Intensity or Insanity - Part Two - a continuation of the story from the golden era of bodybuilding of John Defendis, at that time the future Mr. USA and IFBB Professional

You can read the first part here

Let us move back to 1982. I'm sitting in the garden of my new house reading Muscle and Fitness. I'm married, fairly sedate, and I've moved from New York to sunny Arizona. The article I'm most focused on is about the upcoming Mr. USA contest, which also features two photos of me. The caption for one says, "John Defendis, the terror of the East, now living in Phoenix, Arizona, is approaching like a meteor to the 1982 USA championship with a method of training with 40, 50, or even 75 sets per game!"

I'm thrilled by the flattery, but I have to admit that it puts pressure on me that comes from the fear that I might lose. I immediately reach for the phone and call Michalik. I tell him what's going on.

But I immediately realize it was a mistake to call him. He starts barking into the receiver, "Yeah - so you're under pressure? Are you afraid you're going to lose? You fucking coward! You got two choices! Either you quit bodybuilding and start playing golf or you get off your ass, fly back to New York, pick up your balls where you left them and start training with me!!!"

Again, Michalik hit me with this and I started to get sick at the thought. In the next few moments, I began to explain to my good friend Michalik that my wife and I couldn't afford to pay for the airfare to New York, and that I would lose the six weeks of work I was doing. In response, his voice raised several times and he started sounding like a psychopath - totally out of control. "John, do you really want to win? Do you have to prove to yourself what a coward you are, or are you going to do what you have to do to win ? "

He paused for a moment and then asked, " Do you have a TV ?" I replied that I did, knowing that I had absolutely no idea where this was going. Then Steve asked, " Do you have a nice stereo system ?" Now I felt like I was in court being cornered with tricky questions, but again I said yes. "I have a stereo, but what does that have to do with winning the contest ?"

At that point Steve started yelling into the phone, " Sell the fucking TV and the goddamn stereo system and do whatever you have to do to achieve your goal! Anyone can own a TV, but very few people have the genetics to win a bodybuilding championship. Material things mean nothing! Now you have to make a decision. Do you want to be a champion, or would you rather sit on your ass and watch the real champions on your nice big color TV?"

This didn't even need an answer, because Steve and I both knew where this was going. He had too much influence on me. So we borrowed money for the trip.

Delta flight 228 was scheduled to leave Phoenix at 7:30 in the morning. It was going to be a long flight and we weren't going to land at Kennedy until 4:45 in the afternoon. Well, at least I'll be able to get some rest before we start training tomorrow morning, I thought.

As I sat uncomfortably in the narrow seat on the plane, I fearfully anticipated what was to come. Fortunately, the plane landed on schedule. That was fine. Steve was already waiting for me in the terminal. That was even better. Unfortunately, his clothes weren't exactly appropriate for the moment. And that was too bad. He was wearing a ripped sweatshirt with a tank top underneath. Then some Stone Age sweatpants with a big hole in the knee. For some strange reason, I began to suspect it was going to be a long day.

Steve wasted no time. His warm greeting went something like this, "Come on, hurry up. We've got to get our chest, back and shoulders trained and still make two meals today." "But Steve," I replied. "I just got off the plane and I feel beat. Can't we start tomorrow?" His face began to change and his eyes began to crawl out of their sockets. Before he could speak, I quickly agreed to the flight training frenzy from hell. At that very moment, I realized that I really wished our plane would have just flown completely across the runway and burned it somewhere instead.

The car ride from the airport to the gym took about 45 minutes. Nothing was said in that time. Steve just said, " I hope you're ready." I just nodded and realized he'd given himself an assignment again. I knew he wanted to prove to me again that he was indestructible and could crush anyone who stood in his way. That was his. Michael sent more people to the hospital than the hurricane and the earthquake combined.

When we got to the gym, I found that almost nothing had changed in the three years I'd been away. The members were still signing with a syringe pen and it still had that hardcore vibe. No clerks or women. Just masochists and lunatics. As I walked in the front door I was delighted to see that Michalik had a life-size poster of me doing a vacuum on the wall. Immediately a couple of old friends came up to me and we started talking about the old days. They congratulated me on my achievements and magazine articles.

