After an intense workout, these training partners have decided to display the fruits of their labor down by the shore, where they make a friendly wager on whose physique will draw more admiring glances. One of the guys is big, with broad shoulders, a shadow-casting chest, and arms the size of legs. He also has a siz- able midsection, with nary a hint of definition. The other isn’t nearly as massive as his buddy, but has crisp conditioning, most noticeably in a six-pack so sharp you could strike a match on it. Which one of the two do you have winning the bet? If you’re like me, you put your money on Mr. Abs.
The above scenario isn’t entirely fictional; it’s actually rooted in my own his- tory. When I was 19 my training partner and I decided to make a cross-country pilgrimage from New York to bodybuilding’s "mecca": Southern California. We’d both trained hard for the trip in an attempt to look like we belonged with the “in” crowd. At 5'9", I’d gotten myself up to 200 pounds for it—about 40 more than my birdlike bone structure was made to carry.
Feeling full of ourselves, we unpacked our luggage upon arriving at our hotel and then made a beeline to Muscle Beach in Venice. Wearing bathing suits and nothing else, we trained on the beach, making sure to keep our shoulders back and chests puffed out at all times.
Suddenly, in between sets of dips, a kid who was watching us train came up to me and asked, "Are you guys football players?"
"No, we’re bodybuilders!" I quickly asserted, probably sounding more than a bit defensive. Actually, I was crestfallen. I’d worked so hard throughout my teens to be a bodybuilder, only to be mistaken for a…football player! (Keep in mind that in the ’80s the NFL didn’t have nearly as many physical specimens as it does today.)
When we returned to the hotel I took a sober look in the mirror. Why didn't that kid ask me if I was a bodybuilder? I wondered, as my eyes scanned my reflected image. I was big for sure, and proportioned, but I couldn't help notice the amorphous expanse between my chest and bathing suit. There was a faint shadow of three rows of abs there, but nothing to write home about. Truth is,
I barely trained them. Then, when I estimated my body fat to be about 15%, the kid’s comment began to make sense to me. And just like that, I got it.
I understood how abdominals can make or break a physique.
The fact is that there’s no muscle group with the same ability to impress. Maybe it’s because they make up the most expansive part of the front of the body, while visually tying together the upper and lower halves. Or possibly because, since the time of the ancient Greeks, a well-developed midsection has signified health, strength, and vitality. Or it might have to do with the cultural perception forged by action stars like Bruce Lee, Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Jean-Claude Van Damme (you knew that Rocky was ready to kick ass and take names when his abdominals resembled the underside of an egg carton!).
Whatever your motivation, your decision to build a great set of abs will get you not only looking good, but healthy as well. How does having great abs equal good health? Well, to get them you have to put in some physical labor—
exercises from a variety of angles—to work the rectus abdominis, the serratus, the obliques, and even the intercostals and serratus. In addition, you’ll need to stick to a sound diet—one low in simple carbs and saturated fats. Add to that cardio—to help strip off any adipose tissue covering your efforts—and you’re soon going to be feeling as good as you’re looking.
This book has everything you need to develop your own set of Muscle & Fitness cover-worthy abs. You just add a little hard work. I won’t lie to you, it takes effort and diligence to get great abs. But here’s the good news: Once you start seeing results you’ll be hooked on the process of getting them.
The better they look, the more you’ll want to work them.
Since my Muscle Beach incident, I decided to stop fighting my genetic lot, abandoning my quest to be massive. Instead, I set my sites on looking lean and proportioned. The goal became more Stallone than Schwarzenegger. These days I train my abs at the end of every workout, which means four to six times per week. I find it a good way to cool down and ease my way out of gym mode. Plus, to date, it’s helped keep me from being mistaken for a 1980s football player again.
