Me: ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
Running: ‘Right? What is it?’ [trying to nuzzle my neck, but I push him away]
Me: ‘There’s someone else.’
Running: ‘What? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?’
Me: ‘What are you talking about? YOU LEFT ME! And when you did, I met someone else. Someone I happen to like.’
Running: ‘So, who is this “SPECIAL fucking SOMEONE” then?’
[A brief, awkward silence.]
Me: ‘Cycling. I love cycling.’
[Running stomps out of the room, slamming the door on his way out.]
It’s important that I have The Conversation with running, because everything has changed: running isn’t my only love any more.
With this caveat in mind, running has returned slowly, but I have managed to keep him at arm’s length. Gone are the days of waking up with only him on my mind, wondering when our next ‘date’ will be, and where we might go. And my legs are very helpful reminders of the damage that has been caused by taking a different approach. Yes, I’m running again, but it’s an entirely alien feeling. My legs feel tentative and unsure. They do as I ask of them, but no more. At times, I’m preoccupied by the jelly-like sensation of my over-trained legs, and the occasional shooting pains, like electricity firing down both sets of hamstrings: almost a warning shot of the need for ‘moderation’, a word I had to Google translate.
We may run for a few steady, flat miles, but then I know that I can’t – and mustn’t – go any further. This isn’t anything I have been instructed by a medical professional. Rather, it is me learning to listen to my body and to realise when it has had enough. The alternative – as I have discovered – is that my body simply won’t run at all. At times, I wonder how it was ever possible for me to do some of the punishing training sessions I used to put myself through. How did I wake up and run fourteen fast miles, bouncing out and back along the canal, just because I felt like it? I can’t imagine ever being in that place again. What about the ten-mile back-to-back tempo runs? Ten hilly miles out, followed by ten equally hilly ones back home again. How? I know for a fact that my legs simply wouldn’t allow it to happen. Not now and, quite possibly, not ever again.
And running must also grapple for space in my recently modified training diary. It’s a strange concept for us both, but a reality nonetheless: Nope, I’m not running, today – I’m cycling to yoga, instead.
Spring turns into summer, and my mind has expanded into a whole new world of adventure-seeking possibilities which are NOT exclusively running-related. This comes about firstly because I am still very aware of my own running limitations, and I know for a fact that my legs are simply not up to having any running demands being placed upon them, just yet. Remember our plans to take part in the inaugural Tanzanian Marathon in the autumn of 2017? I have come to accept that this will not be a reality for me, and I cannot have it looming over me like some deathly guillotine waiting to drop. But more than this, my mind is seeking out other, non-running adventures because I realise that … they exist! And it is possible for me to take part! I can ride a bike, now. Yes, I can do that! And I have proven that I can learn how to challenge myself to improve and become more confident – and more competent – on two wheels.
‘I think I want to enter into a race again,’ I say across the breakfast table to my Other Half. ‘It’s time to get over the fear.’ He doesn’t seem too taken with the idea, possibly because he has seen the devastating impact running has had on me in recent times.
I choose the Ilkley Trail race on Bank Holiday Monday. It’s not an obvious choice for a tentative first race since the debacle of the Dewsbury 10k back in February 2017, during which I’d been forced to make the Walk of Shame back to the start (before being picked up by the Unfortunate Bastards’ Sweeper Bus). That was my last race.
Over the years I’ve experienced more than my fair share of race anxiety. I’ve been known to have sleepless nights before parkrun. Yes, seriously! That non-competitive, all-inclusive, everybody’s-welcome-here event that is the weekly timed 5k more commonly known as ‘parkrun’. I’ve woken up before sunrise on Saturday mornings with heart palpitations, in a fuzzy-headed, clammy sweat, cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom and still set off a good two hours before the lovely volunteer marshals have even pressed ‘SNOOZE’ on their Teasmade. And why? I have no answer. It doesn’t really matter; none of it does. Nobody ultimately cares how I do – least of all at parkrun – or what time I drag my arse across the finish line. I used to think that it mattered, and that it proved something about who I am, and who I could be. But it doesn’t. Successes are fleeting, like the perfectly white snow before it turns into a brown, disgusting sludge: enjoy it whilst you can.
