Inside Britain's Anabolic Steroid Epidemic

It starts with a little prick. Then it takes over your life.

- Alex Moshakis

AT HIS MOST POWERFUL, Alec Wilson’s biceps measured a foot and a half around, and his quads were each three hands wide. On a good day, he could dead lift 212 kg, the equivalent of a lion, and bench press 158 kg, not far off twice his own weight. In the moments before he heaved an almighty load, he would summon a rough growl up from his stomach and out of his throat, shocking his body into the production of adrenaline. Others knew when he’d arrived at the gym. They could hear him roar.

It was halfway through 2012. Wilson was 36. He was not a professional bodybuilder, like other men he knew, or a strongman, the kind that jerks boulders and tugs trucks for a living. He wasn’t even the strongest man at his gym, though it was close. He was an academic with a couple of science degrees. Most days, his office was a lab. And yet his training had become relentless. Almost every night, as soon as his young son had gone to bed, he would head to the local weights room, lift hard, and chat game with other big men, many of whom had become close friends. Often he felt he could go all night. Lifting. Talking. Lifting. Talking. ‘I’d stay until they kicked me out,’ he told me. ‘And go back the next night.’

Wilson and I first met at a bar in central Birmingham, not far from where he lives. (His name has been changed here, at his request.) Instantly, he struck me as a kind of contradiction. At 1.78 m, he isn’t tall, though he looks big. His shoulders are broad and his neck is thick. His back muscles were prominent beneath his shirt, and his chest resembled a whisky cask. In many ways he was large enough to make me feel like a small boy.