Confessions of a trichotillomaniac

I’m feeling the urge to blog again but now the surrey 100 is over I don’t have a ‘challenge’ to write about.

In the absence of a sporting challenge I feel strangely compelled to write about a daily challenge for me. I have to confess I’m a bit nervous about writing this entry as I’m afraid to say my daily battle is a mental health problem.

Yup I have just imagined at least half of you have shut down the computer and run away screaming.

Perhaps that is unfair, but when other people start talking about their mental health woes I feel like running away – and I’m certified nuts myself. But I guess it is for this reason I kinda want to write this. Mental health conditions are something that does have a huge stigma to it. It is hard to understand and it is a lot easier to think of people who suffer from it as different, weird, a bit broken and possibly best avoided. I think most people who read this know me, and hopefully like me, so coming from me it might not seem so alien. If I am open about my problems perhaps I will be doing my little bit for mental health awareness.

My particular brand of crazy (or at least the one this blog entry is about) is known as trichotillomania.

‘The specific DSM-5 criteria for trichotillomania (hair-pulling disorder) are as follows : Recurrent pulling out of one's hair, resulting in hair loss. Repeated attempts to decrease or stop the hair-pulling behavior.’

For me the hair pulling is thankfully mainly focused on my eyelashes but others pull at eyebrows and head hair. Most start as children, will probably be intermittently bald throughout their life and never fully recover.

Trichotillomania is fairly rare and little research has been conducted to discover the cause or create a working cure. It is almost tempting to think of it as exotic but the reality is far from glamorous. For the most part it just means I have a stockpile of unused Christmas mascara and an inability to see in the rain. Turns out eyelashes are really useful at keeping water out your eyes! In the shower I look like a mole dancing as I blindly negotiate washing my hair. I cannot swim at all without googles, even breast-stroke as the water will instantaneously get into my eyes. So next time you are stuck in the rain waiting for a bus at least you can marvel at how good you eyelashes are at keeping your eyes dry. It is true; you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

My trichotillomania started in primary school. In fact my trichotillomania was inadvertently caused by the nutcracker. CURSE YOU NUTCRACKER. My family went to see it when I was a kid. I’m not much of a ballet fan myself so decided to pass the time playing with the little binocular things you get at the big theatres. I was blissfully unaware that these binoculars were a hive of bacteria and I was effectively having unprotected eye sex with the previous thirty thousand people who had used them since their last clean. Unaspiringly I got eye aids – otherwise known as conjunctivitis. I spent the next fortnight with disgustingly gloopy eyes. I distinctly remember having to pull the puss from my eyelashes in order to open my eyes in the morning as they had got stuck together. Inevitably some eyelashes were innocent casualties in the war on eye gloop.

I guess this must have started off the habit. At first I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it. I remember talking to a friend about it during art whilst we were drawing self-portraits. I told her I sometimes pulled my eyelashes out and she said she did too. Confirmed, it must be OK then. Little did I know that my friend was so insecure that she would have agreed with whatever I had said. Had I told her I kill people at the weekend I’m sure she would have said that she too was a serial killer. Never trust an 8 year old. So anyway my little habit grew stronger but no one really noticed. Kids do weird disgusting things all the time, it is impossible to notice them all.

The first memory I have of compulsive hair pulling was when I was struggling with my long division homework. Long division just doesn’t make sense. It never has and it never will. But when your 9 and you have been sat at your desk for an hour trying to make it make sense and it is getting late and if you don’t make it make sense soon you won’t have your homework done by tomorrow and your teacher will shout and you and everyone else in the class will know you haven’t done it and will think you are lazy or stupid… it gets a bit stressful. When my mum came over to check how I was doing she found that the centre of my work book was full of long black eyelashes. Balled patches had appeared on my eyes which were red and sore from pulling. I distinctly remember her shock ‘What have you done!’ and the shame that followed. I learnt then that my little habit was a bad, ugly and shameful habit.

In the weeks that followed it only got worse. The more my family tried to stop me and tell me off for hair pulling the worse I felt and the worse it got. I was painfully embarrassed by it. I remember trying to make up lies to cover what I had done – ‘I woke up and they fell out’. I never have been very good at lying. I remember it hurt, it really hurt when I pulled out an eyelash, but this just made me want to pull another one. A bit like poking your tongue into the hole when a tooth is removed or poking at a bruise after a fall. It didn’t take long before my eyes were entirely bald.

Over the next few years things went from bad to worse. I started to badly suffer from anxiety. At first this just made me a bit withdrawn but eventually I had such bad panic attacks that I became house bound. I was depressed. I would go days without eating and the thought of food made me panic. Missing some eyelashes were the least of my worries. Eventually at fourteen, I was taken to a psychiatrist that took me seriously. At the time the general consensus seemed to be that children could not suffer mental health problems so I saw at least three doctors who told my mother I was just being difficult. It was this psychiatrist who diagnosed me with trichotillomania amongst other things. The other things took precedence for treatment as they were stopping me from functioning so we never really addressed trichotillomania in the sessions. After a course of anti-depressants, therapy and a change in school and lifestyle (Mr T arrived), I learnt how to manage my anxiety and eat food again. The anti-depressants also seemed to stop my trichotillomania.

I think I stopped pulling entirely from the age of 16 until 20 but close friends tell me otherwise. Apparently I pulled my eyelashes out over my A Levels, and during a break up at university, but these must have been small blips as I don’t remember getting balled from them. I wish, I really wish, I knew why I didn’t pull during this time. I don’t think I was any happier than I am now. In fact I think I am happier now then I was then. I wasn’t taking any medication; I stopped the anti-depressants when I was 16. I was a lot drunker, in fact I’m fairly confident that from 18 to 20 I was almost permanently drunk. Perhaps copious amounts of vodka cure trichotillomania? I should publish my findings, it would be the first known cue! Alas copious amounts of vodka do not get you a degree so in my final year I decided to sober up… for at least half of my waking hours and get my head down so I passed the degree. And I guess it was here, once more at my desk desperately trying to understand a problem in front of me – except this time long division is replaced by some unfathomable cognitive neuroscience paper with a hangover to boot - that the compulsive hair pulling started again.

