I firmly believe that ignorance is bliss.
* * *
‘I’ve decided I’m not going to wear my cleats for the race,’ I declare to my Other Half as he stands in the kitchen, trying to work out how to gain access to the fridge, which is now entirely blocked by my upturned Scott road bike. ‘It’s not worth the risk, and surely I won’t be the only person racing a road bike wearing running shoes?’
‘No, of course not!’ he replies, clearly distracted as he is still struggling to access the milk.
Once my Scott bike is sufficiently adhered to the boot of the car, the three of us – my daughter Tilly included – head off to Oulton Park race track. I spend the next two hours hearing Scott banging and rattling as I drive nervously along the motorway, utterly convinced with every second that passes that yet more layers of red paintwork are being abraded from my car.
‘Are you sure we’ve fastened it on correctly?’ I ask my Other Half, who is busy burying himself in Starburst sweet wrappers in the passenger seat. Occasionally, a small voice from the back seat asks, ‘Can I have one, please?’ The ratio of sweet apportionment is approximately 10:1 (adult: child).
* * *
We park up and a tall chap in a grey hoodie approaches me, smiling.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ he says.
I look nonplussed at the approaching stranger, unable to disguise the fact that no, I have absolutely no idea who he is or where I’m supposed to have met him before.
‘The Deer Park Dash!’ he says, as if that will make it any easier.
Not a clue.
‘Oh yeah, the Deer Park Dash! Of course!’ I lie, as though repeating the race back to him were indeed confirmation that I have any kind of recollection of our exchange.
‘I was the guy running with the pram!’ he continues, as my vacant look hasn’t gone unnoticed.
Lovely chap. Still no idea …
We stand at the back of our car next to my bondaged Scott bike and the four of us – me, my Other Half, Friendly Hoodie Man and his wife – talk turkey about race tactics whilst Tilly messes about with my squashy energy gel sachets until one of them bursts.
‘It’s the last run that’s a killer,’ Friendly Hoodie Man says. ‘Your legs are like jelly. You want to run, but your legs have turned to mush.’
I don’t want to tell him that after our recent relationship struggles, the running sections are the parts of the duathlon that I’m looking forward to.
‘Just maintain a good cadence on the bike and you can make up a lot of time with a decent cycling section,’ he continues, helpfully.
‘Great advice – thanks!’ I say, wondering how much cadence I will be able to maintain whilst cycling in my running shoes on a road bike set up for a 5’6” sturdy male.
Oh, bollocks!
I look over at Scott, still gagged and bound to the back side of our car, and he suddenly feels like a complete alien to me. In that moment, I realise that I don’t know him very well at all. I haven’t worked out how he feels most comfortable, or what gears he prefers. I haven’t taken the time to oil his chain or to lubricate his intricate parts. I haven’t adjusted him to the correct seat height (I’m not a squat 5’6” male), and the metal pedals and I muddle along in some persistent misunderstanding which often results in chunks of flesh being removed from my shins. I bought an entire set of Allen keys, yet the seat still chafes parts of me only my partner knows. We are complete strangers.
What the fuck have I done? What the hell am I doing? I SHOULDN’T BE HERE! I suddenly panic, but it’s too late for that, now.
Reluctantly, I wheel my alien – Scott – into the transition area (this being the place where the participants keep all their equipment when changing disciplines in a triathlon – swim / bike / run – or in this case, a duathlon – run / bike / run.)
‘Could I safety check your bike please, madam?’ a necessarily officious gentleman says as Scott and I approach him in our gormless state. ‘Do you know that you’ve got an end bar missing?’ he goes on, pointing to a part of Scott I’ve never noticed before. ‘I’m going to have to tape it up, as I’d hate for you to impale yourself on the course if you have a collision.’
Oh. Right. Yep.
‘And your tyres seem a bit low. In fact – crumbs – these won’t last nine laps of the race track. Take it to the guy over there and he’ll sort it out for you.’
