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Because of my prostate surgery, I pulled over four times while driving to my brother's house. Ninety minutes. Four stops. Sat in a service station car park for fifteen minutes on the way back, waiting to feel like I could trust myself to get back on the motorway. My wife Janet was in the passenger seat both ways. She didn't say anything. She just looked out the window. I got home and thought: this is it. This is the rest of my life. Planning every journey around where I can pull over. Carrying a spare change of trousers in the boot. Wearing dark colours so nobody notices if I don't make it in time. I'm 68. I had prostate surgery two years ago. The consultant said most men recover bladder control within a few months. Do your Kegel exercises. Squeeze, hold, release. I did them every day for four months. Nothing changed. My father had the same surgery at 62. Same exercises. Same result. He stopped visiting us on weekends because the drive was 40 minutes and he didn't trust himself to make it without an accident. He became quieter, smaller, less present. My mother told me once they hadn't been on a holiday since 2014. "He won't go," she said. "He says he doesn't feel like it. But I know why." At his funeral, my brother told me he'd been going through seven pads a day at the end. Seven. For eleven years. Because the exercises never worked and nobody ever told him there was anything else. I was mapping my drives by bathroom stops. Not by distance. Not by time. By where I could pull over. The shopping centre on the bypass — second floor near the food court. The service station at junction 14. The pub car park on the A-road where nobody asks questions if you walk in and head straight to the gents. I'd become my father. Eleven years faster. That night, Janet sat down with her laptop. "I've been looking at something," she said. "I didn't want to say anything until I was sure it wasn't rubbish." She showed me a simple device. A pelvic floor trainer that works differently from anything the doctors had mentioned. I almost laughed. "That's it?" I said. "You put it between your knees and squeeze?" "That's it," she said. "And it has a 30-day guarantee. You keep it even if you want a refund." I looked at the price. $79. I'd spent more than that on pads every single month since my surgery. I ordered it that afternoon. More for Janet than for myself. Because she deserved better than sitting quietly in the passenger seat while I pulled over on the hard shoulder. The box arrived four days later. Plain. Unmarked. Nobody would know what was inside. It was smaller than I expected. Simple. A trainer with two padded arms and a digital counter built in. No wires. No electrodes. No app to download. No confusing manual. "Try it," Janet said. I put it between my knees. Squeezed. The counter clicked. That was it. That was the whole thing. I did three sets of ten squeezes. Took five minutes. Then I put it on the counter next to the kettle and made a cup of tea. The first week, nothing dramatic. Still using pads. Still cautious on the road. But something felt different. The squeeze felt real — pushing against actual resistance. Not squeezing into nothing like the exercises. Like the difference between flexing your arm and actually lifting something. Week two. Down from three bathroom trips a night to twice. Week three. Down to two pads a day. The leaks smaller. I sneezed without bracing for it for the first time in months. Week four. One pad. More out of habit than necessity. Janet noticed before I said anything. "You haven't asked me to pick up pads this week," she said. "I don't think I need them anymore." She put her hand over her mouth. Week six. No pads. None. I drove to my brother's last month. Ninety minutes. Straight through. No stops. I didn't even think about it until I was already there and Janet said, "You didn't pull over once." She said it quietly, like she didn't want to break the spell. I drove home the same way. Stopped for a coffee because I wanted one. Not because I had to. Here's what I understand now that I didn't before. The exercises my surgeon gave me weren't wrong. The principle was right — strengthen the pelvic floor. But the method was incomplete. When your prostate is removed, your pelvic floor has to do a job it was never doing alone. A basic squeeze from a printed sheet isn't enough to rebuild that kind of strength. Your pelvic floor doesn't just need exercise. It needs to become stronger than it's ever been. And that requires resistance. Something for the muscle to push against. The same principle behind every form of physiotherapy in existence. The Fortis Control Trainer applies resistance directly to your pelvic floor. You place it between your knees, squeeze, and the muscle strengthens with every rep. The built-in counter tracks each one. No guesswork. No wondering if you're doing it right. Five minutes a day. Sitting in your armchair. With your morning tea. No surgery. No electrodes. No insertion. No apps. No pain. My father didn't know this existed. Nobody told him. He spent eleven years pulling over, cancelling visits, making excuses — because the only option anyone gave him was a sheet of exercises that didn't work. I'm writing this because I know there are men right now planning every journey around bathroom stops. Men who've memorised every service station on every road they drive. Men whose wives sit quietly in the passenger seat and say nothing. It doesn't have to stay that way. One important note: There are cheap imitation versions of the Fortis Trainer showing up on Amazon. They look similar but the resistance mechanism is completely different — multiple men have reported they do nothing. Make sure you're ordering from the official store only. The Fortis Control Trainer costs $79. One time. No subscriptions. No replacement parts. 30-day money-back guarantee — if it doesn't work, you get a full refund and keep the trainer. Ships in a plain, unmarked box. There's also a free 8-Week Recovery Protocol that tells you exactly what to do each day. I've been using it for five months. Total control. No pads. Sleeping through the night. Driving wherever I want, whenever I want. No planning. No mapping. No service stations. My father spent eleven years not going places because of a drive he couldn't trust himself to make. Don't let that be you. Try it. For 30 days. With zero risk. https://tryfortis.store/products/fortis-control-trainer Don't let this become another thing you wish you'd done sooner. — David Mitchell P.S. — Week 1: Still using 4 pads. Week 2: Down to 3, sleeping better. Week 3: 2 pads. Sneezed without leaking for the first time. Week 4: 1 pad, mostly habit. Week 6: None. Drove 90 minutes straight. No stops. Janet didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Your timeline might be different. But you won't know unless you try. $79 once. 30-day guarantee. Ships in a plain box.