Ollie scores twice, one a brilliant header with the last move of the game, gets two assists and is named man of the match. I am now broke. It makes my Sunday, but my mood is still in the bin. I hadn’t considered that this might be prep, but now I think it is. I still feel nothing about competing. Nothing whatsoever. I cannot understand it. Apathy, maybe?
I see a couple of German Over 50s on Instagram. I’m not actively looking; they just pop up on my feed. Both, to me, are miles better. And, to me, it is already game over. I message Nathan saying exactly that. He responds saying the opposite: I’m miles better. Having gone from being totally emotionally detached from this final show, I am now beaten before I’ve even left the country.
I’m expecting to train push, but Nathan wants a rest day. Calories are lowered slightly to prepare for the load. I start to feel the pinch. I’ve been feeling off for a good while. Fatigue is off the charts. My mood is very dark. Early in the evening, I get a surprise voice note from Nathan: “I need you to believe you are going to win it on Saturday. You need to realise how good you are. When you come in 100%, there is no one on that stage who can beat you.” My reply is short: "I don't like positivity for positivity sake; otherwise you are just lying to yourself."
First day of the carb load. I’m already dieting on 2,800 calories, but this is much higher. Things are OK until the evening, when I start to distend and bloat heavily. Training is brief: a pull pump session, squeezed in around clients and work but the post-workout pics are promising. Nothing about this final part of prep seems to have been smooth or optimal.
A bad night. I’m up several times to use the toilet. My stomach is distended. Horrific bloat. Repeating. The first day of the load seemed to go OK, or so I thought. But the diarrhea is now into its fifth or sixth week (I’ve honestly lost count), and two days out from the NPC European Masters, I’ve been in better positions. I wake before my 5.30am alarm, check in with Nathan, then carry on getting things ready for our 10.25am flight to Milan. We leave late, of course. As we pack the car, we realise we have one suitcase too many, and one that’s too heavy. We unpack some bits, and naturally I end up leaving behind things I needed. On the shuttle bus in, I pay for extra cabin luggage. They never check it, and I’m left wondering whether I paid nearly £80 for nothing. Fatigue is high. Very high. We wander down a suburban Milan street as November rain soaks the pavement, find a Coop and stock up on food. Pizza for the kids, naturally. And ice cream. Chicken for me. Chicken, rice and broccoli. I train with resistance bands, searching for a routine that will deliver a similar post-workout look. I think I've found it. Pics, again, look promising. I look up previous Over 50 and Over 45 winners and convince myself further of my impending failure. The mental weakness and self-hatred build.
Friday the 13th. The day before the show. I finally work out how the taxi system works and book a cab from our Airbnb to the venue. It’s only 10 minutes, but he charges me more than twice what yesterday’s driver charged for twice the distance from the airport. More unhappy than when I woke, I wander around the hotel looking for signs to registration and tanning. None to be seen. Milan is bending over backwards to be helpful. I stumble across a queue longer than the Great Wall of China and realise it’s competitors waiting to register. I get tanned first: $150-odd for a tan, and you can barely notice the first coat. More money well spent. Nathan is here with another client. He looks at my condition, and his assessment is positive. “Pro-level condition. Never seen glutes this sharp. This is ours for the taking.” I don’t share his belief. You have to be a clear winner in the eyes of five different judges, all of whom will no doubt prefer a block of mass, something I have always lacked.
Three hours later, I head back to the Airbnb. This time, the taxi charges half what it cost to get there. If there’s one thing I hate (there are several), it’s being ripped off. It’s almost 2pm, and I desperately want to relax. But the family want to head into Milan city centre to see one of the major shopping galleries. I bring my laptop and insist on finding a coffee shop to sit and work in while they wander round. Best-laid plans. It never happens, and I’m on my feet until we get in at 8.30pm. The family have fast food and ice cream. I sit there eating chicken and rice cakes. Then the Metro closes at 6pm due to a strike, so we’re forced to wait in the cold for a taxi, with a few people deciding the queue doesn’t apply to them. In the cab ride ‘home’, I start to experience a rare flood of positivity. Not knowing where it’s coming from, I let it wash over me. No one will bring my structure. No one will bring my condition, aesthetics or shape. My front lat spread can’t be beaten. Neither can my abs and thighs. I am going to win. It passes, and I promise myself I will feel better in the morning.
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