Total Recall: My Unbelievably True Life Story Read online

  After more than a year of effort, and stunts like these, we succeeded in doubling the gym membership to more than three hundred—but this was in a city of over a million people. Albert called bodybuilding a subcult of a subcult. We would have long conversations trying to figure out why the sport wasn’t better known. We thought the answer must be in the mentality of most bodybuilders; they are hermits who want to hide under an armor of muscles. So they do everything in secret and train in dungeons and come out only when their muscles make them feel safe. There had been famous strongmen in history, such as Prussian-born Eugen Sandow, often called the father of modern bodybuilding, and Alois Swoboda, but that was at the beginning of the twentieth century, and there had been nobody like them since. No contemporary bodybuilder was enough of a showman to make training really catch on.

  The competitions held in Munich were a depressing example of this. They weren’t held in beer halls like the old strongman exhibitions. Instead, they took place in gyms where there would be just bare walls and a bare floor with a few dozen chairs, or in auditoriums on a bare stage. And this was Munich, a city full of people and entertainment and life. The sole exception was the Mr. Germany contest, held each year in the Bürgerbräukeller, a beer hall that catered to workers.

  Albert and I had the idea of bringing bodybuilding competition upscale. We got together a little money and bought the rights to produce Mr. Europe for 1968. Next, we went to the owners of the Schwabinger Bräu, an elegant old beer hall in a classy neighborhood, and asked, “How about having the bodybuilders’ contest here?”

  The unusual choice of location helped us publicize the event, and we drew more than a thousand spectators, compared to a few hundred the previous year. Of course, we invited the press and made sure that the reporters understood what they were watching so they could write good stories.

  The whole thing could have failed. We could have sold too few tickets, or somebody could have started a riot by leaping up onstage and cracking Mr. Europe over the head with a beer stein. But instead we packed the hall with unbelievable screaming and enthusiasm and life against the background of people drinking and clinking their steins. The energy of our event set a new standard in German bodybuilding.

  That year’s Mr. Europe contest had an especially big impact on bodybuilders from Eastern Europe because it coincided with the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. On August 21, less than a month before the event, tanks rolled in to crush the democratic reforms that had been instituted during the so-called Prague Spring in early 1968. As the news spread, we got in touch with the bodybuilders we knew there and picked up many in our cars at the border. The Czechs were unusually well represented at Mr. Europe that year because they were able to use the competition as a pretext to flee. They went on afterward from Munich to Canada or to the United States.

  —

  I wondered when my turn would come to get to America. One corner of my brain was always focused on the question. In the Austrian army, for example, when I found out that they were sending tank drivers to the States for advanced training, I fantasized about staying in uniform for that. The problem, of course, was that when the training in America ended, I’d have to come back to Austria, and I’d still be in the army.

  So I stuck with my original vision: a letter or a telegram would come, calling me to America. It was up to me to perform well and do something extraordinary, because if Reg Park had gotten to go there by doing something extraordinary, then I also would get to go by doing something extraordinary. In judging my progress, I used him and Steve Reeves as my benchmarks. Just like Reg, I’d gotten a very early start—earlier even than him, because he’d begun at seventeen just before he went into the military, and I’d started at fifteen. Winning Mr. Universe at the age of twenty got me this initial bang of publicity in the bodybuilding world, because I’d beaten Reg’s long-standing record—he’d won at twenty-three, back in 1951.

