Good Friday, my friends. It’s 6:00 AM. The world’s still half-asleep, stuck in that strange pre-dawn pause where nothing moves except steam curling off a cup of black coffee. Proper jet fuel for a brain that spent too many years running on late nights and cheap bourbon.
I’m sitting here tapping this out while the light’s still grey because, for the past six weeks, I’ve been deep in a particular kind of self-inflicted punishment. A fitness kick. The goal is something loosely described as a “beach body” before a trip through Asia.
Because life on the road has a way of softening the edges. Servo food, long drives, a few too many drinks. It creeps up. I’ve always had a simple rule: when the gut sticks out further than the chest, the party’s over.
Six weeks ago, the scales were mocking me at just shy of 81kg. I was starting to resemble a Buddha with that soft, rounded figure people rub for luck. But as you get older, you realise that no amount of rubbing can stop the inevitable cardiac reckoning.
So, I’ve traded the late-night Negronis for the 5:00 AM alarm. It’s a monastic existence, mostly.
Chicken, broccoli, and tubs of Musashi protein powder. Food becomes fuel and nothing more. This morning, the scales finally blinked back 76kg, a small victory in a long war. The routine is deceptively simple, devoid of the neon-coloured nonsense peddled by fitness influencers.
On big lift days, I skip the pre-workout chemicals and opt for a slice of toast with honey. It’s effective, and it doesn’t cost you $80 a tub and give you diarrhoea. Thirty minutes in the gym, six days a week. Show up, do the work, leave.
But I haven’t turned into a saint; the soul requires a bit of dirt to stay healthy. There have been blowouts, birthdays, and the occasional bender where the night got away from me. I wake up with a head full of hammers, and simply get back on track.
The real revelation, though, is the clarity. I’ve restricted myself to one bottle of wine a week, and most weeks, that cork stays firmly in the bottle. The brain fog lifts, my energy comes back, and I start to feel like myself again, or maybe a better version of it.
I’m staring down fifty, and for the first time in a long while, I’m doing it fitter, stronger, and a bit more switched on than I’ve been in years.
Now, the sun is finally beginning to crack the horizon, spilling gold over a world that’s just waking up. I’ll sit here for a bit, drink my coffee, and let it happen.
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