A loss of form, however, separates the ego from the true self. It strips away the protective comfort of self-glorification and the pseudo mask of validation. Injury, illness, life events … Any one of them can suddenly derail even the most seemingly cocksure ego and have it tumble from the gilded perch on which it has merrily swung.
Q: What’s left, then?
A: The shocking realisation and eventual acceptance that: IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT THE OUTCOME (CALL THE NEWSPAPERS: IT’S A REVELATION!)
I wake early on the Bank Holiday Monday, already processing my ‘who am I, now?’ crisp-white-snow-into-brown-sludge analogy. I’ve slept well. PHEW! This is a good start. No heart racing, no palpitations, and no reaching for the proverbial mushroom bag to help me calm my breathing down.
It’s all under control, Rach.
Resting heart rate: 54.
Kit on, bags packed, I head out under a distinctly heavy sky in the direction of Ilkley. ‘I don’t feel nervous about today’s race. Is that weird?’ I say to my Other Half, who is acting as my Race Anxiety Support Crew, today.
‘No, not a bit,’ he replies, clearly still asleep.
‘But I don’t feel anything! No butterflies, no adrenalin, no tension. Just … nothing! I don’t understand it. I slept like a baby and haven’t taken to grinding my teeth or cleaning out the fridge at 6 a.m. It feels strange, that’s all.’ I continue, talking to myself as much as I am to him.
We are – true to form – a full hour too early on arrival at the Ilkley Lido. I slurp the remnants of cold coffee from my favourite Heisenberg travel mug with the heated seats on low, whilst my Other Half takes half-a-dozen attempts to pin a small square of paper onto the front of his vest without stabbing himself. The slate-grey heavens must have remembered that it’s a national bank holiday and so they begin to spew relentless rain from the skies.
It feels like coming home.
Once my trainers have been replaced by my less-familiar trail running shoes, I step out into the shower which is now pouring from a monochrome sky, and I begin to jog – no, hobble – up the grassy banking towards the start of the race. I continue slowly up the offensive hill in a torturous pre-race dress rehearsal of what’s about to come.
‘I am fucked,’ I pant, stopping my pathetic attempt at a warm-up jog only a quarter of the way up the hill, and stare blankly at my Other Half. ‘And this is just the warm-up!’
Back down at the start line, we hang around at the rear like a pair of shy teenagers trying to smoke e-vapes behind the bike sheds.
‘Start off slowly, Rach. And remember, it doesn’t matter how you do, today. None of it matters. You’re moving, and that’s all that matters,’ he tells me.
I know that he’s right.
I set off slowly, towards the back of the pack. Thanks to the absence of any pressure, I relax a little and begin running up the inclining hillside, steadily inching past a decent number of runners, until I make it to the top. My legs have handled it: they are (just about) up to the job. The climb continues, and – unbelievably – my legs are still turning over, unbroken. A couple of miles in, and I’ve pulled ahead. But lack of racing fitness kicks in, and I take the opportunity to pull over and wait for my Other Half, who is sticking to his guns and appr
oaching at a consistent, steady pace. I’m thankful for a breather.
The rest of the race is a battle of wills: I stop a bit, and I start again. I feel momentarily beaten, and then triumphant for fighting back and getting going again. The rain feels cold and cleansing, washing away any worries about my performance, personal bests or lack of form.
I’m here, and I’m back running. No, I’m back RACING!
Only it’s racing in a very different way: I’m free from heaviness and from pressure; free from stress and worry. I’m racing on my terms, and I’m moving as well (or not) as my body can, on this day, today.
Crossing the finish line, I’m five minutes slower than the last time I tackled the very same race back in 2015, when – entirely without injury, illness, life event or force majeure – I was happily swinging away on my merry little running perch.
But I don’t care. I’ll happily roll around in the soft, white snow. Today, I’m grateful for the snow.
