Back in New York, I joined the Midtown Y and fell in with a crew of hard-hat bruisers – vice cops and garbagemen in chalk-smudged Speedos and calf-high wrestling boots. I thought they were giants until the day in June when the real size kings walked in. Two of them, Tommy and Spiro, had chiseled trunks and the complicated, quasi-Cubist planes that give away hardcore juicers. But it was the third one, a mocha-skinned guy named Angel, that I couldn't pry my gaze off. When he doffed his Puma jacket and burned through upright rows, I saw the kind of vascular, strand-on-strand rhomboids you find in Da Vinci studies. There was art in what he did and art in what he made: muscle from a fourth dimension. I gathered my flimsy nerve and said hello.