"I'm the fittest man in the world!" That may be. But why does Rob Powell have zero to show for it? Because the previous title holder cornered the market. And hired great lawyers

Men's Fitness, Dec, 2003 by David Kushner

Down in Waco, Rob Powell heard Decker on TV blabbing on and raking in the press. And he had one response about the Fat Boy Wonder: "I'm going to bury him."

Running Away With It

"ORDINARILY, I'D KICK TOWARD YOUR TESTICLES," POWELL EXPLAINS, as he steadies my palm in the air before me, "but right now, I'll do it into your hand." We're standing in a narrow hallway in the back of a splashy Gold's Gym. Powell does his calisthenics here but saves his heavy lifting for the Olympic--a bare-bones gym next to a Christian youth center in a rundown strip mall. At the moment, a pair of enormous women waddle into two tanning rooms labeled Jamaica and Bahamas. Crew-cut students in backward Baylor caps curl to No Doubt. Despite their occasional furtive glances at the warrior with Bruce Lee feet, they don't have to worry about him kicking their sacs by mistake. I do. Powell skillfully swings his foot millimeters from my hand. One thing is clear: He's a wild man, but a professional, too.

The son of cattle ranchers, Powell grew up rustling cows outside Dallas. "We were cowboys" he says, "the real deal." A high school track star, he rode a wave of college scholarships--attending seven universities (including one he got booted from for spending too much time in the cheerleaders' dorm). After graduating, he coached high school football at a variety of Texas schools, getting sacked from one for making the kids carry a giant log--Navy SEALs-style. He supplemented his income as a professional bodyguard (or, as he calls it, "hired muscle").

But dreams of stardom went unfulfilled. He tried out as a quarterback for a couple of Arena football teams, only to be told he was too short and awkward. "One coach told me no one needed a left-handed Doug Flutie," he says. When he saw a Guinness show about the fitness record, he committed his life to stomping it into pieces.

Powell rabidly intensified his already active regimen. Before work (he was a high school history teacher), he'd wake at the crack of dawn to go running along the Brazos River with his favorite training partner and dog, Wolf. He diversified his workout, incorporating cycling, hiking, and the elliptical machine. He tormented himself day and night at the thought of snatching the title from Decker, who he thought squirreled his way into the record books. "He took advantage of the judges" Powell snaps. "He wasn't doing proper push-ups or high enough leg lifts."

Then at noon on October 27, 2001, Powell attacked Decker's record like chops to the 'nads. Cheered on by buddies from his gym and his students, he leapt into his local pool to begin. With duct-taped feet, and a backpack full of M&Ms and infant rehydration formula, Powell hit his workout--blurring through 12 miles of running, 110 of biking, 3,250 sit-ups, and more. And, he adds, his push-ups were kosher. Twenty-two hours, 11 minutes, and 40 seconds later, he was the new world-record holder.

For good measure, and just to spit in everyone's face, he crushed his own record the following year.