Men's Health Diary

I had a cake binge this weekend. Twelve days into what was shaping to be an effortless Whole30, and I succumbed to the call of the hollow carbs. I don't feel bad, I'll just start the challenge over again, but it got me thinking about how I feel when I eat healthy – or what is currently considered as healthy (these things change every two years, never commit too much to an eating philosophy).

Of course I feel awesome after a couple weeks of clean eating, it's impossible not to. You're getting quality vitamins and minerals, you poop less (more frequently, but less extreme), you feel like you can run a mile at full pace, repeatedly, and you think of food as fuel and not an indulgence.

The problem comes when you get hungry. Before radically changing my diet, bathroom breaks were a state of emergency, now that honour goes to meal time. Living in a constant caloric deficit is part of the weightloss journey, and gets easier once you get better at ignoring the cravings (the voices don't go away, you just turn your music up). But every so often, your body throws a wobbly and refuses to tap into the abundant supply of energy stored around your mid-section, arse, hips and thighs.

I use the word wobbly because you feel a bit wobbly when you're over your mealtime, and should not be permitted to interact with people or be tasked with selecting your own food when it happens.

Case in point: We had friends over for brunch on Saturday, and because I bought 90% of the catering on my way home from gym, my strategy was to get up early, help my wife with the prep, entertain my daughter until she needed a nap, then rush out for a quick 5-K run which would bring me back an hour before ETA and I could clean the shower after using it. This way I'd sneak a spoon of yoghurt and an apple for "breakfast", and preoccupy my body with activity before rewarding it with my wife's delicious bacon and spinach homemade quiche.

Predictably my 2-year-old didn't play ball, meaning I couldn't fit in the run, and then the guests arrived slightly later than expected. For a normal person (1.75m, 75kg), this isn't a life-altering change. But for someone in a caloric deficit, who had a massive workout the previous evening and only had a spoon of yoghurt and an apple for "breakfast," it feels like the end of the world.

When brunch was served, I was like a crazed animal. Everything was on the menu and in my belly. And the next day was a Mother's Day high tea that followed my healthy, paleo-approved Sunday lunch. Cake and biscuits were inhaled by the sliver (my portion control has improved quite a bit).

You'd expect me to feel guilty after a particularly bad weekend, but I'd only disappoint you. You see, I think I've finally reached a point where I can have a reasonable pig-out, but know that you can redeem yourself after. I haven't had a binge like that since I finished my last Whole30, almost 2 months ago.

Now I feel guilty when talking to other people about nutrition. I yak on-and-on about "gluten free" and "paleo" and "blueprint" as if they have a clue as to what I'm on about. I've become such a nutrition asshole that I've begun lecturing people who are in a helluva lot better shape than I am.

What this weekend allowed me to do is do a proper assessment of my current diet and it turns out to be not that bad by anyone's standard: I (well, my wife) prepare 95% of my meals from scratch, sourcing the best and freshest ingredients we can afford; grains comprise about 20% of our food; and we even make our own sweet treats!

I'm very happy to finally be in a position where the big lifestyle change has faded into a background of routine and that I am still making gains at gym and losses on pants size. There is still some way to go, but I think I have the fuel for the journey pretty sorted.

Follow my weightloss journey on twitter, check my Belly Off Challenge profile, or come join me at CrossFit DurBell for a fun workout and great coaching.

Every time I make a sudden movement, or apply pressure at a certain angle, it feels like a poacher has mistaken my shoulder for a perlemoen and is working it like it's his big payday. For real, this is a feeling I wouldn't wish on anyone, even if they stole my iPod!

I'm prone to a bit of tendinitis and, realising that I've been under some stress lately, I wrote it off as that. Usually Ibuprofen and Voltaren gel sort me right out and then i just need to remember to wear a t-shirt to bed. This time is different. It's been two weeks since I first felt the familiar twang, and still no relief.

So I call up my physio and she says "maybe it's some bursitis" and follows up with "you should come in for a cortisone injection."