For a second I almost felt proud and important. But before I could enjoy it, it was all over. Michalik yelled across the gym, " Hey, prima donna, don't listen to their ass-kissing compliments. Come here and let's see if you've got what it takes to be a champion. Looking at the shitty shape you're in, I'd say you've probably been arranging flowers and eating donuts in Arizona for the last three years!"

I knew right away I was in for the biggest challenge of my life, but I loved a challenge. I figured I'd make it even more interesting, so I told Steve: "I'm not a little boy anymore, so don't think you're going to intimidate me with this. I've flown 3,000 miles to see what I'm all about and I'm going to show you. So stop wasting my time and let's do it!!!" Michael looked at me with a puzzled expression. Once he had finished preparing the war zone and demarcated it with the old familiar rope, he said dryly: "You, my friend - you will die today."

The year was 1997. Bill Clinton was just getting it done in his oval office, while I was just finishing up a climactic series of push-ups in the front room. We all have our priorities! On this day, my priority was to destroy my back. I weighed around 117 kilos, serious and hard. I banged out the last repetition and was about to go to the bottom pulley pull-ups to prolong my torture when suddenly there was an arrogant and loud yell,`Hey you, don't touch that! We're not done here yet!".

I turned around and saw two guys with bandanas on their heads, walking around the gym with their latissimos spread wide, strutting like peacocks. The bigger and chubbier guy, who couldn't have weighed more than 86 kilos, was wearing a T-shirt that said ,"The bigger I get, the smaller you look". He looked at me with a smug grin and said, " We do supersets here, old man. Don't touch that." Old man? This wannabe tough guy called me old man? Okay, I'd be happy to teach him a little lesson, but priorities are priorities, and finishing my back workout comes first right now.

As soon as I finished a set of pull-ups and looked around, I saw the two jerks on the pulley doing concentrated biceps raises. On the same pulley that I wanted to work out on. Aside from the fact that they had absolutely terrible technique, they were both using about five times more weight than they could handle. They were working out with such terrible cheating that it looked like they were training their backs rather than their biceps. It pissed me off because they could have been wasting their time on any of the other thirty pulleys that were there instead of disrupting my routine.

When I finished my workout that day and was just about to leave, I ran into the hilarious duo again. I told them in no uncertain terms that if they wanted to grow and get good results, they needed to do the basic exercises, hone their technique and train hard. Mr. Bulky replied that ,"I may know what works for me, but he knows what works for him". After that I thought I was talking to two dumbasses, so I left. The next morning I had shoulder training. While warming up, I ran into Batman and Robin again. To my delight, I noticed that they were also just about to practice their shoulders. I asked them if they wanted to do a light workout with me.

The smaller guy said no, that they had their own training plan and that it would be too much of a break for three people. The bigger guy, however, poked him and smiled mischievously, " Sure, we don't mind getting a little better, let's do it!" At this point, I couldn't help but think of the scene in the movie Carrie where the classmates at the graduation party take shots at the eponymous girl and then she kills them all. I felt the same rage that had fueled me so many times before in the gym rush through me.

I was determined to destroy those two foolish bastards! I started very slowly and gently. The plan was to give those two idiots confidence that they actually had a chance to make it. I picked up 20-pound dumbbells and did 20 reps of pull-ups. I then did the same to the bigger guy, who I mentally rechristened Bluto. He was worried if it was too easy. I told him to just work hard and have patience. He finished the series, and as soon as the smaller guy took over the twenty-pounders, I immediately grabbed twenty-five pounds in each hand, so now the break was only going out to one person. I did twenty-five reps, put them back on the rack and told Mr. Big to take them. Come on, twenty-five reps! I was like a vulture circling around waiting for the two smart guys to fall to the ground from exhaustion. The fiasco continued. Thirty pounds for thirty reps, thirty-five pounds for thirty-five reps, forty pounds for forty reps! By the thirty-pound set, the smaller guy looked like he was practicing shoulder shrugs instead of lunges. I lost Bluto in the very next one. He only did fourteen reps and then he crashed to the ground.

