Pumping Iron - Going Back

Going back twenty-five years to rummage through my mind can be a musty experience. Not every thought I turn over is a precious and delicate item of nostalgia or a rusting, rugged tool used to forge a splendid future. Dim recollection, they are more like sagging, threadbare spring-popping mattresses and worn out, tight-legged bell-bottoms; often embarrassing, uncomfortable and tiresome. The 70's were for me lusterless and without grand imagination. Not necessarily bad years, they just happened.

What went on in the land of bodybuilding, I'm not sure. I carried on my merry weight lifting with internal enthusiasm and fulfillment like a fly cast fisherman in a secret cove on his favorite lake up north. I missed the Olympia's, the Mike Mentzer-Arnold Schwarzenegger Battle, and the whole muscle population explosion. It's as if I had peacefully slept.

One day amidst those sleepy times, Artie Zeller came to my house in Playa Del Rey for a friendly visit as he often did to break up his day. He brought with him a very nice young man, George Butler; both were carrying large, professional cameras. I was working on a chandelier of beams and chain and rusted iron the size of a Volkswagen. The torch was blazing and tools were scattered everywhere in my workplace. I looked like — well — a madman; broken goggles, shredded jeans, barefooted and generally dirty. This pleasant scene was further enhanced by my bearing a lingering symptom of mild acetylene poisoning; a slack, slightly paralyzed jaw. Cute. Conversation was one-sided. I listened and uttered grunts as we sat around that enlightening afternoon. George Butler, a smooth gentleman, the Pumping Iron film master and me, Bomber gone bonkers.

You can't live and die by these horrific faux pas. They are indelible and cringing yet so outrageous as to be too good to be bad. To this day I smile upon the event and am flattered by the visit. You can't kill pride. And for all these years I think the good fellow thinks I'm a nut. The story has just begun.

Pumping Iron, the film that breathed super life into bodybuilding and set it amongst the constellations is celebrating it's 25th anniversary this year. The writer, producer and director, George Butler, was at the Arnold Classic, also celebrating its twenty-fifth year in Columbus. A gathering of the film's stars [Franco, Lou, Arnold, Ed Corney, Mike Katz] were being interviewed for an HBO special as part of the film's re-release this summer in conjunction with Arnold's big show; a staggering co-incidence in the year 2000. I wondered if I would bump into George. Now that I could speak I could, no doubt, put my entire foot in my mouth.

Friday late morning as a World Gym Convention breakfast was winding down I was invited to the stage to welcome the gym owners to the seminars that were to follow. As I approached the microphone a special acknowledgement was made to a celebrity in the audience, Pumping Iron's Own, George Butler. Evidence of his reverence was clear. I slurped out a few heart-felt words... hi, nice, good, happy, er, swell, so-long... and casually made toward the famous exit, where George stood beaming with both hands extended. One looking on might think we were long lost friends. And, indeed, we were.

The obvious next thing long lost friends must do is to get to know each other. As we were off in different directions for the day, we arranged an appointment for a forty-five minute interview later that evening. The interview went on for nearly two hours filling in historical gaps only. Another will be set up soon to bring us up to date. Upon parting George put his hand to his heart and said, "You bury me or I'll bury you." Friends for life.

I grabbed the down elevator to whisk me to my room. As I assumed a position to the rear, a chorus of voices beamed my name. It was Reg Park and his lovely wife, Marion, dressed in formal black as they headed for the fitness show. We hugged and jabbered till we were dumped into the lobby. It was thirty years since the three of us stood together, their home in Johannesburg being our last rendezvous in the spring of '69. Reg and I did shows together to promote his gyms in Africa from Salisbury to Cape Town. Time does not fly but it does march on.

I'm impressed. Today, talking to a couple of hearty members at my World Gym in Santa Cruz, I ask if they knew the name Reg Park. They looked at me, trying to help. Jake asked if he was the guy who came in the morning with his beagle and Ray asked if it was a place for a picnic. Reg is a burly and active 71 year old 2x Mr. Universe from the U.K.; a strongman icon. I'm the Blond Bomber.

GOING BACK