A Midlife Cyclist

by Rachel Ann Cullen

  We’re in Manchester city centre on our way to see Grease! The Musical. Tilly and her friend are excited as we spot increasing numbers of fake Pink Ladies milling about the theatre entrance. ‘Look, it’s Sandy!’ Tilly shouts out as a pretty blonde lady with an uncanny resemblance to a young Olivia Newton-John walks towards us with what is presumably her boyfriend – who, disappointingly, looks absolutely nothing like Danny. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety. I can feel it flooding my entire system, as though panic is being intravenously infused through an invisible drip. What’s wrong with me? What’s happening to me? My eyes dart around in terror. The wind is blowing my hair all over the place and I swipe horrible, straggly strands away from my face, but it keeps blowing back, sticking to my lips and making my eyes itch. I can’t breathe. My throat is closing, and I can’t breathe. Sandy has just glided past with her beautiful blonde hair in a sleek, long ponytail, and her immaculate red-painted, smiling lips. Meanwhile, I’m here struggling to breathe, as my flawed, ugly hair itches and wafts and irritates all around my face and my neck. I want to run; I want to run away. Where can I run to? I need a mirror. I must find a mirror. I must check my hair, and I need to comb it and straighten it and change it, somehow. Where can I find a mirror? Where can I go? I need to go. NOW!

  ‘I don’t feel right,’ I say to my Other Half, who is busy rifling through multiple tickets as we approach the theatre doors. ‘I can’t breathe. I don’t know what’s happening to me, and I can’t breathe.’

  But I do know what’s happening to me. I know exactly what’s happening: I’m having a meltdown as my Bastard Chimp and his troops tear through my mind, bombarding me with cruel, hurtful thoughts. You’re UGLY. UGLY. UGLY. Look at you! You’re a mess. You want to be pretty, don’t you, Rachel? But you’re not, you’re ugly. Look around at all the pretty, beautiful people here. You want to be like them, don’t you? But you’re not. You won’t ever be. Because you’re UGLY.

  I try to focus on taking one deep breath in, and then back out again. Breathe in, and then out. In, and out. WHERE’S MY GOOD COP SWAT TEAM? What about the interpretation traps? Where are they? I can’t find them. I feel exhausted and confused. What about my BDD exposure therapies? What about all that I’ve learned, all that I’ve done? Where has it gone? I can’t even contemplate the prospect that my therapy is all for nothing, that it hasn’t worked. I hadn’t anticipated this: I am confused and devastated.

  22

  THE ROAD BIKE

  I look at my newly padded arse in the mirror (I now own two pairs of Beyoncé-inspired cycling shorts!) and I don’t know who I’ve become. I’ve taken to wearing cycling jerseys around the house. In fact, I’m currently sitting in my long-sleeved, zip-up cycling jersey and if I glance to my left, I can see two spare bike wheels sitting boldly underneath the lounge window, these having recently been changed over on my … NEW ROAD BIKE! Yes, that.

  The road bike thing came about quickly, and entirely out of the blue. Like a blind date that ends up blurry-eyed in some Gretna Green B&B (or Las Vegas, if you’re Britney Spears). How? What happened? Did we really do this? An innocent conversation with a work colleague that went something like this:

  Him: ‘I see you’re getting into your mountain biking, Rach?’

  Me: ‘Yeah! I’m beginning to really enjoy it. I can’t believe I’m even saying that, but it’s true.’

  Him: Ahh, you wait until you get out on a road bike!’

  Me: ‘Really? Why on earth would I want to do that? Those flimsy things terrify me. There’s no WAY you’ll catch me going out on one of those any time soon!’

  Him: ‘Speed, Rach – the need for speed. You won’t believe the difference. I’ve got a 2012 Scott Foil aero I don’t use any more. I don’t have room for it and I was going to sell it to a friend, but that fell through. It’s a beautiful machine – you’re welcome to give it a go sometime, if you like.’

  I hear mention of the word ‘speed’ and I’m already sold.

  Me: ‘OK … Are you free this evening?’