My eyelashes have been weakened from years of pulling. It used to be quite hard to pull out the beautiful long black eyelashes I had as a child. But as an adult I now have weak brittle thin eyelashes that fall out as soon as you look at them. In an hour I can pull out a section as wide as my finger. Plucking them mercilessly one by one until there is nothing left. It doesn’t really hurt anymore. Just a pleasant tug and tingle as the hair pops out. When I get compulsive it is a real need. I feel agitated, my hands almost itch for wanting to pick. My throat feels tight, constricted by my want to pick. I find it almost impossible to stop my hands from touching my face. I run my thumb across my eyelid to find a stump. Once I find one I cannot stop thinking about it. It almost becomes like a splinter in my eye, I just need to get it out. On bad days my first waking thought it pulling out my eyelashes and it is constant through the whole day until I go to sleep. Unless I see Mr T that is. Any time with Mr T is downtime and I have no desire to pull when I am around him. which is both lovely and strange. When I’m pulling I go into a trance like state. It is not really relaxing as such, but I feel a calm detachment from the world. With the stress of my final year it took no time at all for me to go balled.

And then I had the dilemma about what to tell my friends. At school I had ridiculously low self-esteem so talking about my eyelashes was just too painful to imagine. I also almost never went to school or talked to people so it was surprisingly easy to avoid the subject. My best friend clearly had trichotillomania as well, evidence by the balled patch on her head but we never once spoke about it. We just couldn’t, it was too shameful. In fact we still have never talked about it! Seems like a bit of an opportunity wasted now because it would have probably been helpful to share our experiences but hindsight gets you know where.

All that vodka had made me very talkative at university. I was blessed with many friends and even more acquaintances (that unfortunately I can never remember due to vodka but I chat to them anyway because it is too embarrassing to admit I literally cannot remember anything about them). The eyelash thing is bound to come up.

… but it didn’t. Hurray for being fair and too lazy to wear makeup on a daily basis. People didn’t notice, or at least if they did they never said anything. To me, every time I look at a mirror I see it. Every photo of me I see it. But I guess I’m very aware of the picking and all of its negative connotations. To an onlooker I probably just look a bit washed out. Funny thing was I was almost disappointed no one brought it up. I think I was ready to talk about it now, and almost wanted people to ask. Eventually I just started telling my friends about it. They were all slightly bemused but very good about it. The huge burden of shame I used to carry around as a child had dwindled to mild embarrassment. It is not something I’m ever going to feel proud about, but I can now tell strangers about it. A wise, and fairly troubled, person once sung ‘ridicule is nothing to be scared of’. It is amazing how much courage that brings me on a daily basis.

And so there you have it. Confessions of a trichotillomaniac. I still pull. I don’t know how to stop. I’ve had a crack at many interventions: gloves, sellotape on hands, thinking putty, glasses, goggles, a picking diary, a picking log, cutting my nails painfully short, growing my nails impractically long, asking colleagues and friends to shame me, wearing fake eyelashes. Bizarrely when I put the eyelashes on I don’t feel the need to touch my eyes, but instead I find myself picking the skin off my arms so I don’t think I’m really making progress. Nothing seems to stop me. I would love to stop but I’ve almost made peace with myself over it. Who needs to see in the rain anyway?

For another perspective on trichotillomania check out Becky’s blog (which may have inspired this blog post) on U Tube:

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=UU61riJ9dHUNKhedeejZfXAg

x

The 100... or 86 in actual fact

I’m still alive!

It would be a bit remiss of me to not blog about the Surrey 100 after months of build-up. So here goes.

Before I knew it the fateful weekend was upon me. Nick rocked up on Friday night full of his usual unbridled enthusiasm for cycling. I had taken the day off work to prepare but unfortunately had slipped back into denial about the whole thing. All I had to show for my ‘preparation’ was a handful of energy gels, the wrong shoe covers, miss-fitting mud guards, an empty fridge and a pair of sparkly high heel shoes. Nick had pre-empted my incompetence and brought me a waterproof and new brake pads for my bike and ingredients for a suitable meal for dinner. I was too hungry to be offended by this (and it is hard to be offended when I had proved his low expectations correct).

A fitful night’s sleep later and it was time to head to the Excel centre for registration. By this point I was actually feeling ill with nerves. We swung past Evans on route and I spent even more money on cycle kit, including some proper mud guards which turned out to be a very good investment. We also popped past Nick’s parents on route for a quick cuppa. I was fairly quiet due to increasing sense of dread. I hope they didn’t think I was being rude.

We arrived at our ‘Budget accommodation’ around lunchtime. Budget really was a very good description. Forest Green is not the most illustrious of areas and the Forest Gate Hotel was very much in keeping with its setting. We were directed up a stair well to our dingy box room above the old boozer. The land lady kindly let us keep our bikes in the room, but it was tricky negotiating them up the narrow hallway, over the cat shit on the carpet and into the tiny room. Still we were only here for half a night and it was in a good location for the start. By the time we had squeezed all of our stuff into the room I was catatonic with fear. Poor Nick, all he wanted to do was share his excitement over this wonderful event and he was stuck with me who was acting like it was a death sentence!

We made our way across town to the Excell centre for registration where a party atmosphere was in place. Thousands of people were there all happy and smiling. We were directed to our registry point with military efficacy and before I knew it I was holding my registration pack and was ready to go. I was amazed by the organisation, over 20,000 people and not a single que! After collecting our packs we joined the masses in the cycle stools. This gave me a good opportunity to look at my fellow participants. I had feared I would be in a sea of spandex clad 20 somethings at the peak of their fitness. I thought I would feel like an underprepared fraud at the start gate. But no, the majority of people were perfectly normal. In fact the average age was around 40 I recon. Some people looked like they had never even seen a bike, let alone know how to ride one. I overheard many conversations asking ‘do I need these shoe thingies?’ reminding me that I am not alone in my cycling nativity. Suddenly my fear dissipated and I was able to relax and soak up the infectious party spirit. I was so caught up in the atmosphere I even purchased some unnecessary prudential ride 100 socks and two water bottles much to Nicks horror. There was plenty of non-branded merchandise available but I actually wanted something cheesy to commemorate the occasion. All of the merchandise was on sale for a good price and there was a near frenzy near any waterproof jacket on sale. Clearly I was not the only one unprepared for Hurricane Burther due to arrive the next day.