I’m momentarily horrified. I didn’t know what an ‘end bar’ was, or that I could potentially be impaled on one. And I was about to race in a duathlon around a racing track on a second-hand road bike with flat tyres. But I don’t have time to panic. I trundle poor Scott over to another, younger gentleman, who winces when he feels the skinny rubber surrounding my wheels, like he’s feeling the ribs of a starving dog.
‘It’s a good job you’re here!’ I joke, nervously.
He doesn’t laugh. I wonder if he’s in the biking equivalent of the RSPCA.
After standing in a pen for an informative safety briefing, we set off and I begin running confidently on my own two feet.
Yesss! I know how to do this!
I’m thrilled that running has reclaimed his sock drawer and that we’re back together, again. I run past a number of professional-looking tri-suited competitors on the first of the two-lap running section. My pace is fast, and I feel good – I feel strong. No technical malfunctions are possible here, other than the obvious undone shoelaces or legs falling off (and I know how that feels). With thankfully no evidence of either, I arrive into the first transition area after just over 9k of running, entirely happy. But I know that this is where the fun really begins.
‘Remember to put your helmet on before you take your bike off the rack,’ I recall the wise words of Friendly Hoodie Man (who I still can’t place) and so I stick my lid (sorry, cycling helmet) straight on my head before inhaling an energy gel and pushing Scott out into the traffic lane.
Shit! I’ve got to hop onto the bloody thing and ride it, now!
On the first of the nine laps, Scott tries to mould to me, whilst I squirm about on the impossibly narrow saddle and wonder if my relationship will survive another nine laps of potentially irreparable damage to my most sensitive female areas.
Fuck!
My foot slips and the wheels spin around at speed, making the non-cleated steel pedals hit me on both shins.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK!
I wrestle my Adidas Boost running trainers back onto the slippery metal pedals and grapple to get the handlebars back under control to avoid face-planting on the race track. When I look around me, no one else is cycling a road bike in Adidas Boosts.
NO ONE ELSE IS RACING A ROAD BIKE WEARING FUCKING RUNNING TRAINERS, RACHEL.
Wait! A girl over there is, and she looks as uncomfortable as I feel, too!
I feel like riding over and making friends with her, but she doesn’t appear to be in the mood for chatting: maybe she’s just hit her shins with the metal pedals for the hundredth time, too?
Lap three comes around and I feel sure my future is one of celibacy. I can see nothing through my entirely unnecessary Rudy Project racing sunglasses as the wind whips rain and snot across my face like a sad, sleeveless child. I look up and see my Other Half and Tilly watching me as I pass their weather-exposed stand for the fifth time.
‘TAKE HER INSIDE, IT’S PISSING IT DOWN!’ I shout across to my Other Half, who is looking perplexed at my unexpected instruction to find shelter whilst I attempt to ‘maintain a good cadence’ on my alien bike, in the rain.
There are hills on the course. I can’t believe it. Just as I begin to think that I can manage to remain seated on my ill-fitting bike for what feels like an eternity, they throw two inclines on the track for good measure. And just as I’m attempting to lower my gear for the fifth time, I hear an emphatic ‘Keep going, Rachel! Keep pushing!’ coming up from behind. For a millisecond, I’m transported to the delivery room of Calderdale Royal Hospital in late September 2010, but a quick glance t
o my right, and Friendly Hoodie Man comes flying past, clearly making up time on his bicycle, just as he’d predicted.
Fucking hell!
The remaining cycle laps are a feat of a certain kind of physical endurance I’ve never experienced before. Like balancing on a thin, moving beam, praying for the moment when it will all end. Everyone else on the course looks to be more comfortable – and more proficient – on two wheels than I feel. I have impostor syndrome: that uncomfortable feeling of ‘you shouldn’t be here!’ swims about in my head and I struggle to shake it off as infinitely better cyclists come whizzing past me, one after the other.
Why are they finding it so much easier than me?
I simply can’t comprehend how some of the faster riders are handling the tight corners at such high speed. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. My head had lulled me into a place of false security. This is a professional racing track. It has a smooth surface. There are no nasty potholes or cobbles, here.
Surely that should make it easier?