  When I first became obsessed with bodybuilding, I dreamed that winning Mr. Universe in London would guarantee my fame and immortality. But in reality, the competitive scene had grown much more complex. Like boxing today, bodybuilding had multiple federations that were constantly competing for control of the sport. They ran the championships that attracted bodybuilding’s elite: the Mr. Universe contest in Britain; the Mr. World competition, which moved from country to country; the Mr. Universe contest in the United States; and the Mr. Olympia, a new event intended to crown the professional bodybuilding champion of the world. Fans needed scorecards to keep track of all this, and the important point for me was that not all the top bodybuilders competed at a given event. Some of the top Americans skipped the Mr. Universe competition in London and competed only in the American version, for instance. So the only real way for a bodybuilder to become the undisputed world champ was to rack up titles in all the federations. Only after he had challenged and defeated all rivals would he be universally acknowledged as the best. Reg Park had dominated in his day by winning the London Mr. Universe competition three times in fourteen years. Bill Pearl, a great California bodybuilder, had dominated by winning three Mr. Universe titles at that point plus Mr. America and Mr. USA. Steve Reeves had been Mr. America, Mr. Universe, and Mr. World. I was anxious not to just beat their records but also to run over them; if somebody could win Mr. Universe three times, I wanted to win it six times. I was young enough to do it, and I felt like I could.

  Those were my dreams as I trained for the Mr. Universe contest to be held in London in 1968. To get to America, first I would have to thoroughly dominate the European bodybuilding scene. Having won Mr. Universe in the amateur class the year before was a great start. But it automatically elevated me to professional status, opening a whole new field of competitors. That meant that I had to go back and win the professional title even more decisively than I’d won as an amateur. That would make me a two-time Mr. Universe, and I’d really be on my way.

  I made sure nothing else interfered. Not recreation, not my job, not travel, not girls, not organizing the Mr. Europe contest. I took time for all those things, of course, but my first priority remained working out a hard four or five hours per day, six days per week.

  While I used the tips I’d learned from Wag Bennett and Reg Park, the focus of my training stayed the same. I was still growing physically, and I wanted to take advantage of my natural gift: a body frame that could handle more mass than the frames of any of the guys I was going to face. My goal was to show up at the Victoria Palace even bigger and stronger than the year before and just blow away the competition. At six foot two and 250 pounds, I was more impressive than I’d ever been.

  The day before the contest did not start well. On my way to the airport, I went to the gym expecting Rolf Putziger to hand me my regular pay, which I was counting on as spending money for London. Instead, he presented a piece of paper and a pen. “Sign this, and you’ll get your money,” he said. It was a contract that named him as my agent and guaranteed him a cut of all my future earnings! I got over my shock enough to say no, but I left the gym reeling. I had only the money in my pocket and wasn’t even sure I still had a job. Albert had to lend me five hundred marks so I could go to London. Of course, the trip ended much better than it began, with me winning Mr. Universe for the second time, decisively, the next day. There were photos of me in the muscle magazines hoisting a bikini-clad girl on my left arm while showing off my right biceps. But even better was the telegram I found waiting for me back at the hotel. It was from Joe Weider.

  “Congratulations on your victory,” it read. “You are the new young sensation. You are going to become the greatest bodybuilder of all time.” It went on to invite me to come to America the next weekend to compete in his federation’s Mr. Universe contest in Miami. “We will cover expenses,” the telegram said. “Colonel Schuster will provide details.”

  I was thrilled to get a telegram from the undisputed kingmaker of bodybuilding champions. Being the biggest impresario in American bodybuilding meant that Joe Weider w
as the biggest bodybuilding impresario in the world. He had built an international empire of muscle-building exhibitions, magazines, equipment, and nutritional supplements. I was getting closer to my dream, not just of being a champion but also of going to America. I couldn’t wait to call my parents and share the news that I was on my way. I hadn’t expected this, but maybe I could rack up a third Mr. Universe title! That would be incredible, at age twenty-one. I was in competition shape, I had the momentum. I would overwhelm them in Miami.

  Colonel Schuster turned out to be a medium-sized guy in a business suit who came to my London hotel later that day. He was, in fact, a colonel in the US National Guard, and he made his living as the European marketing agent for Weider’s company. He gave me the airline ticket, but we hadn’t gotten very far talking about the trip plans when he realized that I had no US visa.

