Monday through Saturday, Mr. Coleman arrives around noon for a two-hour workout with his three training partners, Gus Carter and Curtis Fails, both amateur bodybuilders, and Vickie Gates, a pro who this Spring won the Arnold Schwarzenegger Classic, another prestigious bodybuilding competition; she is also Mr. Coleman's girlfriend of five years. Together, in their tights and muscle shirts, the four look like they're just taking a break from their main gig in Marvel Comics.

Their camaraderie is obvious, and obviously an essential part of what keeps each one motivated. "It's incredible -- you miss a day, you better have a damn good excuse," says Mr. Fails.

During the workouts, they move from one area to the next, each taking a turn with a machine or free weights while the others watch and offer encouragement -- usually of the good-natured taunting variety. Lifting the heaviest weights, Mr. Coleman always takes the last turn.
"I've been dreaming weight like this," he informs the 450 pounds of iron plates he's about to lift. He wraps his hands around the barbell and barks: "Yuh-uhp, yep-yep-yep, yuh-uhp!" And then he begins his grudge match with gravity. His nostrils flare. His muscles balloon. The whites of his eyes turn pink. Up and down the weights go, crisply, methodically. "Nine, 10, 11, 12....," he counts, almost breathlessly, before finally, blessedly, the release comes. Clang.

A monotonous diet
Besides the weight-training, Mr. Coleman each day completes 45 minutes to an hour of treadmill walking, his cardiovascular exercise. Then, 12 weeks before a major competition, he adds the other key elements to his regimen: a second round of cardio exercise and a diet that is far more about fueling than it is about dining.

The purpose is to whittle the body down to the barest minimum of fat and water content. When he starts to diet, Mr. Coleman usually weighs about 320 pounds, with an estimated 8% of it body fat -- still less than half of what's normal for an adult male. If all goes as planned, he'll drop 60 pounds over the 12 weeks.

The basic daily menu plan -- consumed in six meals -- features a huge quantity of lean meats (up to 5 pounds) and liquids (around 2 gallons); a moderate amount of starchy carbohydrates, such as rice and potatoes; and vitamin and mineral supplements to fill in the nutritional gaps.

On;y the most disciplined athletes can endure the monotony of the diet, says Mr. Coleman's nutritionist, Chad Nicholls.
"Halfway through this diet, I can guarantee you'll be sitting there watching television, and the only thing you'll notice are the food commercials," says Mr. Nicholls, who lives in Springfield, Mo., and specializes in sports nutrition.

Mr. Coleman admits to having cravings -- doughnuts and cheesecake are two favorites -- while he's on the diet, but he neither cheats nor complains.

Mr. Coleman began working out with Mr. Nicholls in anticipation of the 1998 Mr. Olympia competition. In his six years as a pro, the bodybuilder had finished no higher than sixth in the event, but he figured the '98 contest might offer him at least a shot at the elite top five. The reason: Dorian Yates, the man who had had a virtual lock on the title for six years, had decided to retire, a development that held the potential of a complete rescrambling of the pecking order.

But McGough confirms that Mr. Coleman wasn't on anyone's list to take the title. "Most Mr. Olympias are prodigies," he says. "If they're great, they come through very quickly. Ronnie came through slowly, bit by bit. It was a real study in perseverance."

Mr. Coleman's nemesis was no different than any other bodybuilder's -- water retention that tends to make muscles look soft. To counter the tendency, Mr. Nicholls recalibrated Mr. Coleman's diet, hoping his body would respond to various additions and subtractions of proteins, carbs, and fluids over time.

"It's really a matter of trial and error," the nutritionist says. "But we got lucky."

Chants of 'Ronnie!'
When Mr. Coleman showed up at the New York event in October, Mr. McGough says he immediately noticed the difference. "He was really much harder," he says. "He retained his size, but he had the density and granite hardness."

Mr. Nicholls, who is also Flex Wheeler's nutritionist, sensed Mr. Coleman had the edge going into the last day of competition. "Flex was in a catch-up mode, and Ronnie was ahead of schedule," he says. "He was so good, nothing you could do was going to stop him from being in shape that day."

By the time Mr. Coleman was named one of the six finalists, he had already become the crowd favorite. Chants of "Ronnie! Ronnie! Ronnie!" went up during the onstage "pose-down" with the other finalists, then later, when the panel of judges had winnowed the field to Mr. Coleman and Mr. Wheeler.

As the two bodybuilders stood onstage, waiting for the second-place finisher's name to be called, "I was praying, 'Please don't let my name be called next,' " says Mr. Coleman. His knees buckled the moment he heard Mr. Wheeler's name.

"I don't even remember too much after that," says Mr. Coleman.

He's no Superman
What makes Mr. Coleman's victory all the more remarkable is the fact that he is the only one among the top 10 pro bodybuilders to hold down a full-time job. Mr. Coleman doesn't need the salary; with endorsements, contest earnings, and fees from weekend appearances, he's already pulling down significant six figures.

But he's a man motivated far more by work than money. His makeup seems to crave a rhythm -- whether it's the ups and downs of a barbell, the beat of the hip-hop music he prefers, or the clock he punches five days a week at the police station. Taking the 3-to-11 pm shift allows him his lengthy midday workouts, but he has little time for much else.

The other pros "think I'm crazy," he says, "but I enjoy what I'm doing."

Mr. Coleman spends his workdays cruising Arlington's East side, taking whatever calls come his way -- more often than not, teenagers running amok with drinking, fighting or shoplifting. In his nearly 10 years as an officer, Mr. Coleman says he's never had to use brute force on a suspect -- but then, who would want to pick a fight with this guy? Still, he's got sense enough to know he's no Superman. He wouldn't think of leaving his precinct without his gun, his custom-made bulletproof vest, or his two gold ballpoint pens adorned with tiny angels.

"I ordered them out of a catalog," says Mr. Coleman, who keeps them tucked in a breast pocket. "I just thought it'd be a good idea. They watch over me."

Well aware of the imposing figure he cuts in his uniform (also custom-made), Mr. Coleman is soft-spoken and easygoing as he makes his rounds in his patrol car, and his shyness is often evident.

"Gawww....," a wide-eyed teenager blurts out at one of his calls as she surveys his physique. "Do you work out?"

Incredibly, it's a question he gets a lot; he offers his standard, offhand reply: "Sometimes."

"Ron is a down-to-earth person," workout partner Gus Carter says. "He doesn't walk around with his nose all stuck up in the air. He wasn't brought up like that."

Even with the title, "I feel like a regular person," says Mr. Coleman. "I haven't gotten over being who I was growing up. I'm still the same person."

And now, as he prepares to defend his title this month -- to see if he can live out the "Ronnie" movie sequel -- he says he's still feeling like the underdog. Even though the September issue of Flex declares Mr. Coleman the favorite, Mr. Wheeler is determined to be at his peak this time around. For Mr. Coleman, a second title would show the world he's no fluke.

"I've still got something to prove," he says.
The tedious diet, the punishing iron-pumping, the two exhausting rounds of cardio exercise on top of the late-night police shifts -- it's all in full swing now. But Mr. Coleman isn't griping.

"It's easy," he says.

Easy? If that's easy, then what's hard?

Working for Domino's -- that was hard," he says. I didn't enjoy that."