, in the bustling, sophisticated business district of Century City, home of world finance and filmmaking. Traffic is heavy and animated. No problem, I’m cool. I’ve been stared at before. “Yeah, you too, wise guy!!” Oh, look. Russ is talking to some policemen who are pointing at me. Old friends, no doubt, but I refrain from waving. Rather than pump up, I try to look very small as I stroll through the slightly slimy shallow pool to the other side. Chilly. Halfway there I hear the whoop-whoop sound emergency vehicles make when they approach an intersection and want it cleared immediately. I return to my original post — dripping wet — and, as if responding to their signal, hit an overhead, double-arm biceps shot, a side back shot and a kneeling side chest. I’m Mr. America, after all. I bow and wait for the traffic to subside before I cross the road and join them at their bleeping patrol car. “Hi, guys. My name is Dave Draper.” I forget how it went after that. The human being has a weird way of going numb and blocking things out — playing dead — when under siege. DAZE OF GLORY Crazy, man. Why did we do the stuff we did? Don Howorth, Larry Scott, Zane, Yorton, Labra, McArdle, Zabo, Eiferman, Sipes. The money? No. Not the money. Sure, a few bucks would have paid some bills and broadened the smile, but no, not the dough. The fame and glory? Such rewards circulated close to home and no one was profoundly impressed, least of all the champs. The brotherhood of recognition was quiet, almost silent. Fame and glory were as rewarding as the kiss of congratulations from the pretty girl in the miniskirt onstage. I’ll never forget the authentic thunder of applause and cheering in New York, but those fans in those days were there for the same reasons we were. It was the doing it that was good. And it’s the doing it that continues to be good. None of us would change much if we were to do it all again. The smiles came when they weren’t expected, and they’ve lasted a long, long time. Lift weights for fame, glory and money and you’ve missed the point entirely. If you don’t understand what I’m saying, I can’t explain it. M&F