27
PROGRESS
The mid-programme review has gone well. In fact, it went better than well. Whilst talking through some of my body dysmorphic disorder exposure challenges with Dr G, I began to realise just how far I’ve come – despite the recent ‘blip’. I flew through the million-and-one assessment evaluation questions at lightning speed, but it’s virtually impossible to tell how my answers may have changed since the beginning of the treatment. That said, it’s about far more than any ‘improving treatment score’ for me. Of course, it’s vital that Dr G and his academic cronies can quantify the impact of their treatment, but for the likes of me – the subjects of their study – we simply want to be free of this wretched thing, and to live a normal life.
Email from: Dr G
I feel very positive about where we are going from here, Rachel. I have opened the next module for you, so you can start working on that when you get the chance. Please make sure to finish your exposure/response prevention exercises, and the ‘goals’ worksheets, in accordance with the plan we talked about.
Yes, yes, YES!!! I’m singing a happy song, and dancing a merry jig. HE IS PLEASED WITH MY PROGRESS! I’m officially not a ‘time-waster’, and I haven’t taken up a valuable place on this treatment programme from A. N. Other worthier BDD sufferer.
Email from: Rachel
I can often fall foul of life’s little curve balls knocking me off course and sending me spiralling into a negative place, but it appears that the early work we’ve done has been enough to help me challenge my unhelpful thoughts and has enabled me to intercept those early in the cycle.
I know I still have a way to go, but it is progress nonetheless.
Such is the reciprocal good feeling between myself and Dr G, I can’t honestly tell if he’s going to make it onto my Christmas Card list. What I do know is that this is working: the BDD treatment programme is having an impact on me, and I’m learning how to manage the guerrilla warfare tactics of my Bastard Chimp, which began in earnest some two decades previously.
I remember being nineteen years old. I had recently lost a noticeable amount of weight – mainly due to the one, three-mile running route I created from my mum’s house, which I diligently stuck to over the summer break. I returned to university for the second year of my Law degree, and EVERYONE noticed the changes. But this flashback isn’t one of me striding around the campus with my blonde hair bouncing in the sunshine, clearly oozing newfound body confidence. Hell, no! The picture I have in my mind is vivid. It comes to me so strongly, I wonder if this is it: is this the precise moment when it all began? Is this when body dysmorphia took a firm hold of me? Because it feels as though something big happened here. This is more than a memory; it’s when something changed in my wiring.
I’m running on the treadmill at the university gym and I’m wearing the biggest, baggiest, dark blue Benetton T-shirt. I’m stick thin, and I’m disfigured. I’m running (well, hardly – it’s more like an awkward trot) whilst hunching my shoulders and trying to keep my arms bent across my chest to disguise my glaring flaw. Three of the other girls I live with are also purportedly having a workout in the gym. They are laughing and chatting over on the other side of the cardio room: I can see them in the offensive, fully-mirrored wall in front of me. I’m convinced that they can see what I can feel: I can feel my left, saggy breast – or what is left of it – bounce with every foot strike on the treadmill, whilst my right breast (the smaller one) doesn’t move. Are they laughing at me? I’m tortured by the prospect that they know my secret: I AM DEFORMED. I AM UGLY AND DEFORMED. This is the separation of me and them; of normal and abnormal; of fitting in, or not; of being accepted, or rejected. This is, quite possibly, where it all began.
Whether this was The Moment or not, I’m filled with a sense that now – for the first time since I stood hunched over with shame on the treadmill whilst barely out of my teenage years – I’m beginning to fully understand what body dysmorphia is, how it originated, and the thousands of ‘interpretation traps’ that have made it virtually impossible for me to escape its tireless grip, like being pulled into the tumult of a whirlpool. My mid-point review with Dr G has encouraged me to contemplate all that I have learned, and to acknowledge the enormous strides I have taken in freeing myself from the circling mass of water: I am finally coming up for air.
