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Inspired by Bestia's writing in a different thread, simple -- for those of you who competed (preferably multiple times) -- why did you do it? What was your motivation, and what was your mindset during those years? If you climbed the ranks in any way, what motivated you to push harder as you went? Did you hope to turn pro? Just test the waters against the best in your area? What?
Me: I didn't really jump into the bodybuilding lifestyle until I was 24, and I had a big frame and a lot of body fat to strip (fat my entire life up until then) -- so I had no hopes and dreams of competing someday, I just wanted to look a bit more like a bodybuilder. I started working as a personal trainer about 2 years after I began training myself -- semi hardcore gym that had a few other seasoned competitors (NPC national level, Reggie Anderson, and Muscle Mania pro Anthony Villaci). I dieted down hard to get as ripped as I could while working there, those two kinda' planted the seed of the idea in mind, "You should compete eventually, you look good".
I took 2 more years of slowly putting on size and working on bringing up weak body parts, then did my first natty show in 2007.
I was already old-ish to be getting started (around 28 at the time) -- and I was already working pretty damning hours as a trainer, trying to pay for a mortgage etc. So from the very beginning, my motivations to compete were:
1) Just to get in the best shape of my life, go through the process, see what I had built over the last several years; and
2) To help bring attention to and advertise my services as a personal trainer.
I trained my balls off for that first show, showed up, and felt the wind sucked out of my sails -- even though I was a natty 210 on stage, I looked like dogshit compared to the older smaller black dudes with pretty muscle bellies, better symmetry, better conditioning. I had no delusions about "winning my first show" -- but that first show was a big wake up call for me, "It isn't about scale weight or stature, it's about a LOOK" -- and, the harsh "genetics" word -- I just wasn't put together like a pretty bodybuilder. I'm Scottish and Norwegian, big hips and thick joints -- I was probably better suited for strongman or powerlifting, not bodybuilding. But bodybuilding was what I loved, so I stuck with it.
Fully grasping that "genetics" card at my first show, I realized then: I don't really enjoy comparing myself to others and putting it in the hands of a judge -- that's NOT what drove me, and I kinda' positively disliked it -- all that brutally hard work for months on end, already knowing that I wasn't really built for this sport. I never outright feared competing (I loved it) -- but I definitely put a wall, emotionally, where I wouldn't allow myself to be overly invested in it. I realized the entire time, "This doesn't pay your bills, this mostly leads to a path of excessive drug use and mental health issues" -- and so I always put up roadblocks that probably slowed my own progression over the years.
So much of my motivation over time was simply to advertise my business, make sure that I had good income coming in to support my family. Competing didn't pay, but it "put me out there" with high visibility compared to most other trainers in my area. People knew I walked the walk and lived the lifestyle.
And I would have trained and eaten the same way regardless -- I DID have the motivation to be a "better bodybuilder", even if I wasn't going to compete. But getting on stage helped to define the metrics of "what I needed to focus on" -- bringing up rear delts this year, bringing up hamstrings the next, etc. It helps to provide something of an external roadmap to guide my own internal desire to train a certain way, look a certain way, feel a certain way.
It seemed each season I competed got a little crazier -- life demands, daughter getting older, business getting bigger -- and I had to shift into new gears to just get through things. But I came to almost cherish that crazy mode, the adrenaline of running on very little sleep, very little food, etc. And what fueled me as I got further along -- it wasn't "I'm going to walk in and beat everybody" -- instead, it was knowing that I was outworking the competition -- able to work the hours I did, and still prep through it, pedal to the floor.
Competing was always a test for myself -- can I walk through this hell unscathed, push harder than last time, and come out the other side? The actual shows themselves were something of an afterthought, I never saw myself rising up to the national level and beyond.
Me: I didn't really jump into the bodybuilding lifestyle until I was 24, and I had a big frame and a lot of body fat to strip (fat my entire life up until then) -- so I had no hopes and dreams of competing someday, I just wanted to look a bit more like a bodybuilder. I started working as a personal trainer about 2 years after I began training myself -- semi hardcore gym that had a few other seasoned competitors (NPC national level, Reggie Anderson, and Muscle Mania pro Anthony Villaci). I dieted down hard to get as ripped as I could while working there, those two kinda' planted the seed of the idea in mind, "You should compete eventually, you look good".
I took 2 more years of slowly putting on size and working on bringing up weak body parts, then did my first natty show in 2007.
I was already old-ish to be getting started (around 28 at the time) -- and I was already working pretty damning hours as a trainer, trying to pay for a mortgage etc. So from the very beginning, my motivations to compete were:
1) Just to get in the best shape of my life, go through the process, see what I had built over the last several years; and
2) To help bring attention to and advertise my services as a personal trainer.
I trained my balls off for that first show, showed up, and felt the wind sucked out of my sails -- even though I was a natty 210 on stage, I looked like dogshit compared to the older smaller black dudes with pretty muscle bellies, better symmetry, better conditioning. I had no delusions about "winning my first show" -- but that first show was a big wake up call for me, "It isn't about scale weight or stature, it's about a LOOK" -- and, the harsh "genetics" word -- I just wasn't put together like a pretty bodybuilder. I'm Scottish and Norwegian, big hips and thick joints -- I was probably better suited for strongman or powerlifting, not bodybuilding. But bodybuilding was what I loved, so I stuck with it.
Fully grasping that "genetics" card at my first show, I realized then: I don't really enjoy comparing myself to others and putting it in the hands of a judge -- that's NOT what drove me, and I kinda' positively disliked it -- all that brutally hard work for months on end, already knowing that I wasn't really built for this sport. I never outright feared competing (I loved it) -- but I definitely put a wall, emotionally, where I wouldn't allow myself to be overly invested in it. I realized the entire time, "This doesn't pay your bills, this mostly leads to a path of excessive drug use and mental health issues" -- and so I always put up roadblocks that probably slowed my own progression over the years.
So much of my motivation over time was simply to advertise my business, make sure that I had good income coming in to support my family. Competing didn't pay, but it "put me out there" with high visibility compared to most other trainers in my area. People knew I walked the walk and lived the lifestyle.
And I would have trained and eaten the same way regardless -- I DID have the motivation to be a "better bodybuilder", even if I wasn't going to compete. But getting on stage helped to define the metrics of "what I needed to focus on" -- bringing up rear delts this year, bringing up hamstrings the next, etc. It helps to provide something of an external roadmap to guide my own internal desire to train a certain way, look a certain way, feel a certain way.
It seemed each season I competed got a little crazier -- life demands, daughter getting older, business getting bigger -- and I had to shift into new gears to just get through things. But I came to almost cherish that crazy mode, the adrenaline of running on very little sleep, very little food, etc. And what fueled me as I got further along -- it wasn't "I'm going to walk in and beat everybody" -- instead, it was knowing that I was outworking the competition -- able to work the hours I did, and still prep through it, pedal to the floor.
Competing was always a test for myself -- can I walk through this hell unscathed, push harder than last time, and come out the other side? The actual shows themselves were something of an afterthought, I never saw myself rising up to the national level and beyond.
SMOKE WEED EVERYDAY
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