Steroids are in. I’ve always thought I’d get around to trying some, but I never feel ready, and since my dad’s one of the likely millions of American men on testosterone replacement therapy (TRT) but is also prone to umbilical hernias, falling off ladders, and other hindrances to a consistent diet and workout plan, I’ve seen their effects on a more or less sedentary subject: not bad but still short of my “Stone Cold” Steve Austin-inspired dreams. The fantasy goes like this: I turn in my book (due in five weeks), turn in this article (due four days ago), clear my schedule, and devote a few months to weights, jiu-jitsu, long naps, and eating an obscene amount of meat. I’ve known guys who put on twenty-plus pounds of lean mass on their first cycle and added fifty to a hundred pounds to their squat, deadlift, and bench press. That would give me a three-lift total just north of thirteen hundred: joke numbers for a powerlifter but more than I’ll ever put up with grit alone.
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