i r buff

Proudly self-proclaimed Apple-nazi since roughly 2005, it is without surprise that I now have new, bright, shiny, and dare I say, extremely sexy Apple and with it, a heightened sense of my surroundings. While outside the gym I like to pretend that I’m the ultimate superhero who will save the world through practical application of physical prowess obtained through endless hours of pain, tears and sweat at the gym, I must admit that the introduction of this new technological wonder has brought along with it inspiration for so many things in life and more importantly it comes along at a time when life brings with it a fresh start on many things including the next instalment of what can only be assumed as mindless, nonsensical dribble which have struck a chord amongst a fervent legion of stalkers and self-confessed alcoholics; after all, any literary works become a masterpiece of hilaritical genius after a couple of pints.

It is here, waiting outside the gym for my new workout buddy that a moment of inspiration hit me like a revelatory burst of sunshine through clouds on a rainy day. Like a slow-motion entrance only seen in teen movies to the backdrop of feel-good songs like “Kiss Me”, so poignant was this moment that I had to pull out my laptop and write the next column straight away. What did it matter that I was currently homeless because I stayed at the Milano building the day before because I didn’t want to walk 15 minutes to my car in the dark, drive home for a few hours of sleep and then drive all the way back to University for early morning classes. What did it matter that I hadn’t brushed my hair that morning, opting for my curl’s Herbal Essence induced natural bounce? A spare set of workout clothes was being brought by my new best friend so I wouldn’t miss my workout. I was on top of the world and the call of the wild entices and lures me to my strangely attractive aluminium-brushed keyboard buttons.

So it is here that I consider an issue that is so pertinent that Bill Clinton himself would fall flat on his face in a religious induced fervour of confession. What do we do when life throws us a curve ball? Do we do what society and Oprah Winfrey or Dr. Phil tell us over and over again to get back up on that proverbial horse and try again or do we need to spend a requisite time in mourning before moving on? Or maybe, does life sometimes bring us such changes that all we can do is sit there and wallow in our own self-pity until a humanitarian reaches out from the sidelines and finds us in the middle of our hurricane – a line I shamelessly borrow from a song and offer at moments of silence on the belief that it makes me sound wise beyond my years.

After days of contemplation and soul-searching interrupted by bouts of random inspiration to start my own wizard rock band, it dawned on me that the answers I sought lay right in front of me. Short of calling up Oprah herself to tell her my revelation, I decided to contact Ricki Lake, the show I first watched and chanted “Go Ricki! Go Ricki!” to before the realisation that Oprah likes to make people cry and therefore amounted to much better television.

Bodybuilding as a sport has gone through a metamorphosis from being widely respected, to a freaky niche, to the more contemporary recognition that it brings with it many health benefits and is therefore used for conditioning in nearly every professional sport to increase performance. So it was with shock that I came upon a frank revelation recently that although we all like to think that we as bodybuilders have unlimited potential for growth, the truth that stared at me, challenging me and dare I say, teasing me with its super buff biceps was that our genetic makeup only allow us to grow so much.

The proof is everywhere. African-Americans dominate the international sprinting arena and clearly non-bodybuilding competitors from Somalia win nearly every long distance Olympic running event. How many Asians do you see play American football? How many Hispanics do you see wrestle in the larger weight classes at professional wrestling leagues and just how many Japanese do you see winning donut eating contests when faced with a beefy Texan from Wisconsin, Massachusetts whose son only just last week shot down a giant wild boar who coincidently had his congratulatory site sponsored by a Texan barbeque grill company? In application of legal terminology from my most-excellent legal education to date, the evidentiary proof is insurmountable. So why is it that we believe it when we are presented with photos of freakishly huge human specimens who promise us the same if we take certain supplements at strategic times in the day, eat as much food as we can possibly take, and throw ourselves into the clanking arena of metal on metal? Why do we believe such stories when they are not true?

The shocking truth is that the bodybuilding industry wants us to believe that we all can be just like Hercules or what Michael Jordan would look like if he spent years in the gym pumping iron, cycling anabolic steroids, dying his hair sandy blonde, enhancing it with hair extensions, and somehow taking after Michael Jackson and falling in a vat that magically made his skin white and then proclaiming to the world that the skin change is as a result of a rare skin condition called justwannabewhitelikemike-e-itis. It is a multi-billion dollar industry that relies on our continual belief that the results we want can all be obtained with strict discipline, a strict diet and the assistance of magic supplements that will pop our biceps and triceps like it’s hot. Unfortunately we believe this because we want to also believe that we can all be big but the undeniable truth is that we can only grow so much before we reach our physical limit given by our genes.

However, as a self-confessed fan of Oprah Winfrey and dare-I-say Dr. Phil, it is within the donating-induced euphoria I experienced when a billionaire tycoon donated to Oprah’s Angel Network on “Oprah’s 20th Year Anniverary DVD box set” a good friend gave me for my birthday (honest!) and of all strange things, a tea set (I swear I’m not making this up) that I realize with a wry smile that I needed to get out of this fitness funk I found myself in and jump back on the horse, and hopefully a muscular, ripped horse at that, one that I name Hugo and can summon at a mere whistle.

So it is with a newfound respect for the fitness Gods that I am once again mistaken for an escaped patient from the local psychiatric ward on an endorphin overdose and proudly proclaim that all is not lost for the good news is that we can all be buff and big. By using sound training principles, eating right and getting the requisite amount of rest, every person can make radical changes to his or her physique. True, some people will be able to just eat junk foot and lift a 5lb dumbbell in his dreams to become a smecksie beast but for the majority of us, we’ll have to put in the hard yards for months or years before seeing changes. But don’t give up and take heart because theory, anecdotal evidence, conjecture and the grunts of millions of men and womanly grunts of women everywhere can attest that we can all have buns of steel and the breasts of a Greek Goddess.