Before I even get out of bed, I start moving. Nothing dramatic — just gentle rotations of the ankles under the blanket. I’ve learned not to stretch too hard this early. A deep pull too soon and I’ll wake the calf cramps — little lightning bolts that have their own opinion about the morning. So I go slow. Left ankle first, then right. Small circles, like drawing coins in the air. It’s not a workout. It’s more like checking the signal — are we online today? Is the body willing?
After the ankles, I move to the knees. Just a subtle tightening and release of the quads, enough to wake the joints without alerting the rest of the body too loudly. I think of it like opening valves. The right knee clicks softly, as it always does. Then the hips — a slow, side-to-side rock. Sometimes I lie with one knee bent and let the other leg stretch out, testing the tension in the front of the hip. The mattress gives just enough resistance to keep it honest.
My body has its own kind of intelligence now — it tells me things, if I listen. There were years I didn’t. I used to wake up and just go. No warm-up, no negotiation. That worked… until it didn’t.
Next come the arms. I massage them slowly — biceps, triceps, forearms — coaxing warmth into the muscle. Then I stretch them overhead and let my legs float upward, touching my toes together in the air a few times like I’m carving circles into the ceiling. It’s more playful than precise, but it opens up the back chain and gets the blood moving. From there, I push my hips up into a gentle arch, holding the shape and gradually increasing the pressure. It’s not yoga, exactly — more like a conversation with the spine.
Then I roll onto my side and bring one elbow to 90 degrees, forearm straight up, like a flagpole. I use the opposite hand to press the raised arm down toward the mattress — firm but gradual. A physio gave me this one years ago. I can’t recall the exact reason, but my body remembers its value. It speaks especially to the shoulders, loosening whatever stuckness sleep left behind. I repeat it in both directions, both arms. Each time, something releases.
Finally, I turn sideways with my legs raised, letting my shoulders spill over the edge of the bed. I keep my head lifted, arms stretched behind me, wrists bent, and fingers curled into a soft hook grip — the shape my hands will need to remember later, when they meet cold steel. It’s a strange little ritual, but it prepares me. Not just physically — though it stretches the shoulders, the lats, the wrists — but mentally too. It’s a quiet rehearsal for the lifts to come. The hook grip isn’t comfortable. It never was. But it’s the foundation of control — the point where I first connect to the bar. I hold it there, breathing into the tension for thirty seconds or more. This is the last piece. The closing note.
Only then do I sit up and place my feet on the floor.
I stand slowly and drink a full glass of water — always the same way, always all at once. It’s less about hydration, more about a kind of signal: the system is coming online. I walk slowly, deliberately, noticing how my knees track, how my hips shift, how the ankles respond. These first steps matter. They tell me what kind of day it might be — what’s moving freely, what needs more time.
I carry that slow movement outside if the weather allows. The morning light is gentle, even when it’s bright. I let it hit my skin and eyes, not just for the warmth, but to feed the circadian rhythm. Sunlight in the morning teaches the body what time it is. Over time I’ve learned to value that — rhythm, pattern, light. They ground me.
As I walk, my range of motion gradually expands. I start to move with more purpose — deeper steps, more articulation in the joints. Eventually I drop into a deep squat, heels grounded, chest upright, shifting gently from side to side. I let the ankles and knees speak. I breathe into the position, sometimes holding, sometimes pulsing. Then I rise slowly, only to descend again — slow-motion squats with long pauses, feeling the full path of the movement. Not lifting yet, but laying the foundation for it. Preparing the scaffolding.
There’s always music playing — usually something funky, something with a bit of disco groove. It sets the tone: light, rhythmic, alive. This isn’t a silent monastery. It’s more like a low-key morning dance, improvised and evolving. The music moves with me, or maybe I move with it. By now I’ve made my way to the floor, settling back onto a thick rug that cushions and supports in all the right ways.
From here, it’s all about exploration — rolling, stretching, shifting angles. Sometimes I’ll hold a pair of light weights in my hands, just enough to add presence and awareness to the movement. Nothing is forced. There’s no strain. Most of it feels good — like a conversation between body and breath that doesn't need translation. I reach, rotate, unwind.
The last part is abdominal work. I still dread it a little, even though it’s easier now. It’s a ghost of old effort, I think — a memory of when core strength was something I didn’t have and had to chase. That feeling hasn’t completely let go. But the exercises themselves are no longer punishing. They’re just part of the pattern now — another thread in the morning weave.
