Ain't nothin' but a peanut: why Ronnie Coleman is Mr. Olympia

Flex, Nov, 2004 by Greg Merritt

"Everybody wants to be a bodybuilder, but don't nobody want to lift no
heavy-ass weights."
--Ronnie Coleman

From the outside, it looks like the low-rent welding shop it once was. The gravel parking lot is a graveyard for car carcasses. There is no outer wall, just open garage doors and a plywood fence. Posted at the front desk are the Ten Commandments, contrasting the never-ceasing gangsta rap and heavy metal so loud it jars molars. Graffitied slogans coat the doorway. Cobwebs--vast enough to entangle ravens--drape from the ceiling, nearly covering American and Texan flags.

In what must be the world's least-used broom closet, the dust is higher than the broom head. A sign reads, absurdly, "Please Help Us Keep Your Club Clean." Every ancient machine and every weight plate is dusty, rusty or both. Debris and leaves are piled in corners. Potholes dot the floor. Broken mirrors foretell endless bad luck. A stairway leads nowhere. The ceiling fans long ago gave up the fight, as floor fans as big as airplane propellers struggle to diminish the stifling heat. Welcome to MetroFlex, one of the world's hardest hardcore gyms and home to the world's reigning Mr. Olympia. Welcome to hell and welcome to heaven.

LIGHT WEIGHT | It's 2 PM on June 15 when six-time Mr. Olympia Ronnie Coleman saunters through the doorway of MetroFlex Gym in Arlington, Texas, just as he has nearly every day for the past 14 years. DMX is rapping, "Stop! Drop! Shut'em down, open up shop!" It's 93 degrees. The champ wears a blood-red shirt that reads "No Hater Wear." He weighs 310 pounds. He tugs on his gloves and begins what he calls his lower-back workout, dedicated to both spinal erectors (deadlifts) and back thickness (rows). Four days later, he'll do pulldowns and chins for back width.

Coleman pyramids warm-up sets of deadlifts, using 135, 225 and 315 pounds. "I've been doing deadlifts since high school," he says. "This is how I get my back so thick." He pulls a set of 10 with 405 next. He is still only halfway to the 805 he famously lifted in his video The Unbelievable, but today Coleman sticks to more moderate deadlift poundages. "July and August is when I really start hitting deads hard," he explains. "This is still kind of early, and it's not hot enough yet for me to hit it hard." Outside of air-conditioning repairers, Coleman may be the only person in Texas looking forward to the coming onslaught of triple-digit days. We slap two more 45s on each side. He says, "Yeah, buddy! Light weight!" to himself as he cinches his belt. Then he pulls 585 for an easy six reps. "Light weight" is a relative term.

YEAH, BUDDY | Coleman motions to the new 250-pound dumbbells recently purchased for him by gym owner Brian Dobson as a birthday present. "I was doing shrugs with them the other day," he drawls. "I don't know when I'll be able to do incline or flat benches with 'em. It'll probably take me awhile to work up to that. But I did the 200s for 12 [reps of flat-bench presses], so I bet I'll get 'em."

We slap 45s on a barbell. He rows 225 for 10 reps, followed by 315 for another 10. He keeps his torso at approximately 45 degrees to the dirty floor, and he uses loose form to yank the bar to his abdomen. "That's one sorry-ass bar," he says. "I use that for squat day." He examines a rack of bars like a pool shark choosing a new cue. Satisfied, we load up another bar, this time to 455 pounds--a weight most people couldn't deadlift once. "Yeah, buddy! Light weight!" Coleman reminds himself. Then he rows it 10 times. A few minutes later, he does it again.

AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A PEANUT | A rap song--overshadowing all but the loudest groans and clangs--advocates violating at least half of the aforementioned Ten Commandments. Having trained in a few hardcore pits, I've used a makeshift T-bar before, but nothing could prepare me for what I'm about to witness. Coleman jams one end of a barbell into a hole in the corner, laying it out at a 45-degree angle to both walls. Dobson stands near the corner while Coleman hooks a V-handle under the loaded end. The first plate is 100, followed by eight 45s for a total of 555 (counting the bar, most of which is lifted).

"Yeah, buddy!" Coleman says to himself. Yanking the weighted end of the bar up violently, he rows 10 times. Afterward, the weight falls back into the floor's deepening cavity, throwing up a cloud of cement dust and tossing off plates. Spiders scurry for cover. Three minutes later, he repeats the set. Is it any wonder he has the best back ever?

We somehow manage to get two more plates on, although the last one is more off than on. The long row of plates looks comical. I count them again: 11 plates, the first one 100, for a total of 645 pounds (counting the bar). Few mortals could budge 645. Mr. Olympia is going to T-bar row it. "Ain't nothin' but a peanut," Coleman tells himself, but anyone can see it's a damn big peanut. "Yeah, buddy! Light weight!" He wraps his straps and gloved hands around the V-handle and begins jerking the bar up. One rep. Two reps. Three reps. Four. Five ...