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Once an addict, always an addict

Grandma Carmen told me that she could never have a drop of booze again. When I looked surprised at her claim during celebration times, she asked me, ‘Would you offer half a line to a cocaine addict? No, right? So why should I have a sip?’

She shared her struggle with me when I was 25 years old. She said she will always feel the liquid poison run through her veins. Addiction is something you have to live with, she told me with a smile. She compared it to a monster waiting to come out of its box. She had sensed I had my own troubles. She did not say much. She was very private, we often chatted when no- one was around. She said it was a daily commitment not to go back there, that it was easier if you had a reason. Family was hers. I understood the commitment part for sure. I, too, am an addict for life. I am not proud of it, but I am OK with it. I know I will always be tempted.

Food will be the issue for me. Sex and sport are under control; getting older helps to keep those at bay. I am no young buck overflowing with testosterone anymore. But I know it will be a constant fight not to fall back into food’s sweet and sour embrace. Food is everywhere you look and poses an easy trap to fall back into. If I give into temptation, I know I will fall back into the prison cell I once built around me. So I resist it. I fight it with all of my guts and heart daily. I often drive past the bakery and wonder if I could just get a little treat, but then I remember the feeling of sunshine through my entire body while I eat it, followed by the sensation of heavy rain soon after. I have to stay away from the blacklist of food that I store in my head so it is easier to say no to temptations on the spot. As long as I stick to that list, I won’t jump back into a splurge, and the desire, and later the guilt, won’t take over again. It gets hard when I have had a bad day, if I am emotional or if I can see or smell one of my decadent treats of choice. But I try to stay strong.

King Sport

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Cyclists in the peloton are like soldiers galloping across the battle fields of Flanders on their Flemish horses. They are our heroes and, like the Second World War where soldiers saved us from being taken over by Germans, they save our honour each weekend by squashing the opposition on two wheels.

Cycling races are like a battle. The front line is dangerous; you don’t want to be exposed on the bike either. The infantry if fighting on wheel, not on foot, and the front line is for domestiques who will sacrifice themselves for their captain. My favourite French race is called Hell of the North. Rough old cobbled paths stretch along the Belgian border and form part of the route. The French cobbles bring the Belgians out there in force.

The cyclists are manoeuvring through the trenches which reek of vile mud. The wind and the bitter cold bite their pistons and their fingers tips. They feel nervous. They grin and, at the same time, feel frightened of what will come next. In the peloton, they yell and point out the pot holes as if they were mines. They plough through the dust and venture deep into no-man’s-land in the middle of the bare potato fields. They are often blinded by the dust, the sweat and even the tears. They are left behind in their despair and in pure solitude if they lose the battalion or the bunch. Tyres are exploding like bombs. You can hear bullets flying past, but these are snot bullets propelled at high speed out of the ever-expanding nostrils gasping for air. For both soldiers and cyclists, the radio is communicating about the enemies’ whereabouts and positions. The cold is fought off with neoprene boots instead of army boots, their helmets are made of light polystyrene instead of heavy metals, and the team leaders drive a Skoda instead of a tank. The only things falling from the sky here are the drink bottles thrown by the riders to save some weight and the March showers, often releasing hail stones and tick snowflakes that will freeze you to the bone

Intro to Porn

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One of the attics was uninteresting with piles of clothes lying on the floor. I told her that this must have been where the pirates discarded their old clothes, but the other attic would be the source of the treasures and our newly found wealth. ‘We are going to be rich,’ I told her with her cheeky smile.

We tackled the many garbage bags that were piled up on the floor with our ‘cutlass swords’ made from branches of the plum tree in our garden. ‘En guarde,’ I warned her before we engaged in a duel. We jumped around and bounced on the puffed-up bags like pirates jumping off the planks.

‘Booty!’ we yelled with joy. We pierced the sacks with vigour one by one as if they were filled with antique coins, precious stones and gold nuggets.

