ALEXANDRIA, Minn. — After landing 40 hammerfists to the side of Randy Couture's head in a November bout, Brock Lesnar seized the Ultimate Fighting Championship's heavyweight crown and the moment. The chiseled 6-3, 280-pound former Minnesota Gophers wrestler climbed onto the cage and saluted the crowd.

Celebrities such as rapper 50 Cent, Philadelphia Phillies slugger Ryan Howard and actress Mandy Moore cheered. Lesnar's wife, a former Playboy Playmate, jumped into the octagon and planted one on him. UFC President Dana White placed the gold belt around his waist and later paid him $450,000 for one night of work. Nearly 15,000 in the stands and more than a million via pay-per-view watched his triumph.

But by Sunday morning, Lesnar had left the glamour of Las Vegas to return to the solitude of his 40-acre ranch. There, he farms corn with the help of a brand new tractor, a return to his roots — he grew up in tiny Webster, S.D., on a struggling dairy farm. Days later, he'd packed up his gear and left for a hunting trip.

Lesnar resides two hours west of the Twin Cities in Alexandria, Minn., which is about five times larger than Webster with a population of 11,000. He leaves in a few days for Las Vegas, site of his first title defense against Frank Mir, the only man who has defeated him in four previous pro mixed martial arts fights.

Mir and Lesnar have top billing on Saturday night's UFC 100 card, which could shatter every mixed martial arts PPV record.

Lesnar once again will perform for thousands, just a day ahead of his 32nd birthday, before hopping on a plane and returning to the desired isolation Alexandria provides. Although he's worth millions and has been one of the biggest draws in athletics the past decade, he chooses to live like the J.D. Salinger of sports.

Lesnar emerges once or twice a year to punch, kick, knee and wrestle a predetermined foe for a half-million bucks and extras that likely include a portion of the UFC's PPV revenue. The bulk of his time is spent in Alexandria, or "Alec" as the locals call it, where few would expect to find a man who earned the moniker "the Next Big Thing" in the WWE, after winning a national wrestling title at Minnesota in 2000.

"I'm not a big spotlight kind of guy, and if I was, I was probably faking it before," he said. "I'm content with my family and my life right now and the way my career is going. Nothing more, nothing less."

Living in Alexandria offers him limited exposure. The address posted on his nondescript private gym is missing a zero, and its yellow siding is faded. A gate outside of his home thwarts unwanted attention — as if he's not enough of a deterrent by himself.

You won't find Brock Lesnar on Facebook or Twitter. He doesn't own a computer and shuns the Internet. He hates TV and only occasionally turns on the nightly news or the Outdoor Channel.

Odd for a man whose three fights earned 2.2 million PPV buys last year and who partially owes his status as a household name to the media he detests. The fan base for the UFC, which topped boxing and pro wrestling with $230 million-plus earned through more than 5 million pay-per-view buys in 2008, has grown since Lesnar joined the organization last year. With a victory over Mir, he arguably will become the sport's biggest name.

"Obviously, Brock Lesnar has really broke onto the scene," White said.

Some of Lesnar's peers resent the way the UFC has catered to and compensated its new star.

"Up until two years ago, I had a full-time job on the side," said Mir, who became a legend when he snapped a man's arm during a 2004 bout.

Hollywood producers have called Lesnar's camp with dozens of offers, but he has turned them all down. His contemporaries, however, take advantage of the UFC's booming business.

Couture, one of the company's biggest names, just wrapped up production on "The Expendables," which will feature actors Sylvester Stallone and Jet Li. Chuck Liddell has appeared on HBO's popular show "Entourage." Gatorade has a two-page ad featuring Georges St. Pierre in the latest issue of Rolling Stone.

"Just about everywhere I go, I take pictures and sign autographs," said Couture, who lives in Las Vegas.

Alexandria is a straight shot northwest of Minneapolis on Interstate 94. Locals embrace every element of small-town America.

Big Ole, a 28-foot Viking statue, is its most prominent structure. The local state rep lists his phone number on a billboard.

A display outside of a jewelry store reads: "Let Kyle serve you." A traffic sign warns motorists: "Slow. Goose Crossing."

Lesnar left the Twin Cities for Alexandria last year, a move that allowed him to live closer to a 7-year-old daughter from a previous relationship. But it also gave him a sense of solace, something he'd never found in the WWE.

After Lesnar won the NCAA wrestling title in 2000, he didn't know what to do. He didn't have any money. And he hated school. That's when World Wrestling Entertainment President Vince McMahon offered him $250,000 and a multiyear contract, answering any questions he had about his immediate future.

"Here I was wondering how I was going to buy myself a beer and a steak after the national tournament, reaching down and pulling out lint," Lesnar said. "It was pretty easy. Go with a sure thing. And the sure thing at the time was becoming a pro wrestler."

Lesnar quickly rose in the world's most lucrative pro wrestling operation, becoming the organization's youngest heavyweight champ at 25. Some reports suggest that he left the WWE midway through a seven-year deal worth $45 million, but others put the figure between $1 million and $2 million per year over a three-year career.

With the fame and money, however, came a self-destructive lifestyle, involving late nights, alcohol and pain killers. He says his weapons of choice were Vicodin and vodka.

