Sergio Oliva and more from Dave Draper

The Earthling Contraction Contraption and Much, Much More

 

BITS AND PIECES
SERGIO BY DRAPER

Sergio Oliva literally broke the mold, and he broke it in more than one place. One might say he shattered the whole darn thing. After the man of cartoon-like dimensions came on the bodybuilding scene in the ‘60s, normal over-sized musclemen looked with both dazed eyes and vacant stares and said, “What’s the point? Why bother? The bodybuilder from Mars has arrived.”

Thankfully, I met Sergio after winning Mr. America and Mr. Universe, for me the two titles that meant anything in my un-extended competitive career. He could and would be beaten in a contest where subjective opinions were weighed, but who really looked like this creature for basic power, muscle size and density, hardness and symmetry? Another species of animal not yet categorized? He revealed and displayed more than anyone before and anyone since a primitive muscular completeness… and a carriage of grace to belie the brute-ness.

So much for the rugged landscape, the exterior; what about the man? I spent less time with Sergio than I would have liked, as we walked in different neighborhoods, he the street beats of Chicago as a cop and me the sandy beaches of California as a driftwood furniture maker. What we did share in common was obvious: muscles made our jobs easier. “Right what’s wrong” and “fix what’s broke” and “prevent problems” were identifying characteristics that surfaced in our distinctly separate lives.

All bodybuilders connect at some fine place; there’s a bond that unites and, after the dispersal of initial hesitations, a brotherhood is evident, whoever they are and whenever and wherever they meet. Sergio and I won large titles one week in New York City and the world famous contest promoter and magazine publisher had set up a photo studio (free over-ripe bananas and tepid bottled water included) on the fifth floor of a grim industrial building in obscure and littered lower Manhattan. Ten of us, all champions, clogged the ancient textile ruins that once hired twelve-year-olds for small change, I guessed, to weave some man’s fortune. I somehow sensed history repeating itself with larger, older, better-fed kids the subjects of exploitation, another man’s fortune in the making.

“You guys,” shouted the choreographer, director, taskmaster, caterer and provider of small change… the big bologna, “listen to me... put on more oil... pump up... don’t get dirty from the trash on the floor... watch out for broken glass... no, there’s no toilets... Jimmy, be sure you have film in your camera, eh... geez, hurry, you guys, take your pictures so we can go home. I’ll send your return-trip airfare when all the pictures come out and you all look great.”

Oops. I was the first to flip out and cause enough commotion to stop all activity. Lights, camera, action ceased. I was not... how would you say it?... cool, calm and collected... mature. I was frantic. No airfare meant, “Ha, I tricked you again.” In thirty seconds I was dressed in oil-drenched jeans, one shoe on and one off, head sticking through a sleeve hole of my tank top, gagging and clawing for the only remaining century-old, open-shaft elevator in NYC that should be red-tagged by a city safety official. Threats of blood and lawsuits filled the hot, humid and otherwise silent air.

Above the storm, turmoil and hallucinations stood one calm soul... in a pair of bright red posing trunks the size of a band-aid. It was Sergio with a grin and confidence and big arms that pulled me persuasively from the rickety grip of the defunct cargo lift. “Dave, Dave, Dave…” he said, “you can’t go. We’ll get your money now.” “I don’t want it,” I said like spoiled brat with principals all of a sudden. “It’s not worth it, brother. Life’s too short,” insisted the wise policeman, serving and protecting. “And you can’t get in that rusty, broken down, stinky birdcage without me and I’m not dressed for it. Besides, it’s safer to jump.”

The bad and the ugly and the unnecessary went on for an instant before dissolving in halted laughs and relief. Lights, camera and action... The conflict resolved along with my conclusion that this guy is a peacemaker, ten feet tall and growing. Trust him with my life.

You can live a bit of Sergio's history in his new book, Sergio Oliva, The Myth, here.

WHITE ELEPHANT REPORT

What white elephant?

Do not read the following comments. We ‘ve been friends a long time and you’ll think I’m cunningly trying to sell you something. Goodbye pals, hello disappointed ex-pals, worse than the foe.