We were due to meet Nick’s Zappi friends, Hue, Jon and Jon at the registration. However, via a series of comic errors they were stuck in traffic in London and we received a frantic call from them saying they might not get to registration before it closes. Keen to have the rest of his team to cycle with Nick and I went back to registration to see if there was anything we could do to help. Nick went to a registration point and got a swift ‘sorry but tough luck’. I went to the help desk, who were indeed more helpful. After explaining the sorry situation, fluttering my fake eyelashes and possibly flaunting a little cleavage I convinced the lovely Colin to let me register for the Zappi team on their behalf.  Problem solved. The other guys arrived in time to give us a lift back to the budget hotel and I enjoyed the light-hearted in-car bickering on the way back. A nice carb loading meal at Strada followed.

Alongside my general fear of non-completion was what to do in the morning. The guys had an earlier start time and were due to set off for the Queen Elisabeth Park at 5am in the morning. I was not due to start until 7.45 am and did not relish the thought of spending nearly 3 ungodly hours in near hurricane conditions. But I have no sense of direction, no map and no i-phone so getting myself to the venue under my own steam at a more sensible time was equally unappealing. Thankfully the solution to my dilemma arrived just before bed time when we bumped into another resident at our hotel that was competing. As chance would have it she had the same start time as me in the same zone. I almost through myself at her feet asking to accompany her to the venue the next morning. She seemed equally relieved to have a cycle partner and so we agreed to meet by the cat poo at 6.15 am the next morning.

OK I realise I am really stringing this out so I should get on the actual cycle.

Nick and co left at 5am. The weather was warm and dry outside giving us the glimmer of hope that Burther would not grace us with her presence. I thought it best to wear the arm warmers anyway, and managed to give myself a fat lip whilst battling them on. Not the most auspicious of starts. Sam and myself headed off at a more reasonable 6.15am where it was light enough to see that clouds were rolling in. My fears over getting lost were unsubstantiated. Within 100 yards of the hotel we started seeing more and more cyclist migrating to the park. By the time we arrived at the Black zone there were swarms of cyclists gathered like salmon waiting to spawn. Sam and myself parted company, wishing each other a pleasant ride. Again cheerful organisers directed me to the bag drop off and waiting pen with frightening efficiency. Was this some form of trickery, would they be suggesting a ‘nice shower’. No it was as good as it seemed and I soon found myself in a herd of Black N cyclists eagerly awaiting the start. It was here that I discovered that the rumours regarding Leith Hill and Box Hill were correct. They had been removed due to adverse weather safety concerns. The Surrey 100 was now the Surrey 86. Perhaps I should feel cheated by not doing the whole course, but in actual fact I felt relief. The course was flat, it was only 86 miles, I should be able to complete without incident even in the rain. Herds of cyclist spread as far as the eye can see. The operation was vast. It brought imagery of wildebeest in the Serengeti to mind. Soon we would all join the stampede, the anticipation was palpable the impending weather only added to the excitement.

It started to rain almost immediately before I set off. I was expecting a bolt out of the starting blocks, but most people were being sensible in rain and it started as a slow pace and as we spread out the pace gradually crept up until we were motoring along at 23mph. There were all sorts out. Most were on road bikes but there were some hybrid and mountain bikes as well as once chap determinedly peddling away on his Brompton. Nick’s waterproof was far too big for me and billowed around my shoulders. After only a few miles I felt it was safest to take it off despite the rain as I could not see behind me. I was also getting hot; whilst it was raining it was still fairly mild out. This gave me my fist opportunity to have a drink. Annoyingly I cannot eat or drink whilst cycling so my ride would have to be punctuated by a series of drink pit stops as a result. Coat off and secured to my seat I set off again. I passed countless people fixing punctures, the wet gritty conditions were not kind on tyres.

The weather was closing in in and after a near miss on an unseen drain cover I was acutely aware of my inexperience so I started scouting for sensible riders to nanny me. After a short goldilocks trial: too fast, too slow, too erratic, I found my just right. A tall older chap on a road bike with a red light on the tail was going about the right pace and was giving clear instructions regarding obstacles. I got as close to his back wheel as a dared and let him guide me through the treacherous streets. All I had to do was follow the red beacon of hope.

Richmond Park turned into a bottle neck. The wind and rain was relentless and several riders had gone down on wet roads. We were held up behind an ambulance helping a hapless rider. Luckily I was near the middle of the pack and like a baby penguin I was shielded from the worst of the wind. Here I lost my guide in the stop-starting crowd because I was too incompetent to get on and off my bike which held me back. It did however provide an opportune moment for drink stop two and a banana.

In Kingston the ride route comes back on itself and I saw some of the first riders heading back on the other side of the barrier. I thought I saw a team of Zappi riders though it was hard to tell through the torrential rain. My parents were tracking my online and it turns out that we did indeed cross paths here. Such a shame we didn’t quite see each other - that would have made for an awesome high five!

By West Byfleet we were entering the heart of the storm. Thunder and lightning crashed around us. The wind whipped and the rain fell in apocalyptic quantities. Streams turned into rivers. Water erupted in small geezers out of man whole covers. Where was my ark? The true British sprit will out though and we chatted away, quibing ‘lovely weather’ and ‘why are we doing this again’ to passers-by. Amazingly spectators still lined the streets huddled under trees and bus shelters cheering us on through the driving rain. Their encouragement did wonders for raising our spirits. My favourite spectators were a couple huddled under an umbrella brandishing Champaign in the other hand. So Surrey. My pace was very slow as I literally could not see ahead of me. Eventually I sought refuge under an unoccupied tree and had a tracker bar and a drink of water. The cold forced me back on my bike and once more into the breach.

