The bearded gentleman looks somewhat stunned by my safety checklist. He mumbles something about oiling the chain, and I look at him through eyes so perplexed that he quickly averts his embarrassed gaze back to the tatty piece of paper he is scribbling on, and tells me my bike will be ready for collection on Friday.
WHOOP, WHOOP! This is the start of a new era for me. My own personal plan to start off small, and to set myself some tiny, incremental, non-running – dare I say it, cycling – goals.
Memories come flooding back of my first experience of owning a bike. It’s my eighth birthday, and – almost fit to burst with excitement – my dad holds my hand as I skip down to the garage for The Big Reveal. Will my new bike be shiny and pink, with a big fancy ribbon tied around it? Or perhaps it will be sky blue with crisp, white ‘go faster’ stripes down the side, like my cousin Andrew’s BMX? I can’t help but wonder. I’ve been thinking about it for days … WEEKS!
Finally, the wait is over. My dad grapples with the creaky old garage door, and there, standing behind it is … the rusty green relic. Oh. Right. Even as a young child I’m very aware of the value of things and certain social graces, so I’m keen to appear grateful despite my stinging disappointment. This bike isn’t new. It’s not shiny and sparkly, with a NO CHILD HAS EVER RIDDEN ME BEFORE kind of vibe. Not at all. Instead, it has a tired, roughly refurbished nearly new feel, which no child ever wants for a birthday present. My dreams of a shiny, pink bike wrapped in an offensively large bow are instantly dashed.
‘The paintwork needs a bit of touching up,’ Dad says without a hint of irony, and – even more incredulously – sounding absolutely thrilled with his bicycle choice. I notice a few flecks of green paint fall away as he rubs his rough, oil-stained hands over part of the frame. The metal is a burnt orange colour underneath. ‘And the brakes need looking at, but other than that, it’s just like new!’ he beams.
I don’t cry, because I know that would really upset my dad, who seems genuinely excited. But I’m momentarily stunned into silence.
The bike wasn’t like new, and it didn’t feel like it was mine. I have no fond memories of going out riding on the Rusty Green Relic (‘RGR’). I have absolutely no recollection of being taken on any glorious, sunny bike rides on it. In fact, I don’t think I ever ventured further than our overgrown back garden, where I was pushed around the relative safety of our un-mowed lawn a couple of times (Mum wouldn’t let me ride the RGR on our cul-de-sac for fear of it collapsing without notice, or failing to stop, if required. Both of which were perfectly understandable and legitimate concerns.) Besides, with the best will in the world, I knew that refurbishing my *new* bike would come some way down on the list of other DIY disasters my dad had yet to remedy, including:
•The pile of red bricks sitting in one corner of the garden, which would at some stage purportedly end up resembling a barbeque;
•The DIY double-glazing, which was becoming more of a pressing issue since Mum rejected his earlier attempt at installing cling film to the inside of all the windows with the use of my hairdryer;
•The ginger Baxi Bermuda fireplace which – Dad had promised – would be miraculously transformed by ‘a few coats of dark varnish’.
I think back to the God-awful, soul-destroying mountain-biking experience I endured back in 2009, when the Girly Cycling Clique hung me out to dry on their Wednesday night ride to Stoodley Pike, and I shudder at the memory.
It doesn’t have to be like that, Rach, I tell myself. You can start with baby steps – just tiny cycling challenges that you set for yourself – and nobody else even need know about them!
I feel better for giving myself a mini pep-talk, and I feel the tiniest flutter of excitement at the prospect of my trusty Trek mountain bike being declared roadworthy, and collecting him on Friday with the certain knowledge that he is ready for action.
Phase One
Friday comes around, and I arrive back upstairs at Halfords’ misplaced second-floor bike service desk. Bearded man isn’t working today, but there’s a monosyllabic teenager in his place.
‘The brake disks needed changing,’ he mumbles, ‘And it looks like your chain hasn’t been oiled in a long while.’
I look at him and smile gormlessly, safe in the knowledge that the chain has never been oiled. Not to my knowledge, anyway.
‘OK, thanks,’ I reply. ‘Could you please show me how to raise my seat a little bit? Oh, and I think I also need a bell.’
