Olympia: Broken Thrones, Exposed Egos

The Olympia isn’t a contest. It’s a brutal judgment. The supreme court where time, genetics, obsession, and history collide without mercy. While the world celebrates entertainment championships disguised as sports, here, in October, the planet’s most demanding title is decided: not the strongest, not the fastest, but the most transformed. The one who has conquered not just rivals, but themselves. This year, as always, the truth was written in muscle, sweat, and risky decisions, some brilliant, others borderline suicidal.

In the 212 category, Keone Pearson secured his third consecutive crown, but not with the authority of a king, more like the fragility of a teetering throne. His physique, far from last year’s peak, cracked open a vulnerability that Shaun Clarida exploited with surgical precision. Clarida didn’t just improve; he redefined what it means to compete in this division. Denser, sharper, more present. Many will call him “the uncrowned champion,” but that label is a trap: at the Olympia, you either win or you’re a memory. If Keone doesn’t return with an absolute metamorphosis next year, Clarida won’t ask permission to take what he’s already proven he deserves.

Classic Physique was a brutal reminder: the Arnold isn’t the Olympia. Mike Sommerfeld, fresh off his 2025 Arnold Classic win, arrived thinking the same physique would suffice. Mistake. Ramon Rocha, with the resolve of someone who’s fallen and risen in silence, seized the absence of Urs Kalecinski and Wesley Vissers to impose a different narrative: that of the redeemer. Sommerfeld, meanwhile, shed too much weight, lost his edge, and instead of defending his aesthetic identity, tried to mimic Dino’s density, and failed. The lesson is clear: in Classic Physique, harmony is non negotiable. Terrence Ruffin and Josema Muñoz, on the other hand, hinted that the future of this division won’t be a duel, but a war on three or four fronts.

The Open, as always, was the epicenter of chaos. Defending champion Samson Dauda fell to fourth with a physique that seemed better suited for Classic Physique, light, soft, out of place. Derek Lunsford, Hadi Choopan, and Andrew Jacked didn’t just surpass him, they exposed him. Lunsford, in particular, presented his most refined self: volume without losing symmetry, hardness without sacrificing proportion. Meanwhile, Nick Walker, the media phenomenon mistaken by many for a true contender, confirmed his ceiling: Pittsburgh was an illusion. Lunsford used that competition as a lab, Walker, as a promise. Big difference. They used to call Nick Walker “the mutant”, now they call him Nick “talker.”

Choopan remains a living paradox: one of the most consistent bodybuilders of the modern era, yet also the most stagnant. Four years with the same physique, the same condition, the same arguments. Admirable, yes, but insufficient. At the Olympia, perfection isn’t enough if it doesn’t evolve. And Choopan, as much as we admire him, no longer surprises. His body has said all it had to say. He needs an internal revolution, not more tweaks.

Behind every result lies a story of miscalculations, mismanaged egos, and training that crossed the line between discipline and self destruction. The Olympia doesn’t forgive arrogance disguised as confidence. Nor does it reward social media popularity. Here, only what the mirror doesn’t lie about matters: the quality of the muscle, the depth of the definition, the audacity of the transformation. Everything else is noise.

What makes the Olympia transcendent isn’t the stage, the lights, or even the prizes. It’s the rawness of its truth: in this sport, you are your only rival and your only masterpiece. No one else can build you. No one else can destroy you. And when the curtain falls, there are no excuses, just facts written in flesh.

This year, Lunsford didn’t just win. He sent a message: the human body still has frontiers to cross. And if he returns with more, more muscle, more sharpness, more hunger, he won’t just be a three time champion. He’ll be an era. The Olympia doesn’t belong to those who wait their turn. It belongs to those who take it.