The dark mist has descended. I have still not really taken any time to digest or enjoy any aspect of my PCA British title victory. It is almost as if it never happened. Football training for Ollie this morning. I sit in the car and work on my online check-ins. Lots of clients fail to check in on time. This does not help my mood. My parents visit, but I’m not great company. I’m trying to grow FrontDouble, but so many people have ignored my messages. Frustration is boiling over. The thinking is truly indicative of contest prep.
Match day for Ollie. Away. It is blowing a gale. Hood up, I can still barely see as I stand there shivering. I watch the second half from the car – which I have never done – and I’m so exhausted from everything that I keep nodding off. I’m so ashamed. I’ve never done that at Ollie’s matches before. Once home, I eat, then sleep again. This is akin to BC life (before CPAP, for my sleep apnea). I check the MyAir app and mask leaks and events per hour are up 55%. This is not helping. Mood is appalling. Irritable. Short temper. That everything-is-going-wrong feeling. I start my new job as assistant gym manager tomorrow too. A client decides it is OK to check in 24 hours late, despite me saying the missed check-in means plans stay the same for seven days. I get a raft of excuses. Later, I start to will myself to turn my attention to Milan. I am doing the NPC European Masters in three weeks and it is almost as if it isn’t happening. Then I laugh and ridicule myself; the prize up for grabs is an IFBB Pro League card as a Masters. Who am I kidding? Have you seen my arms? Not that you can call them arms. My front double biceps pose is as pathetic as it gets. It’s laughable I’m even considering doing the Milan show.
Client at 10am. Stomach still an issue. I’m going to have to consider going to A&E. Frequent sharp pains and swelling. This is not right. I train my arms after my client, before starting my new job at noon. It seems to go well. By the evening, I am exhausted again. I really shouldn’t be. I help wrap the remainder of Ollie’s presents ahead of his 12th birthday tomorrow. And I continue to ridicule myself over Milan.
Ollie is 12. It is a cliché, but where does the time go? Condensed into a myriad of memories. A blur of colour and emotion. After the unwrapping in the morning, I rush to get all my meals prepped. I’ve been given a high day but don’t have everything I need. In the evening, my stomach goes nuclear. I lie on the couch in pain. My stomach bloats so much it feels like it’s about to touch the ceiling. I try to think about getting Meal 5 in, but I’m in so much discomfort I think the best thing is just to wait until I can move, then go straight to bed. Irritability off the charts. What is going on?
Client at 10am. Training just after 11. Then day three of the new job at 12. Things are getting smoother as I start to bed in and recognise how to put my stamp on things. Mood is lightening. Milan still does not seem real. I’ve done four comps and they are almost a blur now. Milan is arguably the biggest of the lot and I feel nothing. No excitement. No drive. No motivation. I take some post-workout pics and realise I look exceptionally sharp. My baseline diet has increased from 1,900 calories and now sits at roughly 2,800, with about 390g of carbs and 250g of protein and yet I’m getting sharper – leaner almost – and more vascular.
I start the day in agony. I’m lying on the kitchen floor again. Definitely considering A&E. This is not normal. Leg day too. God only knows how I get through this, especially as I don’t train until 3.15pm and have been at work since 7am. First-world problems, of course, but this is a routine I am still getting used to, new job and all. I get in and can barely keep my eyes open. I need to eat, walk the dogs, feed the kids and get food bits at Aldi. All while virtually sleepwalking. Two weeks today, we fly to Milan. I’ve barely given it a thought. The Bodybuilding Breakdown YouTube channel drops its latest video assessing the PCA British Championships. Critique is always interesting. My quads are “massive”, apparently and I’ll be “hard to beat” in Milan. They make a quip about beating your grandkids in an arm wrestle. I’m nowhere near being a granddad. My youngest are 12 and 13! Granted, the eldest is 20, but he’s hardly planning a family. Cheeky.
Good push session. The pump in my delts is brutal. Dieting at close to 400g of carbs makes me think of all the people who think they need to eliminate carbs. Ways and means, dear friends. My mood is easing, but I still feel washed out. It’s got to be the length of prep. And I wonder how that will translate to the look in the biggest competition of my young career. You know, the competition that has barely registered in my thinking.
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