  I don’t hang about. I turn up at my colleague’s house and he talks me through what’s on offer: this beautiful, sexy, Scott Foil aero frame road bike comes complete with a Shimano Ultegra groupset (I’ve still no idea what this means!) and Planet X ‘aero’ wheels (I presume they’re not made of bubbly milk chocolate), plus Shimano Ultegra rims (what?!). As he pointlessly talks me through the road bike’s specifications, I’m mentally rifling through my very basic biking glossary, trying to decipher my rims from my derailleurs, and my groupset from my seatpost. It all sounds like double-dutch to me, but all I do know is that the road bike has to be mine.

  ‘Why don’t you take it for a ride home and see how you get on?’ my generous, road-cycling colleague offers. I only live a couple of miles away and it’s still light outside. Maybe I could give it a whirl? What have I got to lose?

  And so, Challenge #5 – this time on a road bike – is born.

  * * *

  Challenge #5: Can I even ride this sleek, strange, drop-handlebar number, with the unfamiliar gears I don’t know how to use for two-and-a-half miles back home along one straight road without causing any kind of calamity?

  Admittedly, this bike is a beautiful thing: sleek and angular, with a slender crisp white frame. I lift it up and it feels like the biking equivalent of a Malteser – it’s floaty light. I’ve been cycling a fucking tank! is my first thought (sorry, Trek), although it’s a tank I’ve grown to know and love. I push ‘Scott’ (we’re already on first name terms) a few yards up the hill, away from my colleague’s front door to a flat stretch of road, and I tentatively climb aboard.

  ‘Right, I’m off. Wish me luck!’

  Trusting only my instincts and the basic premise of ‘If in doubt, just pedal’, I roll away and in the direction of home. This only requires me to navigate my way up ONE SINGLE MAIN ROAD with a reasonably steady incline, for just a couple of miles, with no discernible traffic issues, crossing only one major road junction, happening across minimal pedestrians, and equally, minimal opportunity to face-plant outside a local supermarket. The risks of this admittedly precarious new challenge are mitigated by these factors.

  I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. Not because of the physical effort of the riding, or the gentle incline of the two-mile climb back home. My heart is thumping hard because I’m overriding my anxiety. I’m a baby bird jumping out of the nest, learning how to fly. Will I fall? How far away is the ground? I just hope and pray that my instinct kicks in, and my wings will save me.

  Of course, Scott is still just a bike, with a frame and two wheels. I remind myself of this fact, and that I have proved that I can ride a bike, but everything feels so completely different. The seat is much narrower and placed further back on the frame; the handlebars drop down and my body feels as though it’s falling forwards rather than sitting upright; the gears are freakishly located on the handlebars themselves, and I have no option but to experiment, frantically trying to figure out how this thing works. So I flick a lever inwards with my right hand, shifting the chain set down to one of the smaller cogs on the back wheel. I can feel how that affects my pedalling, as I’m suddenly having to push down harder, making it more difficult to climb. I flick another, smaller lever – confusingly still on my right handlebar – which this time cranks the chain set back up to the bigger cogs. The effort of pedalling eases again, and the incline becomes less of an issue.

  Phew! OK, so that’s how to shift the back gears. Now to try out the front ones.

  I repeat my suck-it-and-see philosophy on the left, and again, I can sense how changing gears affects my riding. There’s something about the fact that I am feeling how the bike is working which makes sense to me. I may not under stand all the technical terms and the cycling lingo just yet, but I can feel how what I do affects how the bike works whilst I’m riding it.

  Just a few experimental miles later, and I thankfully arrive back home in one piece. This is the first test for Scott and me, a
nd we pass with flying colours.

  Text message to my colleague: Hi. I’ve made it back home and I’d like to buy Scott off you. I can transfer the money to you online tonight, if that’s OK? Thanks! Rach (the soon-to-be road cyclist)

  Note to self: WHO THE ACTUAL F*CK HAVE I BECOME?

  Oh, and we need a bigger shed.

