Food is Fuel. Fuel is Poison.

RING-A-LING!

Life chimes in at 30. It starts small. A subtle warning that change is coming, but I ignore it. As any self-respecting man who has taken life for granted would. I continue eating. Taking my fill of the same foods I always eat. Have always eaten.

Ding-a-ling. The chime comes from within. Except it’s more of a gurgle. I pat my stomach, like my old man kicking the tyres of my first car, before I could be allowed to part with my hard-earned money. You have to know the vessel is up for the journey ahead… another gurgle. Maybe my tyre is in need of a change. It’s looking a little worse for wear these days. I make a mental note to hit the gym more often.

There’s a swirl of disgruntlement growing in the depths of my once iron stomach. It’s a message I’d prefer to ignore. I’ve handled worse than this before. It’ll pass as things usually do.

DING-A-LING!

I’m out for dinner with friends, drinking beer and eating wings when I get the call. I check the miles on the clock: 32 years. Practically new. I pick up another buffalo hot wing. I’m no wimp. I can still handle the spice. Nothing has changed. I’m the same old me.

I lick my fingers and rub a hand over the fresh bodywork. I can feel the ridge of my stomach muscles where the spare tyre once was. I’m no old dog just yet. I learned my lesson. I listened to the quiet hum of life and adjusted my habits. I changed the oil and gave the engine new life. I’m back in top shape, primed and ready for action. Ready for a year of fun and adventure...

The following morning disagrees with me. As does the porcelain hot seat. That’s the first time that spicy wings have taken me to Mount Vesuvius. I’ve never been before, and I don’t fancy making it a regular thing. I wash my face in the mirror. It doesn’t mean anything.

I stuff my bag to the brim and pick up my passport, leaving my worries behind.

DING DING!

I sit up with a startle and run to the unfamiliar bathroom. I cling to the cubicle walls and release my grip on life. I’m drenched in sweat and a worry I never thought to pack. Why is this happening? The food wasn’t spicy. The check engine light is on, indicating mechanical issues… but I don’t want to hear it. Brazil may not be known for its Delhi Belly, but that’s all this is. New food in a new place. It’s nothing serious. I’m sure of it. I’m too young and healthy. 34 years, warranty check not quite due.

Three months later, I shake my head. Just because it happened in Brazil, Colombia and Mexico doesn’t make it a pattern. It’s all the new foods I’m trying. It has to be. What else could it be? I’m a reliable machine. Always have been.

DING! DONG!

What now? I didn’t eat any spice. I’m not travelling. I’m at home. I cooked it myself. What did I do wrong? I rush to the bathroom. At least I live alone. The relief runs out of me like washer fluid, wiping my thoughts of pristine performance. I’m in no condition to drive.

At 36, my service light is on, but I’m still not ready to pay. I’ve heard a clean engine can run longer. Time to recalibrate my diet. It’s probably just a minor malfunction. I can fix that. No need for a technician to poke around. I’m more than capable of fixing it myself. That’s what men do. We fix things, we don’t complain, we motor on.

Time to switch up the fuel from no-holds-barred to pure filtered goodness only. That means no more spice. It’s a shame, but I can live with tangy and sour. Reduced beer intake? Well, there’s no need for overcorrection; a complete ban isn’t necessary. What’s a little risk for a big reward? I can compensate. Less salt and fatty foods? Check. A purchased meat thermometer for no more home accidents? Check. No more milk and cheese. Check. Uncheck. Because pizza, pizza is still acceptable. Some compromise has to be had.

Let’s see how it goes. I can last a little longer. It’s not that disruptive to my life. Sure my confidence is shot, dating is a nightmare, and spontaneity fell out the window a few miles back, but I’m still moving forward. Everything is going to be okay.

DONG!!

Every day now starts with half a dozen backfires. I’m flushed with the indignity of it all. How could a once-prime machine that could run for days, on nothing but cake, have reached this point?

38 years old? Check engine light is on. Should I take this seriously? My dignity is departing. Every time I agree to a date, to meet friends, or attend an event, I have to prepare more than an hour in advance and review the destination for suitable pit stops. Just in case of engine failure. This is not normal. Clearly my exhaust is faulty.

With every warning call, my anxiety grows. Every time I eat, I hear it. Ring-a-ling, ding-a-ling, ding-dong... Dong! Is something wrong? It’s no longer a matter of if, but when.

Every day I pull myself over. I can’t keep going on like this.

DONG! DONG!! DONG!!!

40! Engine fails to start. Oh shit. Is this it? The end of my youth? The end of a carefree life? Time to check myself in for repairs.

When the specialist asks about my issues, I list them out like I’m shopping for spare parts.

Why did I wait so long to seek help?

He asks me how long I’ve been experiencing these problems. I prefer not to say. Has it really been that long?

He looks at me like, “Did you not see the warnings?” Of course I did. I’m no fool. I’m a man. I know my engine like the back of my hand.

I shrug my shoulders, like there was nothing I could do.

It wasn’t so bad. It’s not a lie if you taught yourself to believe it.

He nods in solidarity and schedules me in for diagnostics. Hopefully the repairs won’t be too costly.

*SILENCE*

Still 40, but no more warnings. *System out of service.* Complete engine failure.

Life as I know it is over. The doctor calls an end to my ignorance. Bliss officially disturbed. A new life must begin with a new transmission, one full of caution. Where food screenings are the norm…

Food is no longer fuel, but possible poison. One capable of disrupting any spontaneous plans, even the sexiest of ones. Especially those. IBS is triggered by nerves. Even the manliest of men get those. Even if we don’t admit it. Stress too? You betcha.

What else? I passed a test. Which, in doctor terms, is a fail. Some foods must not be consumed...

So no more freedom. It’s a new journey now. One where all adventures require baggage packed with dietary restrictions. Where any and all transgressions, no matter how well-intentioned, will be met with extremely harsh punishments. No matter the miles on the clock, no man likes to feel vulnerable, and there’s nothing more vulnerable than the urgent lowering of trousers around your ankles.

I never thought I’d have to teach my body tolerance.

At least I still have my mind… until the next chapter!

It’ll be fine.

It’ll be fine!

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© Simon George 2026. All Rights Reserved.

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This one is for all those in the struggle of dietary restrictions. Let me know if you can relate and what food you miss most.