The weather subsided to a constant downpour which was pleasant in comparison. I realised that I was running low on water. I had cycled pasted several Hubs and I was beginning to think that I had miscalculated my stopping points. To my relief I saw a water station at Pyrford so I pulled up and got the bottles refilled. Another snack bar and an attempt at some flap jack though I felt a bit queezy so couldn’t get much in. Again I started to shiver so felt it was best to get back on the bike and keep going.

I tried to spot friends going through Ripley, but I was disorientated as I do not normally go through Ripley via Pyford and missed their house. Never mind I needed to keep going anyway, I had only stopped a few miles before. By the time we left Horsley and was approaching Newlands corner on the A246 I had worked out where I was. Many times I had driven down this road envisioning this moment. Admittedly I had not envisioned drizzle but never the less I was pleasantly surprised to find that the rolling hills were surprisingly easy. In fact I didn’t have to get out of the big gear and could overtake people calling ‘right’ as I did (the pack were generally conforming to British driving rules, slow on the left fast on the right). Soon I was charging down the duel carriage way preparing to turn left up towards Newlands. This was the only real hill on the course. Time to get into the granny ring. The hill hurt, but I slogged on up. Faster than some, slower than others. I saw a Hub stop sign at the top of the hill and thought it was time to have another banana and a breather. I was just about to head back onto the road when the wind and rain picked up again. I knew that the next section was a decent so I decided to shelter for 5 minutes behind a St Johns ambulance waiting for the worst to pass. I managed to text dad my where abouts who dutifully informed me that Helen was on my tail.

The over-competitive daemon then raised his ugly head.

Helen is catching me? That means she must be going faster than me as she started later! Right, well that’s it. It’s on! (Yes spandex really has gone to my head and I am appalled with myself).

I jumped back on my bike and heading down the decent in the pouring rain. Luckily my over-competitiveness had not rendered me suicidal and I took due caution down the hill. There were rolling hills over to Dorking, I did all of them in the big ring, nipping through down the right hand side. I was now in the fast lane.

I gunned it slightly unnecessarily fast though Dorking. The rain had eased up to a mild drizzle and I enjoyed racing through the railings with crowds cheering me on. The Michalem Bends awaited and a started my own cavalry charge taking full advantage of the gentle downhill. One chap desperately tried to race me but there was no chance of catching me now. My flat speed was 25mph I was flying. Exhilarated I sped onto Leatherhead, only to remember I was meant to be having lunch with my parents here.

I stopped outside the library and called them. They were running a little late as my timing chip had failed and they did not realise I was so close. I felt a little foolish as I stood there shivering seeing some of the faces I charged past earlier pootle on by. Wasted energy. By the time I saw my family excitedly trot down the road towards me I was shacking violently with cold. I felt awful but I could not stay with them for lunch. A snack bar, energy gel and slug of water was all I had time for. And after a quick kiss and cuddle I left my clearly worried mother and continued on my way. I felt bad about it. I would have to make it up them later.

Back onto the accelerator imagining Helen hot on my heals. I pushed on through to Kingston, overtaking as many people as possible. Only a handful were overtaking me now. I found a pair of cyclists who were going about the right pace and I hitched a tow of them for a couple of miles. This gave my legs a well-timed break from me pushing them to maximum.

I saw signs for Wimbledon and knew the Wimbledon kicker was coming up. The hill is not huge but after pushing my legs for the past 20 miles they were not happy with me. The sun was breaking and with the added aid of spectators reminding me this was the last hill I battled on up. At the top I stopped to take of my Gillette and crack into another energy gel and some more water. Ok last sprint home.

Now I was really having to work. I refused to let my speed drop below 20 mph however much it hurt. Where I could I battled for tows behind other cyclists before having to push on again into the wind. The mile markers were starting to count down the miles. Other cyclists were also sensing that the end was insight and the pace was picking up. I was going for broke now. It was a battle to stay above 20 and I could feel my energy tank draining. All or nothing. I started chanting encouragement to myself. I was getting overtaken by others who had more left for the last sprint. I even heard myself let out a little animalistic roar when I forced my legs to get me back up to the 20 mark. I think by this point it is clear to see that I have become a peddalist. And then there was the beautiful end in sight. The Mall, bathed in sunlight, crowds cheering banging on the barriers. I wanted to finish in a magnificent sprint, but all I could muster was to cycle across the line in an anticlimactic coast. But I was finished. I had done it.

My time in the end was 5hrs 30 mins. If the full course was open and I extrapolate on my average time of 15.6mph, I would have completed under my target time of 6hr 30mins. Of course it is impossible to say how I would have done had the hills been in the course and it not been in such treacherous conditions. It is not a bad time, but somehow I feel like I wish I had gone faster. Pushed harder from the start. I sound dangerously like Nick!

The transformation from spandex worrier to spandex warrior is complete.

 

 

.... now for anyone reading who thinks 'pah but you didn't actually cycle 100 miles in the end did you' please feel rest assured that I had to cycle a further 16 miles across busy central London to get back to the car. So I actually cycled 104 miles once you take into account getting there and back. And yes I did cry all the way home.

The Gods are against me!

Sorry for the lack of update for a while. For those of you who have been paying attention, my propensity to strop may not have gone unnoticed. I'm afraid my bout of silence has been due to a strop of epic proportions.

Things were looking up. I had got to the point with training where it stopped hurting all the time and I was starting to rise to the dizzying height of OK. Dare I say it, I was starting to enjoy myself! I managed to go out with the local cycle club (Charlotteville) and met a group of lovely people and ate cake. I started to find a good cycle buddy in Chris, and started to eat up the miles in the evenings. I could breath during spinning and no longer felt like I was about to pass out.

However it was not all going without a hitch. Every time I took my road bike out I seemed to spanner it trying to change gears. Some how I was managing to get chain suck and mangled the chain into the front derailer. This was happening about twice a ride. Then the inevitable happened. I had just got to the point where I felt I might just keep up with the Oxford Zappi's club ride (in the slow group). This was a big deal for me. It was a milestone I had been building up to. With some trepidation Nick I headed out early on the Saturday morning. Less than a mile from Nick's I changed gear and then herd a snap. Not good. The derailer had finally given up the ghost and snapped straight in two. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Awful timing. No club ride, and with only 5 weeks to go until the 100 it was an important time for training. The parts needed to be ordered from the interwebery and it would be a week before I could be back on board. The Surrey 100 bubble burst.