By the time I finish, I’ve already hit a major milestone for the day. The body is awake, the joints are open, the breath is steady, and my mind is clear. There may be real challenges ahead — physical, emotional, or otherwise — but whatever comes, I’ve already given myself something solid. A sense of rhythm. A sense of self. I’ve started the day by listening, moving, and showing up — and that alone makes it a good day, even before it’s fully begun.
This routine didn’t begin as a philosophy. It began as a necessity.
I didn’t wake up one day and decide to engineer a mindful morning. I was trying to lift a barbell over my head, and my body simply wasn’t ready for it. My scapulae weren’t firing. My shoulders were stiff. My hips were unreliable, and my knees unpredictable. I had atrophy where there should’ve been support, tension where there should’ve been freedom. Olympic weightlifting exposed all of that — brutally and immediately. There’s no hiding in the snatch. No workaround for poor mobility in the clean and jerk. The barbell tells the truth.
So, I adapted. Slowly. Piece by piece. What started as rehab — cautious movements, prescribed stretches, awkward drills — gradually became habit. Then routine. Then something more. I didn’t just need to move better to lift; I needed to live in a way that supported that goal. The morning work became my foundation. Not because it was glamorous or exciting, but because it worked. It gave me access — to my joints, to my breath, to my potential.
Now, I move through those early minutes not just to avoid injury or warm up muscles. I move so I can lift with integrity. So I can express power with grace. So I can keep showing up — not just as a lifter, but as a body with a purpose.
Olympic weightlifting is not forgiving — and it’s not just a sport. It’s a lifestyle. Especially when you take it up at sixty, after decades of office work, it doesn’t just ask you to train — it asks you to change.
The lifts themselves demand precision. Not brute strength, not intensity for its own sake, but exactness. Timing, balance, body position — every detail matters. And the barbell doesn’t let you bluff your way through. If your feet are wrong, if your pull is mistimed, if your posture is off by a fraction, you don’t make the lift. And there’s no arguing with it. That kind of honesty, day after day, changes how you approach everything.
In the beginning, it was humbling. My body had grown into the shape of the chair — hips tight, shoulders rounded, movement reduced to occasional gestures. To lift, I had to relearn how to move — and not just move, but move well. It was never about big weights or fast progress. It was about small, precise improvements, patiently accumulated.
That mindset — of slow, steady refinement — has become a way of life. It’s in my morning routine, in the way I walk, in how I eat, rest, and even think. I’ve stopped chasing quick results. I measure in quality now — in how a lift feels, in how my joints respond, in how sustainably I’m progressing. Some days I lift heavy, some days I don’t lift at all. But every day, I live as a weightlifter — not just someone who trains, but someone who lives the lifestyle. A lifestyle of attention, of rhythm, of care. One that keeps me strong, aware, and connected — for as long as I’m able to move.
After movement comes fuel.
Most mornings, I blend my breakfast — a protein shake mixed into oats and quinoa. It’s simple, but it works. The oats and quinoa provide slow, sustaining energy; the protein supports recovery and strength. I blend it not just for convenience, but to aid digestion — and, lately, to compensate for a missing tooth. The body changes, and I adapt. That’s the lifestyle.
It’s not a trendy smoothie with powders and promises. It’s just real food, adjusted for real needs. I’ve come to appreciate how even small choices — like blending instead of chewing — can support a smoother start to the day. It goes down easy, sits well, and keeps me focused for what comes next. There’s no bloating, no crash. Just steady fuel for a body that’s already been moving, already been working.
Somewhere between breakfast and coffee, I take my supplements. Each one has its place, its reason. A probiotic to support digestion. Vitamin D — especially important as I age and spend more time indoors. Omega-3s for joint health and inflammation. NMN and resveratrol — part of a longer view, aimed at cellular health and healthy aging. MSM, too, for joint resilience. None of it is magic, but together, they support the system I’m building and maintaining — the body of a weightlifter in his sixties.
I wait at least thirty minutes after breakfast before having coffee. It’s not a strict rule, just something I’ve learned matters — especially when you’re trying to get the most out of what you eat. Less than thirty minutes, and the caffeine starts to degrade the vitamin C in the meal I just carefully prepared. So I wait. Let the food settle. Let digestion begin its work. Then — only then — I make the coffee.
I train three days a week — Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday — usually in the afternoon, around 3:30. The sessions are long, anywhere from two to three hours. Not because I’m rushing through sets, but because I’m not. Olympic weightlifting isn’t about volume — it’s about quality, recovery between lifts, and attention to every detail. The training sessions are the visible tip of an iceberg that begins first thing in the morning and builds all day.