I pay for my bike’s first service in seven years (and my new bell, which inexplicably has a fluorescent yellow ‘Acid House’ face on it) and I’m slightly aggrieved the youth hasn’t offered to help me carry my hefty-framed mountain bike down the stairs, and shoehorn it into my car boot. Regardless, I bounce the wheels down the staircase, gripping tightly onto the Avidjuicy brakes, trying hard not to fall arse-over-elbow in the process. With only the mildest hint of my own body odour, I then wrestle Trek into the boot of my car, having completed a Krypton Factor challenge of collapsing car seats and removing shelving to accommodate his chunky frame.
But I see this as a mini victory, and the completion of Phase One of my plan to discover the joys of cycling which have otherwise eluded me for an entire lifetime.
This is progress; this is progress, indeed.
Phase Two
Trek is finally home. He’s received an Extreme Makeover, and now has freshly pumped tyres, a shiny, lubricated chain, and his Avid juicy brakes are razor-sharp once again. Of course, this is progress, but now I need a plan. How will I get from ‘I can’t ride a bike … YET’ to a place where fear and self-doubt are replaced by confidence, and competence? What resources and experiences do I have to rely on, which can help me? I ponder on this for a short while, and it doesn’t take long for my head to go back to a time when I was afraid to run – or to take part in pretty much any sporting activity, come to think of it, for fear of failing, of looking foolish, of not being good enough.
Do you remember when you were too scared to run, actively avoiding cross-country P. E. lessons at school because you were too frightened to take part? Of course I do – I remember it vividly. I can feel my back sliding down the cold brick wall near the vending machine at the local sports centre, and getting ready to dunk cheap white bread in some disgusting, chalky soup, whilst my peers were off somewhere else being active. How did I get here, from being there – in that place? I took many tiny steps forward, that’s what I did. It didn’t happen overnight, but as I inched my way from the proverbial vending machine towards virtual freedom, every step mattered. I didn’t go from loathing crosscountry at school to running marathons and – warning: YAY ME! moment coming up – even winning races in one leap, did I? Of course not.
So, with all this in mind, it’s time to set myself some mini challenges – those incremental, fiery hoops of anxiety I’ll be required to jump through to prove to myself – and to my Bastard Chimp – that I’m capable of this, that I CAN ride a bike, and that I WILL succeed at this.
It’s time.
Phase Three
CYCLING CHALLENGE #1: CAN I RIDE A BIKE?
ANSWER #1: I’M NOT SURE, BUT I’LL GIVE IT A GO.
The first challenge I set myself is to cycle down to the local gym. This is a five-mile, mainly downhill route consisting of only two main roads – gulp, cold sweat – followed by a mercifully traffic-free section along the canal towpath but it’s got bumpy, cobbled bits on it, and low bridges. Fuck!
I look closely at my Trek, and I wonder if he has any idea of the sheer ineptitude of his owner. He is a lovely-looking, if slightly ageing machine, but even I feel a sense of his humiliation as my daughter’s neon pink fluffy unicorns drinking bottle complete with curly straw sits snugly in the bottle cage. He knows he’s better than this – and he’s right.
Suddenly, I feel incredibly anxious. I honestly don’t know if I can brave the traffic, or stop at the traffic lights; I don’t know if I can take one hand off the handlebars to indicate when I will be turni
ng ‘left’ or ‘right’. I have no idea how I will navigate any tricky road junctions when I will need to move over towards the middle of the road – in the face of oncoming vehicles – just to make a necessary turn. How will I deal with dogs running off their leads along the canal? What if they run across my path, and Trek and I end up bobbing about in the murky water? I’ve heard stories about cyclists falling into the canal, and I know that this is a real possibility for me. What if I misjudge the height of one of the narrow tunnels, and i end up colliding with the stonework?
How long will it take me to ride down to the gym, anyway? I have absolutely no idea. It’s only five miles away from my home, but with all the above potential calamities, it could take me literally hours to drag us both out of the canal, or to push along a busted bike with buckled wheels resulting from an unfortunate tunnel collision.
I don’t know why, but all these worries suddenly seem very real, and they overwhelm me. As I consider every possible disastrous eventuality I can feel my heart rate increase. And then my Bastard Chimp joins in the anxiety party: ‘Ha ha! You? on a bike? Really? What the HELL are you thinking, Rach? You can’t even ride a bike! You’ll make a complete FOOL of Yourself!’