This really felt like a kick in the balls (OK I don't have balls, but if I did they would have been obliterated by the blow). To put so much effort in only to be thwarted by bike failure. The dream of 6 and a half hours seemed to be evaporating. Dear God Borris is going to beat me! The sulk which followed was gigantic, to be honest I have not quiet recovered. Nick dutifully order parts and re-built me bike a week later. I did get back on board and kept training, but my heart has not been in it.

Since the incident I have managed a painfully slow 70 mile ride to the coast with Chris. I survived 40 miles of near vertical hills in Devon with Nick. I did cry... 3 times, but I kept going. I've kept up with spinning though I have not been as regular a disciple as I once was. I've even attended endurance spinning.

Unfortunately, I continue to keep breaking my bike! Every time I feel like I start to get better and a seed of  hope of doing well springs forth its first leaf, disaster strikes and I twist my deralier again, stamping the hope back into the ground. I'm terrified that I am going to snap it during the 100. It is sole destroying. I also started to get sore knees so I had to raise my bike seat to avoid further pain. The net result is I can no longer get on or off my bike. Stopping has become a thing of fear. Traffic lights are terrifying. I am inept!

 I suppose I should not be too pessimistic. I managed to cover 40 flat miles in 2 hours with Chris last week. I am not as good as I would have liked to have been, but I am fit enough to get round. Maybe it will be OK...

... and then I looked at the weather forecast for the ride. We are only due a bloody hurricane! OK I'm being a bit melodramatic, it is the tail end of a hurricane. Turns out swimming might have been more appropriate preparation. I'll pack a snorkel!

Wish us luck

Starving and stretching

Boyed on by the success of the Surrey Cycle Surgery Sportive I have started to get serious about training.

Spinning has become a regular activity, I've started a regularish evening cycle (I really want to say ride but I fear that would really make me a spandex warrior), I attempted Leith hill in the rain (OK I bailed but still I started in the rain), and went out with the local cycle team!

I also started to watch what I eat. Last week Monday morning was made even more unpleasant by the realisation that my once respectable work trousers had now become skin tight leggings! The material stretched across my thighs and bum much like the skin on a drum. The buttons only just reached and were perilously close to being converted to mini missiles via any sudden movements. On closer examination in the mirror it was clear to see that I looked 3 month pregnant! This was not good. Hector (my pot belly) was particularly prominent. Now I've been plagued with Hector all my life, even when I had an eating disorder and was painfully thin, Hector was there. Sometimes I think that if I starved to death all they would find is skin bones and an unexplained pot belly. Never-the-less Hector has got bigger. Ordinarily I would put myself onto some ill-advised fast until I could comfortably get back into my cloths. However, said fasts normally make me rather light headed and were not conducive to spin classes. Hmm perhaps I will have to actually research which foods are good for me and have some concept of this thing called a 'calorie'. I decided this would be a good plan, before quickly realising I had no intention of putting that much effort into weight control. In the end I did a blanket ban on obvious sugar. No sugar in tea, no chocolate/treats, biscuits were out.

One miserable week later and I started to re-think this dieting idea. I haven't really put on much weight from all this cycling malarkey. Whilst my thighs and bum are clearly meatier and Hector looks distended, the rest of me is largely unchanged. Dieting did not seem to improve matters. Desperate for an alternative to a sugar free existence I turned to the modern oracle - google. A quick search on 'causes of a pot belly' mainly warned me about the dangers of beer but I did also come across 'Anterior Pelvic Tilt'.

Low and behold I find a diagram of a man with his very own Hector! I compared the diagram to how I stand and yes, we both appear to be doing an impression of a duck - belly and arse out and the pelvis tilting forward. I've never been able to stand up straight, but I always assumed that was something to do with my spine. According to the interweb my posture, and resulting Hector, could have far more to do with the muscles surrounding my pelvis than my spin. Most of this is to due to pre-existing weak muscles, particularly my abdominals. But all of the recent cycling may have also contributed by making my hip flexor and quads tight which will pull my pelvis further out of alignment. Hurray the solution is stretching  not starving (this makes me much happier).

And so I have started a routine of yoga stretches, first thing in the morning and after work. Many of these are bizarre and seem to have been designed for maximum humiliation. For example 'the baby' where it looks as though you are trying to change your own nappy, or the frog which, I think you can imagine what that one looks like. They do seem to be working though. I can now stand much straighter and my guts are no-longer spilling out over my trousers. My lower back also has some movement in it which is a novelty for me.

So I suppose I can add this to the list of things I've learnt from training for the Surrey 100:
a) be positive
b) stand tall.

cycle surgery surrey sportive success

I am in danger of writing a positive blog post! Oh God, does this mean I'm turning into a peddalist?

So Sunday was the cycle surgery Surry sportive - quite a mouthful - Nick and myself had decided this would be a good opportunity to crank up some mileage on the bikes (I can hear the peddalist coming out!). Anyway, I was still feeling tentative on my bike so decided that I would play it safe on the 40 mile route whilst Nick did the 70. This meant doing the sportive alone, which frightened me so I set about cajoling friends into the event.

Chris first drew our attention to the sportive so was a sure bet. However he was keen to do the 70 miles and knowing he is a devout spinner (worships at the temple of spin class regularly) I feared he would rather thrash himself with Nick than baby sit me. So I needed to find me company. Luckily the day before was a friends BBQ, perfect event for coaxing mildly inebriated friends into cycle events. Claire was my unwitting prey. After being sure she had more than one beer and was full of guilty BBQ food I pounced. Her defence of not cycling this year, suffering from a ridiculously hard work out that morning and drinking in the afternoon were quickly overcome by peer pressure. A lift home sealed the deal. I found me my baby sitter.

So Sunday morning arrived far too early. Our preparation the night before went somewhat ary. We had planned to get home early on Saturday, eat a pasta dinner and fix our bikes food and drink for the next day.  Unfortunately the temptation of BBQ food and cake had overcome us and we ended up just collapsing and, rather aptly, watching embarrassing fat bodies. Never-the-less we scrambled to the start line and I was rather pleased to see common sense had not overcome our bullying and Claire was ready to go. A quick few checks to make sure Claire's bike still worked and we were off.