Before I leave for the gym, I always try to rest. Twenty minutes, lying down. Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I just let the body settle. After that, I sit for twenty more minutes in quiet mindfulness — not to “clear my mind,” but to enter the right kind of presence. Olympic lifting is not something you do distracted. You have to show up entirely — mentally, emotionally, physically. The meditation helps me do that. It’s not dramatic. Just calm. Clear. Awake.
My training program isn’t something I pulled from a book. It’s built in conversation — with my body, with experience, and, more recently, with ChatGPT. Every session has been shaped by reflection and feedback, gradually tuned to what works. Right now, I’m working toward a 45kg snatch and a 50kg clean and jerk — numbers I aim to hit at the upcoming Victorian Masters comp, just four weeks away. And the truth is, I’m right on schedule. Each week brings me closer, more confident, more precise.
One of the biggest breakthroughs in this cycle has come not from lifting harder — but from resting better. Between sets, I lie down flat on the floor, feet elevated on a bench, arms stretched out wide. No phone, no chatter, no pacing. Just stillness, breath, and letting the system reset. I’ve found this to be a game-changer. My recovery between sets is sharper, my lifts more consistent, my output higher. Since starting this, I’ve seen steady improvement in both quality and load.
I call it the JC Protocol — a small tribute to what’s working for me. I’ve shared it with a few younger lifters at the gym, but most of them seem more focused on looking cool between sets than mastering the fine details of recovery. That’s okay. Everyone’s on their own path. But for me, this is part of the lifestyle. It’s not just about what you do with the barbell — it’s how you prepare, how you rest, and how you put the whole picture together.
I don’t follow a fixed routine in the traditional sense. My training varies — session to session, week to week — but it always circles around the execution of the lifts themselves. Snatch. Clean and jerk. These are the core. Around them, I build with standard auxiliary work — pulls, squats, overhead strength, mobility drills — whatever supports the main lifts on that particular day. It’s flexible, but not random. Everything serves the goal.
I always finish with cardio. Ten to fifteen minutes, sometimes more. Rowing, cycling, steady and deliberate. It clears the system, flushes fatigue, and reminds the body that it’s still part of a bigger whole. Strength without conditioning is like language without breath — it’s missing something vital. That final stretch of the session is when I re-enter the world, feeling both worked and renewed.
Recovery begins the moment training ends. After that last set — after the bar is back on the ground, the shoes untied, the music fading — I don’t rush into the next thing. Just like the lead-up to training, the wind-down matters. I might sit quietly for a few minutes. Sometimes I lie flat again, just like between sets — feet up, arms out, JC Protocol in full effect. It helps bring everything back to baseline. Not just the heart rate, but the mind. The nervous system. The whole system.
Later, when I get home, recovery continues — not as a separate activity, but as a mode of being. I eat well. Hydrate. I don’t overfill the evening with noise or stimulation. If I’m sore, I move gently. If I’m tired, I rest without guilt. Sometimes I’ll stretch again, casually, on the floor while music plays. The same rug from the morning. The same body, now changed by the day.
Despite all my efforts to balance training and recovery — to calibrate the system as carefully as I can — sleep still gives me some resistance, especially on training days. It’s not that I’m lying awake all night or waking up shattered. But it does take longer to fall asleep. The body is tired, but the system feels lit up — buzzing from the effort, from the focus, from the sheer demand of Olympic lifting.
I know how important sleep is. Without deep, restorative sleep, improvement slows. Recovery stalls. I’m not ignoring it — just working with it. Gently. Carefully.
I'm looking into ways to refine this part of the routine too, because I don’t want to blunt the edge of my training. The progress I’m making right now is real and satisfying, and I don’t want to give that up.
What I’ve learned — through lifting, through recovery, through all the quiet details of this lifestyle — is that there’s no such thing as perfection. Not in movement. Not in sleep. Not in health. Not in life. Everything is broken to some extent, all the time. It’s just a matter of how broken, and what can be mitigated, worked with, or improved.
Progress isn’t about eliminating all flaws. It’s about noticing them. Adjusting for them. Sometimes it’s a tight hip. Sometimes it’s a restless night. Sometimes it’s a missed lift or a moment of fatigue in the middle of the day. These things aren’t signs that the system is failing. They are the system. They’re what make it real.
There’s no finish line. Just the next step. The next lift. The next adjustment. And for me, that’s enough. The barbell has become a kind of mirror — not reflecting perfection, but revealing the ongoing nature of improvement. The work isn’t to get everything right. The work is to keep going, keep refining, and keep showing up — day after day, imperfect but intentional.
That’s what Olympic weightlifting has taught me. And that’s how I try to live.