The original question is what I would tell Bryson if he were my son:
"Bryson me lad, don't pay any more attention to the unctuous pukes flattering you than the armchair critics and fetid detractors - not one of whom is within 100 miles of your terminally nerdish, technical I.Q. . . . . worry more about the fact there is invariably a downstream price to pay for mounting a bored out, 427 Hemi motor on a chassis made for a mid-sized road racer."
Putting aside Barry Bonds (for you Brits, that was one of our hyper-pumped, 'roided out "American Cricket" players), I would opine the clearest cautionary tale would be Tiger himself. I spent a day with him, just before he turned professional. Then, just a few short years later . . . . . . don't tell me that skinny, lanky kid suddenly had a body (thick neck and shoulders) like John Elway, whose muscles rippled when he walked, without a whole lot of chemical help.
Sammy Sosa anybody? Add in irrational behavior, uncontrollable sex drive and basic instability . . . . . voila, sound familiar?
I am not saying Bryson is juiced and jacked - and certainly has control of his intellectual faculties, BUT, everybody (Tiger particularly) who stacks a supercharger on their stock motor eventually starts blowing gaskets, throwing rods and twisting their chassis frame into pretzels from pure torque. Maybe Bryson is 100% protein shakes and pumping iron, but it is only a matter of time before the piper presents his invoice.