Randomized studies involving anabolic steroids in humans have not been done for ethical reasons, but anecdotal evidence abounds in the medical community about side effects as harmless as acne and as harmful as stroke and heart attacks. The documentary does give equal time to physicians warning of serious consequences.

It was the athletes' hypocrisy, more than anything, that led Bell to come clean in the documentary and tell of his testosterone use.

"It's better to be upfront about it," he says. "I didn't hesitate because I got sick of hearing athletes say on TV, 'I think it was flaxseed oil I took.' I understand why people don't want to admit it. They've got a lot to lose."

So, too, with Bell.

Which is why he's quick to add that it was a personal decision, and that he neither recommends nor discourages others. He definitely feels teens should not use.

And although he has taken steroids, on and off, since he was 25, Bell says it doesn't define who he is. One misconception about anabolic steroids, both Bell and the documentary emphasize, is that they are completely responsible for his powerlifting prowess.

Bell sees their use as something of a training supplement, an aid to help him log the time and rigorous workouts needed to achieve 800-pound bench presses.

"It's kind of cumulative, gaining strength," Bell says. "With the addition of the drugs, you can kind of steadily move forward."

A visit to the Super Training gym disabuses anyone from the notion that Bell's success is mere chemical enhancement. There is a lot of sweating, straining, grunting, ear-splitting rock music and flying chalk powder involved.

Bell and fellow lifters work hard in an intimate environment it shares with another gym, Midtown Strength and Fitness. Two years ago, Bell realized his dream of opening a gym where lifters worked together to get better.

Their ranks started out with three; now there are 25. At the gym, hardcore, 700-pound bench-pressers and 1,000-pound squatters coexist with mere mortals just trying to gain a measure of strength.

"This is a little Fight Clubish here," Bell says, referring to the Brad Pitt male-bonding movie. "But we have people of all shapes and sizes. We got a guy 155 pounds and a guy 500 pounds. We've got a few women, too. We push each other."

Often, Bell will take a younger lifter under his wing.

"I've been here one year," says Treston Shull, 24, a Bell protégé, "and the kind of gains I've made here would've taken me five years someplace else. That's mainly because of Mark. He'll take an hour out of his own workout to watch and make sure you aren't messing up. He's like a coach to everybody."

Well, not exactly everybody.

Bell has a heated, if friendly, rivalry with Cartwright.

"We get our jabs in at each other," Cartwright says, laughing. "But we also both encourage each other in this environment. It's different in competitions. Then, we both want to win."

Indeed, winning is paramount to Bell. It's what drives him.

"It defines me," he says. I know it really (shouldn't). I'm a husband and dad and I've got other things going on. But I just want to win."

His immediate goal is to bench press 900 pounds in a full competition (which includes squats and dead-lifts). Long term, he's shooting for a world record of 2,700 (combined for all three events) in the 308-pound weight class.

At 31, he's just entering his prime as a powerlifter, so it's possible – if his body doesn't fail him from pushing himself relentlessly.

"I'm in pain all the time, 24 hours a day," Bell says. "It can be bad, sometimes, getting up in the morning. The human body is not supposed to be over 300, so that also takes some wear and tear on you."

And what of the possible long-term bodily wear and tear that testosterone use might wreak? Bell says the same thing he said in the documentary: "Whatever happens from it, happens. I have no regrets."

The only person regretting his actions, it seems, is one Joe Garlup.

Call The Bee's Sam McManis, (916) 321-1145.