I’m momentarily silenced. But I have heard all his cruel taunts many, many times before. Remember when you felt like this before your first ever run? I remind myself. What did you do then? You went out and you did it anyway. And what if you DO fall off your bike, or collide with the inside of a tunnel? What will you do then? I reject my immediate answer, which is that I’ll crawl into a hole somewhere and never come out. You’ll get back on your bike and you’ll go again, Rach. That’s what you’ll do.
I have prepared some blackcurrant juice to go in my daughter’s fluffy unicorn water bottle, and – inspired by this – I also think to take her bike lock along with me to the gym. It’s the only bike lock I have (although it’s bordering on comical to describe it as a ‘lock’ … and it’s also candyfloss pink), but it will be better than nothing whilst I abandon my Trek for an hour or so.
I head off on my (thankfully, now confirmed) circular-wheeled Trek mountain bike, with nobbles on the tyres large enough to tackle the roughest Cambodian jungle terrain. The next five miles is littered with a million mini YAY ME! moments. First, I successfully ride my Trek bike out of our ever-so-slightly inclined driveway, and then I turn right onto the main road. YAY! I CAN RIDE A BIKE … ON A MAIN ROAD! I clunk my gears and suddenly find that I’m pedalling much faster, but I’m going nowhere. Shit, wrong way! I quickly reverse the move, using only my instincts, and thankfully, some resistance returns to my pedals. I can feel my feet pushing down on the pedals and making the wheels move once more. A lorry suddenly rushes past me. It’s a narrow road, and the wind-tunnel effect shocks me momentarily as the heavy-tonner thunders by. SHIIIIITTTTT! My heart racing, I grip tighter onto the handle bars, hold my nerve, and just keep breathing as I continue pedalling forwards.
I make it safely onto the canal towpath, and I’m ready for my next big challenge: the unpredictable pedestrians (mostly with even less predictable dogs) and the task of riding across uneven, bumpy cobbles. Soon I become familiar with ringing my fluorescent Acid House bell, forewarning those ahead of my presence. My confidence is still shockingly low, with constant reminders from my Bastard Chimp that ‘I’m no cyclist!’ And so, I find myself sounding ridiculously British and self-effacing, apologising profusely to virtually every person – and canine – that I ride past. ‘Sorry…’ Oops! Sorry … Thanks … Coming through! Sorry … Cheers … Thank you …Sorry …’ I sound genuinely apologetic for having the audacity to get on a bike and ride it, excusing myself whilst cycling past complete strangers – and their dogs – along a canal towpath.
Arriving at my destination, I feel kind of smug, as though I’ve achieved something monumental. But, when I run through the series of disastrous ‘what if’ scenarios I’ve had to process – whilst accompanied by my faithful Bastard Chimp – then the simple fact that I have arrived here unscathed is no mean feat.
I take a large swig of juice from my fluffy unicorn drinking bottle, lock my bike up outside the gym with my flimsy £5 pink unicorn child’s bike lock, and trot off to my yoga class. Surprisingly, Trek is still there when I come back out of the gym an hour later (a decent pair of kitchen scissors could cut through the bike lock), and so I cycle the five-mile route back home. But there’s a challenging incline I must conquer en route. Fuck, fuck, FUCKKKKK! I manage to crank the gears down to make the effort seem easier, whilst my speed drops to something resembling a slug progressing steadily from the garden to a discarded bean tin in the recycling box. After stopping three times for a breather on the way to the top of the hill, I eventually make it home.
BOOM! VCTORY IS MINE! I’ve proven to myself that I can get on my bike and I can ride it, after eight years – and even then, I was shit! I can navigate my way across main roads, through traffic, next to wanker lorry drivers, along bumpy canal cobbles, around clueless dog-walkers, avoiding piles of dog shit, under low bridges, via road crossings, and without colliding with pedestrians. If this challenge were a jigsaw puzzle, we’d be talking a straightforward six-piece affair targeted at age group two to three years. Most probably in a Peppa Pig design. Anyway, I’ve cracked it.
And as my Bastard Chimp sulks quietly by himself in the corner of my usually self-effacing, self-berating, anxious mind, I’m simply elated.