It doesn’t. And I’m on a light-framed, skinny road bike. My chunky Trek bike would be laughed at, here! But I so wish I was riding him, now – I would be comfortable, at least. I don’t know why my body is struggling to adjust to Scott’s different dimensions. In theory, it should all be feeling easier than this.
WHY ISN’T IT?
I pray for the cycling section to end, vowing I’ll do whatever necessary to avoid this ever happening again. I’ll make sure that I’m professionally fitted on this bike: that the seat is at the right height, and – going back to basics – that I’m riding on a seat which is designed for my body size and shape. I can’t help but be convinced that I’m not. (Since writing, I have subsequently discovered that the overall dimensions of the second-hand road bike were the cause of my severe discomfort. There are different bicycle frame sizes available for good reason – and it is well worth doing your research and selecting one appropriate for your size and height.)
I am finally – thankfully – approaching the second transition, but feel no fear about the second run.
Legs tired?
Of course they are!
A bit wobbly?
No shit!
Desperate to get off the fucking bike? YES! YES, THAT! I hop off Scott like a slightly drunken vagrant heading off to his last pub of the night.
OK, what now? Hang bike on rack? Check. Inhale a gel? Check. Right! Now, RUN, RUN, FUCKING RUN!
‘Wait! You’ve still got your helmet on, Mum!’ I hear Tilly shout from the barriers as I head towards the transition exit.
Oh, for the love of God!
I turn on my thoroughly knackered heels, thrust my no-frills non-aerodynamic Halfords ‘lid’ into the hands of a very helpful marshall, and run off, as far away from my Scott bike as is humanly possible. That’s motivation enough for me.
‘Great running!’ one semi-limping guy says as I skip past him on my final lap of the track, feeling the thrill of my Adidas Boosts as they strike the ground. The last mile of running feels tough on the final climb up to the finish, but it’s over soon enough. Besides, I’m now entirely numb from the waist down.
I’m approaching the finish line after a cold, wet, tiring and uncomfortable two hours and twenty-four minutes, and I can see my Other Half and Tilly – both perfectly dry and warm – cheering for me as I raise my thoroughly feeble arms in the air whilst attempting to look mildly victorious.
‘WELL DONE, MUMMY!’ Tilly says, pawing at my medal and blatantly eyeing up the CLIF peanut butter bar from my goody bag. ‘You did REALLY well … But why were you so slow on the bike?’
Thanks, Tills! The adoption papers are currently being processed.
__________
* This is relevant in so much as the bike is set up for a squat man of approximately 5’6” in height – I am a rather long-limbed 5’9” female. We will come back to this, later…
29
THE BIG REVEAL
Twelve weeks have been and gone. I’ve written page after page of BDD diary entries, documenting everything from my pre-treatment experiences to my exposure therapy challenges. I’ve played tug-of-war with my Bastard Chimp and his pathetic guerrilla warfare tactics. Sometimes, he’s felt to gain a slight advantage over me, whilst other times I’ve been shocked by my own ability to completely immobilise him in the tightest stranglehold. But we’ve gone the distance, completing twelve gruelling rounds in the ring, and now it’s time for the referee to pick a winner.
I’m in my corner, reflecting on how close I came to being knocked out. Almost losing the fight after such a strong start made me question how much I really wanted this. When it seemed so much easier to default into damaging old thought patterns rather than continue to stand and face the exposure challenges, or listen to my SWAT team as they plough me with intel on possible interpretation traps, and then leave it up to me how best to navigate my way through the carnage. I had a choice then, as I do now. Thankfully, I chose to stand firm and focus on the long-term positive impact of this treatment rather than the short-term pain. My Bastard Chimp may have knocked me down, but I stood back up again and carried on the fight.
