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