I can’t let that happen, yet I can’t withhold from you good news on how to improve your well-being, replenish your system and prepare you for hard and lovable workouts simply because I might be misunderstood. We talk about everything ­ injuries, plateaus, aging, youth, purpose, smoking, drinking -- but beyond a casual mention of the protein powder, Bomber Blend, I dare not speak. A predicament, indeed, to be mute.

You see I’m convinced that the rich combination of vitamins and minerals, branch chain amino acids, enzymes and anti-oxidants in addition to the smart mix of whey and casein protein powder have provided me with what-I-need-and-when to restore my less-than-youthful and extremely hard working weightlifting body. I’ve never felt so good, been stronger and enjoyed a more consistent pump. Certain chronic injuries from a fall or two and a heartbeat like a broken clock get in my way, but without the weights and good food, I’d be mashed potatoes. Why, I believe my disabilities are healing as well.

I like to maintain a reasonably heavy bodyweight (220-225) while serving the muscle and not the fat. This takes food, food and more food for which I do not always have an appetite -- tuna, hamburger, greens, sardines, turkey burger, tomatoes, raw eggs, cottage cheese, red peppers, tuna. Oh, boy.

Bomber Blend added to water or juice or milk in a jar and shaken by hand for five seconds accounts for a substantial portion of my valuable protein intake. Zoom, zoom, zoom... ice cold and delicious I’m never without a lift. I’m talking from my heart and not my pocketbook. I don’t have a pocketbook... I don’t even have pockets. It’s just me, my Bomber Blend and my weights. That’s all a man really needs. Laree visits me on weekends.

I’ve been taking Super Spectrim vitamins and minerals for twenty-five years. Does that count? I pray always.

Wait… there’s more... I made the blend for myself -- the best fortified muscle building protein powder regardless of cost. It’s expensive to make and basically goes from the laboratory to you. No dollars lost to advertising, storage, distribution or middlemen. Sold on the market it would be cost prohibitive, an item for the muscle builder who has his or her chauffeur park his or her Rolls Royce in the shade while he or she blasts the iron in the gym. I say Jeeves, give me a spot on the bench, will you, old boy?

And how about a cold pint of Bomber Blend and apple, dear chap... I feel a bit blue and I do so want to whack the weights. The good life... Cheerio.

EARTHLINGS WE ARE, OF FEW AND MANY YEARS

I take this opportunity to remind you younger guys and gals that all the information provided in these articles and website pages is for your edification and advancement, whether or not it bears shades of gray or is slightly bent at the hip. Our collective efforts to grow leaner, stronger and tougher never travel a smooth and straight path. Training under pressures and limitations (aging, injury, plateaus, obesity, skinniness as well as youth) is our constant and common companion. You can’t ignore them and they are cousins in the same family. Life, you can change your shabby coat, but not your rugged core. We are one.

TRAIN ON AND ON, BROTHERS AND SISTERS

Here’s this week’s workout for the young at heart, the bored silly, he or she who has lost direction, the brain-dead driven by a occasional pulse, the inebriated, the lonely and distraught or the whimsical... when all else fails or when things are so good you wish to glide, when you don’t need to conquer the gym but a pirouette across the floor won’t do:

The whole body Contraction Contraption:

Form, focus and pace with comfortable, controllable weight -- Smile, be happy; it’s fun.

Seated kick-outs for midsection and warmup
2 sets to maximum reps

Wrist curls supersetted with power-style deadlifts
3-4 sets x 10 reps

Wide-grip bentover rows supersetted with close-grip bench press
3-4 sets x 8 reps

Reverse-grip curl (bent bar) supersetted with machine dips
3-4 sets x 6-8 reps curl, 12-15 dips

Leg press supersetted with leg curl and calves
3 sets x 20 reps press, 10 curl, 15 heel raise

Protein drink, go home and relax or go to work like a champ.

Train hard, Bombers, and tell a friend... the world needs help. You and I, we look and listen because these things don’t fly by themselves.

Dave

Say, wait! Before you move on...
Would you like to get a weekly email column
written personally by Dave?
It's free, motivating and priceless!

Enter your email address here:

Then press the sign up button. You'll also have to REPLY to the confirmation message from our list software to be added to Dave's mailing list.

Can we answer any questions for you in our forum?

Click here to read an excerpt from West Coast Bodybuilding Scene

Click here to see Dave's current column

Click here to check out Dave's Top Squat