The garbage bags filled to the brim were like magnets. I discovered old cartoon editions of Old Tintin, Blake and Mortimer, Spirou and Fantasio, Lucky Luke and Gaston, all Belgian cartoons, as well as outmoded clothes, sports goods, magazines, old coins, notes and jewellery. It was paradise for a 13-year-old looking for an escape. I opened one of the boxes while my music was still thumping, forgetting all about what was happening downstairs. I swapped my sport’s hat for a discovery hat Indiana Jones style. I was in heaven, ready to repossess anything I saw and liked to then transport it into my bedroom that was adjacent to one of the attics.

As we moved through the bags, we found lots of boring stuff. I am sure she thought it was a waste of time. Maybe she was right, but then, bonanza! We discovered something fascinating but far from what we expected.

The A4-sized box was stacked with porn magazines. It was obvious our parents’ sex life was sadly over and they had gotten rid of their porn collection like they had given up on any chances of saving their marriage. ‘What the hell is this?’ I gasped when I saw the front cover of the top magazine. I was not sure if we should cease our hunt and put these things back where they came from, but my curiosity claimed victory. We giggled awkwardly. We had just opened Pandora’s box without realising.

There were at least twenty of them and my sister and I frantically laughed until we cried. We needed this sort of stress release and we nearly peed our pants from laughter. Our discovery did not make us rich with wealth but enriched us with a quick and unexpected sex education session.

We wondered how could those giant penises fit into what seemed tiny lady parts? The women had beautiful bodies that looked like carved Greek statues. I had never seen a naked woman before and I felt a mix of embarrassment, intrigue and excitement. My eyes embraced every curve; my heart pounded in my chest and released a tingle I felt through my entire body. I blushed while looking at my sister who was having an intense learning experience. ‘Is this how you make babies?’ she asked, which added to my embarrassment.

My little miracle

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My wife fought harder and with more grit than any athlete I had ever seen or coached in my 25 years in the sport. Compared to her, they were all soft. ‘Come on babe, nearly there, our boy is coming.’ I realised right there that I had never suffered much in training or racing before. She looked like she could have done an ironman, with the power of love and determination and fuelled only by water and oxytocin. The ultimate target, releasing the fruit of our love into this world. The finish line, such a reachable target for her. She calmed her breath while his little heart accelerated. I held her hand firmly; I wanted to help but I felt powerless. I panicked when blood and sweat created a ring of fire all around her. From womb to the world, such a short road to travel but it felt so far at the same time. My appreciation and respect for her went to a new height that day, for women in general. She fought like a warrior; I admired her strength. She preserved her raw beauty even with the sweat pouring down her face and her hair glued to her forehead. Although the long hours of labour that didn’t want to come to an end threatened to overwhelm her.

The hour had come, it was nearly midnight. The room felt so hot and a sharp sound erupted in the air, waking up a sleepy ward.After 36 hours of unbearable pain, our big boy was born on June the 8th 2011 at Geelong hospital. We kissed and congratulated each other for the amazing little human we just put on this earth.

That was the best day of my life, and I am sure it was hers too. My wife was simply incredible. We finally drove home as a family for the first time, and I carried my boy Jake with pride to his home. I wanted to show the world, tell them that we had achieved something profound. I felt like I never had achieved anything before. This was something worth a thousand times more than any trophies, titles or medals I had previously won. I was so proud to hold this little being in my arms. I went through the front door and introduced him to our dog, Caline. She sniffed our long-awaited miracle knitted by the Gods, all along having been unsure of the secret in Mum’s belly. Welcome home, my son.

