Business As Usual

At the world's biggest bodybuilding bazaar, fans weren't concerned about who got busted. They just wanted to know how to bulk up

It's been a tough month for bodybuilders. The recent crackdown on pharmacies has led to the seizure of records that have, so far, implicated two champs as steroid users. And the news put some people on edge at the Arnold Classic—Arnold Schwarzenegger's annual fitness and bodybuilding extravaganza, held on the first weekend in March. Shortly after I pay $10 for a ticket to enter the Greater Columbus Convention Center, one of the 650 supplement vendors in attendance tells me he's heard local sheriffs are handing out "blue pieces of paper folded into thirds"—the telltale look of a subpoena. He nervously asks, "What are you hearing?"

So far all we've heard is that it's mostly hasbeens like John Rocker and Evander Holyfield who allegedly received performance-enhancing drugs through these pharmacies. (Both deny taking anything.) More names will undoubtedly follow, and maybe there's a Barry Bonds in the bunch, who knows? But if the flow of people streaming into the convention center reflects anything, it's that muscle building—no matter how many indictments get handed down—is more marketable than ever.

The Arnold, originally the Mr. World contest, was taken over by ex-champ Schwarzenegger in 1989. Since then, it's grown into bodybuilding's signature event. It's also ground zero for the sports supplement business. But in the new millennium—as Congress began its aggressive regulation of the Classic. That's the same "Dominican Dominator" whose name has turned up on the client list of two anti-aging-center owners included in the multistate crackdown. Martinez says he was prescribed testosterone for low hormone levels. When asked for a comment about Martinez's involvement in the case, a Schwarzenegger spokesman says, "This is the first the governor's heard of it."

The crowd itself is a slice of Arnold's America. Karen Halter has driven six hours from Indiana with her husband and two kids. The personal trainer recently lost 50 pounds, aided by frequent industry and Schwarzenegger was elected governor of California—there has been a noticeable shift in its emphasis. These days, organizers refer to the event as a "sports festival." Press materials boast of 17,000 athletes competing in 39 events. Kids are everywhere, dressed in sparkling gym tights and crisp white karate robes.

But make no mistake, the crowds come for the muscle carnival, which features steel cages, sombrero-wearing porn stars and even a midget walking around in a MET-Rx box. The hall is subdivided so the kids' gymnastics meets and the martial-arts matches are held on either side of the supplement sales floor, leaving the tykes to battle bloated bodybuilders in the aisles. This living Fellini film clip puts a confounding social contract on display. Nobody mentions what everyone assumes: Anyone with big muscles must be taking something.

The Governator's handlers try desperately to keep him away from steroid stories. But that is impossible this year. On Saturday night, he crowns 34-yearold Victor Martinez as the winner of the Arnold trips to the gym. Now, at 30, she is training to enter the Indiana NPC Bodybuilding qualifiers in June. Watching two dozen sun-kissed women doing lat spreads on the main stage, she says, "This is a vacation for me."

I look into Karen's gift bag and see it brimming, which leads me to ask her about the dividing line between fitness and fanaticism. "I talk to my kids about this stuff in the supermarket," she says, nodding toward her 3- and 5-year-old sons. "We talk about the difference between good candy bars and bad ones."

But with freebies being thrust at you like perfume in a department store, it's hard to tell the good from the bad. I watch a college student try an energy booster. He immediately turns beet-red. Pounding his chest, he turns to a friend and says, "Dude, this would be awesome with vodka."

Thanks to the increased vigilance of drug testers in sports—and the busted athlete's common excuse that he or she must have taken a tainted supplement—a big issue this year is contamination. A company called Champion Nutrition has unveiled a website through which buyers can match the lot number on label to a quality-control report that a bottle's includes an analysis of the chemical batch the supplement came from. "We need to police our own industry," says the company's CEO, Mike Zumpano. Elsewhere, 49ers tight end Vernon Davis sings the praises of supplement giant EAS, which pays him to be an endorser. "The best thing about EAS is that it's legal," he says. "It's the only supplement that's been certified by the NFL."

At the other end of the hall, Frank Patino is only too happy to talk about a supplement that isn't NFL approved: human growth hormone. You might think the 53-year-old internist would be more cautious, especially since the current pharmacy raids netted at least five doctors who were indicted for handing out HGH prescriptions without ever meeting the clients. Instead, a big blue banner above his booth reads, "Human Growth Hormone."

Patino, who looks like a ripped version of Bill Maher, doesn't see every one of his patients either, but he does at least talk to all of them on the phone. He gives me a form I can bring to a local hospital to get my blood drawn and a number to call once he is sent the results. If my hormone levels are lower than they were when I was in my mid-20s, which is likely since those days are safely in my rearview mirror, he'll write me a growth hormone prescription that will, he says, bring me back to "that great time in your life." He admits he's done it for several athletes, including an NFL punter looking to extend his career after knee surgery. His fee is $950, not including the drugs. Patino has no problem with the FDA's cracking down on the dirty docs who never have contact with a patient. But if the feds want to take on guys like him, he's ready. "If there's going to be a final Armageddon," he says, "I'll be there for the fight." He won't be alone.

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