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Outside Magazine November 2003
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Drug Test (Cont.)

ON THE WEEKEND OF MARCH 1, after only a few days of treatment, I traveled to Furnace Creek, California, and rode in the Death Valley Double Century. I didn't feel very augmented: The race was a minor disaster, and I limped over the finish line so late that they were timing by calendar, not stopwatch. I felt disappointed not just in my performance but, oddly, in my drug.

I was soothed a bit the next week when I went in for my first follow-up with Dr. Jones. I handed his nurse the stylish silver kit I'd been given to house my HGH bottles and syringes so that she could safely dispose of my used needles.

"You're not using the growth hormone?" she asked, puzzled.

"Sure I am. For two weeks."

She held up a small vial with an unbroken seal. "This is the growth hormone. It hasn't been opened."

I pointed to a large vial filled with red liquid. "That's what I've been injecting." Then a quick burst of panic. "What is it?"

"Don't worry. It's vitamin B12. We use it to mix with the growth hormone. This is just the extra B12 we didn't use yet. Don't worry, B12 is good stuff. Gives you more energy."

"I'm an idiot."

"The growth hormone does help with cognitive functions," she said cheerfully. "They're starting to use it with early Alzheimer's."

After a few weeks of the HGH, I began to notice subtle changes. My skin started getting... better. Sun blotches that I'd had on my arms for a year faded away. One morning I woke up and a scar on my forehead—which I'd gotten from a mountain-bike endo two years earlier—was more or less gone. Even though I was training like a madman, I looked more rested. Younger. A little fresher.

Then I started to realize that my eyesight really was improving. I'd been thinking about getting glasses to read fine print on maps, but now there was no need. The glasses I used for night driving stayed in the glove compartment, unused, unnecessary.

Dr. Jones had a specific protocol he wanted to follow, partly for safety reasons and partly so I could discern what each drug was doing. After the HGH, he added testosterone, giving me a 200-milligram injection and a pump vial full of Testocream, white stuff that I rubbed on the sides of my stomach. "It's like with a bathtub," Dr. Jones explained. "The shot fills the tub. The cream keeps replenishing it every day to top it off."

For most men—and women—testosterone production peaks in your twenties and slowly declines. Testosterone urges the RNA, or message center, in muscle cells to create more protein, hence more muscles. Higher testosterone levels have been shown to increase energy and aggression, in both men and women. Anti-aging types believe that testosterone decline is a big factor in the loss of muscle and the increase in fat that are standard signs of getting older. Not to mention a loss of libido. There can be side effects from taking it—ranging from acne to high blood pressure—but the drug's many fans think the trade-off is worth it.

I walked out of Dr. Jones's office smiling broadly, then waited for a werewolf surge. And I waited. But the truth is, I didn't feel much of anything. No irresistible bursts of lust or rage, no particular feelings of omnipotence. That afternoon I went home and celebrated my newfound energy and aggression with a long nap.


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