Unsurprisingly Nick and Chris raced off within the first minute. Claire and myself took a more conservative pace. Soon we found ourselves in a group with team sky... I wish I could claim that this was the real team sky but in reality it was a team of armatures that liked the kit. This was quite good for me, I had a chance to practice riding in a group. Claire gave me some helpful tips and I tried to follow them. My terror of ever letting go of the handle bars meant I could not pass on the pot hole signals which I felt a bit bad about. I need to work on that. I'm still a bit uncomfortable riding so close next to another cyclist. I forget most people don't weave about the road like a drunk on the way home from a good night out - that's just me.

We lost team sky on a hill. Claire had gearing issues and wanted to pace herself up the hills as she knew she had sore legs that had not been on a ride for a long while. Fair enough. I think I need to learn some of this self preservation thing. I was pleased that I could pass most people on the hill without getting out of breath. Hurray spin classes clearly are working. I don't know how I would have done had I not waited for Claire. It is possible that I would have flown round, I felt like I could have, but equally I may have bombed it for the first 20 miles then blown up. As is was, having bullied Claire into the rides I was not going to abandon her. Plus I'm still too scared to ride by myself and I could do with some instruction regarding pacing myself. Claire did give me a useful tip for hills - keep your jaw relaxed. At first this seemed bizarre but actually it worked. When you relax your jaw you make sure you can breath. you also relax your upper body therefore making sure that all the energy is going into your legs. So with a relaxed jaw you are able to breath and have maximum efficiency in the energy you put in allowing you to steadily climb those endless hills. Good tip.

About a third of the way round my gears started playing up. My peddles locked when I tried to change up into the big ring and I mangled my front detailer in the process. Bugger no high gears. At least I had the hill gears. At the food station there was a bike mechanic who tried to fix it, but despite he efforts I could still not get the bike to change up. I still managed to get a half decent flat speed on the way home, but probably at the expense of my bike as I thrashed it at the top of the low gear range. I couldn't help myself. I become an oversized puppy when I see other cyclists ahead of me. I instantly have this ridiculous urge to chase them down and overtake. It is completely non-sencical. I have a broken bike, and a broken friend (Claire's I T bands had said enough is enough) and yet I kept powering up to the clearly better riders in an attempt to 'take' them. Silly me.

I managed a sprint up the last hill home and came in with remarkably fresh legs. Claire strava tells us we did it in 2 hours 50 mins, with an average speed of 13.8mph. It also tells us that the max speed was 40mph. I think it could be partial to little white lies.
http://app.strava.com/activities/159425043

Not a bad time for Claire given she has not ridden in a year and started with knackered legs. My legs have not hurt since either which is a good sign. I am reassured that I am OK on a bike. I think comparing myself to Nick has made me feel completely incompetent. I suspect this might be a bit like learning to run with Husain Bolt. Compared to your average amateur cyclist I am alright.

Still reality check. This ride was less than half of the 100. I need to do the 100 an average of at least 2mph faster than the weekend sportive. I have only 5 weeks to go and limited free time to train. I still can't take my left hand off the handle bars or drink and eat whilst moving. It is still going to be tough.

Best get cycling!

Sulking and spinning

A week or so on from the last post and not much has happened.

The failure of the 13mile South Downs ride has resulted in a sulk of epic proportions. I decided I hated cycling, which is probably not the best stand point for an incompetent cyclist to take only 8 weeks away from the 100. Training has become a shackle, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays are now right offs because of training. I have dutifully gone to spin sessions but take little joy in them. I think they are paying off though. Whilst I am by far still the redist participant in the room - even my legs go a strange crimson colour - I can now breath through out most of the session. I'm finding that I can generally keep up with the drills and my recovery is getting faster. Annoyingly this means I need to keep going.

In my sulk I decided to refuse to cycle last weekend. In typical Tor and Nick fashion this was the one weekend Nick seemed to actually want to take me out for a training ride. Despite numerous attempts to coax me onto my bike we ended up spending Saturday punting down the canals of Oxford drinking wine, eating chocolate and listening to Opera. I have to say this is FAR better than haling myself up hills and having panic attacks. I suppose we did take the tandem into town, so my legs did some work, but probably not enough to counter the whole rack of ribs I binge ate that evening. It was very much an anti-training weekend.

But good things can't last forever and the mini-break from training needs to stop. This week I have not been as dutiful, but more because life has got in the way rather than actively avoiding training.

I took Monday off work to help a friend with her PHD in neuroscience. This was also a valued opportunity to see what is left of my pre-frontal cortex after the horse riding accident. As I haven't heard anything to the contrary I can only assume my brain is still in tact, more or less. Anyway, as I had the whole day off work it meant I could cycle to Clandon in the afternoon when there are fewer cars out to kill me. This is the problem with cycling around Guildford. People actually WANT to kill you. The route to Clandon does have cycle paths, but due to a lack of for sight in road planning the cycle lanes actually leave the roads too narrow to use. The net result is that drivers drive with there wheels on the cycle lane line and smack you with their wing mirrors. Fun. Guildford planners also like to lure you into a false sense of security with said cycle routes and then end them at precisely the moment you need them - like the Stoke interchange! I can tell you from terrifying past experience that Ladymead is exactly where you don't want to be on a Friday rush hour on a Brompton. The terror. Anyway as it was, the cycle to Clandon on the Brompton was actually quite pleasant (I took the Brompton as I didn't want to have to deal with SPD fails). The sun was out and all the spin classes meant that I could cycle there without getting out of breath. The cycle back was slightly more fraught as I got caught up in school collection hell, but the Chelsea tractors could get enough speed up to kill me in the grid lock, which I took as a bonus.

Tuesday spinning was cancelled because relatives were over from France and I wanted to see them. I think that is a legitimate excuse.