  I stayed at Schuster’s house cooling my heels while the colonel went to the American embassy and pulled strings. The paperwork ended up taking a week. I filled the time as best I could, although I didn’t really have a proper diet or a gym where I could train for five hours a day. I made do by going to the Weider warehouse, where they assembled dumbbells and barbells, and worked out with those. But I was distracted, and it wasn’t the same.

  The minute I set foot on the plane, all the frustration fell away. I had to change flights in New York, and circling over the city and seeing for the first time the skyscrapers, New York Harbor, and the Statue of Liberty was fantastic. With Miami, I wasn’t sure what to expect, and it was raining when I got there. But it was impressive too, not just the buildings and palm trees but also the October heat and how happy it seemed to make people feel. I loved the tourist places with their Latin music. And the mixture of Latinos and blacks and whites was fascinating: I’d seen it in bodybuilding circles but never in Austria growing up.

  Joe Weider had launched the American version of Mr. Universe ten years before to boost the popularity of bodybuilding in the United States, but this was the first time the contest had been held in Florida. They’d taken over the Miami Beach Auditorium, a big, modern hall with 2,700 seats, which was normally home to TV’s popular Jackie Gleason Show. I’d missed the run-up to the event—the interviews, cocktail parties, film and TV shoots, and promotions—but even so, the production felt big and American sized. There were bodybuilding legends everywhere, like Dave Draper and Chuck Sipes, each of whom had been Mr. America and Mr. Universe.

  For the first time, I laid eyes on the world bodybuilding champ, Sergio Oliva. Sergio was an immigrant to the United States from Cuba who was the first member of a minority to win Mr. America, Mr. World, Mr. International, Mr. Universe, and Mr. Olympia. He’d just won his second consecutive Mr. Olympia title the previous week. Even though I wasn’t yet in his league, Oliva knew we’d be competing soon. “He’s very, very good,” he told a reporter about me. “Next year will be tough. But that’s okay with me. I do not like to compete with babies.” When I heard about that, I thought, “Already the psych games are beginning.”

  Two dozen guys were in the competition, divided into two groups, tall and short. In the daytime rounds of preliminary judging, I beat the other tall men easily. But the top guy in the short-men category was Mr. America, Frank Zane, and he’d shown up in the best shape of his career. He’d just won the Mr. America competition in New York the week before. I was as big, well shaped, and powerful as I’d been in London, with the same impressive mass. But a week of twiddling my thumbs waiting for my visa had left me a little heavier than my ideal, which meant that when I posed, my body looked smooth and less sharply defined. Worse, besides being perfectly proportioned, muscular, and cut up, Zane had a serious tan, while I was as white as a soccer ball. Going into the evening finals, he was ahead of me on points.

  That night in front of the crowd, I felt I looked 100 percent better because flexing and posing under stage lights all day had melted off the excess pounds. That helped make the competition between Frank Zane and me so close that we tied in the judges’ final vote. But Frank’s higher point score from earlier in the day made him the winner, not me. I stood by onstage trying not to look stunned while a guy five inches shorter than me and fifty pounds lighter took the prize.

  It was a blow. I’d finally made it to America, just as I had envisioned. But then I lost Mr. Universe in Miami. To a lighter and shorter man. I thought the competition had been fixed because he was just not big enough to win against me. Even though I lacked the definition, he was a scrawny little guy.

  That night, despair came crashing in. My cheerfulness almost never deserts me, but it did then. I was in a foreign country, away from my family, away from my friends, surrounded by strange people in a place where I didn’t speak the language. How had I even made it this far? I was way out of my depth. All of my belongings were in one little gym bag; I’d left behind everything else. My job was probably gone. I had no money. I didn’t know how I’d get home.

  Worst of all, I’d lost. The great Joe Weider had brought me across the Atlantic to give me this opportunity, but instead of rising to the occasion, I’d embarrassed myself and failed to perform. I was sharing the room with Roy Callender, a black bodybuilder based in England who had also been in the London competition. He was very sweet, talking to me about my loss. He was much more mature than I was and was talking about things I did not quite understand. He was talking about feelings.