And now, we are here. It feels like I’ve made it across the finish line, but I know that this is where my race really begins. I have a call lined up with Dr G this afternoon where he will feed back to me the outcome of my multiple online assessment questionnaires, plus the more in-depth reviews we’ve had throughout treatment. I haven’t wanted to simplify any of this to just numbers on a scorecard or bars on a graph. Body dysmorphia is far too complex and devastating, and the impact is too great to reduce it to such simplistic terms. In truth, I don’t need Dr G to inform me of the impact of this treatment. I felt it very early on when I first began to understand what was happening in my mind, and I learned that I had the power to intercept my thoughts and to challenge them – however difficult that was. It has helped me to understand how – and possibly why – I have been affected by this condition, and where it all began. Of course, these are only my own theories, but they make sense to me in the context of my heightened awareness of my physical misgivings, and my subsequent strive for perfection.
More than this, I can begin to understand the role that running has played, first in helping me to build some mental strength and resilience, creating a foundation of self-belief where previously there was none. And then second, in creating the best possible DIVERSION away from facing the reality of my body dysmorphic thoughts and the need to tackle them head-on. The duality of these two competing – and confusing – impacts of running now finally seems to be making sense to me: in learning to run towards a place of strength and self-worth, I ended up taking a wrong turn somewhere along the way and began running away from myself, instead. Arguably, without the loss of running, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to make this discovery, and to tackle the Bastard Chimp and his Merry Men. They would have continued to reinforce their stronghold over me, and I would always have been subject to their mercy.
The face of Dr G fills up most of my screen once again. I’m relieved, knowing that this time there will be no multiple assessment questions for me to answer and no brain-melting, confusing statements for me to respond to within no time at all. That’s all gone. It’s been done, and Dr G now has a complete case study for his BDD online therapy treatment, namely that of ‘Female “X”’.
‘Hey, Rachel! How are you?’ Dr G sounds slightly giddy, as though it’s his birthday and he hasn’t said anything, but is expecting a surprise party later today.
‘Hi, Dr G!’ I reply, smiling because I’m thinking about the possible birthday scenario and I’m imagining Dr G playing party games with a little paper hat on. The image I have of him tooting on a party blower is enough to make me laugh out loud, but I see a pair of my own dirty pants staring at me on the carpet over in the corner of the room, which stops me in my tracks. There was a time when I would have scoured the room, eliminating these frankly unacceptable items be
fore a video call with Dr G. Now, I haven’t washed my hair OR picked up my dirty pants from the bedroom floor.
Who the hell have I become?
‘So, then, this is it!’ he says, as though we’re both about to witness the launching of a modern-day Royal Yacht Britannia. I can’t honestly tell if Dr G is just excited because he won’t have to trawl through any more diaries containing my daily body dysmorphic thoughts, or read about the small-fry challenges I have set myself to confront and rid myself of this thing: ‘… she’s going down to the Co-op without her heavy-duty concealer on, today. Whoopy fucking do!’ Hardly ground-breaking stuff, is it?
‘How do you think it’s gone, Rachel?’ he asks, whilst I’m still busy contemplating whether it might actually be his birthday.
‘Oh, erm … well! I think it’s gone extremely well,’ I say, aware of possibly sounding like a Miss World contestant who has just been asked her views on world peace. But it’s true: as relieved as I am that the twelve weeks have now come to an end, I do feel I have learned such a lot. And I’m proud of myself for sticking with it, and for jumping through all the tiny fiery hoops of anxiety that were fundamental to my progress.
‘So, I have some feedback for you following all the assessments that you completed throughout this programme,’ Dr G manages to say through his seemingly fixed grin. ‘You’ve made some significant progress, Rachel. I’ve seen it for myself from reading your worksheets and diaries, so it doesn’t come as such a big surprise to me.’
What is it? What does he know that I don’t? Of course, I feel to have benefited massively from the therapy, and I didn’t want to get caught up in the expectation of achieving certain ‘outcomes’ because the positive impact of this treatment on my day-to-day life was always my sole motivation: the hours I will save myself by not being fixated on my own distorted image in the living-room mirror; the headspace I will free up by not being drawn back to the bewitching ladies’ toilets at work; the freedom I will give my daughter by not constantly asking her whether my hair looks OK; the life I can live without dragging this heavy, burdensome load around with me, day after day …
A Midlife Cyclist Page 15