I have many irrational fears which mainly include dangerous animals like scorpions and cows, but my aversion to a cortisone shot is as strong as any of them (I kinda conquered my cow phobia last week, yay!). Some of you might be snickering, but I'm not one for having hot lava shot directly into my body. And I'm asthmatic, so I'm all about the steroids, but not via needle.

So I contacted another physio and had an exam. The supraspinatus is one of four muscles that make up the rotator cuff, and mine is overstimulated.

The hang clean, as you'll see in the video below, places a high premium on technical movements. The shoulder shrug is important because that's the bit that moves the bar high enough for you to shoot underneath it. When we did hang cleans, I was already suffering some discomfort from shoulder tension and should've steered clear of this move.

Then the next workout was holding a weight overhead, and my shoulder was already aching.

Bottom line: the doc says it should heal fine and I should let the discomfort be my guide. I slept through for the first time last night and I can at least lift my daughter without any shooting pain, so I guess I'm healing.

As I said before, don't train injured – even if it's a small injury.

Follow my weightloss journey on twitter, check my Belly Off Challenge profile, or come join me at CrossFit DurBell for a fun workout and great coaching.

My wedding ring fell off while I was crossing a 4-lane street in the CBD. I managed to retrieve it, but it was a real eye-opener: the combination of "rapid" weightloss and cold weather have now conspired against the person that I used to be. I know it seems silly to use my wedding ring incident as an analogy for casting off my fat self (yes, I have just turned into your high school English teacher), but bear with me.

After 10 weeks I'm 6kg and two pants sizes down, and that's brilliant, but it comes at a high price. I can't wear my wedding ring until I have it sized, and I can't have it sized or buy new clothes until I'm at my goal weight, but I don't have a goal weight because my goal was always to lose as much as I can so that I can train for and complete the Two Oceans Half Marathon next year.

So now I'm getting noticed by the opposite sex more frequently, but without the obvious social cue on my ring finger they just think I'm an asshole for not pursuing them, or they then think themselves to be ugly trolls who shouldn't have left the cave. I'm okay with people thinking I'm an asshole after I've actually done something, but not so good with the asshole assumption. I also think all women to be beautiful, with my wife and daughter hovering just above the average.

I also need to spend cash on a wardrobe refresh because hammer pants and underwear-exposing sag aren't hip right now. Thin people problems are real, man.

As you can tell I have great difficulty in dealing with the implications of my weightloss, but can nevertheless report that all is still going swell in that department.

If you want proof, follow me on twitter, check my Belly Off Challenge profile, or come join me at CrossFit DurBell (check the Expresso morning show insert with my coach below).

The 2013 Reebok CrossFit Games Open is over and I can return to my normal life. No more impossible challenges, no more guilt and no more competition. The latter was what really bummed me out.

You see, I'm okay with the intensity of CrossFit and can deal with the mental strain that comes with the ridiculous workload, but the constant dick measuring is a real problem. I believe that pain is a personal burden, and am more than happy to wade through the seven circles in my own headspace. But when you add measurables and leaderboards into the equation, it all goes south.

It's not that I'm not competitive, but more the resentment towards other humans that comes with competition. When you're racing someone and, despite all your best efforts, they beat you, there's always a sour taste. And with each defeat that taste intensifies until it consumes your senses. That's what I don't like.

At my gym I've started a rivalry with a really nice guy who is roughly the same build and height as me. He has no idea of our duals and is suspiciously pleasant whenever we interact, but in my mind he's a bit of an asshole.

I hate his over-friendliness, as if he's taking pity on me when he beats me in a wod. I despise the effort he puts in, doing cool-down workouts after class like some sort of teacher's pet. Most of all I loathe the fact that he doesn't take the competition as seriously as I do, but still manages to pip me past the post with infuriating regularity.

Are my feelings irrational? Yes. That's the problem with a competitive environment, it stirs up primitive responses and turns the meekest of men into monsters. I've worked long and hard to not be a monster and don't need any setbacks.

