Fasting, Thunder, and the Farmer’s Carry

 I stop eating most days around 5 p.m.

No snacks. No late dinners. Just a hard stop. I don’t break that fast until sometime the next morning — often 9 or 10 a.m. That’s a 16–17 hour fast, daily, without fanfare.

Sometimes I forget to eat altogether. I’ll be elbows-deep in soil or writing or hauling water, and suddenly realise it’s been 21 hours since my last meal. At that point, I’ll stretch it to 24 — not to prove anything, just because it feels right to.

As I type this, I’m three hours away from another 24-hour fast.

What Is Intermittent Fasting?

Intermittent Fasting (IF) is about when you eat, not what you eat. The most common structure is 16:8 — 16 hours of fasting, 8 hours of eating — but it can shift depending on your schedule and body. You’re not restricting calories; you’re giving your system longer stretches to operate without food.

Why it works for me:

• Mental clarity — fewer dips, more focus

• No food fog — digestion takes a backseat

• Fat adaptation — body burns stored energy efficiently

• Fewer decisions — fewer meals, fewer distractions

It’s not a strict protocol for me. It’s just another useful rhythm — like lifting, planting, or journaling. Something I do to keep myself tuned.

Thunder Rolls In: The Rain at Last

Crash. Bang. Rumble.
It’s starting.
Thunder’s moving in from the west — low, steady, distant. The kind that makes the birds go quiet. I’ve been watching the radar all afternoon, eyes fixed on the incoming front. The rain’s nearly here.

Still no lightning. But the air’s heavy. Waiting.

And I’m ready.

I’ve staged my three trugs — 40 litres each.
Two watering cans — 19 litres between them.
A few other no-hole containers — 90 litres total.

That’s 149 litres of backup storage, set to catch the overflow from my 210-litre water butt, which is already near full.

Catch It While You Can

Normally, when the rain comes, I’ve got a system.
I use the trugs and watering cans to ferry water from the overflowing butts to the IBC tank. Each run is a full-body lift — Farmer’s Carries in disguise. Forty litres a trip. Arms straining. Feet sinking into wet ground.

If the rain’s heavy, I’ll even drain the butts while it’s still falling, making space for more — all of it done in a waterproof jacket, hood up, soaking but steady. That’s the usual method. Simple. Controlled.

But not today.
Today it’s chaos.

The sky has lit up — flashes now, not just rumbles.
Thunder is rolling overhead, pressing into my chest.

I look out the back door and spot it — ALARM.
The water’s pouring over the gutter, missing the butt completely.
I crack the lid and check: barely a trickle inside.
The spout is clogged again — bloody pine needles.

And now I’m staring up at a stormy sky, asking myself if I really want to raise a ladder near a metal gutter while lightning flashes above me.

I grab the stepladder instead.
I climb up, glancing at the clouds, muttering a few choice words. I reach up into the downspout and rip out a fistful of gunk — wet pine needles, decayed mulch, sludge. Toss it onto the grass. Reach in again. Another clump gone.

Then — YES.
I hear it: a gurgling slosh of water now flowing freely into the butt.

Problem solved.
Still alive.

Water in Motion

I got my workout in today — not in the gym, but out in the rain, ferrying water. Back and forth from the butts to the IBC tank, over and over, carrying trugs, cans, and containers until the job was done.

The IBC now holds 450 litres.
All three water butts are full — that’s 630 litres.
The overflow vessels — three trugs (40L each), two watering cans (19L total), and spare containers (90L) — are also topped up.

Total rainwater stored: 1,149 litres.

And I moved all 450 litres into the IBC during my 23rd hour of fasting.

That’s not just good timing — it’s fat-burning by design.
After 12–14 hours without food, the body shifts gears: glycogen stores run low, and it begins to burn stored fat for fuel. Combine that with steady-load physical effort — lifting, walking, hauling — and you’ve got a low-intensity, high-efficiency metabolic workout.

No shakes. No fuel dumps. Just slow, clean energy pulled from reserves.

I felt it in my legs, arms, back — a full-body session carried out in the rain, under pressure, with purpose.

Storm’s End

Rain falling on open hands raised to a dark sky lit by distant lightning — symbolic of strain, reward, and resilience.

The tanks are full.
The garden drinks.
The storm moves on.
And I finish — soaked, spent, and steady.