He was James A. Corea, Ph.D., Dr. Science, ND, RPT. He’d been doing this for 30 years, and now, in his 60s, he combined the ease of that experience with the energy of a teen. In his personal appearances at the WWDB Health and Fitness Fair (where he was always the main draw) in Valley Forge, he was a mastiff let loose, charging about in his tight shorts, dyed skin and hair, determined to make things happen around him. If the thick torso, thinning hair and slightly crazed face violated expectations, the animation didn’t. You had to expect the animation if you were a listener, because this guy had a voice.

You could win age-bets on this Voice: gentle-tough, part doc, part-jock, who combined a reg’lar-guy street patter — Rocky Balboa on espresso — with the earnest didacticism of a health professional. His was a reassuring voice, always upbeat, challenging your inertia without shaming you, including you in the realm of men and women capable of doing big things.

“OK, Jen, You’re up... yo, Jen! Dump the diet! You can forget these goofy fad diets... all of ’em! They don’t work, people! We gotta get you eating like a champ... Whey protein? Yep, Jen, I like it a lot... Fish? I have some every day. How about a bowl of pasta with olive oil and broccoli... sound good? Thighmaster? Don’t waste your money! Gotta do squats, people... listen up, there’s nothing finer for the wheels and the buns... and, yo, dump those Fonda tapes... hey, Jen (laughing), you don’t even wanna get me started on Hanoi Jane...”

Self-labeled “to the right of Attila the Hun,” Corea evoked an America most of us barely remember, a misty prehistoric, pre-skepticism Camelot of safe neighborhoods, respect for authority, wholesome ideals and the naïveté that allowed them. He had little use for political correctness and sounded off on current events to the dismay of his producers, who were constrained by his popularity to keep quiet. “Profiling” was necessary, homosexuals were tolerated with a smirk; America, love-it-or-leave-it, could do no wrong. “In a world of compromise,” Corea would say, “some people don’t.”

On law and order: “Cop-killer? I’ll tell you how we fix that... one of Philly’s finest puts one right between his eyes... Pow! End of that detail... lemme tell you something, people... that thin blue line’s all that’s between us and them... these guys put their lives on the line for us each and every day... Police abuse? Yeah, right! Tell that to his widow and kids...”

On motivation: “You’re bummed ’cause you had a bad day? Hey, I work with guys missing limbs, paraplegics, guys who’ll never walk, or see, or gotta void through a tube into a rubber bag... listen people, when you’ve seen that, every day’s a good day!”

On back surgery: “Don’t do it, people... don’t get the cut. You ask any of these same docs if they’d get cut themselves... yo, they’re out the door, double-time!”

On sex: “OK, guys, listen up, because tonight the Love Doctor is in the chair, and he’s gonna tell you all the things your gals wish you knew about getting the job done in the rack... How about a rose on the pillow? They like that? Uh-huh! Hygiene... listen up, guys, this is numero uno! Hit that shower first! Now, let’s talk about that other biggie: foreplay... Hey, any you guys know about that? (laughing)... ‘Huh?’... ‘Whazzat?’ Pay attention, guys...the Love Doc’s gonna turn you into a sexual tyrannosaurus...

He’d been a Marine, an all-around jock from Camden who’d dabbled in Olympic weightlifting, powerlifting and bodybuilding, and started a supplement company (Vita-Labs) in 1958. In the ’60s, Corea was a strength coach for the Philadelphia Eagles, then for over three decades he operated a gym and physical rehabilitation facility, conducted police academy fitness training and hosted a top-rated radio show on Philly’s WWDB. In addition, he was a professor at the Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine and one of the most popular naturopathic physicians in the Northeast.

The few times he ever got sick, he disguised it,
and was irritated if anyone noticed.

Some of Corea’s idiosyncrasies were the stuff of lore, if not legend. He’d never imbibed alcohol in his life, not even a glass of champagne at his wedding. He was proud of his “wheels,” wearing shorts every day of the year, even in sub-zero weather. He never took vacations, rose at 5:30 every morning and lifted for several hours, then ran a few miles. He always ate “like a champ” and supplemented with a vast array of vitamins and natural supplements. The few times he ever got sick, he disguised it, and was irritated if anyone noticed. Some missed his humor, finding him noisy, arrogant and regressive, especially in his attitude toward women. One feminista, writing for The Philadelphia Inquirer, limned him as a psychotic and the worst male chauvinist since Sean Connery. Yet he was unfailingly patient with his callers (“just take your time, relax, hon, I’m not going anywhere...”), never losing his cool, no matter how insane the question, no matter how jammed the phone lines. You had to love a guy like this, no matter what his politics.

And we did. Tens of thousands of us found reassurance in this Voice, this dynamo who was making being 60-something sound so robust and ass-kicking we could look forward to it. We thought Dr. Jim would go on forever. When he died of a heart attack on March 5, we were stunned. He’d squatted over 500 pounds onstage at the WWDB Fitness Fair less than a year earlier and was making his return to radio after WWDB folded. Now, impossibly, the Voice was forever stilled.

And just as impossibly, it seemed he’d departed with scarcely a ripple. But he had, the silence requested by his family probably owing to the same sort of embarrassment Corea felt at exhibiting a cold; his death diluted his message. Inevitably there will be those who point to his untimely demise as reason to dismiss physical culture altogether, or as retribution for his fanaticism. They’ll be the exceptions; most of us will continue to embrace his no-nonsense approach to living, looking for that essence that kept him so full-throttle happy!

He’d never let Memorial Day or Dec. 7 go by without a somber reminder of our blessed fortune. “These colors don’t run,” a stock Corea shibboleth, went from cornball jingoism to national mantra on Sept. 11. One can picture his response to that day and its aftermath, bringing with it an affirmation of many things he’d espoused all along. He’d take it, this terrible thing, and he’d use it. He’d make some good come of it: “Yo, people... here’s where we show the world what we’re made of... standing tall, pulling together when things get tough, doing what America does best, kicking ass, taking names, getting the job done, be it on the battlefield or in the gym... as one tough American said to others: ‘Let’s roll!’”

Adapted from an editorial that appeared in Musclemag International.