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AM station with a fundamentalist Christian orientation. I'm hoping that's just a coincidence. My brother and his family live just south of Denver, in High- lands Ranch, a wealthy suburb that didn't even exist twenty-five years ago. It is sixty-six miles door-to-door, but the first leg is mountain driving, so it's hard to do in less than an hour. His gym isn't quite so far. I can make it in forty-five minutes if I don't hit Denver's notorious rush hour. Troy Keane's Gym is a mecca for serious bodybuilders along Colorado's Front Range. There are no chrome-plated machines like you see in the spas. He doesn't sell memberships; everyone pays by the month. He's done pretty well for a guy who never fin- ished high school. He was giving a tour to two future Schwarze- neggers when I came in, so I waited until I caught his eye, then claimed my permanent locker, changed into my workout clothes, weighed myself, and walked to the back room. The room has no official name, but a weathered black-and-white photo of Ingemar Johansson sits atop the entrance. Ingemar, for those who don't know, was the last white heavyweight champion. And probably always will be. I worked the speed bag for three two-minute sessions, then switched to the heavy bag. I hadn't thought about Mike Polk in a while and visualizing him helped me hit the bag with a little extra vigor. A former basketball star at one of the PAC-10 schools, he's tall and left-handed, so I worked combinations I thought would be effective against a big southpaw. A successful amateur boxer, I had flirted with the notion of fighting professionally, but it's hard to succeed as a heavyweight when you're only five-ten. Joe Frazier had done it, but he'd usually had to take tremendous abuse from much bigger men and hope he could weather the storm until his left hook floored his oppo- nent. I thought practicing law would be a more enjoyable way to