Joe Gold, RIP 2004
So Long to The Gold
If
you'd like to download the full Draper
here newsletter in live-link, pdf format,
click here.
Joe Gold, a good friend, died this past Sunday night; he was 82 years old and heart complications earlier this year initiated a general downslide in his well being. He was active with projects till the end and recognized death as a place where he’d be “reunited with old friends.”
He
was a tough guy, an authority figure, straight
as an arrow piercing the bull’s eye. He built his first Gold’s gym in Venice,
California gym with his own hands and the hands of his buddies
in 1964. You know the place; it’s where the Golden Era of
bodybuilding was conceived and its rambunctious brats grew big
and strong. The cinderblock workshop on Pacific Avenue was decked
with muscle-building equipment of thick iron engineered and constructed
by Joe Gold himself and amused and comforted a rare family of brothers.
Artie Zeller, bodybuilding’s Van Gough with a Roloflex, composed
inspirational portraits of the brawny gang
as they restlessly played amid steel muscle-building
contraptions, indestructible benches and
superior pulley systems.
There’s a series of black and white photos taken in the summer of ’70
with Frank Zane, Franco, Katz, Arnold, Waller, Zabo and me barging about the
upgraded, second-generation, ground-level dungeon. Bare stone walls and smooth-running,
heavy metal torture racks stimulate and induce hard training and muscle growth.
You can hear the weights rattle and clang as they’re loaded on bars,
you can feel the strain of sinew and might under hot resistance and you understand
muscular satisfaction with every strenuous exhale. The pictures speak, they
tell the story.
From that knarly gym, the original among imitations, grew a large population of World Gyms (350 global), a non-pushy, responsible and respectful gym licensing company where fewer jerks and more cool people gather. Until April, Laree and I owned two WGs in central California. After 15 years of duty to goodness, we passed the metal on to our dear friends and confidants. Everybody’s happy.
Running a gym is not a laughing matter, I discovered early on, and when confronted with an unknown I’d say, “What would Joe do?” An unknown was, in fact, anything and everything, including the layout of the gym equipment, the collection of past dues, breaking up a fight, implementing rules and regulations, asking troublemakers to leave and maintaining respect and responsibility. What am I, a cop?
“To
keep it simple,” Joe said, “you run your gym like you
run your house. Keep it clean and in good running order. No jerks
allowed, members pay on time and if they give you any crap, throw
them out. There’s peace where there’s order.”
The gym became a sound refuge for many;
it paid its bills and made no money, it
sparkled, displayed no graffiti or broken
windows and there was not a jerk in sight.
All the troublemakers made their way to
the gyms down the street or the next town
over, where they were typical, packed jungles.
Thanks, Joe; if I had to do it over again,
I’d follow your advice again. Integrity
before the dollar is worth a fortune.
Because of his authentic Muscle Beach-ness and Mae West days in Las Vegas, his innovative gym equipment design and gym-empire building, his generosity to the underdog, honesty, commonsense and worldly courage and stoicism, The Gold has become good and important things to many people. He’s an icon in the subculture that is bodybuilding and physical culture.
An anonymous giver, Joe sort of took Arnold under his wing when the young lad from Austria first arrived in California. Only the folks who train in his gym knew he didn’t let Big Bill from Pennsylvania go hungry, unclothed and unsheltered for 25 years, though anyone else would have chased him away with a stick. If you were visiting from out of town and wanted a workout, the place was yours. He gave me woodworking projects when I was down and out, and paid me in advance so I could eat. Zabo, Eddie Giuliani, Steve Strong, Mike Uretz and Arnold will gladly take the microphone from my hand and tell stories of Joe’s armor-plated character and fighting spirit. Those who sailed with him during the years he toured as a merchant marine said the ships' captains came to rely on his steadfastness. Joe could poke fun at life without meanness or disrespect and had name for everybody shaped by their nature and mannerisms: The Chief, Nature Boy, 911, Bug Eyes, Slick Dick, X R, The Fish, Doctor Strangelove, The Good Wife, Cyclops.
He took risks when everyone else took shelter. He took aim when others took flight. He walked, hiked and trudged when others stumbled or pulled up lame. They simply don’t make them like that anymore. His broad smile lit up a room.
Sometime
in 1967 -- spring, I think – the Muscle Beach Dungeon was
losing ground at its subterranean digs. It was then that I pulled
up stakes and moved to Joe’s facility to carry on my training.
Mr. America and Mr. Universe were behind me and the continuation
of bodybuilding as a competitive sport and the primary motivator
in my life was questionable. Like I say today, I said then, “Why?
Time for a real job.”
There I sat in Joe’s gym on the first day. It was early morning and the
sun was blazing through the huge translucent windows facing Pacific Avenue
in Venice. I hadn’t seen the sunlight this time of day for years, my
customary position being at least 20 feet below ground level. I felt self conscious,
almost naked, and the rags I noticed on my back were exactly that: rags on
my back. I could see this for the first time because there were mirrors on
the walls the size of billboards. Who’s the creature? What kind of place
is this? I felt as if I’d been extracted from my private and primal world
against my will. I don’t need no stinking mirror to look at myself. What’s
that, I hear voices! It sounds like people. There’s no shadows, no dark
corners, no place out of plain view. They’ll see me if I don’t
do something and quick.
I buried myself under a bench press. Works every time.
Once I got past the sunlight, mirrors and half-dozen morning people, fresh air and sense of the living and breathing, things really kicked in. Like, there were these incredible cable systems with real pulleys six inches in diameter for smooth-rolling action, not the kind of rope pulleys used for drying underwear in the backyard. There were rugged steel benches instead of colossal splintery wood structures, Olympic bars that weren’t bent like trailer truck springs and dumbbells that were balanced and machine bolted, not welded one drowsy afternoon in some beefy tan guy’s driveway. I felt modern, slightly spoiled and feared I‘d get soft, but soon realized gravity is gravity and might is might. Besides, all these contemporary conveniences bore the Joe Gold signature and they were guaranteed to build big muscles practically overnight. No one made the claim, but you could tell by the way they felt. Just right.
Old Bombers never die, they just fly away. If you see an airborne craft on the horizon tipping its wings, it’s probably The Gold saying, “Press on.”
Go with God... Dave
Wait!
Did you sign up for Dave's expanded
email yet?
It's
free, motivating and priceless!
Can we answer any questions for you in our forum?
Click here to read an excerpt from West Coast Bodybuilding Scene