What the Photograph Doesn’t Show

Mum sent me a photograph this week. It’s me taking part in the Windsor Triathlon in 2000. Shaved legs and chest, tiny Lycra and incredibly cool sunglasses. Or so I thought at the time.

Twenty-six years ago. I’m still processing that bit. I was old enough to afford expensive triathlon bikes and young enough to push them to the limit.

Alongside this, rave culture was in full swing. Every weekend I would go out on Friday evening and not return until Sunday, surviving on zero sleep, chocolate milk and whatever drugs I could get my hands on.

During the week, I trained hard, often twice a day, fooling myself that I needed to “sweat it out”. Working out seemed to take the edge off my midweek come-down, and I used that as another reason to keep training.

I had two sets of friends: those I trained with and those I partied with. The two didn’t know each other. These two parts of my life were vying for supremacy, and eventually I settled on an ambition: “I want to be the best triathlete that hasn’t been to bed yet.” It kind of made sense to me at the time.

Behind the photograph

The photograph shows someone lean and capable of completing a triathlon. It doesn’t show how I was treating myself.

My weekends were relentless and I was eating about half of what I needed, my body fat dropped to 7%. I was constantly tired, irritable and short-tempered. After those sleepless weekends, I could feel paranoid and find it hard to trust people. I was selfish and self-obsessed, and my relationships suffered.

Was I addicted? I still ask myself that question. I was definitely dangerously obsessed.

There were things about that time that I loved: the music, the friendships and the sense of freedom. There were also periods of the most profound darkness. It felt as though I’d borrowed all the joy from the week ahead and spent it in one weekend. The following days were hollow.

This tussle continued for another couple of years after the photograph was taken. Then slowly, something inside me wanted to be kinder to myself, and fitness started to win the battle.

I didn’t make one conscious decision to stop. The weekends gradually got further apart, and I learned to say “no”. I still remember how liberating it was to have a functioning Sunday. A whole day available to enjoy, after so many spent hiding from the world.

Looking at the photograph, I know I won’t complete a triathlon in the time he did. But alongside admiring what he could do, I feel sadness for him. His engine was constantly over-revving.

I can’t change my past. There are things I regret, but I’m at peace with it, and I’ve learned to like who I am.

Ultimately, being healthy won out, and I’m glad it did. I’ve found fulfilment with Julie and purpose at Beyond Walls.

An invitation: a photograph and a conversation

That’s why I’m sharing this as we begin Men’s Health Month.

We can see someone every week, train alongside them and have very little idea of what they’ve experienced or how they’re doing. My friends twenty-six years ago were only vaguely aware of what was going on with me.

Maybe a conversation starts with something as simple as a photograph and the words, “You wouldn’t believe what was going on here.”

So here’s an invitation to the guys at Beyond Walls: bring in a photograph of a younger you that makes you pause.

It might remind you of something you’re proud of, a brilliant time, a difficult chapter or how much has changed. It doesn’t need to be a fitness photograph, and there’s no requirement for a dramatic story. Share as much or as little as you feel comfortable with. You’re equally welcome to come along, listen and keep your story to yourself.

I’m setting up a whiteboard to display the photos. At the Boys Take Over evening, anyone who wants to can share the story behind theirs.

I’m sharing mine to open a conversation. I’d like this month to give us more opportunities to talk honestly, listen properly and get to know the people we train beside.

The younger versions of us have plenty of stories. So do the people we are today.