earl maynard (bullworker excerciser)*This time, you say, you really mean it.

It’s the new year, and among the promises you’ve made to yourself–again–is that you’re going to get in better physical  shape.

I know.  I’m with you.  Accordingly, come every January 1st,  I say I’m going to get back to my daily walk and the free weights.  I’ve looked in their direction. That’s a start.

However, the most profound move I’ve made toward getting back into shape is  dusting off  my Bullworker.

To the uninitiated, Bullworker might sound either  like an assertive migrant cattle hand or a take-no-prisoners sex toy.  In fact, it’s one of the greatest exercise devices, ever.

Invented in Germany  by Gert F. Kolbel as a space-age alternative to conventional calisthenics  and free weight programs, the Bullworker made its international debut in the 1960s during the golden era of personal fitness  pioneered by names like Charles Atlas,  Joe Weider and Jack LaLane.

The Bullworker is about isometrics. Imagine a steel bar–hollow, in order to accommodate another hollow steel bar inside it–about the length (and width) of an average man’s outstretched arm.

Inside the bar is a powerful spring, which, when compressed using hand grips at each end, or by pulling  rubber-coated metal straps on each side of the bar, creates the tension that challenges your muscles.  Hey,  I’m at a loss to physically describe the thing, I just know it works.

I ordered mine way back  in 1975, after finally succumbing to an ad in the original, pocket-sized TV Guide magazine that I’d grown up seeing. This was before the national proliferation of fitness centers.  I was 20 years old, in West Hollywood shacking up with my very first real girlfriend and seeking a “modern” way to work out without showing my scrawny body at the local Y.

True to its claims,  within a couple weeks of following the Bullworker’s exercise program, my spindly 140 pound frame  looked as if I’d been working out in a gym for a month.

Admittedly,  since then,  I’ve exercised using the Bullworker in the same way most people exercise–with intermittent dedication.   My BW has served me through good times and bad. It has survived girlfriends and me moving all over Los Angeles. It  accompanied me across the International Dateline twice.

That many folks  have never heard of the Bullworker hasn’t  detered a kind of Bullworker Brotherhood. Strangers will stand on the street  raving to one another of its folkloric powers.

But Marlene wasn’t among them.  She didn’t believe in the Bullworker, mostly because she, an otherwise sweet and kind young woman,  didn’t care much for me.  And that’s  because  Nate, her live-in boyfriend, was my Boy, and as Marlene used to tell  Nate,  the time he spent with me, which wasn’t all that much, really, was time he could have been spending with her.

I met Nate, from Amarillo, Texas, at Los Angeles City College. Our commonality was radio broadcasting classes,  28-inch waistlines and, my being from Oklahoma, a countrified kind of mellow.  We also shared  a  fanatical love of  R&B and funk.

Nate would invite me over to listen to records.   Marlene, largely as a courtesy, would sit with us a little while before retreating into their bedroom, periodically sticking her head out to request we keep it down. “How many ways can y’all talk about a guitar solo?” she’d ask, peeved.  That kind of question was usually Marlene’s way of saying to me, “When are you taking your narrow ass home?”

When I turned Nate on to the Bullworker, Marlene reacted as if I’d set him up with a mistress. “Now, why did you bring that over here?” she asked in a lilt designed to express annoyance, while Nate was in the bathroom. “He’s never gonna use it.”

But  Nate did use it, and ordered  one of his own.  Unlike me, whose work outs  waned once the novelty wore off, Nate followed the accompanying exercise chart religiously, supplementing  his efforts by stepping up his caloric intake.

He  especially appreciated the idea that  if he wanted, he could take the  Bullworker along when his new job as a Stride Rite sales rep called for him to travel. Slowly, I witnessed skinny Nate getting bigger.  Stronger.  Marlene didn’t care.  She mocked the Bullworker as a cheap gimmick.

All that changed in the wee hours of a particularly  warm  L.A. summer night. Windows usually locked were left cracked open, allowing a burglar to make his way into Nate and Marlene’s ground floor apartment.

The way Nate told it, at about three AM, the entire building was  shaken out of its  humid  slumber by the bloodcurdling cries of a man screaming as if  he were being killed.

The building’s manager,  first one out of his apartment, followed the sounds and found the sordid scene: in the hallway, just outside the open front door of Nate and Marlene’s apartment,  a man garbed in black sweats and black gloves lay,  bloodied about the head, writhing  in equal parts physical pain and sheer embarrassment.

And standing over him, threatening to give ‘em some  more, wasn’t Nate–-he was out of town hustling toddler’s high-tops-–but a seething Marlene, wearing Nate’s Dallas Cowboys jersey as a night shirt and  clutching as if it were Bizarro World’s version of a Louisville Slugger, Nate’s trusty Bullworker.

Upon hearing the intruder in the living room, Marlene got out of bed and, under the cloak of darkness, armed herself with whatever was handy. Just as the would-be thief was about to exit through her front door, in a fit of fear and anger, Marlene attacked. Once she started, she didn’t stop.

The building manager, who kept his Saturday Night Special trained on the crook, told Nate he never knew a criminal could be HAPPY to see LAPD.

In the days that followed, Marlene  could still be frosty with me. However,  I never heard her utter another belittling word regarding the Bullworker.

I don’t know what became of Nate and Marlene.  After leaving school, we drifted apart.  And yet decades  later, as I vow to keep yet another New Year’s promise to take care of myself,  I reach for my rickety old Bullworker, looking to conjure Nate’s diligence…and the mighty Marlene’s unbridled verve.  Apparently,  ol’ girl had a hell of a swing.

Steven Ivory, veteran journalist, essayist and author, writes about popular culture for magazines, newspapers, radio, TV and the Internet. Respond to him via [email protected]

steven ivory (2014)

Steven Ivory