From the "food fight" dept.

The battle of the bulge has long been my cross to bear. I've been involved in a serious food fight since I was in grade school. And, as I'm dragged kicking and screaming into middle-age (can't we use another term like youthful maturity?) I find the war on weight is one I am steadily losing by gaining.

Not counting my birth weight, I have, as an adult, weighed as much as 351.5 pounds and as little as 180 pounds. Deep fried foods contributed to the former, cycling to the latter.

As I stubbornly enter the wrinkle years, I am conscious that my weight is once again climbing in proportion to my belly size. There's intelligent design for you.

How did this happen?

It goes all the way back to when I moved to Vancouver a decade ago. At the time, my main form of exercise was cycling. Those two wheels were the reason I dropped all the weight and kept the fat demons at bay.

But I suddenly found myself cycling less. This was not due to laziness but rather the work of a cracked-up thief who snatched my mountain bike whilst my back was turned.

It took some time to find the right replacement and during this period of indecision I began to expand.

Eventually I set myself up with a new rig and all was good. Then I moved to South Vancouver and all was bad. I stopped riding because it took so long to get anywhere cool. It was easier to drive and I racked up a serious debt at the Bank of Carbon Credits. And no small amount of guilt.

But I can't take all the blame. I also have a digit firmly pointed at the CBC. Yes, our national public broadcaster also contributed to my expansion. How? Telecommuting.

At the same time that I was cycling less, I was working from home more. Initially it was great. I'd roll out of bed, throw on a pot of Joe, fire up the computer and start working in the basement office.

Eight hours later I'd drag my arse upstairs, stuff my face and shift into neutral. The justification for this was simple: I had just finished work, I deserved a break.

While my mind was getting a kick-ass workout, my body wasn't. I didn't wander around the workplace because I didn't have a workplace. And I didn't leave the house to go for lunch or a midday stroll. I just went upstairs. The only thing increasing more than my waist size was my productivity.

I soon realized that I had to open the front door start walking -- which I did. But, unfortunately for my gut, I found little of interest to motivate me to explore my neighbourhood for more than about 38 seconds.

In an effort to reverse the unwelcome growth spurt, I would visit my old Commercial Drive neighbourhood and wander around. But even that took some effort, especially on those cold, dark, wet Vancouver winter/spring/summer/fall nights.

Still, I managed to find a balance between caloric intake and expenditure. I wasn't getting fitter, but I wasn't getting fatter either. Or at least, I didn't think I was.

I noticed another increase in girth last December, which also happened to be the same time that I snagged a gig to move to Ghana, West Africa as a journalism trainer.

Perfect, I thought. I'll lose weight in Africa! It'll be easy!!

And so I began worrying less about my intake and more about a second round at the Irish Heather pub. T'was the season to pig out. And I did. Oh, how I did!

Several weeks after bidding adieu to my city, my friends and the Irish Heather, I was in Takoradi, Ghana and ready to shed the excess pounds.

It was the perfect plan: I didn't have a car, so I'd walk more. It was hot as hell, so I'd sweat more. And I certainly wouldn't be tempted by Irish pints or fattening foods.

Nearly 10 months later, I realize that I was sadly mistaken.

My clothes -- even my big, custom-made billowy African shirts -- are tighter. When I walk I feel like Vito Spatafore.

Jumping on a luggage scale last week at the local bus station confirmed my worst fears. I actually gained weight in Africa.

How could this be? Blame the Ghanaian diet.

First: Most dishes are carby. We're talking rice, beans, plantains, yams... you name it. If it's got carbs, it's on the menu. Add fattening sauces and you've got a plateful of trouble.

And the carbs sneak up on you too. Looking around, you'll see that the average Ghanaian woman is slim; the average Ghanaian man is ripped. Logically, if I eat what they eat, should I not also be slim and/or ripped?

Fat chance.

And it doesn't help that the portions here are shockingly big. Think American portions, but on steroids -- sort of like Marion Jones, if she were a plate of rice and beans.

The slim and the ripped dig right in. And then, after coming up for air, they wash it down with 625 ml bottles of beer. When in Rome...

Which brings us to my weight. I'm certainly not at 351.5 pounds again, but neither am I a waify 180.

My biggest concern isn't my health (I'll live forever!), but rather how to lose the extra ballast before I return home in December.

I already have enough 'splainin' to do about my lack of tan and crazed-composer hair. How do I explain getting fat in Africa?

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