"You're in a different city every night," he said. "You can be whoever you want to be. You can sit in your hotel room and rot to death or you can go out and . . . just use your imagination. And I didn't use my imagination, I was living it."

Lesnar continued: "Really, I was a young man, 22 years old. Bank accounts overflowing and everything else."

For the first time in his life, Lesnar didn't have to worry about money.

John Schiley, a wrestling coach in Lesnar's hometown of Webster, S.D., mentored him from the time he was a youth all the way through high school. He said the family bills weren't always paid. Sometimes, Lesnar borrowed Schiley's torch and welder to make his own toys.

"They never had the capital or equity enough to get 'em going," he said. "And every day was a day to try to buy milk and keep the family fed."

With a Mercedes, a Hummer, four houses and a private plane, Lesnar had pulled himself out of that poverty. But he didn't have any peace. And he felt like everything was working against him, illustrated by the tattoo on his chest, which depicts a knife pointing toward his neck.

After leaving pro wrestling and failing to make the Minnesota Vikings roster in 2004, however, Lesnar found his calling, while pursuing a new profession.

One by one, the brood of bruisers, all standing at least 6 feet tall and weighing 250 pounds and up, file into Lesnar's gym. Inside, there's a series of rubber mats, free weights, tires and an ice bath. Eerie paintings of armored warriors and dogs in the midst of battle make it clear that combat soon will take place.

Lesnar walks to the center of the room. The fighters stop what they're doing, stare up at him and don't dare interrupt.

"The landlord called and the place is not in good shape," Lesnar says in a calm but frustrated tone about the condition of the rental property he leases to accommodate his crew before a fight. "I'm responsible for that house. If you break something, tell me. My name is on this."

"Yes, sir," replies Eric Prindle, a former Army boxer with a 6-4, 300-pound sculpted frame. Then, UFC fighter Chris Tuchscherer — a 6-2, 265-pounder with a 17-1 record — raises his hand. "I'll take care of it," he said.

Lesnar pays the assortment of brawlers, some of whom have come from as far away as Arizona, to help him train for his fights. Some of the fighters have legit credentials and offer Lesnar stiff competition in sparring sessions.

Others, such as former Minnesota Gophers wrestler Cole Konrad, aren't sure mixed martial arts is for them. Lesnar brings Konrad in anyway to give him a boost while he tries to figure out his next move, after recently failing to make the Vikings' roster, an experience the two share and discuss.

Lesnar lured his former wrestling coach, Marty Morgan, from his post as an assistant at Minnesota and pays him to oversee his training. His mixed martial arts coach, Greg Nelson, runs a gym in the Twin Cities. Lesnar tries to make sure that everyone in his tight circle benefits from his success.

Insiders admire Lesnar's loyalty and work ethic. Those close to him also say that Lesnar is outgoing and humorous when he's around people he trusts.

"They've got my back and I've got theirs, too," he said.

Lesnar doesn't bend when it comes to his personal privacy. He won't let media snap photos of him on his ranch. He won't say what he named his newborn baby.

His barber wouldn't talk about him because he hadn't gotten Lesnar's permission to do interviews. When he grabs a beer in Alexandria, patrons keep their distance, unless Lesnar invites them closer.

"He usually comes in with his sparring partners and his training group," said Chad Meyer, owner of Fat Daddy's, which will air Lesnar's fight against Mir on Saturday. "For the most part, people leave him alone."

Lesnar said he's become a homebody because he's had to deal with "shady" people throughout his life. As a kid in South Dakota, Lesnar didn't gain support from an abundance of people. But when he became famous, Schiley said, he had to stay in his wrestling coach's basement to escape whenever he came home.

"There were people that didn't think much of him who were his very best friends then, but he knew the difference," Schiley said.

His extremely private nature hasn't necessarily enhanced his image, created by an off-the-cuff persona. Lesnar said he's "built like a black man," before offering this response to questions about his physique in a May Maxim interview: "God gave me this body: Are you jealous of it or what?"

Lesnar's shoulders sit atop his torso like a camel's humps. His biceps are shaped like pythons. His neck is as wide as a barrel.

During his 2004 NFL tryout, he reportedly put up better bench press numbers than Houston Texans defensive end Mario Williams, the 2006 No. 1 overall draft pick. Lesnar graduated from high school weighing less than 210 pounds. But by the end of two years of junior college, he'd packed on 60 more.

Many have questioned whether his ability is natural or manufactured. During an ESPN interview last year, Lesnar took off his microphone and walked away when he was asked about steroid allegations. He always has maintained that he never has taken any performance-enhancing drugs.

"I've taken every random drug test I possibly can," he said. "That must mean I've never taken anything."

Before leaving the gym for the day, he searches for his hair gel. He throws on a pair of dark sunglasses and gets ready to head out the door.

But he's startled when he notices a baby's car seat in the lobby.

"Is my wife here?" Just outside, Rena, formerly known as the WWE's Sable, sits in the family's hybrid SUV, holding their new son.

Lesnar grabs his baby boy, only weeks old, and gently straps him into his car with his size 4X hands. He closes the car door and drives away. The vehicle's tinted windows make it impossible to see who's inside.

"Our dream is just to go home and shut our gate."

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