It was the summer I turned 15, a magical season for me because that year I discovered exactly what I wanted to do with my life.

It was more than a young boy's mere pipe dream of a distant, hazy future, confused fantasies of being a fireman, detective, sailor, test pilot, or spy.

I knew. I knew I was going to be a bodybuilder. It wasn't simply that either. I would be the best

bodybuilder in the world, the greatest. I'm not exactly sure why I chose bodybuilding, except that I loved it.

I loved it from the first moment my fingers closed around a barbell, and I felt the challenge and

exhilaration of hoisting the heavy steel plates above my head.

I had always been involved in sports through my father.

With my father's encouragement, I first got into organized competitive sports when I was 10.

However, by the time I was 13, team sports no longer satisfied me.

I was already off on an individual trip. I disliked it when we won a

game and I didn't get personal recognition. The only time I really felt rewarded was when I was

singled out as being the best, so I decided to try individual sports. I still remember my first

visit to the bodybuilding gym. There was before me.

My life. The answer I had been seeking.

It clicked.

Once I started, it didn't take long.

I was literally addicted.

I love the feel of the cold iron and steel warming to my touch

and the sounds and the smells of the gym.

I still love it. I remember

the first real workout I had as vividly as if it were last night. I rode my bike to the gym,

which was eight miles from the village where I lived. I used barbells, dumbbells, and machines.

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