Bash 2002—Las Vegas—An Account

Frank Zane, Tony Compton, Dave Draper
Las Vegas October 2002

It all happened so quickly. One moment you’re speeding across a colorless and barren desert, the next you are standing awash in dazzling lights, sounds and sensations too plentiful and various to digest and in short time you are again competing for space on a strand of remote, bushy highway as if life was a race to the end. We live in the anticipation and preparation of the moments before us and in the memory of the moments gone by. The occasion of the real thing -- the moment itself -- is seldom part of our experience; that is, unless the “real thing” is extraordinarily intense and the physics of living, as we know it, is transcended. Paradise Park visited.

Never a dull moment, no stress larger than a hiccup, no catastrophes, no regretful occurrences, no losses, if-onlys or could-haves; just a rare combination of uncommonly nice and good and interesting people sharing a life-binding thread of time together and having pleasure over something worthwhile, pursuing the joys of health, muscle and might amid the struggle of living day by day.

The desert weather is perfect this time of year: clear, dry, sunny and agreeably hot days followed by warm, sharply moonlit nights. Las Vegas offers her cornucopia of fruits and treats, both wholesome and forbidden, from sunrise to sunrise. Chance is in every sparkling casino; risk in the shadows of the sexy bars, easy trouble if you’re looking for it in dark corners, and endless distractions around every curve and angle. Mostly you feel safe and sound wherever you venture. Outdoors and in, you are on the move, whether standing still or cascading with the flood of animated and chattering pleasure-seekers of the world.

Not everyone is loose, energized and getting high. Boredom hollows the spirit, fatigue bends the back and world stress creases the faces of the workers attending the broad and insatiable appetites of the visitors. They live beyond the limits of the Las Vegas we know and separate themselves from the scene when their shift ends. Home from work is like home for you and me. What attracts and entertains us; what is novel, extravagant and awesome to you and me is a routine they try to forget when the whistle blows and they clock out. It’s not their party. The casino, the backstage, the restaurant and the taxi are a job that pays the bills and permits the ebb and flow of daily living in desert suburbia.

They probably wish they were in N.Y.C. or San Francisco or St. Pete for the week, or a day. Just a guess. Alas, they mostly are dreadfully out of shape and overweight. Just a fact.

Las Vegas has a monster-size appetite. The energy needs of the city I see pulsating at night from the view of my 22nd floor perch at the Tropicana are unfathomable: lights by the billions, air conditioning for millions of cubic feet of hot space, slots for a million armed bandits, elevators, escalators, loud speakers, special effects, alarm systems, hot water, stoves, refrigerators, microwaves, TVs, computers and on and on. Sacks of money in well-protected piles lay around everywhere like sandbags to stay the floodwaters of currency. The dice roll, the ball spins, the cards shuffle and the hands are delt. The house wins a lot and a lucky few go home with a handful. Some folks don’t go home at all, it seems.

A feast to feed the beast: Drinks, smokes and all-you-can-eat buffets satisfy the hunger of the partygoers and add to their disguised grief. A lot of cleavage, young and old, not frequently seen in hometowns, is on display on the runway. The city of lights will do that to a lady. I walked to a low sidewall of a cashier booth to peer at the machines processing the chips, cash and coins and was instantly triangulated by three security men, their monotonous stares a warning that cameras everywhere were onto my agenda, innocent or otherwise. I withdrew like a professional, flexing my lats and inflating my chest. Works every time. The three men cowered, then vanished, I’ll bet a penny.

Tuna Tony held a plastic coin bucket while Elaine merrily, yet quietly wrenched something like two hundred bucks from the automated five-cent slot machines. Laree recklessly and shamelessly dropped $15 worth of nickels in less than 20 minutes. I warned her but -- oh, no -- she wouldn’t listen to me. Serves her right. Where’d she get the rolls of nickels in the first place is a mystery to me. Rockin’ Ken’s wife, Jean, a cool cookie, was up a staggering $27 at the roulette table where only women dared to gather. I retired when the heat was on; the room offers sanctuary in the temples of pleasure and pain.

40,000 square feet of Gold’s Gym swallowed up a dozen brazen IronOnliners determined to share the cold and heavy metal a thousand miles away from home. They went in the mornings to gird themselves for the day and at night to quench a thirst we all know so well. Friday at 9 PM, while the city rocked and rolled, three dozen of us met in front of the gym to contemplate training, opting instead to confer, converse, relate, share and otherwise hang out and rub triceps and biceps at the juice bar. One by one the crowd of sort-of-strangers became a gathering of familiar friends.