But now my unwitting nemesis wants me to join him in a weightloss challenge, to help him "stay motivated". Well, Paul Kotze, I hope you're ready to face the furious fire in my belly. You've unleashed the dragon and someone's gonna get burned (hint: it's not me). Prepare yourself, sir.

Follow my weightloss journey on twitter, or if you're in the Durbanville area, join me for a workout at CrossFit DurBell.

After a year of being friendzoned by a half-marathon silver medal, it took 88 minutes of heavy plodding to finally reach heavy petting on the futon of athletic accomplishment.

Like any good friendzoning, it was a long, drawn-out rejection interspersed with flashes of false hope. I missed the sub-90 by 41 seconds last year and by a minute at the Gun Run. This time, it was personal.

Getting past the friendzone is hard work. It involves a lot of pretending that you enjoyed watching Breakfast at Tiffany's (PLOT SPOILER: It's lame.) You’re going to have to pretend that you know what pesto is and pretend it's delicious and then pretend that splitting the bill is something that you like to do. Also, you have to pretend that you didn't bribe your friend to fake mug you so you could give him a fake beat-down in order to make you look like a hero. (Everyone does that old trick, right?)

But given enough time and effort – and if you raise your game and she lowers her standards – there’s a chance that you can leave Platonic Town for Put Out City. And once you’re here, you can look forward to pretending to be interested in her brother's reptile collection or pretending to look comfortable while you're trying to figure out the most unfeminine way to hold her handbag while she's trying clothes on in the fitting room, and pretending that you didn't notice the friend requests on Facebook from her parents. Score!

Cracking a personal best is a lot like breaking through the friendzone. And even if it isn’t, that’s the metaphor I’m going for – so here are five lessons on lowering a woman’s standards that also apply to seducing the sub-90.

Chicks dig ambition
And there's nothing more ambitious than running faster than a woman who's 19 years older than you. Zola Budd-Pieterse was taking part in the Two Oceans, and I thought by beating her I could bring up the topic about the time I beat a record-breaking Olympian runner in conversations, neglecting to say that she was 46 and she no longer competes and she was just running for fun. And if anyone asks any specific questions I'd just change the subject to how delicious pesto is. Zola finished three minutes before me, but that’s OK because chicks probably also dig chivalry.

Experience trumps numerical advantage.

Chicks probably don't dig being called chicks
It’s probably best to call them women when you’re making a list based entirely on assumptions you made from that one time you read a Cosmo.

Women dig Ryan Gosling
If you’re one of the seven billion people who aren’t Ryan Gosling, you can always fall back on excuses for not being handsome or charming enough. Well, the same works with sporting events. And these come in handy when you traverse Edinburgh Drive and meet Cape Town’s number one export: wind. (But what would Cape Town be without its wind? Pretty nice, I would imagine. I remember experiencing Cape Town with only a mild hurricane but I'm not sure if I was actually there or if I just saw it on Invictus.)
The south-easter made things difficult but at the same time I thought it could also pass for an excuse if I didn't get silver. While heaving up Southern Cross Drive I wondered what else I could fall back on, and my excuses became more elaborate: Not enough training. My old ankle injury is returning. Facial hair makes running less aerodynamic. Global warming means there are more homeless polar bears around so it's difficult to stay vigilant while running, etc. In the end, I didn’t need to use the excuses but I’ll save them for a rainy day, which I’ll make a lot more rainier when I write about it.

Women dig spontaneity
I had just summited Southern Cross Drive when I saw Bryan Habana braving the wind and his time away from Twitter to show his support. Silver medal be damned, I thought, here’s a chance to high five a rugby legend. Which I did, and then suddenly realised I would have to sprint to catch up with a disappearing 1:30 bus that wasn’t as starstruck as I was. I hoped to see a tweet along the lines of: "OMG! Just got high-fived by @ianmc0davis! #blessed" from him but it was pretty windy and there were bears around.