  * * *

  I’m on a roll with my new Malteser-framed, floaty-light road bike. Well, I made it home in one piece, and I’m prone to dramatisation. So, just like the first three mini challenges I set myself on Trek, my sturdy, slightly ageing and undeniably plump mountain bike, I decide to do the same with Scott: we will set off on a journey of discovery together, risking failure and face-planting in the process. Here’s what we will do next:

  CHALLENGE #6: CAN I RIDE FURTHER UP THE HILL, NAVIGATING MY WAY AROUND THE STEEP BEND, UP TO THE SMELLY FARM AND BACK HOME AGAIN? THIS WILL REQUIRE:

  •more climbing;

  •travelling on busier roads (and at a busier time of day);

  •going up a steeper incline;

  •handling a reasonable descent, where my metaphorical balls will be put to the test on my new speedy Malteser-framed, floaty-light bike. Will it even hold my weight? I have no idea.

  Remembering my suck-it-and-see philosophy from Challenge #5, the ride home from my colleague’s house, I try to re-acquaint myself with the unfamiliar gears. Referring to them only as ‘the left one’ and ‘the right one’ – and with no discernible knowledge as to which of the cogs, front or back, relate to either – we struggle to hit it off. Cycling along the two-mile road back home was one thing, and required very little mechanical manoeuvring, but we’re on a sheer learning curve, and I must become familiar with the workings of this delicate machine I’m now relying upon. We’re on our second date, and although we’ve eked out the painful getting-to-know-you first-date patter, the pair of us are slightly apprehensive about date number two.

  I clumsily crank at ‘the left one’ and then jar unceremoniously at the right. As I cycle up and around the main road which veers steeply to the left, I can feel the incline noticeably increasing. Nothing feels smooth and nothing flows, like an awkward silence across a candle-lit dinner. Regardless, I continue making efforts to understand the mechanics. I’m busy flicking levers left and right: in and back out again, like a shy teenager fumbling about in the dark with his first girlfriend, when Scott suddenly buckaroos me off. He’s turned into a racehorse who is fed up of accommodating such an incompetent, ignorant rider. SHIT! I manage to stay on my feet, at least.

  Wait, that doesn’t sound right. I try to roll Scott away, but I can hear a clunky, grinding metal sound and the wheels won’t turn. The chain has come loose, and for a good while longer than a split-second I consider phoning home and calling for immediate rescue.

  Is there a biking equivalent of the AA? If so, I want to join.

  BUT I WILL NOT BE DEFEATED. I pick up my Malteser bike and carry him across to the safety of the pavement on the other side of the road, where I flip him upside down and confidently prop him up on his saddle and handlebars. With ‘fake it til you make it’ as my motivational mantra, I want to at least look like I know what I’m doing, so that any passing motorists will presume I’ve got this shit under control: See that lady over there with the sleek-framed, white Scott road bike? Her chain’s come off, but she clearly knows what she’s doing.

  If only they knew.

  Instinctively, I begin fiddling about with the greasy, oily chain – poking at cogs and turning them in (what I consider to be) the right direction. But oh, no, this is causing untold havoc to my recently acquired acrylic nails. Bloody hell! Why is cycling so damn difficult?! My shiny pillar-box red nails are now streaked with black, oily smears, and one of them has broken completely. Eventually, I manage to make the chain slot back into place, with teeth sitting in their respective grooves. Meanwhile, my Bastard Chimp pulls up alongside me:

  Oh, Rach, look at you! What have you gone and done now? What if you’ve just fucked up the gears? There’s every chance you’ll get back onto Scott and fall straight off him again. You’re riding along a steep main road. Everyone will see you if you set off in the wrong – and now broken – gear, and fall off. And you could even get flattened by a passing tractor. What if you’ve gone and wrecked Scott completely? FFS, Rachel, it’s only your second ride out on him. What are you thinking? You should just give this up, now.

  But I won’t listen to him. Instead, I punch my Bastard Chimp in the face and I carry my featherweight friend back onto the road. I wait a long while until there’s absolute silence, which I presume to mean there is no traffic within an approximate two-mile radius, and I tentatively hop on board, hoping and praying that I have placed the right chain on the right cog. Is that a vehicle I can hear approaching half a mile behind me? I’m not sure. With my heart in my mouth, I cycle off.