Wednesday I went to the later spin class after horse riding. It was lead by the nice young fitness instructor. I don't think he is a cyclist. He wears loose over-shorts to cover his dignity - something a real cyclist would never spare you. I real cyclist shaves his legs and displays with great pride which side he is hanging. I swear I was nearly hypnotised by one spin instructors tackle as it bobbed left/right/left/right for the hour. Had he been shouting different instructions I could have left that spin session believing I was a chicken. Anyway, nice young fitness instructor makes up for his lack of cycling knowledge with good tunes. I just phase out his weird leaning instructions and bizarre warm down.

Thursday was spent eating Chinese take away. OK I probably could should have gone to a spin class. Which just leaves today, which is looking jam packed with looking after 3 horses, a fiancé, and seeing my sister as she is over from Belgium.

This weekend I will do better though. I plan on doing a sportive on Sunday which will hopefully help me with my confidence on my road bike as well as build up that elusive extra knee (the weird muscle cyclists get above their actual knee). I'm going to try and see how fast I can cycle 40 miles. Place your bets now.

 

fighting the fear

Writing the last blog was unexpectedly cathartic. I had started writing it purely because I was in the mood to write and the cycle challenge seemed as good a topic as any other. By the end of the post however, I had come to the conclusion that the Surrey 100 was more about helping me overcome my negative mind-set than about hauling myself the 100 miles. This is quite a revelation! So inspired by my new found insight I approached the Friday session with determination to be positive.

The spin session was run by my favourite instructor (more partial to 80s cheese than dance) and his playlist started with the song 'Happy' which I felt had to be a good Omen. Every time the negative daemon piped up I forced a new voice into my head - the chirpy cheerleader. She sporadically sings happy little phrases like 'your doing great'. When the daemon goads 'you won't make it till the end of the set' the cheerleader interjects 'Don't worry, see if you can make another minute, you are doing brilliantly'. At the end of that minute she congratulates 'Brilliant well done you, how about another 30 seconds more?' and if I manage that she asks the same question again. Eventually when I have to take a break and my daemon smirks 'lazy' the cheerleader corrects 'that was still 3 extra minutes then you thought you could do and it is good to pace yourself'. And so the spin session continued with the daemon on one shoulder, the cheerleader on the other both vying for my attention. The cheerleader seems false and irritating, like an overfamiliar American tourist, but I have to admit I felt a good deal happier at the end of the session then when it was just me and the daemon on my back.

Unfortunately the addition of a positive voice in my head.... I just realised I'm well on my way to a diagnosis of schizophrenia but never mind... has not translated into more training.

At the weekend I tried to convince Nick to take me for a long training ride. I imagined that Nick would be delighted by my sudden desire to join him in his spandex fetish. But alas when it comes to taking me out on an actual training ride he seems more reluctant. Perhaps the reality does not quite match the fantasy. So rather begrudgingly Nick takes me out for a steady 30 miles with some friends in Oxford. Whilst the ride was lovely, I don't think it got me any further towards my goal of 100 miles in six and a half hours.

On Tuesday I had arranged to go for an evening cycle with Becky. The weather was perfect, my bike was working, I had company, I really had no excuse not to go, but somehow the training ride ended up with me and Becky eating chocolate cake in my garden. Whilst the cake was lovely, this again gets me no further towards me goal. In fact the chocolate cake will be working against me!

Wednesday I was busy horse riding, and Friday I was in Manchester so the only day I had left for training was Thursday. OK I had no choice but to do the double - two spin sessions in one evening! I got myself psyched up, bought copious amounts of water and energy drink, I was all set, but then the second class was cancelled due to lack of interest. (It was a beautiful evening, anyone in their right mind would be out on a bike rather than in the sweaty studio so I am not surprised). Bother! Oh well, at least I managed one spin session. It was the Eastern European and her dance music marathon so I was secretly pleased that I didn't have to do 2 hours of the session. I don't think I tried as hard as I could have though, perhaps the cheerleader is too soft on me.

And then the weekend came. Friday night was spent rolling around my friends living room floor singing show tunes in an alcohol induced frenzy. Saturday was spent at a hen do, deeply regretting Friday night activities. Which only left Sunday for training. Unfortunately Nick and I had miss timed our binge drinking and he was a day behind. We had planned to spend Sunday cycling around the Isle of White but the inconsiderate timing of the Isle of White festival (this weekend) and Nicks excesses on Saturday night meant that our plans were scaled back to a 13 mile bimble around the South Downs...

...I say 13 mile bimble, but I think I should point out that the South downs, in actual fact, have an equal number of ups, which should not be underestimated. To be fair to Nick, he was a good sport in going at all as he was in no fit state. The legs were going but no one was home upstairs. Zombi Nick led me up seemingly endless hills. I puffed and panted and hauled myself up. At first I was staying fairly chipper, keeping the happy sound track of the cheerleader in my ear. As the hills rolled on this became harder. The panting changed to wheezing.  Zombi Nick was struggling to read the sat nav, resulting in some sudden stops and near SPD fails which shook my confidence. The cheerleader ran out of happy phrases. The daemon noted that Zombi Nick was still not out of breath. In fact he was not perceptively breathing. Either he really was a Zombi or I was terribly unfit - not fit enough for the Surrey 100. The hills got steeper, I started to wobble. My lungs burned and could not draw in enough breath. My head felt hot and my vision darkened around the edges. If I went any slower I would fall off. I started to panic. What if I fell, I would not be able to get back up. I car could come racing round the corner and I would be unable to get out of the way. I started to really freak out when I realised that my feet where clipped in, I can't stop! In a desperate panic I tried to unclip both feet, not easy to do when you are having do use all your weight to push up the hill. My heal missed the peddled as I tried to force my right foot down and I fell sideways. PANIC. My unclipped foot stopped me hitting the floor but the damage was done. My whole body was shaking violently and I could not catch my breath. My limbs felt weak and far away and my chest and thought tightened in fear. We are now into a full blown anxiety attack. Nick managed to shake of his Zombi state and tried to calm me, but calming someone out of a panic attack is almost impossible. Luckily I am an anxiety disorder veteran and after a minute or so I managed to find the quiet corner of my brain still able to think rationally. YOU ARE HAVING A PANIC ATTACK. YOU ARE HYPERVENTERLATING THERFORE BLOWING OFF ALL THE CARBON DIOXIDE IN YOUR BODY. IF YOU CONTINUE YOU WILL FEEL WORSE AND YOUR MUSCULES WILL CONTRACT. YOU CANNOT HYPERVENTALATE IF YOU ARE CYCLING UP THE HILL. CYCLE. And so I cycled through it, and got to the top a little shaken but a good deal calmer. The rest of the ride was a bit easier, we had reached the top of the hill and were about to experience the 'downs'. The several miles of downhill back to the car were refreshing and managed to wash away my earlier panic.

