"I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead" Jon Bon Jovi 1992

Like most people, I’ve always known that recovery was important. We’ve probably all heard the declaration that it’s not the training that makes you stronger, faster or fitter; it’s your recovery from it. Sound familiar?

But looking back, just how seriously did you take it? Through my early teens, it was never an issue; I just ate and slept as normal which to be fair is to be expected and hardly a surprise. Admittedly, when I look back there was very little protein and never enough fresh fruit or veg; still managed to grow a bit though. Through my later teens it was the same but with added booze calories every Friday and Saturday night. 12-hour hill day with a 4am start after getting in at 2am? No problem; thanks Testosterone and Growth Hormone!

I joined the RAF at age 22 and my Initial Officer Training (IOT) proved to be more of the same, just more intense but with less sleep, more physical activity and stress but also with plenty of food and always plenty of booze. Then came my professional training in the form of the RAF Regiment Junior Officers Course or JROC for short.

The 6-month JROC took physical and mental demands to levels I couldn’t have imagined and I struggled to keep pace. Sleep deprivation, exhausting physical exertion and constant fear of failure pervaded and for the first time I had to make a choice with my recovery although at the time I didn’t grasp its importance.

With the ever increasing demands on my knowledge, planning skills and decision making under pressure, I prioritised sleep over food and I would sacrifice breakfast in favour of maybe 30-40 minutes more sleep each day because I thought that’s what was needed most. If you haven't experienced the rather funky effects of consistent sleep deprivation on your ability to make reasonable judgement calls when multiple sets of critical eyes are watching your every move, AND whilst maintaining proficient motor control and good humour, you haven't lived. I remember one of our Directing Staff telling us that we ‘had to fuel the fire’ but I failed to heed the warning.

Instead, I was unintentionally limiting my calorific intake and I wasn’t giving my body what it needed to recover. I was always stiff, sore and low on energy whilst others on the course seemed physically indestructible. As a result, there was always a target on my back as one of the slower, less physically capable course-members which was extra stress I could definitely had done without. I attempted to make up my short-fall with extra running and loaded marches in my own time but it never amounted to anything because I had nothing in the tank and I was already under-recovered from everything else. Then at weekends we would go ridiculously over the top with booze, late nights and take-away food which my body would then have to deal with in time for the following Monday. It was a much needed stress-release and coping mechanism but not a great tactic overall; caving to peer pressure at the weekends was just like putting diesel in a petrol engine.

I can also admit that it was false economy on another scale. I wasn’t really sleeping for those extra 30-40 minutes; my mind was already racing and worrying about the challenges of the day ahead. I was really cutting off my own nose to spite my face.

But I didn’t die and somehow made it through and my behaviours in the ‘real’ world didn’t change for perhaps a decade more when I was well into my thirties. I had gotten away with paying lip service to recovery. I was still running, swimming, circuit training, hillwalking, biking, climbing and snow-boarding and still skipping breakfast and slamming back the booze to unwind every weekend with my body slowly and reluctantly adapting over the years.

It was only when I experienced the multi-pronged ambush of Inflammatory Bowel Disease, Melissa’s stroke and turning to barbell strength training whilst tip-toeing into my early forties that I pieced together all of my follies. Yes, I had needed sleep but my training, experience and youth would have coped well enough with sleepless nights if I had indeed just fuelled the fire properly. I could have happily caught up and replenished myself with quality sleep at the weekends if I had laid off the booze. But where would the fun have been in that? Of course, when we were deployed, access to booze was extremely limited and therefore not much of a problem. But we would make up for that with glorious excess upon our return.

And so here I am. At the savage mercy of age and time and about to cross the threshold into my 48th year of existence. Since becoming a personal trainer and coach, I thought that with study and observation of my masters athletes that I had grasped the fundamentals of recovery and understood the nuances of how getting older affects our abilities. Oh my, now that I’m starting to experience the real truth of the matter with some rather rude awakenings, I know that I was mistaken.

The combination of diminishing exposure to my old hobbies such as hillwalking and running, reduced efficiency of absorbing protein, the desire for my lean muscle to wither on the vine if unused, lower testosterone (I think) are all conspiring against me. I need my sleep and I need nourishment; it’s no longer a case of one or the other. 

I need to accept that my resources are finite and plan accordingly. It’s my recovery ‘bucket’ if you will. But thankfully, I know that it is still possible to re-establish a higher baseline of physical preparedness despite my steady advancement in age, slowly over time and that we could all probably use a bigger bucket.

If you need me in the meantime, I'll probably be taking a nap.

Don't wake me.