  I change gear (left/right/front/back – who cares?) and I can hear them click smoothly into place. YES! YES! FUCKING YES! Mini victory celebrations commence to rival Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s royal wedding, and inside my head I’m popping champagne corks and dancing a victory jig at taking yet another incremental step towards being a slightly less incompetent cyclist. If we’re painting by numbers, then I’d say I’m on to crayoning a mosaic picture with a subtle colour palette. I no longer need a chunky Crayola, and I’m (just about) staying within the lines.

  It’s quite simply a victory, people.

  23

  THE REVIEW

  I’ve reached the halfway point of my therapy course, and Dr G has emailed me to arrange our review. He’s not stupid, he knows I’ve been struggling.

  It looks like it’s been a little while since you logged in. Please try to do that when you get a chance so you can read my messages. Let me know how things have been going for you.

  Shit, SHIT! I’ve been rumbled. Dr G knows that I haven’t been completing my online BDD diary; he knows when I last logged on to go through my latest torturous module worksheets, and when I last completed one of my many ‘assessment questionnaires’.

  I prided myself on being a good student, with my recently appointed Good Cop SWAT team dutifully on hand to identify and eliminate any interpretation traps, and now I feel like I’m letting him down. I’ve started to regress, falling back into my old ways, and not even making the effort to pick up and use the new tools I’ve been given. I begin to catastrophise that Dr G will be disappointed in me, and will wish that he’d never accepted me onto the BDD therapy programme. Shit, shit, shit! Plenty of other people could have benefited from this treatment, why has he wasted his time on me? Will he remove me from the course? Have I just blown my chance of ridding myself of this thing? Did I fail under pressure, simply because things got a bit much? How am I not even able to work my way through a twelve-week online therapy programme? Why have I stumbled now – at only the halfway point? And why am I here, wanting to quit when the going gets tough?

  My head is still spinning with the prospect of going down to London to NOT take part in the London Marathon, and as it stands, that’s still the plan. But I can feel myself breaking down. Mentally, I feel vulnerable and, well, truly exposed.

  I message him back my availability, which is later than he hoped due to my impending trip to London. I hope that Dr G will understand, and that he won’t feel let down. I’m not sure he’ll buy the whole ‘snowed under with work’ or ‘sheer busyness’ thing, but I’m kind of relieved that I won’t have to face him (literally) and his endless assessment questionnaires this week. I feel like I’ve bought myself a little more time to get back on the wagon, and to claw myself back out of this dark hole which I’ve fallen into right when I was just beginning to see daylight breaking through.

  You can get there again, Rach. You can climb out of here again.

  And so, I begin. For the first time in what feels like weeks (it’s actually days), I’m logged on:

  ‘Please tick the box that best describes how often yo
u have thought about your appearance or a specific feature over the past week, including today:

  (a) not at all;

  (b) a little;

  (c) often;

  (d) a lot;

  (e) all the time.

  Bloody hell, here we go again …

  * * *

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say to my Other Half as I heave myself and all my gym bags back in through the front door, ‘but I don’t want to go down to London tomorrow.’ He understands why: he knows it was a long shot.

  I’ve just been out for a walk. It was such a beautiful morning. As the sun rose majestically in the sky, bathing the fields in a golden hue, I looked out of the window and simply couldn’t bring myself to get in a car. Instead, I walked through the grass, noticing where the sharpest rays of sunlight hit, making the dewdrops sparkle. A hushhhhhh settled over the woodland and I looked up at the trees. There they stood, magnificent and silent; unwavering. There was no wind at all. The only sounds I could hear were my own footsteps crunching gently through the long grass, and the occasional rustle of leaves where I imagined I might have disturbed a local inhabitant. A squirrel darted across my path and scurried up a tree. I could even hear his tiny claws as he scrambled at lightning speed to the top of the corrugated bark. I felt peaceful.

  I’m tired now, as walking up and over the hills, attempting the bird and the pyramid yoga poses (amongst others), and climbing back up the hills in reverse was hard work. It’s taken up most of my morning, but the walking has helped me to process my endless, whirring thoughts.

  I want – and need – to refocus on my therapy. I don’t need the distraction of going to London over Marathon weekend, or to risk my mental health wavering any further as I deliberately put myself in an even more vulnerable place. It’s a kind of ‘exposure therapy’, I guess, but one that is most certainly NOT a part of my treatment.