Warrior Training (22 page)

Depending on the intensity of our previous three sessions, on Thursdays we would often do an interval session. This could include five one-kilometre sprints, fartlek training or – my last troop sergeant's favourite – the seven peaks.

We used to jog around Swanbourne and, every few minutes, select a hill and race to the top. The winner would receive gold, second place silver and bronze for third. The others were given a bowl of milk and told to try a little harder. The key to this was making your efforts at the right time. You shouldn't give 100 per cent on every hill, but rather decide when to go for it and when to conserve your energy. No one ever won two hills in a row. At the end of
the session, the person with the most gold, silver and bronze was the winner. There was no second place – just 19 losers.

During those sessions there was always a lot of banter. On one occasion a strong sprinter and road-runner named Charlie said: ‘Hey, let's all work together so Fenno doesn't get any gold medals.'

Why single me out, ya' bastard?
I thought. I waited for the second sprint and yelled out: ‘Fuck you, Charlie!' before taking off on my quest for gold.

Training hard together builds an esprit de corps. We were tight, a critical constituent for soldiers who might be sent to war at any time.

On Saturday mornings a few of us would meet at the Regimental gymnasium. Once a month we would go berserk and shock-load our bodies to test ourselves. Kane and I used to do a heavy chin-up/push-up session – 300 of each in 30 minutes. When Newy, a mate from another troop, heard about this, he asked to join in. We decided to up the ante to 400 chin-ups and 400 push-ups in 45 minutes. At the start of each minute we'd jump onto the heave bar and pump out 10 chin-ups. As soon as we were finished that we'd drop to the floor for 10 push-ups. This would have taken around 22 to 25 seconds, and we'd use the remainder of that minute to rest. After 30 continuous sets we would stop for a two-minute break.

‘What do you think, Newy – you like it?' I asked at the break, trying not to laugh.

‘It's a cracker! You fuckers are sick!'

Newy was a hyper-positive soldier who radiated energy. If someone was having a bad day, all they'd have to do
was spend 10 minutes with Newy – then they'd be bouncing off the walls like he was, feeling stoked to be alive. He had a witty sense of humour and would often crack one-liners that Raymond Chandler would be proud of. He was also tall, exceptionally fit and one of the strongest swimmers in the Regiment. Kane and I looked forward to hurting Newy.

We completed another five sets before taking a further minute to rest. Our backs were beginning to cramp. Newy and his long arms were still hanging in there, but only just.

‘Five sets to go, big guy,' I said.

‘Is that all,' he said, bending over and shaking his arms.

After 350 chin-ups and push-ups, our arms felt like they were going to burst. We rested after sets 37 and 39. On the penultimate set, our form had well and truly gone to shit. We flicked our hips like a dog having sex as we tried to get our chins over the bar. Just hanging on was an effort.

‘Good effort, boys,' said Kane.

‘Yeah, thanks for that, fellas,' said Newy. ‘If my arms weren't so useless I'd punch you both in the face.' He slumped down on the bench.

A few weeks later it was Buzz's turn. He was my first team leader and always keen for a challenging hit-out. The aim of the session was to complete five consecutive exercises without a rest, before taking a 90-second break and repeating the whole thing another four times. The first exercise was 10 chin-ups with a 10-kilogram plate slung around our waists. Then we'd jump onto the bench press and pump out 20 repetitions of 60 kilograms. From there we'd walk to the squat rack and complete 20 deep squats
with 60 to 80 kilograms, before completing another 10 chin-ups and finishing off with 30 push-ups.

The first set is okay – you finish feeling pumped and your heart is beating hard. The second set starts to bite. By the third, you start to doubt whether there is enough blood and oxygen in your body to get the job done. During the fourth set, your body gets a little freaked out – a combination of rising nausea and dizziness – as you struggle to complete the reps. During our final 90-second rest, no one was talking and no one was sitting. We were all collapsed on the benches or the floor, hyperventilating and trying to summon the courage for the final set.

The chin-ups are a rest compared to the bench press, which is the most challenging activity. For me, the final two reps of the fifth set are always a struggle. The final trip to the squat bar is like trying to walk in a straight line after you have spun around 10 times with your eyes closed. If you're not dizzy when you start the squats, you might well be hallucinating by the time you get off. Then it's back on the chin-up bar before pumping out one final set of push-ups.

Buzz finished the workout – with no build-up training, we were impressed that he completed all the reps – then he walked outside and fertilised the garden. Now that's what we were hoping for.

Despite this type of training, trying to pull yourself out of a violent, windswept ocean in Bass Strait while burdened with 15 to 20 kilograms of equipment – body armour, a climbing harness, safety vest, weapons, ammunition, a radio and a sledge hammer – is still hugely taxing. After
completing a dive and establishing a 30- to 40-foot caving ladder, the final climb is always gruelling as blood is shunted between your legs and arms. If the water is cold – and it always is – then even hanging on to the ladder can be challenging.