“Awkward” is the word that too often defines the scenes of adults collecting where a keg or bar is not somewhere in its midst -- the weather or a silence did not once enter the spontaneous conversations bouncing off the walls, floor and ceiling. Jabber, hugs, laughter, old and new stories and camera flashes accompanied and propelled the grinning participants around and about in circles. By 11:00 normalcy returned to the gym and the weight floor resumed its empty quiet Friday night appearance. We fled to the Strip to absorb and contribute a fair amount of energy, each of us glad we weren’t in the line-up for the following day’s competition. The Mr. Olympia would have to do without our ripped and tanned bodies another year. Look out 2003.

Ever been to a business expo where retail items and products are on display by manufacturers or designers or distributors: computers or guns or boats or RVs or outdoors camping and sporting gear? Booths of differing dimensions and display-appeal cluster upon thousands and thousands of square feet of open floor space, each represented by an articulate spokesperson or team of professionals. Buy and sell is the name of the game. Network and exchange is a positive alternative. What’s new, tried and true, who makes it, where can you get it and for how much, are the questions asked and answered with savvy and finesse.

Yeah, right.

You walk into the Olympia Expo Hall and are promptly assaulted by a gillion decibels of sound; yelling and hard music, heavy on the drums. Confusion is immediate and semi-permanent. The folks aren’t milling about reviewing the goods and asking questions and making observations. First of all, there are no folks; these are mostly bizarre characters and odd personalities, and no one mills about or asks anything. They intensely fight for their precious space as they are crushed by one another in a desperate attempt to traverse the length of the jammed aisles leading to further pandemonium. If they are not hollering at one another, they are screaming or yelping. The professionals have lumps on all parts of their partially clothed physiques. Half of them are men.

Dark tattoos are popular on top of the lumps, as are lumps on top of the lumps. I’ve never seen so much muscle-like skin in all my life. Skulls and cross bones seem to be trendy hanging from ears and neck chains and bracelets. Quickly it is clear that this no peace rally. Good. I’m not crazy about peace rallies. The mob seems like a good mob; only “I’m tough and bad” has gotten lodged somewhere in their unoriginal and passive brains. A little weird for those who have taken the highway, the freeway, the road less traveled. They missed the turnoff a few miles back. Too late now.

You can get the latest in gear and supplements and counsel to build big muscles in months, weeks, days and minutes. As one giant banner hanging over the Monster Cage declared, “Balls to the Walls”… whatever that means.

Take me to my padded hotel room.

I estimated that 150 faces sat before Frank and me in the pleasant shade of the small pavilion, as Virgil and Barbara (world’s greatest caterers) lovingly tended the smoky fires and simmering foods. Speakers carried our voices, answers in response to questions that have been tricking all of us over the years of rattling the iron.

Both Frank and I are 60 years of age with only months separating us, and our training techniques run parallel as train tracks traversing America east to west. When we approach a mountain or a river, we each assess the obstacle according to our industry and surmount it according to our resources. The destination is reached, though the routes he and I choose are different enough to offer passage to anyone in particular heading in our direction.

The information is not in the answer so much as it is in the answering.

In 90 minutes we said little that was revealing and earth shaking, but our voices spoke of weight training and smart eating 45 years in the making. Frank had to zoom to another engagement; the food, Virgil enthusiastically announced, was ready for consumption and I settled in to respond to several dozen flashing cameras and a final round of handshakes, questions and gratitude. Thank you and you are welcome.

Within a few adrenalin-packed hours the hall at the Mandalay Bay would be alive with oiled, pumped and heaving madness: competitors, judges and spectators in unison and at odds. Showtime at the Mr. O, 2002.

A great show thrilled the participants until the announcement of the winners and losers. Then, the disapproving audience lost its composure… entirely. No one was in the mood for politics or favoritism or contradiction to popular opinion, it seems, and though the contestants were toe-to-toe and shoulder-to-shoulder, the crowd saw it differently than the judges. In five minutes the Olympia disintegrated into boos, walkouts and the tossing of objects.

And there you have it: the art, the passion, the sport and the love of bodybuilding in a Las Vegas weekend.

Warning: Too much tension on the struts can cause sudden loss of control. Nosedive and loss of attitude almost certain.

God’s Speed… The Bomber

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