By Christian Thibaudeau 

Joe came in one night looking like a man who’d stumbled into the wrong party. The squat rack was alive with teenagers bouncing around like popcorn in a skillet, all of them red-faced, wide-eyed, and yelling like they were storming Normandy. 

One kid chalked up and slapped himself in the face so hard I thought he’d knock himself out. Another was pacing like a caged tiger, headphones blaring some kind of electric buzz. The whole group looked less like lifters and more like they were auditioning for a rave. 

Joe pointed toward them, eyes wide. “Coach,” he said, “what’s going on over there? They look like they’re training for the circus.” 

Big Mike, resting between sets of deadlifts, grinned. “Pre-workout, kid. They’re juiced up on those powders — the ones that come in neon tubs and taste like battery acid mixed with cotton candy.” 

Joe blinked. “And they’re lifting like that? Should I be taking it too? I mean… maybe that’s what I need to push harder.”  

The Temptation 

Charles walked in just then, carrying his usual grocery sack. He glanced at the racket in the corner, then shook his head slowly. 

“They’re not training,” Charles said. “They’re buzzing.” 

Joe looked confused. “But they’re moving big weight, right? Doesn’t it work?” 

“Sure,” I said. “For a little while. Those drinks are loaded with stimulants. Caffeine by the truckload, exotic herbs, and half a chemistry set. They’ll light you up like a Christmas tree. But here’s the problem: what goes up…” 

“…must crash,” Mike finished with a grin.  

The Masking Game 

Charles leaned against the squat rack. “Joe, stimulants don’t make you stronger. They just trick you into thinking you’re not tired. And that’s dangerous. Fatigue is a warning sign. Your body’s way of saying, ‘Back off, I’m not ready.’ You ignore that long enough, and you’ll run yourself into the ground.” 

Joe frowned. “So they just… mask it?” 

“Exactly,” I said. “You train lit up like that, you might miss the signs of overtraining — sore joints, fried nervous system, low recovery. Instead of resting, you push harder, because the powder makes you feel like a superhero. Until one day the crash hits and you’re weaker, not stronger.”  

The Cost on the System 

Mike chimed in. “And don’t forget the toll on your heart. Slam a scoop of that rocket fuel every day, and your cardiovascular system pays the price. Blood pressure, heart rate, cortisol levels — all jacked up. That might not show when you’re 18, but ten years later? You’ll feel it.” 

Charles grunted. “Hormones too. You flood yourself with stimulants, your body pumps out stress hormones. Cortisol eats muscle, Joe. All that hype you feel? Half of it’s your body chewing up gains to fuel the fire.” 

Joe swallowed. “So you’re saying… it could actually hurt my progress?” 

“Worse than hurt,” Charles said. “It’ll stall you. Leave you burned out, jittery, and wondering why your lifts are stuck.”  

The Alternative 

Joe looked down at the barbell, suddenly less eager. “So no pre-workout at all? Just raw willpower?” 

I shook my head. “Not exactly. There’s a difference between smart fueling and getting high as a kite. You don’t need to fry your nervous system, but the right pre-workout can give you an edge. Something that sharpens focus, supports performance, and flips the anabolic switch — without turning you into a dancing light show.” 

Mike reached into his gym bag and pulled out a sleek black tub. He set it down with a thump. The label read: Drive — Eternal Warrior Supplements. 

“This,” Mike said, tapping the lid, “is the good stuff. Designed for lifters, not ravers. No silly buzz, no heart-pounding jitters. Just clean drive — focus, strength, and the nutrients your muscles actually use to grow.” 

Joe picked up the tub, turning it over in his hands. “What’s in it?” 

“Everything you need, nothing you don’t,” I said. “Compounds to help with blood flow, recovery, energy production — and the kicker? It’s built around the anabolic trigger. Supports strength and growth without frying your system.” 

Charles crossed his arms. “It won’t trick you into thinking you’re Superman. It’ll help you lift like the man you already are.” 

 The Lesson 

Joe glanced back at the corner, where the teenagers were practically foaming at the mouth, slapping each other silly before another set. He looked at Charles, then at Mike, then at me. 

“So what you’re saying,” he said slowly, “is I don’t need to be buzzing out of my mind. I need something steady. Something that helps me train hard but smart.” 

“Exactly,” I said. 

Charles gave a rare smile. “Strength isn’t built in a party. It’s built under the bar, with consistency, patience, and the right tools. Choose the tools that build you up, not the ones that burn you out.” 

Mike slapped Joe on the back. “Mix a scoop of Drive before your next session. You’ll feel the difference — sharp, strong, ready. No crash, no jitters. Just drive.” 

Joe nodded, smiling now. “All right. I’ll leave the rave to them. I’ll stick with the iron.” 

The radio hummed, the plates clanged, Pete’s salad wilted in the corner, and Joe learned another lesson that night: the best pre-workout isn’t the one that makes you dance — it’s the one that helps you lift