"Me and the second favourite person I've high-fived" – Bryan Habana

Women dig confidence*
*And by confidence, I mean jerks. Now, douchebaggery isn't a turn-on for all women but there are plenty who are magnetically drawn to jerkism under the veil of confidence. Either that, or Chris Brown is secretly really good at fixing cars, opening jars and helping to move house. If you want to unleash your inner heathen, become a runner. Race etiquette (and I use the word “etiquette” loosely) states that you can pretty much spit anywhere while you’re running. Overtaking is sometimes done by running around people but mainly through them, provided you haven’t put them off by spitting on them already. Also, when two runners greet each other before a race, one will ask how the morning bowel movement went, to which the other runner will affirm that he or she is feeling light and nimble because of it. After a year and a half of running, these are my people now. We spit like llamas and we talk like potty-mouths. Ladies, form an orderly queue please.

I managed to cross the line with a time of 1:28 – straight into the clutches of a high-maintenance relationship with a silver medal, which wouldn't have been possible without the training advice of Prof Andrew Bosch of the Sports Science Institute of South Africa and with the strategic pacekeepers of the 1:30 bus.

Zola, next time you're running a race for fun – one that you have no intention of finishing in a certain time – you’d better watch out. Unless there's a heavy wind, or if I have another ankle injury.

I have to go now; I SMSed my silver medal and I forgot to include an emoticon so now I'm in trouble.

It's a special time in a man's life when he gets his first drill. It's one of those rites that gets taken for granted, but is almost more important than carrying your wife across the threshold – it's a sign that you have arrived and that you can shape your surroundings to suit your needs.

My dad was in town this weekend, taking a break from his relentless chemotherapy ritual to help his son "make house" (as they say in the classics). And my dad bought me my first drill. Come to think of it, my dad has almost single-handedly stocked my toolbox. My Gedore socket set is from him, my spanners are from him, and now my fancy new drill (with matching attachments) are from him too. Hell, my mom even got me my precision drivers and pliers.

All these thoughts were racing through my mind while he was mounting the soap dish, but the black flag halted the thought train with a crash, bang and splinter. We left the glass dish of the soap dish ensemble on the window sill, directly above where my dad was drilling to mount the screws. The vibration of the drills hammer action transmitted through the tiles and the glass shook itself towards the edge.

I looked to daddy for an answer. There's something about assisting my old man with manly work that always makes me feel like I'm 12 again, and with my wife's imminent fury bearing down, I kinda wished that I was a pre-teen and dad could sort it all out for me.

I could've done many things differently to stop the dish from falling. I could've held the dish in my hand, I could've borrowed my father-in-law's drill and mounted it myself... Or I could've manned up and gone to CrossFit and attempted Open workout 13.4.

Out of all my options, I think taking my dad to see me hoist an impossible (for me) 61kg on to my shoulders and then push it above my head would've earned me some respect. Maybe then he would've let me operate the drill and I would've preempted the disaster. But I didn't do the workout and now I'm sitting on the toilet, looking to my dad for an exit from having to explain this to my wife.

The problem with fear is that once it takes root, that shit grows like jacked-up Port Jackson. Trying in vain to lift the weight and do just one toes-to-bar rep on the Thursday night shook my confidence and put the fear in me. the product of that fear/loss of confidence is now a perfectly mounted soap dish bracket without its accompanying glass dish. It's a testament to the yellowness of my soft underbelly, an obelisk of my weakened resolve.

I hang my head in the shame owing to a man who's father and father-in-law have gone about the manly business of making a home in his home, a man who stood by and passed tools to greater men.

But as i fell off the wagon and gorged myself on my wife's red velvet layer cake, adorned with dripping ganache and chocolate-covered marshmallow Easter eggs and a speckled egg topping, I didn't want any pity or judgement. I was a man alone in his grief for the man I thought I was.

Can I climb back on to the ossewa and trek on to a trimmer waistline? Sure. Do I feel bad about pigging out on empty carbs, chickening out of 13,4, and blaming my relapse on my weakness? Definitely. Will I go back to gym and start over? Bet your arse I will. After all, only when you reach rock bottom will you have room to grow. Time to shape myself into the man I want to be.