I figured we could slow down a little and start with the heavy workout. I set up my dumbbells in the order of fifty, sixty and seventy pounds and did twelve reps with all of them with a slight cheat. The two nimrods were back at twenty-five and thirty pounds and looked impressed. When they were done, I set up a triseries: more barbell pull-ups, pulley pull-ups, and machine pull-ups. I started again with twelve reps and very quickly performed a rotation through all three stations. Then I had to wait for the guys to finish their sets so I could start the next round. It didn't take long for the two to stealthily disappear into the showers. How adorable, I thought, the two of them going to puke together, wonder they're not holding hands.

I didn't hesitate, went to the bar, took the microphone and announced: 'Attention, attention: Mutte and Jeff! Please come back from the showers immediately, we haven't finished the shoulders yet! In fact, we haven't even gotten to the main point of the workout yet!" I didn't want to lose my pump, so I went to get my good friends out of the locker room myself. I found the smaller guy dressed lying in the shower stall where the shower was spewing cold water on him. I figured he was done for. There was nothing I could do to bring the little bastard back to life.

Then I heard Bluto writhing in one of the other showers. I opened the door and told him I was losing my pump and needed him to get off his fat ass and get back to the gym to finish his workout. I quoted from the movie Rocky 3: "We can do better than that, Mick! It's not over yet... We can do better!" Eventually, with the help of some humiliating talk, I was able to get Bluto back to the gym. I told him he didn't have to worry about it anymore, that we were done with the baking. Hearing this, the moron tried to smile happily as the remnants of saliva and stomach juices ran down his chin. Did he really not realize that the weightlifting was the easy part of shoulder training? I sat down on the bench and began to prepare for the heavy one-arm push-ups. Bluto's face showed horror: "We're not going to do push-ups now, are we?" I laughed and grabbed the hundred-pound dumbbells. I slowly performed twelve honest reps, which I was struggling a bit by the end of the set.

When I finished, Mr. Grazed shot me his incredulous reptilian stare. He wasn't sure how heavy of a barbell to take. "I usually use eighty pounds, so I think I should take sixty-pounders now." I smiled mischievously. He had no idea what he was talking about. I told him he might as well take something lighter. So he grabbed the fifty-pounders, pitched them to himself, but only managed two reps before they started falling helplessly on his head.

Luckily, I managed to catch them, so he didn't hurt his already badly damaged skull. I didn't want him to hurt himself because I wasn't done torturing the fat fucker yet. I advised him to take 40-pounders, even though that's less than half the weight that the "old man" exercises with and that he "usually uses" for this exercise. He did six very clumsy and pathetic repetitions with them, but I didn't expect more from him.

Then followed only what I have witnessed many times, whenever cocky boys tried to train with Michalik and me. On the next set, I took one hundred and ten pounds and performed eight hard and intense reps. He again repeated his winning stunt with the same weight. Two sets later he was back in the showers to review what he had for breakfast. I laughed, finished my workout and went home to eat. A very fun day. I've never seen those two jerks in my gym again since. Did I feel bad? Hell, no way! Why, you ask? Because every day I meet similar cocky dudes who have no idea what it means to train hard. They're guys with bandanas on their heads, doped up on all kinds of stuff, walking around like they're gods! They'd do better to eat right and train hard instead of taking drugs. They're the biggest wannabe tough guys in the world. They want everything to be effortless. I love these guys. They're the ones who keep me young, strong and motivated. There's nothing like giving a cocky jerk in the gym a good lesson. It's these guys that make my life worthwhile!

Standing on stage sucks. Even when I won the U.S. Championship. It was never about competing. It's always been about training. I fought my battle with the dumbbells and my battlefield was the gym. For me, winning meant beating the weights and machines and surpassing anything I or anyone else had accomplished up to that point. To feel my hands gripping the cold dumbbell tightly and to think of how I was about to move a quarter ton of steel was a thrill that few people have known.

Every day I face people who ask me if I will ever compete again. Few of them realize that I compete every day. Every time I lift weights, I'm competing against myself. I try to lift more in less time and get better results. That's right, it's all about the training! Do people really think that standing on the podium at the US Championships was the biggest thrill of my life?

I stood up there weak, tired and dehydrated. I stood there waiting for something to happen that would justify the twenty years I've put into this sport. Missed weddings and parties, birthdays and holidays where I ate chicken and rice instead of birthday cake, barely paid the bills and lost relationships as a toll for focusing only on winning the competition.

