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I’ll let you into a wee secret; I don’t look great naked. Pigeon chest, skinny arms, freakishly out of proportion calves balanced on delicate ankles, and you definitely don’t want to see my toenails! Maybe not the most alluring of images. Now obviously this is a subjective viewpoint, and one succumbing to the prescribed narrative of accepted beauty norms; but essentially when I wander round a swimming pool, the gathered ladies (and men) aren’t often peeking over the top of their shades for an eyeful of my chiselled torso. There was a time when first discovering a previously untapped aptitude…

It’s 2:42am.  I can’t sleep. The unfamiliar cocktail of caffeine and sugar is still coursing through me, synapses firing and thoughts swirling.  I need to write, to understand, to analyse and for catharsis, the disappointment of yesterday’s race raw and grating.  The chemical contaminants will work themselves through my system soon but the mental anguish will undoubtedly linger, festering on my psyche, why did it go so wrong? Overriding emotions from a whirlwind of a day.  Disgust, loneliness, emptiness, dredging the depths of physical and mental reserves.  To do so for victory, be it through winning or personal achievement feels…