Drugs in sport

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Winning brings on drug testing, and it is not always a pleasant experience. As soon as I crossed the line at the Oceania Championships in 2017, an ASADA inspector rocked up and told me that because I won my age group, I was selected for a urine test. I told him, OK, but I have poo in my tri suit and it is running down my legs. That day I had to make a choice between a toilet stop and finishing second or release while running to press on for the win. He told me to rinse it quickly and that we had to go in pronto. I rinsed it with water bottles, or tried anyway, and then went with him to the ASADA tent. I was standing in my wet and stinky tri suit in 12 degrees. I was shaking uncontrollably and asked if I could please get changed at my club marquee. He said NO, and I had to stay. He offered to get me an emergency blanket and said this was all he could do for me. The tent smelled like rotten eggs because of me. I would not sit down, because I was embarrassed and did not want to sit in my faeces. He asked me if I had done a test like this before and I said, yes, 20 years ago. I knew the drill, grabbed the cup and went into the Portaloo to have a wee, closing the door behind me. He knocked and told me he had to come with me. In this tiny cubical? He went, yep, he needed to see me pee. I told him that things were a bit more flexible back in the day. He told me to go ahead impatiently. I managed to unzip my tri suit and get the hairy canary out, but then I felt his head moving onto my shoulder. I asked him if he had to be so close and he said, yes, because some athletes were using fake penis pumps. I told him that I was not sure I could pee in those conditions. I tried in vain. I asked him if I could go back to the tent to drink more water. An ASADA lady grabbed me to ask me questions and instructed me to sit down, but I declined. She said, pro athletes poo their pants all the time and that she was OK with it. What a job, I thought. She put a medical cloth down on the chair for me and asked what vitamins, pills and prescription medicines I was taking, while I was sculling my water in fear of another encounter with the toilet police.

My water bottle was empty and the questionnaire filled out, so I went away again to get the job done. I stood up and the cloth was covered in poo. He came with me to the Portaloo and I asked him if I could please pee outside to have more space, as his being so close wasn’t conducive to getting the job done. The next five minutes were long. I felt violated, humiliated and also sorry for him for having to do such a glamourous job. I beamed myself into the nicest place I could imagine so I could relax and finally, it happened. I produced a dark yellow liquid. ‘You are dehydrated,’ he said. I told him, yep, I lost a drink bottle on the bike, while I was putting the A and B samples into the bag before sealing it. I was now able to head to the club marquee and was welcomed by the squad asking why my lips were blue, my body was shacking and my legs were the colour of Nutella spread. I told them that the story will have to wait until I was wrapped in warm clothes and armed with a hot chocolate. I was frustrated by the process, but so pleased that the fight for doping was clearly on. As age groupers, our lives might not depend on the results as much as the pros’, but we work just as hard. We sacrifice just as much, and we all want a fair outcome, where the true winner stands on the highest step.

The goon of fortune

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The goon of fortune became a game of fancy coat swapping. No rotating clothing line here, just expensive pelage to pick from. Exciting was the word used by my parents, draining and frightening was the word used by my sister and me. Theft was exhilarating for them and mum was a frequent sinner. It filled us with shame and embarrassment.

We sat there at the table waiting for our sorbet to arrive when mum circled around the coats like a vulture picking its next pray. Dead animals were on offer here too, mostly in the form of pelts. Mum often entered a posh restaurant in a rain jacket and later on walked out wearing an extravagant fur coat. Her coat stands, draped with fox, rabbit, and mink’s tail, created a fur tapestry effect to elevate the ambience of her bedroom. She helped herself in the vestiaire of the posh restaurant where my dad brought us to cheer her up. She was bored with her life and wanted a thrill similar to the one she used to feel with sport and competing.

No booze bottles on shelves here to be picked as the next victim, just coats on hooks waiting to be added to the ridiculous number of outer garments she dragged back home into her expensive wardrobe. Looking at her walking down the street, you would have thought that she was a classy rich middle-aged lady. Louis Vuitton, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, Versace and Gucci creations saturated her closet to the point of collapse.

Nabbed stealing on unfortunate occasions, the police slowly built up her file which quickly became the size of a novel. Her hellish existence had provoked a string of run-ins with the law in and out of her car.

We always had to watch out for her every move and I developed a resentful relationship with such nights out. Restless nights started from that day on. I had to hide my wallet under the pillows to preserve my pocket money. She would steal from us if she needed cash to buy booze. I prayed daily for a night of uninterrupted sleep and exotic dreams. Jewellery, gadgets or any other easy to carry household valuables that were not safely locked away or chipped with a safety device would land in her large handbag. Going out shopping was a nerve-racking experience. It had been most upsetting to her parents in their quest to stop her.

They watched her visibly change before their eyes from a bubbly, healthy and athletic daughter who had always had her act together, to a thin, daggy and scruffy recluse with a baffled demeanour who buries her head in low self-esteem. She concealed her glassy bloodshot eyes with the expensive sunglasses she had stolen in town.