Embarrassment.
We nearly give up life, liberty and limb to avoid this wrenching
exposure of our raw and delicate ego. Also known as humiliation,
this cruelest of feelings I endure regularly and find extraordinarily
educational. Kind of like a training injury; gets your attention,
causes you to focus and guides you on to repair and rehabilitation.
Hopefully, makes you a stronger person. Hmmph.
I
have one such memory that's clear and still causes me to shudder.
We met at the Paris Central Train Station at 7 one downcast autumn
morning to continue our tour of Europe. It was a busy mid-week
workday and Europeans use the rails like we use our precious cars
to get around; up-town, cross-town, and out of the country. Frank
Zane, his dear wife Christine and I were destined to arrive in
Brugge, Belgium by early afternoon. Our 8:30 express was packed
with solemn commuters subject to another day of mundane travel,
newspaper folded, thermos underarm, briefcase in hand.
As
if in a black and white segment of life we ever-so-slowly lurched
forward: the collective metal of 17 passenger cars and freight
carriers creaked, groaned and stretched. I looked across endless
acres of track, side by side and intertwined, a scattering of
switching poles and signal towers, distant corrugated factories,
bleak and gray. There were engines of crushing size and power
moving incredible mass and solid iron and impossibly thick wheels
and axles of steel. Smoke and steam idly drifted and belched from
the leaky, Gothic landscape.
Frank looked uneasy, Christine smiled agreeably (everything about
Christine is agreeable), and I sought to capture the moment. The
London Mr. Universe was behind us, a rather sloppy performance
on my part. I got a late start, grabbed the wrong bottle and wound
up smearing wheat germ oil on myself backstage. Thick, gooey stuff
like glue that smelled rancid and got a lot of attention. Barely
got through that night and that's not even "the embarrassment".
Frank won the amateur Mr. Universe, Arnold, the pro Mr. U. and
I came in third after Reg Park. I'm using lighter fluid to remove
the organic oil as the celebrations begin. Don't come near me
with that match.
Next
day I made a quick return to Ohio for an Olympia sortie with Arnold
and Sergio, another hysterical blitz. And now, here I am with
the Zanes' for a brisk tour of Europe, just to say we did, and
back to New York City for the Mr. Universe, Mr. America, Mr. World
competitions. Give me the "here and now", win or lose. I began
to settle down and see what I could see. Soon we'd be traversing
the romantic countryside of France. Sights and sounds of a very
different place, perspectives of very different people.
Frank
raised his window suddenly and stuck his head out as if he knew
where we were and where we were going. The clanging, shiny and
angular abstract of tracks told me nothing. Frank declared we
were on the wrong train, going in the wrong direction. Christine's
smile broke into something like laughter and my sweet reverie
bristled to alarm. We conferred like The Three Stooges as our
fellow commuters mildly looked on... Entertaining. Americans.
A troublesome yet comical lot. They act as if their pants are
on fire. Wish they'd stay home... The train picked up speed, the
clacking increased and the dense railway yard thinned out.
Frank,
AKA Mr. Universe, leaped over me, hit the center aisle and in
two strides reached the box marked, "Emergency Only." He shattered
its glass covering with the tiny hammer and pulled the handle
with the thrust of a heavy one arm lat row. The train screeched
as if tortured, all wheels locked and inestimable tons of mechanized
iron slid forever to a pronounced halt. The side door automatically
unlatched and partially opened. Our escape.
Once
stopped, we dragged the door open. At a time like this you pretend
nobody else exists, just you and your two invincible buddies.
If only we could stop time, step out of the picture and watch
from a safe place as the action resumed. All three of us looked
down at once to discover we were six feet from the tracks and
500 yards from the station. The commotion behind us was building
and beginning to organize. As if catapulted by an unseen force,
Frank and I were airborne with Christine close behind, still genuinely
enjoying herself.
Heads were out the windows, hundreds of them. Necks straining,
expressions of shock, fright, confusion, anger and relief. Hundreds
of animated faces shouting and glaring at us. With no composure,
no grace, no brains, we grabbed our luggage and made a run for
it. A sad and desperate trio staggering as we balanced suitcases
and gym bags over slick tracks and railroad ties with conductors,
security police and a half dozen furious passengers in hot pursuit.
Tell me I'm dreamin'... I don't think so. Frank did it. It was
him.
I was tired and not up to the long walk back to the station. The
conductors were prompt and serious. So were the police. By the
time we reached the concrete loading ramps of the station a rather
sizeable crowed had gathered. Nobody asked for an autograph or
a most muscular pose. There was an interrogation through an interpreter,
phone calls paperwork, apologies, a fine and we were in Brugge
by early evening. Gentle old Europe of cobblestone streets and
tiny back yards where gates hang crooked on rusting hinges.
We
received awards there for our contributions to physical culture.
My award was engraved on a six inch brass plate, Frank's was a
gold cup on black marble standing 18 inches tall. I should have
pulled the emergency cord. You see, it's that kind of directness
and determination and oneness of purpose that enables one to win
Mr. Olympia three times in a row.
