David Dearth hauled his body, in all its arterial and noodle-veined glory, up onstage, once again facing the crowd, his muscles heaped over him like a load of dirt-farm potatoes. He lowered his head briefly, the sucked up his chest so that his lats flared away like wings. He was short, but the crowd didn't care. His abs locked down into his stomach, granitic cubes.
"Yeah, Dave!" the crowd went.
"All right, Dave!"
"Dave, Rock-n-Roll Wild Child-yer back!"
This was at the Sixth Annual Pro International Bodybuilding Championships in Niagara Falls, New York, sanctioned by the International Federation of Body-Builders (IFBB). Dave and the other competitors were here to win big, but failing that, a top-three placement would still guarantee them a place in the Mr. Olympia contest, or the O, as it's known in the business, the event all bodybuilders dream of winning.
And yet Dave, being Dave, had other reasons for wanting to dominate here. As usual, he was in desperate need of money-for his rent, his food, his steroids, his diuretics, his ex-wife, his kid. Also, perhaps more important, he'd been away from the IFBB contest circut and talking lots of loud shit at Gold's Gym in Venice, California, the so-called mecca of bodybuilding.
The competitors now fanned out across the stage, lumbering in time to some crappy Star Wars-era music. Dave swiveled the ball of his foot on the floor. Under a coating of Mazola corn-oil spray, his gultes and thighs gleamed like things aeronautic.
Wayne DeMilia took the microphone. Wayne was the IFBB official in charge of the pros, not widely loved and much feared. He was telling the contestants fo form a line like they just had. His request caused some confusion. The big guys flailed around up there, banged into each other, then veered off without direction.
After a while, Wayne had about had it. "Come on, guys!" he said. "Can't you remember how you stood fifteen minutes ago?"
There was some derisive hooting in the crowd. Later, during a moment of silence, Wayne began calling out the names of the five finalists: Mauro Sarni, Ray McNeil, Milos Sarcev, Jim Quinn-Big Jim Quinn, the biggest guy there...
Dave swayed.
Wayne leaned into the microphone. "Finalist number five!" he said. "He's competitor number nineteen! David Dearth!"
"Yeah!" the crowd went. "O.K.!"
Dave dropped his head, breathing deeply. He was going to win this thing. Win or place second. He felt sure of it. He was in great shape. The crowd had let him know he was the freak to beat. He began shaking his fists.
There are, in this country, around 30 million people who lift weights, somewhat regularly. But only a fraction of those could be considered hard-core practitioners of the sport-as even they call themselves, freaks. Freaks are ofhen the ones who, at Gold's Gym in Venice, are likely to note on the men's room wall that BEING ON THE JUICE IS THE BEST. Freaks sucha s these can have sterioid havits that can suck down nearly $100,000 a year. They are on strict diets. They wake up, pop their vitamins, go train, come home, make a few phone calls, take a nap, train in the evening, watch TV, and go to bed. They maky eat seven meals a day. Their dress clothes-when and if they wear dress clothes-have to be custom-tailored. Quite often, because of the drugs, they are sex maniacs-"dogs in heat," one top IFBB official told me. "Even if an ugly girl walks by, they're ready to roll. They are absolutely nuts, and they don't care.