But my confidence remains shaken. I need to keep training. I need to get a lot better but my fear is stopping me from just getting on my bike and riding on my own. The 100 feels like a mountain that I am going to struggle to climb.

 

new challenges: training for the Surrey 100

So this blog was set up in 2010 to document my travels across Asia and reassure any interested parties that I was 'still alive'. Four years on and I'm feeling the need to blog again. This time I intend to prattle on about a different kind of journey: the quest to become a spandex clad cycle warrior... or worrier in my case.

My decision to enter the Surrey 100 was perhaps surprising given my complete ineptitude on a bike and my strong dislike of cycling. The blog title 'still alive!' is just as fitting for the cycling challenge as it is for traveling across Asia. I admit the entry was rash, and I've considered cancelling it on many occasions, but this is a challenge my subconscious is making me face.

The cycling thing all started when Nick - my then boy friend now fiancé - started to develop a passion for cycling. This soon developed into an obsession, near fetish, for donning lycra and destroying his crown jewels with a road bike. I realised that if I were to ever see Nick or the remnants of his crown jewels again, I would have to get back on a bike. And so back on the bike I got, and with gritted teeth I peddled desperately after him. Unsurprisingly we made it as far as the end of the road before we had the 'would you wait for me/could you hurry up' argument. So keen to find a solution to our dilemma Nick invested in a tandem. This was brilliant, Nick could peddle to his hearts content and I could be towed along nattering away to him whilst admiring the view... OK I admit I got the better end of the deal. The tandem worked out well, Nick towed me dutifully across England, France, Austria, Slovakia and Hungry. In fact we like tandems so much we are collecting them. We now have two (possibly the most pointless thing for a couple to own is two tandems but hey ho) and ridiculously have plans of building our own BAMBODEM! Alas I feel like I'm going off topic so back to the point. So yes cycling tandems was great, but gave me no real sense of achievement as Nick does the lion share of the work.

And then the Surrey 100 happened. I remember Nick steaming past with pure joy on his face as I cheered him on from the side-lines. I also remember lots of more normal well-balanced individuals trogging past with determination. A seed of an idea formed in my mind - 'what if, just for once, you took part rather than watched'. Boyed with the knowledge that Boris Johnston had managed to complete the challenged I filled in the form. After all if middle-aged well-fed Boris made it, surely I could get my slim 28 year old body round the circuit right? How hard can it be?

As it turns out quite hard.

My training thus far has been somewhat hap-hazard. Nick has built me a road bike (he really is quite lovely) and it comes complete with drop handle bars and SPD peddles. I have so far only had one SPD induced fall. I managed the clasic unclip on the left foot, but lean right when I came to a stop. The net result was a comic slow motion fall, much like a drunk at the end the night, and Nick found me collapsed on his lawn after hearing me squeak on the way down. After this incident I now unclip both feet at the slightest suggestion that we will be stopping and so I spend most of the time peddling with my heels. I have been on a couple of training rides where, to my horror, I am beginning to understand Nick's obsession with cycling. The elation at whizzing down the hills at speed with the wind in your face. The beautiful countryside rolling out ahead of you, with only the sound of insects and the constant soothing woosh of the bike in your ears. The strange calmness that can come over you after your legs settle into a constant rhythm and are warmed by the exertion of your muscles. The absolute relaxation after a hard ride where you are too exhausted to think or worry or feel. But I'm still not sold.

The thing about cycling is, for the large part, you are silent. And when I am silent, I have to spend time with myself. Cycling has made me realise what a negative human being I am. I absolutely hate my own company. So for me the real challenge for the Surrey 100 will be to shut out my inner monologue.

I have a little over 2 months before the 100 and I am woefully unprepared. Training has been set back after a cold and a head injury (not cycle related) prevented me from getting on the bike for 3 weeks. As a result Wednesdays spinning session was never going to be easy. I still had a splitting headache and ached all over from Mondays pole class (don't ask) and Tuesdays horse ride, but with only 2 months to go I daren't miss the spin class. I arrived late, due to traffic, and the room was already alive with sweeting bodies and pumping dance music when I walked in. Luckily there was a bike free near the door and I did not attract too much attention from the eastern European instructor who was to be our overlord for the next forty-five minutes. I set myself 5 minutes of easy spinning to wake up my tired and achy legs. The others were already jumping up and down to the instructors demands of 'two, three, seat'. Five minutes passed too quickly and it was soon my turn to join the torcher. 'Hill climb, add on resistance' our master announces as the beat of the dance track slows to a steady ominous rhythm. 'Six minutes position 3 in, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1' and I stand and begrudgingly begin the climb. Turns out spinning in a negative mood really brings out the worst in my inner demeans. With each stride my daemon squeaks 'lazy, week, pathetic'. I see the others pound away seemingly unaffected by the arduous task. 'Your the worst one here' goads the daemon as I feel the sweat drip from my forehead. 'You'll never make it to the end of the first 6 minutes' it chides and I feel the eyes of the other participants on me waiting for me to sit early, judging my ineptitude. I struggle on determined and make it to the end of the first 6 minutes for fear of judgment from the rest of the class (who in reality did not even see me come in). And so the next thirty-four minutes continue in much the same fashion. The horrid dance music drones on as the dominatrix instructs and the daemon whips my moral. I see me failing on a hill on the 100, collapsing into other cyclists. I see the sweeper car pick me up. I see me having to explain how I failed to friends and family. I see it all again and again and I feel like crying by the end of the class.

Needless to say I am not looking forward to going back to spinning this evening. But needs must. lets hope I find the mute button on my daemon, or at the very least they play 80s cheese instead of dance music.