16
TRAPS
The C in CBT stands for ‘cognitive’, which simply means thinking in the form of words, ideas and images. Thoughts in CBT usually involve interpretations of oneself or one’s external environment. They give meaning to what we see, hear, smell, taste and feel. These interpretations are subjective, meaning they are a result of our physiological perception, learned thoughts, past experiences, any biases or filters we have, and the context we’re in at any given moment.
Sometimes we interpret situations correctly. However, sometimes our interpretations are exaggerated, or just false. During this therapy, you will learn how to challenge these thoughts, to stop them from controlling your life.
My head is full of them – these so-called ‘interpretation traps’. I look in the mirror, and I don’t even know which version of myself is staring back at me. Chubby teenage geek, or blonde imposter? I can’t tell. Runner or non-runner? It’s hard to say. The only consistent thought I have about myself is one of confusion, because although running has given me confidence and a sense of self-belief, I don’t know where that has gone, and I don’t know where my quest ends. What I do know is that I’m not there, yet. I’m never there. Faster, thinner, blonder, lighter, fitter, better … The words float around my head as I battle with a thousand different versions of myself from decades of self-doubt. Enough. When will I just be enough?
It feels like my head is in a constant battle between thinking logically versus illogically, between the rational and unbalanced. Intellectually, I can process all that I’m learning through the counselling therapy programme. It’s making perfect sense to me. But logic doesn’t always help. In fact, I’ve found that it can be utterly infuriating: to know that your own thoughts, behaviours and actions are fundamentally flawed and, at times, downright ludicrous, can be precious little comfort when suffering the effects of a mental health condition such as body dysmorphic disorder. How can this be happening to me? Why can’t I control my own thoughts? I know my behaviour is ridiculous, but I just can’t seem to stop it. AAARRRGGGHHHH!
At the peak of my running obsession, I was almost always too busy, too consumed with training, racing and performance, and well, just too damn tired to contemplate any of the messy head stuff.
The next module of the BDD therapy begins by confidently asserting, ‘the first step to changing (my) thoughts and interpretations in a healthy way is to recognise what (my) current interpretations are’. I imagine my head suddenly being flooded with good-cop ‘Thought Police’, who are lowered from the military chopper into the
ir mission HQ all SAS-style, under the cover of darkness. My Bastard Chimp runs for cover as the highly trained SWAT team takes over this desolate place, and makes it their primary mission to identify and destroy any INTERPRETATION TRAPS that might be lurking. My thoughts have never had this kind of military screening and protection before. They have never been questioned, only accepted as being the truth, but that’s all about to change. I briefly consider how ludicrously simple it sounds – to be able to stop and question my own thoughts before they take firm hold, and become easy fodder for my Bastard Chimp to wrestle me to the ground. Interpret and challenge my own thoughts? It’s the introduction of a new Stop & Search policy, whereby I’m at liberty to question any presumptions which my Thought Police have reasonable grounds to believe are about to lure me towards a trap.
My SWAT team is on high alert, and so I quickly begin to scan the list of possible interpretation traps, wondering what landmines I have blindly stumbled into over the past two decades without even realising it. All-or-nothing thinking … Yes, I know all about that. Everything is either black or it’s white, there is no in-between. If there is even a small flaw in my appearance, I am therefore ugly – there is simply no room for any middle ground. Mind-reading … Yes, YES! I know all about this, too. When people look at me, I’m certain they’re thinking something negative about my appearance. How many times have I been so sure of it? But I’ve never even considered investigating to see if any of my ‘mind-reading’ presumptions are true. WHY? I have no answers.
The SWAT team is now in full throttle. They will leave no stone unturned in their quest to eradicate any impending threat.
Fortune-telling, filtering, emotional interpreting, selective attention … The list of traps goes on and on. And EVERY time I’m forced to confront the fact that yes, this is the guerrilla warfare I’ve been subjected to by my Bastard Chimp. These are the weapons with which he has successfully managed to sabotage my mental health, over and over again for two decades. The realisation fills me with horror: that something as simple as my own thoughts being left unchecked – and unchallenged – could cause such chaos and destruction in my mind. But the troops have arrived just in time. I hope and pray that my SWAT team hang around long enough for me to learn how to protect myself from now on. That’s the next stage of my learning against this beast: the art of self-defence.
A Midlife Cyclist Page 9