The same goes for trying to remain coherent when scrambling up the side of a mountain in Afghanistan while carrying in excess of 65 kilograms.

The years we spent physically preparing and extending ourselves in training allowed us to perform during exacting operational deployments. In the SAS, being physically fit and strong is not about ego; it's about being able to get the job done and embrace tasks that are beyond the scope and capabilities of conventional military units.

It's different now. I no longer train for survival, but for sanity and enjoyment.

Although I consume a fairly balanced diet (one that does include pizza, Diet Coke and chocolate), my love of training does not extend to excessive protein consumption, which can trigger more than one sitting on a toilet per day, or to counting calories, hanging out in front of the mirror or balancing on scales. I like to train hard primarily because of how it makes me feel.

For the most part, I enjoy training with other like-minded people, but when I need to get back to basics, gather my inner thoughts and centre myself – as I did after SAS selection – I train alone. Taking on a heavy, wind-battered ocean; having a rigorous session on the kettlebells; or running up a densely wooded mountain, where I have nothing but the sound of my own laboured breathing to keep me company – these activities strengthen my soul.
They enhance my self-belief, as during those times I have no safety net. The only person I have for motivation – the only person I can rely on – is me.

Going solo against nature is as humbling as it is invigorating, and in more ways than purely the physical. The mental strength that enables you to conquer an extreme workout can be carried over to all other facets of life. For me, it's simple; a testing workout builds my self-esteem and self-belief, but also keeps my feet on the ground and promotes humility.

A mountain workout.

These days, I do most of my training in the ocean with a few mates, and I've started competing for our local surf
club. My whole family is into it too. Having the time to train for an event, and then actually being around long enough to go in it, has opened up my eyes to life after the Regiment. It was always there but it took me a while to find it. I've also met some remarkable people. When I first started training on a paddle board, an elderly gentlemen named Ross would regularly kick my arse. I'm 35 and he's 64; he's not double my age but he's close enough. This man and several others like him are inspirational.

The fourteenth of January 2009 started off a little more exciting than most days. I arrived at the beach at 0600. The sun was not yet fully round, its arse still below the horizon. There was a slight breeze out of the north-west.
Excellent – the winds are offshore
, I thought.

I said g'day to Chris, a mad surfer mate who, like me, is now addicted to intense training on racing paddle-boards. I've met a great crew of guys who don't mind training hard. On this day, there were just three of us – Chris, myself and Brendon, a tenacious older guy in his mid to late forties. We decided to paddle 1000 metres around the rocks to the next beach, where we completed some beach and pool sprints before heading back. We'd been training for 50 minutes, so I decided to conclude the session with some interval training.

We consolidated at a buoy about 150 metres from the shore, where I explained to the guys how it would work. The aim of the training was to work through the phosphate and into the lactic acid energy system. In simple terms, we'd paddle hard around an opposite buoy in 45-second
bursts – flat-out – to develop our power and speed. Since there were three of us, while one man was paddling the other two would rest. I normally prefer 1:1 rest when doing interval training, but the additional time off meant we could pull ourselves through the water a little harder.

‘This will be the last one, mate,' I said to Chris, angling my board towards the buoy, waiting for Brendon to arrive back. He, as usual, was throwing his heart and soul into the session. When he was 10 metres away I began paddling towards him. I grabbed my side rails and prepared to jump onto my knees and get going, but a second later I noticed a large black shape breach the swell about three metres behind him. There was a distinctive wake, and the shape – the shark's head – was heading straight towards him, its speed at least double his. It's well known that sharks generally attack from below or behind.

It was bizarre. Before me was a perfect demonstration of a shark's final approach before an attack. Brendon was two or three metres from me when the head sank beneath the water. It turned right, revealing a shadow of considerable girth and at least three metres long.

Brendon's board glided past mine as I said: ‘Oy, guys, there's something in the water, and it's fucking big.'

Brendon, who should by then have been recovering and enjoying his well-deserved rest, spun around towards Chris, his flushed face redder than his hair. Some people might have been overwhelmed by the thought of something big feasting on their body, and filled with panic. But these guys were the complete opposite – I was impressed.

‘Hey, hold on, Keith saw something in the water,' said Chris.

‘It had a bloody big head,' I said as we lay on our boards – with none of our appendages dangling in the water. We signalled to a dozen surfers 60 metres up the beach, then cautiously paddled up to them to spread the word.

‘Guys, we're not trying to freak anyone out, but a decent-sized shark surged towards one of our boards. It was big. Just wanted to let you know.'