Follow my weightloss journey on twitter, or if you're in the Durbanville area, join me for a workout at CrossFit DurBell.

For the first time in the 2013 Reebok CrossFit Games Open, I have a serious problem. You'll notice that the three previous workouts all featured beasts that required a bit of mental toughness to kill, but 13.4 is a proper asshole – in which people will see way too much of mine.

Of all my weaknesses, hanging my 110kg frame from a bar ranks numero uno. It's an unfortunate combination of poor arm and grip strength, a very low centre of gravity, and too many pies over the last decade. And for 13.4 I not only have to hang like an upside-down bleeding pig, but I also have to show my naught to the world and bring my toes up to the bar.

I'm a flexible guy with loose hamstrings who could probably autofellate were it not for my belly and a little thing called shame (Note: this is not my penis pet name, I'm referring to the emotion), and the same physics tells me that toes-to-bar is not gonna happen.

But before I get to that I need to clean-and-jerk the shit out of 61kg. Which is equally impossible, while still slightly less shameful.

I regret to inform you that I may not complete a single rep, but you'll be glad to know that I will at least try. To the people who designed this workout I only have one thing to say: "go and fellate yourselves."

Follow my weightloss journey on twitter, or if you're in the Durbanville area, join me for a workout at CrossFit DurBell.

Life-changing experiences don't happen or affect you in the way you'd expect. When my daughter was born, I was expecting a flood of emotion when the doctor pulled her out from from between my wife's exposed entrails. I felt something, but not the epiphany I imagined would follow such a momentous occasion. It's like wedding night sex: all the enthusiasm, but none of the necessary accompanying energy.

You may find it strange that these kind of thoughts were going through my mind amidst my mental and physical breakdown nine minutes into Open workout 13.3, but that is the burden of being a writer. When my coach spake the soul-crushing words "no rep" for the fifth straight time, and the 9kg medicine ball came crashing down from the heavens, and my aching limbs seized in petrifying fury, I realised that this would make a great story.

As I stood there in disbelief, knowing that I hoisted the ball well over the prescribed 11-foot target, but was no-repped because it didn't touch the wall.

Attempting one-hundred-and-fifty wallballs (from a squat, shooting a medicine ball up to a target) may not have been as significant as the birth of my spawn, but it had a similarly humbling effect. Coming to within six reps of my 100 personal target left me vulnerable, confused and emotionally broken.

Gone was the cocksure comfort of the Olympic lifts, broken was the spirit of competition, and all that was left was the feeling of absolute mortality. CrossFit made me stronger, but not strong enough for this challenge. I needed something extra.

Maybe it was doing it at sparrow's fart on a Friday morning, far from the madding crowds that would fill the place with sweat and chalk dust on the Saturday. Maybe it was seeing a 16-year-old girl blitz all Karen's 150 reps in 10 minutes – before rushing off to play two hockey matches. Maybe it was a case of overconfidence and severe psyched-outness. All I know is that something was off and I need to switch it back on.

Maybe I need to make Karen breakfast in bed and have a morning-after romp later this week. Or maybe I need to accept that the last eight weeks is just the start of a long journey to a better life. The tidal wave of emotion hit me a couple days after my daughter was born, maybe I need to give this fitness thing some more time.

Follow my weightloss journey on twitter, or if you're in the Durbanville area, join me for a workout at CrossFit DurBell.

CrossFit is great for confidence, but not in the way you'd think. I'm still as socially awkward as I was before I started training, and my current fitness regime did nothing more than open up a wider world of new people to be awkward around, but weights don't scare me.

On Saturday, after achieving a better-than-expected 92 reps of Reebok CrossFit Games Open Workout 13.2 (read my last blog for more on that) and juggling two kiddies parties with a tired, hungry toddler, I was insulted. My wife's cousin's husband dropped a "How can someone who looks like you do all that?" backhand compliment in reference to my Open result.