28
THE DUATHLON
Since relieving my somewhat shorter colleague of his Scott road bike,* I have revelled in some mini personal victories. Along with my series of progressive road biking challenges, I have also:
•Equipped myself with a bicycle pump and some other basic bike maintenance equipment, which I have absolutely no idea how to use (I now have enough Allen keys to make all the necessary adjustments to straighten the Eiffel Tower, yet raising my seat half an inch is still a bridge too far);
•Invested in a fancy bike carrier for my car – only because it will be necessary for me to transport Scott to the Oulton Park race track (we’ll come back to this …);
•Affixed my fancy new bike carrier onto my non-fancy car. One entire Saturday afternoon is sacrificed as I wrestle to marry my Nissan Juke with the various wires, arms, straps and contraptions contained within the neatly packaged Thule box. It drizzles mockingly as I stand in silence, watching instructional youTube videos on repeat;
•Bought a pair of ‘cleats’ – these being shoes which will fasten my feet onto the bike pedals – a concept I still find utterly bemusing. Would it be simpler to just give me a hammer so I can break my own legs? Anyway, these are what real cyclists wear, so I’m told;
•TRIED OUT my fancy new cleat shoes on a short ride home from the bike shop. It didn’t end well, as being unable to remove my feet from their technical bindings at a road junction resulted in a sideways Del-Boy-falling-through-the-bar face-plant manoeuvre.
I’m open to all kinds of possibilities now, with my mind focusing on goals of a more two-wheeled variety. I’m online, Google searching ‘potentially interesting cycling challenges’, sifting through the myriad ideas that have presented themselves. Local charity bike rides, cycling from London to Paris in a day, Prudential ‘Ride London’, Land’s End to John O’Groats … the options are endless. I do some more research, but nothing grabs me. Nothing feels ‘right’ and I don’t want to force anything.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I shout upstairs to my Other Half, who is soaking in the bath. I decide to leave Google alone for a little while (he’s already steered me in many directions in my life to this point, including entering the New York, London and Dubai Marathons on a whim. I even ended up working on a game reserve in South Africa, all thanks to him) and I take a break from my cycling adventure research. I make myself a hot drink and close my MacBook down. I feel mildly frustrated, because I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’ll know when I find it.
I begin to scroll mindlessly through Twitter on my phone. Someone has just posted, ‘How many Jaffa Cakes is it acceptable to eat in one sitting?’ I briefly consider maybe nine
would be OK, possibly ten? I scroll down again, and there it is.
I’ve only gone and entered it! The short and long races are the same price, so I’ve entered the long one as it’s better value for money. Oulton Park Autumn Duathlon in October… #runbikerun here I come!
I don’t know this person. I’ve no idea whether they are a professional triathlete or they spend more time posting stuff on Twitter than they do out running or riding a bike, but that doesn’t matter. Riding and running … running and riding. What could possibly be better than taking on a challenge where I CAN DO BOTH? It feels kind of weird, like asking my partner for a threesome (my partner being running, who previously left me at the altar, remember?!), but I’m up for the challenge.
I’m ready to be a beginner again; I’m ready to risk falling off my bike, risk being the only person racing in non-clip-in shoes (I’m not brave enough to risk racing in these yet, after the face-plant incident), and risk coming last. I know that it will force me to face my fears, and to try something I’ve never done before. So, I decide to enter the Oulton Park Autumn Duathlon. I do this on a whim (although I can’t blame Google this time) when the realisation hasn’t yet fully hit me that I’ll have to at least pretend to know what I’m doing on a road bike.
How hard can it be?!
I choose to enter the longer-distance race. This will be a 9k run + 39k bike + 4.5k run. The alternative is a shorter Sprint distance (4.5k run + 21k bike + 4.5k run), but why bother with that? I’m not so fussed about the financial incentive with the cost of entering both distances being the same, but if we’re talking money, then ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ is my thinking behind choosing the longer-distanced race: if it’s going to hurt for 21k on an uncomfortable, unfamiliar set of aero-framed skinny wheels and a blade for a saddle, then what difference is an additional 18k going to make?
A Midlife Cyclist Page 14