The year is 1986. The month is June, June 24th to be exact…my birthday. After a couple of years of walking 2 miles to a bus station to take a 35 minute ride to a racquetball club that has a weight room, I had finally proved that I was serious about lifting to my father, who had agreed to buy me a membership at the local bodybuilding gym in my town.

Now this wasn't just any gym mind you, it was the famed Mr. America's gym in Farmingdale, NY. That's right, the very gym owned by Mr. America and lunatic trainer Steve Michalik. The very gym that John DeFendis spoke about each month in his Intensity or Insanity articles in the now defunct Peak Training Journal. This was the big time as far as I was concerned. A real fucking dungeon with a reputation that was just as bad. I had to prove to my father that I was going to be serious enough to warrant entering such an insane asylum, hence my two years of time spent at the pansy racquetball facility across from the Sunrise Mall in Massapequa, NY.

Mr. America's had the reputation of being without question the most hard-core bodybuilding gym on the planet. Inside, the walls and equipment (which was all hand made) were painted black to keep with the hard-core, dungeon motif. The rules were simple: Train Hard, or don't train at all. Michalik cared little about earning any money with his gym and certainly didn't give a rat's ass about appealing to the fitness craze of the 1980's. If anything, he tried to dissuade people from joining. Now my father was/is an imposing man of few words. The fact that he was a police chief made sure that I was always a bit on guard and nervous in his presence. When we walked through the fogged up double doors, the acrid smell of sweat poured over you like a breeze blowing over a landfill. Pure nastiness, and I immediately new I was home.

Now at this point, I knew little of steroids, as did most people. The only thing I knew is that they were bad for you and that I would never, ever use them, so when we reached the front counter to speak to the manager about a membership, both myself and my father were a bit freaked out by the fact that the sign in pen was a 3cc syringe with a ball point pen shoved in it. I also remember being perplexed at the dozens of milky white vials (which I now realize was gold old Winstrol) that lined the back of the small refrigerator that was used to keep the sports drinks cold……"I'll take a cold Gatorade and 2 vials of winstrol please"….sounds fucked I know, but it is the total truth.

Now my Dad could give a shit about embarrassing me, so the first thing he did was tell the guy at the counter that he did not want his son exposed to Steroids...as he called them. The second thing he did was lean over the counter and ask this monster who was sitting down (well to me he looked like a monster, in actuality, I shit bigger than that guy now and he was a total dick-head) whether or not this gym would be a good place for his son to work out in. I cringed knowing that my dad would never see any of these jerk-offs again, while I would have to walk by them every damn day.

It was right around that time that my Dad turned to me and asked "Now are you sure you are going to use this membership?" I nodded my head as I was still speechless from embarrassment and he plopped down the 225 dollar membership fee. I was then given an appointment to be taken through a workout. At this point I was all excited figuring I would be trained by the legendary Steve Michalik. The king of lunatic bodybuilders! However, that feeling soon faded when I realized I was given an appointment with his brother Pauly. Now you have to understand that Pauly was the complete polar opposite of Steve. A complete geek who soaking wet weighed 135 pounds. My father, deciding I had not been embarrassed enough looks at Pauly and says. You don't work out, how the hell are you going to show my son what to do…he's already bigger than you! Looking back on it, it is funny as hell, but at the time, I figured he just signed my death warrant especially when a visible annoyed Pauly looked at my father and said "Believe it or not sir I have been working out for 10 years" as he then washed down his cheeseburger with his 2 liter bottle of cherry Pepsi cola.

If memory serves me correctly, my appointment with Pauly was set for the following Tuesday, and since we were all paid up, I had nothing left to do except go home and wait for my "brutal" session that no-doubt awaited me…(I am being sarcastic in case you cannot tell)

So Tuesday comes and I drive my Redline BMX bicycle up to the gym (also about 30 minutes from my house) in eager anticipation of doing some "serious" training.

Pauly, about as excited as a blind man at a laser light show, greets me at the front desk and asks if I am ready. I thought I was, but clearly I was not. What followed over the next two hours was the biggest waste of my time I had ever spent in a gym. This guy didn't know jack about shit and constructed a routine that didn't even include training calves. When I asked him about this he stated. That will come later when you get more advanced.

It was at this point that I knew I was on my own, so I finished up my "session" with Pauly and went home knowing I would have to learn things on my own.

Turns out the only thing I really did know was that I could focus and push myself harder than anyone else in that place—except maybe for Steve Michalik, but at that point it was a rarity to actually see him train as his time was over. I was actually doing more harm then good. I would watch what the other big intimidating guys were doing and would simply copy it for no reason whatsoever. Train long and Train hard…that was the motto of the day. And for the next 18 months that is exactly what I did and I grew very little because of it. I would train until I was sick…go into the back room, puke up in the toilet—all the while noticing the plethora of syringes in the waste basket—then go back out and finish my workout. Then I would go home, and lay down without eating because I had gone way the fuck over-board. Not exactly the smartest thing in the world to do, but hey there really wasn't all that much information out there, and there certainly weren't any 300 pound monsters walking around. Back then if you were 260lbs you were a freak of nature and there were only a handful of guys in the country that were that size—except powerlifters of course.

Next time we will continue with my training days at Mr. America's and how a tragic event in my life resulted in a 30 pound weight gain in less than 2 months! Drug free of course!