Then the next day came and I realized. It was always about the training! Routines of forty or fifty sets that left me exhausted to death, but proud.

I'm proud of the intense hard work that accompanies every workout and every set. I keep coming up with new goals and going for them day after day. I love the feeling of strength and power and the sight of a healthy and strong body.

What captivated me about bodybuilding was not competing on the stage, but the intense workouts and success in the gym. Squats with my butt to the floor with 450 pounds for forty reps, warm-up sets of overhead presses with 315 pounds for thirty reps, doing fifty sets of biceps raises and sixty sets of heavy back training! That's what this was really about ... the workout.

Standing on stage can't rival the feeling I had when fans from Belgium and Holland came to Florida to witness one of our , "Intensity or Insanity" leg workouts. That was the highlight! Showing the Europeans that we have bigger balls than anyone else they've ever seen! I remember that day like it was yesterday ... four of them borrowed chairs from nearby offices and set them up around a squat rack, leg press and lunge area. They sat there frozen as if they were watching the new episode of Believe, Don't Believe Robert Ripley! How could we let them down? How could we not give 110% to every repetition and every series? We walked around them like multi-ton machines, ready to take on any challenge.

It's true... it was always about the training and it reassured me that no one trained better than me. I reveled in my reputation as one of the hardest training bodybuilders in the country. It meant so much more to me than standing on stage in a stupid tiny swimsuit in front of a bunch of guys who had never trained themselves and who were supposed to be judging me! That's right... what gave Peter Potter the right to judge me? Has he ever lifted a damn barbell? He certainly didn't look it!

To this day, I hate the fact that they let someone like that rate my character! As I sit here and look back, I realize that it was always about hard training and discipline that allowed me to lift weights and complete sets. Everyone always told me I was overtrained. They always said I could burn out more than once. I sit here and smile when I think back on the 34 years I've been training. I'm still training and I feel great. I weigh 117 pounds of hard muscle and I'm 44 years old. I'm still playing with dumbbells that would crush a 20-year-old kid who's doped up on all kinds of stuff. I test my limits to motivate the younger ones and make them realize that success lies in hard work and self-sacrifice.

Happily married, successful at my job and still training like a madman! Most people read this and think I'm crazy. No, I'm not. I'm just happy to be doing what I love and doing it with passion... TRAIN, TRAIN, TRAIN and motivate others to be as good as they can be!

I have always believed in high volume intense workouts. The training that produced champions like Arnold, Tom Platz and Serge Nubret. Unfortunately, high volume training never became popular. Mentzer's Heavy Duty of one and two sets was more common because we live in a world full of slackers. Everyone buys crap... half hour workouts so they have more time to be lazy. With all due respect to Mike Mentzer and his accomplishments ... why did he not train at all for twenty years before he sadly and tragically died and was in the worst shape of his life? If the Heavy Duty system was designed to prevent burnout, then why did he burn out twenty years earlier? Why did people still devour every article he wrote before he passed away, and why did many of them adopt the Heavy Duty system?

It's a phenomenon that still amazes me to this day. Long gone are the days of hardcore gyms. Gyms where you were captivated by the atmosphere of blood, sweat and courage. Those gyms have been replaced by family fitness centres, Richard Simmons and fucking electronic abdominal vibration machines. I miss the gladiators and warriors who once trained behind the walls of Master America's gym in New York. I miss the competitiveness that reigned in the gym, which allowed us to see who trained the hardest and who puked in their cars after workouts.

I miss the gyms that were full of dumbbells and lacked cardiovascular equipment. Cardiovascular equipment? Bikes, treadmills, steppers? No way... they didn't exist! After all, our hearts beat faster during our workouts than Ringo Starr's drums did when he was still in the Beatles. We didn't need to waste time on cardio, it was already built into the workout. It could never have been better.

We lived for training and trained for life...

and loving every minute of it!

It was always about the workout!

And as far as I'm concerned... it still is!

Atlantic City 1987: The lights were shining and everywhere I looked people were planting. Black Jack, poker, slots, craps and roulette. I've never been much of a gambler myself. That's probably why I practiced so hard every year but never showed up for the big day. I wanted to win a U.S. title or even a national competition and turn pro, but I couldn't deal with the risk of standing on a stage without a title and a trophy.