  “Yeah, it’s hard to lose after such a big victory in London,” he said. “But remember that next year you will win again, and everyone will forget about this loss.”

  This was the first time that a man had ever been that nurturing with me. I knew that women were nurturing: my mother was nurturing, other women were nurturing. But to get real empathy from a guy was overwhelming. Up till then, I’d thought that only girls cry, but I ended up crying quietly in the dark for hours. It was a great relief.

  When I woke up the next morning, I felt much better. Sunlight was pouring into the room and the phone next to the bed was ringing.

  “Arnold!” said a raspy voice. “It’s Joe Weider. I’m out by the pool. You want to come down and order some breakfast? I’d like to interview you for the magazine. We want to do a cover story about you, exactly how you train . . .”

  I went out to the pool, and there was Joe, wearing a striped bathrobe, waiting at a table with a typewriter right there. I couldn’t believe it. I’d grown up on his magazines, in which Joe Weider always portrayed himself as the Trainer of Champions, the man who invented all the training methods and made bodybuilding happen and created all the greats. I idolized him, and here I was sitting with him by a pool in Miami. Suddenly the fears of the night before washed away. I felt important again.

  Joe was in his midforties, clean shaven with sideburns and dark hair. He wasn’t big—more medium height—but he was husky. I knew from the magazines that he worked out every day. He had a voice you couldn’t miss: strong and penetrating with strange vowels that sounded different from the accents of other English speakers even to me. I later discovered that he was Canadian.

  He asked everything about how I trained. We talked for hours. Even though my English made it slow going, he felt I had more to offer in the way of stories than the rest of the bodybuilders. I told him all about working out in the woods in the gladiator days. He enjoyed listening to all that. He interviewed me in great detail about the techniques I’d developed: the “split routine” method of training two or three times a day, the tricks that Franco and I had come up with to shock the muscles. Meanwhile I had to keep pinching myself. I was thinking, “I wish my friends in Munich and in Graz could see this, me sitting with Mr. Joe Weider, and he is asking me how I train.”

  By noon he seemed to make up his mind. “Don’t go back to Europe,” he said finally. “You need to stay here.” He offered to pay my way to California and get me an apartment, a car, and living expenses so that I could concentrate on training for an entire year. By the time the same competitions came around again th
e next fall, I’d have another shot. Meanwhile, his magazines would report on my training, and he would supply translators so I could write about my programs and express my ideas.

  Joe had plenty of opinions about what I needed to do to get to the top. He told me I’d been focusing on the wrong things; that even for a big man, power and bulk weren’t enough. I had to train harder for muscle definition on top of these. And while some of my body parts were fantastic, I was still lacking in back, abs, and legs. And my posing needed more work. Training schemes were Joe Weider’s specialty, of course, and he couldn’t wait to start coaching me. “You are going to be the greatest,” he said. “Just wait and see.”

  That afternoon at the gym, I thought more about my loss to Frank Zane. Now that I’d stopped feeling sorry for myself, I came to harsher conclusions than those I’d reached the night before. I still felt the judging had been unfair, but I discovered this wasn’t the real cause of my pain. It was the fact that I had failed—not my body, but my vision and my drive. Losing to Chet Yorton in London in 1966 hadn’t felt bad because I’d done everything I could to prepare; it was just not my year. But something different had happened here. I was not as ripped as I could have been. I could have dieted the week before and not eaten so much fish and chips. I could have found a way to train more even without access to equipment: for instance, I could have done one thousand reps of abs or something that would have made me feel ready. I could have worked on my posing—nothing had stopped me from doing that. Never mind the judging; I hadn’t done everything in my power to prepare. Instead, I’d thought my momentum from winning in London would carry me. I’d told myself I’d just won Mr. Universe and I could let go. That was nonsense.

  Thinking this made me furious. “Even though you won the professional Mr. Universe contest in London, you are still a fucking amateur,” I told myself. “What happened here never should have happened. It only happens to an amateur. You’re an amateur, Arnold.”