Over thirty years ago I began “pumping iron”–long before the term was invented. My roots remain firmly planted in the basement of the home where I grew up, where sand-filled weights and heavy dumbbells put together by my dad rolled about the uneven concrete floor, and pictures I’d torn out of muscle magazines were taped to the walls.

Being largely self-taught, weaned on the muscle mags of the period and seeking advice from the older guys of the neighborhood who had trod this path before me, it was a natural step to become employed by the Chicago Health Club chain, where I dispensed practical advice on the gym floor. It wasn’t long before I began selling memberships out of a carpeted office, but while my wallet became fat my soul became lean. Realizing it was in the gym that I belonged helping others, I gave up the security of the all-important “commission check” and returned to the land of dumbbells, pulleys and clanging weights.