No, the stakes were too high and I couldn't admit failure. It was easier to watch others and excuse myself with promises of future victories. I remember that day like it was yesterday. My good friend Alex paid for my airfare and ticket to the National Championships in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Maybe he thought it would inspire me to compete again and pursue my dream of becoming a professional. After all, it had been five years since I had performed my trademark vacuum pose in front of an audience.

What made the day interesting was the fact that I was having a beer with my buddy Walter. Walter couldn't believe that I was drinking and relished the thought of spoiling me. John DeFendis drinks beer? I never drank beer. The closest I've ever come to alcohol was Shirley Temple or Virgin Pina Colada. But this day was different. I drank to escape the truth. The truth that I was just slowly watching my dreams fade away. Another year was behind me and another champion took the trophy I thought I deserved.

I was like the fox in Aesop's fable, "The Fox and the Sour Grapes". The fox wants the grapes badly, so he jumps up to pick them. But it's futile and she ends up exhausted and without grapes. She realises that she will never get to enjoy their sweet taste again, and is cranky and angry about it. When she leaves, she tells herself that the grapes are rotten and sour anyway and that she doesn't want them.

I sat in the second row with Alex and Walter and criticized the contestants on stage with my gossipy rants. I kept saying, " Look at those guys up there... they've got nothing. They probably mortgaged their houses and sold their cars to pay for food, supplements and airfare. Most of them will go home with empty dreams and empty wallets!"

I emptied another beer and kept talking about how I would never make that mistake again. So as I was drowning in my inner sadness, I tried to convince myself that I was totally content with not being what I wanted to be. Who needs that? Why should I bother with hard competitive training just to win a title? Or better yet... Why should I risk losing in front of thousands of spectators? It was easier to sit there with a Budweiser in my hand and laugh at the competitors. Or was I actually laughing at myself for not being able to fulfill my dreams?

I woke up the next morning with the urge to vomit and a restlessness in my soul. I told myself it was just an aftershock of my beer escapade, but it was clear to me that it was much more serious. I knew what I had to do. I knew that if I wanted to be able to live with myself, I had to keep going until I won the US title.

I went back to Florida and carefully planned the next eight months with my focus on winning the 1988 U.S. Championship. It must have been the perfect plan... No mistakes, no miscalculations, no mercy! Although the competition was to be held in Las Vegas, I refused to take any chances. I knew I had to be at my best and minimize the risk of defeat.

Pulling my head out of my ass

I knew the drill well. Get up at 5am, cook all six meals, slam down some black coffee resembling mud with half a watermelon and Animal Pak. Only then was I ready for war. Each workout was a grueling testament to the effort it took to earn the title and materialize my dream. After all, it was 1988 and overtraining was non-existent. It was the era of Intensity or Madness workouts with forty, fifty and sixty-series routines.

A typical leg workout consisted of a nonstop set of 182kg squats, 545kg leg presses and a pre-kicking machine that looked like it was about to give out at any moment after that countless reps with the pin jammed down behind the last brick. Then there were deadlifts with straight legs, hundreds of reps of stumbling lying down and sitting up, followed by twenty minutes of long lunges outside the mall with hundreds of pounds on my back. (The gym was adjacent to the mall.)

Why did all those shoppers stare every time we fell and then get back up and continue on our route? Did they feel sorry for me?

If so, I could never understand it because I was living the dream! I was having the time of my life because I knew where I was going. I didn't need anyone to feel sorry for me because I was on top of the world. No one could beat me because I was sure that I was exceeding all the limits that my opponents had set for themselves. I lived and died in the gym every workout and every day!

There is no better feeling in the world than knowing you have done everything humanly possible to achieve your goal and live your dream!

I was living my dream and still dreaming new ones. That's all life is about. Being the best, going for it and never putting it on the back burner. Las Vegas is the gambling capitol of the world. I loved Las Vegas on that hot, dry summer night in July 1988. But I never had time to take chances. I just came in, did what I had to do, and left again. You know, I was never a gambler.

He wrote: John Defendis, Mr. USA, IFBB Professional