Technology. Aviation. Endurance. And whisky.

Some decisions are only arithmetic, made once the facts are in. The ones that matter come earlier, when waiting for certainty costs more than being wrong. Across flying, ultrarunning, building software, and tasting whisky, the same problem keeps appearing in different clothes: how to act on incomplete information, and how much margin to leave for the gap.

Weather is a probability dressed as a fact; a race is a bet placed hours before it pays out; code that compiles is not code that is correct; a cask is a decision no one tastes for decades. What the four teach is not courage but a better relationship with uncertainty: how much room to keep for being wrong.

My mind is always ahead of the moment. I notice things before I can explain them — patterns, connections, details that don't sit right. Writing is how I bring order to that. Not to share conclusions, but to make the thought sit still long enough to examine it.

The four domains I move through — code, flight, distance, whisky — all demand decisions with incomplete information and refinement without a clear endpoint. They suit the way my mind works. The cost of noticing everything is that you cannot stop. It is useful. It is also, sometimes, exhausting. But it is the only way I know how to be.

The moment I arrive at the airfield, something shifts. The rush drops away. What remains is the preflight — thorough, clockwise, unhurried. Not as formality, but as foundation. On the ground you still have a choice not to go. In the air, you work with what you prepared.

The SportCruiser came my way when a flight school standardised its fleet. The alternatives didn't fit — literally. Together with a few flying friends I bought it. Not a single regret. Flying is the privilege of being above everything that was pulling at you an hour ago, provided you took the time for everything that came before.