An afternoon of muscles, posing and flaunting

Two weeks ago, when Stew and I were looking for the pickleball courts at a municipal athletic center—a first-class facility open to all—we noticed a poster for the Mr. San Miguel 2023 Contest, to be held the following weekend at the center’s assembly hall. For some time we had been looking for events outside San Miguel’s expat box, and a bodybuilding contest sounded offbeat enough to fit the bill.

It was scheduled to begin at noon, but that turned to be AMT (Aspirational Mexican Time). By noon, spectators were barely trickling in, as organizers wrestled with the hissy and screechy sound system.

By one o’clock, I realized that the action was instead taking place downstairs in the gym-turned-dressing- room, where the contestants prepped by doing some last-minute pumping of muscles, posing in front of mirrors, and adjusting their precarious next-to-nothing bikinis, but most of all having tanning solutions sprayed or daubed liberally on their bodies by their trainers or girlfriends. In one case a trainer used a four-inch paint roller to apply the tanning solution while the contestant attentively checked the results. Outside, there were two plastic tents the size of phone booths, in which contestants stood while someone used a paint gun on them of the type used by auto body shops. Any visitors hanging around in this smog for too long probably would go home a shade or two darker-skinned.

I couldn’t resist asking about all the bronzing and greasing frenzy, since to my mind, most Mexicans naturally sport a toasty-brown skin tone. “We want to highlight the contours of the muscles,” I was informed by a serious 19-year-old. Hmm, so noted.

Despite the loose-ends appearance, this was a formal event sponsored by the city’s sports commission, and sanctioned by the state’s body building group, which goes by the challenging name of Asociación Guanajuatense de Físicoconstructivismo y Fitness, A.C.

An array of probably thirty or forty trophies lined the edges the stage on three sides. They were not the usual gold cups or silver platters but figures of fearsome Aztec warriors ready to slay some mythical enemy, or in some cases, holding a helpless-looking maiden lying on their lap. Only forty or so contestants registered, which almost guaranteed everyone got a trophy. The grand trophy was a three-foot high behemoth.

By about two o’clock, the room was finally good and raucous, with knots of spectators ready to cheer their champions. It seemed each contestant had brought his own claque. First up was the the juvenile category for men younger than eighteen, which had only three contestants. As with every category, the participants were asked by the three judges to strike eight or ten poses to highlight certain parts of the body.

One notable participant was 15-year-old Armando who said he’d been training since he was eleven. To my eyes, his musculature had ways to go, but certainly not his poise. He was brimming with confidence and fidgety as a gerbil. He would not just strike poses, but leap at them. At the end, he smiled broadly at the appreciative audience and took a bow, the latter not usually part of the routine. He deserved the Congeniality Award if nothing else.

The contest became progressively more confusing as different categories of contestants were called to the stage. Some contestants seemed to appear in different categories; in one category only one contestant got on the stage. He wore Bermuda shorts instead of the requisite bikini or bathing suit, and rushed through his routine as if he just wanted it to be over.

The brief, almost desultory, women’s segment seemed cheesy compared to the seriousness of the other parts of the program. The three contestants wore skimpy bathing suits and stiletto heels, and sashayed across the stage a couple of times. One “pose” consisted of bending over rather salaciously for the benefit of the judges. The women were quite attractive alright, but their figures didn’t evince much muscular definition or long hours at the gym. Rather, they looked more like pole dancers on their day off. The men in the audience loved it.

I thought of waiting for the INAPAM* part of the event, involving some older gentlemen who had been walking around all afternoon in their bikinis, looking buff, well oiled but bald and somehow out of sync with the rest of the younger beefcake on the menu. A particularly massively muscular guy told me he’d been training only four years. Incredulously, I replied, “Did you live at the gym the whole time?” He laughed.

By now it was well past four o’clock, and Stew and I were worn out from all the noise and constant commotion—plus hungry—so we headed for the exit.

We had come looking for a different kind of an afternoon and the Mr. San Miguel Contest certainly met our expectations. It was a hoot and I walked away admiring how much time and sweat these guys, from the feather-weight Armando to the older body builders, spent at their sport.

We were a bit disappointed though, not to receive a trophy, for something. True, we haven’t been within a mile of gym for years, but after all, we were practically the only spectators to show up on time for this event. Doesn’t punctuality deserve a trophy?

* INAPAM= For the benefit of out-of-town readers, this is a government discount program in Mexico for senior citizens.