Look, I'm fine with being called fat. I've been morbidly obese for the last decade and still managed to marry a beautiful woman, sire an exceptional daughter and crack a job at the country's leading men's lifestyle magazine; I'm good with my portly physique (or any other euphemisms you can conjure for the lard condition). So it wasn't the weight reference that struck me, but rather the idea that other people aren't as confident in my abilities to lift weights as I am.

And that's the CrossFit effect: it empowers you to slay the titans and assumptions.

The complicated relative in question, who questioned me according to his definition of weightlifting physics/physiques, belongs to a traditional gym and exercises daily. He has, however, never done an Olympic lift. He could probably lift more than me, but has paid all that money in gym contracts and never been given the chance to try, and that's sad. It's almost like missing a rite of passage.

I'm not saying that Oly lifts (as they're called in the box) are the be-all of exercises and you all should go out and try lifting heavy weights immediately (DISCLAIMER: if you do, please start slowly and learn the technique from a good coach), but it's great to have a personal reference when evaluating your mind's blast radius when an athlete smashes a world record [seriously, click on this link and get your mind blown].

When I approached 13.2, not once was the lift the issue. And rightly so, when I did the workout on Saturday and my audience was telling me to use my legs on the last overhead press reps, I couldn't because the box jumps had overcooked my quads. I muscled through 17 52kg barbell presses because I had been taught how – and because I can sometimes be stupid enough to do well at physical activity.

Now if only that confidence could spill over into the rest of my life.

Follow my weightloss journey on twitter, or if you're in the Durbanville area, join me for a workout at CrossFit DurBell.

For the second week in a row, CrossFit gives me the collywobbles. But not in that cool, electric anticipation for my regular triweekly class way. No, this is old-fashioned broekkakking. The second open workout was released this morning, and it's a filthy one (check the video below):

10 minutes, as many reps as possible of:
- 5x 52kg shoulder to overhead barbell press
- 10x 52kg deadlift
- 15x 60cm box jumps

Last week the snatches scared me shitless because the first 35kg weight was 5kg off of my personal best snatch. This week – as weird as it may sound – it's the box jumps.

You see, my starting weight when I bought into this thing was 120kg. Whichever way you slice it, that's a whole lot of human to be explosively lifting two rulers into the air. I like my box jumps like my barbells: in ladies' portions.

I know I can front squat 60kg and I know I can simulate a handstand pushup while leaning against a wall, so I'm fairly sure I can clean and press 52kg five times with a little coaching. I'm not sure I can hoist all this awesome on to a 60cm box 15 times, though.

And that's the beauty of CrossFit. Out of the four colleagues (two from Women's Health) participating, I'm the only one who has an issue with the box jumps – and also the only one who was praying for rowing. Arthur loves hectic metabolic conditioning and can klap weights, Thamar is all about the cardio and agility work, and Thloki is hoping for kettlebells. Four people all doing crossfit and all have different strengths and weaknesses.

My biggest weakness being my weight and limited movement.

But in approaching workout 13.2, I reviewed my performance in 13.1 (with help, in part, from my coach's sense of humour, which inspired him to make it last night's WOD). Doing the snatches last night, with the benefit of hindsight and experience, I realised that I'm a lot stronger than I thought.

You see, when I snatched on Saturday for my open score, my technique was shocking and I was using muscle strength to get the weight up. Last night, with better technique, the weight was a lot lighter and I didn't even get close to hurting my fragile back.

This got me thinking: does technique really build that much strength? Could I have attempted the 60kg if my technique was solid? Am I actually a better raw athlete than some of the crossfitters who finished above me?

I don't know and don't particularly care because my goal is weightloss and not qualifying for regionals. But these are interesting questions that I may find answers to in the next workout because overhead barbell presses are more about strength than technique. Either way, those box jumps are gonna kill me.

Follow my weightloss journey on twitter , or if you're in the Durbanville area, join me for a workout at CrossFit DurBell.