Archive for the ‘My occasional Blog’ Category

Return (Part 2)

March 30, 2018

Only to be read after Part 1, the previous chapter of this blog!

Part 1 of this two-parter left you in suspense as I awaited the morning of my 200 metres heats at the European Masters Championships in Madrid. You need wait no longer.

My only two races up to this point in 2018 had been at 200 metres, so there wasn’t the same sense of “journey into the unknown” for me that here had been with the Madrid 60 metres competition. However, I was tired from three hard, explosive races in two days, and apprehensive about the 200s. I’d made a European Masters 200 metres final a few times in the past, most recently in Torun in March 2015. I knew competition would be tough. The best of the 60 metres athletes would be racing again, and the 400 metres specialists would have had a couple of days to recover, if they fancied something faster.

Mid morning can be a bad time to race. Early from bed, have a light and usually unsatisfactory breakfast, and join rush-hour travel to the stadium. I was stiff from the previous evening’s 60 metres final, and my warm up was tentative. The draw for the heats had put me in with a good chance of a semi-final place, but I’d need to run well, nevertheless.

And so it was. I had the outside lane, which I like when racing 200 metres, and a fairly fast Italian immediately inside me. I started relaxed and fast, before easing off a little at about 130 metres. The Italian guy was on my shoulder, looking over to me and clearly wanting to make a race of it. I sensed we were both well clear of the rest of the field, and with the first two in the heat certain to qualify for the semi-final, there was no point in wasting energy. I eased back some more, and finished second. Job done.

The heat had taken place at 10.30 in the morning. The semi-final wasn’t scheduled until about 9pm that evening. I returned to my hotel for a couple of hours sleep, and came back to the stadium around 6pm.

It was here I broke my own rule. I’ve realised that, as I get older (Did I mention that the events described here took place on my birthday?) it becomes harder and harder to race at an event and also work as a photographer the rest of the time. Therefore, the rule is that on race days, the cameras stay in the hotel. However, I had missed two days of photography, and there were some early evening events I particularly wanted to shoot. So I brought a camera back with me, and spent about 90 minutes working on the track, before going off to warm up for the 200 metres semi-final.

I knew beforehand, and certainly know all the more now, that an hour and a half on my feet is not a good precursor to racing an international level 200 metres semi-final. In warm up, I felt stiff and wooden, and found it hard to get properly warm. The warm up area, although indoors, was cool anyway, as Madrid was experiencing unseasonably cold weather, and the air was extremely dry. To be frank, I wasn’t confident I’d qualify for the final anyway, and I couldn’t even get nervous about the semi-final. I was also drawn in what would be a fast and highly competitive race, up at the sharp end.

Out on the track, I felt quite calm. Someone false-started, but as I left my starting blocks, I realised that if I had any “go”, it had gone. The race began for real, and initially looked ok, as a photo below shows, but after literally no more than 50 metres, it felt like my legs no longer belonged to me. There was no pain, but not really any other sensation, either. At this point, with hindsight, it would have been best to stop and walk off the track. However, I’ve never had a “Did Not Finish” against my name on any results before, and I carried on, in a kind of stumbling, uncoordinated stride, right around to the finish line. I really wish I hadn’t. I didn’t need to. It wasn’t pretty, and it did my head no favours. Unsurprisingly, I was the slowest finisher out of all the runners in the semi-finals. It didn’t help to know that I’d been in the fastest of the semi-final races, and wouldn’t have qualified for the final anyhow.

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All calm at the 200m semi final start

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Away well and running hard

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Dead last. Literally!

And what did I do next? I picked up my camera and began working again. It was gone 11pm when I headed for the hotel.

The next day was race-free for me. Rather than languish in bed, which my body ached to do, I got to the stadium quite early, and got a really good, reviving leg massage, from Paul of the British Masters Medical Services team. Lifesaver. I then relaxed for an hour or so over a coffee, and started work photographing the events on the track. There were lots of these, courtesy of a Championships timetable that stacked almost every day from early morning to late evening, without a break. This was the consequence of cutting a day out from the total length of the Championships, presumably on the grounds of cost.

I felt fine, and at the end of the afternoon, returned to the hotel. There was no way that I could have stayed to shoot the evening action too.

The following day, Saturday, the last day of the Championships, was 4×200 metres relay day. I love running relays. In recent years, I have been the lead-off runner for our squad. We won gold in Torun in 2015 and silver in Ancona in 2016. We’d lost a key member of our foursome, however, when he fell and hurt himself in Friday’s 200 metres final. On paper, we’d looked good for at least another silver medal, behind the always-strong Germans. Now it looked like we’d be in a battle. Clem, our reserve, was strong, but he’d taken part in the pentathlon on the Friday. Not good preparation for a sprint relay next day.

I felt very good in warm up. I’d got both legs taped, as my left calf had begun to ache badly, but some of the spring that had deserted me two days before had come back. Our main opponents, Germany and Spain, were in the lanes immediately outside us, which was helpful for me on the first leg. Someone to chase!

The officials didn’t hand us the batons until a few moments before the race began. I therefore had no opportunity to practice my start properly. Racing from starting blocks with a metal baton in one hand is awkward at the best of times, and as I went down to the blocks for the race itself, I found that with the damaged middle finger on my right (baton) hand taped almost rigid, I had to go to the “set” position with my knuckles on the ground. The photo shows this. Very unstable.

Bang! I was off. It felt good, as relay racing aways does to me. I made ground on the Spaniard, and felt extremely comfortable. The last 50 metres seemed longer, perhaps, but I handed over the baton in second place in the race, and we held on to that to the end. Silver medal. Same as Ancona, two years before. I felt so relieved not to have let the other three guys down, and very delighted that we’d get our few moments on the podium.

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Relay start

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The Squad


Silver Medallists

Then, predictably perhaps, I picked up the camera and started shooting the rest of the day’s relays. Well, rules are made to be broken, aren’t they?




Return (Part 1)

March 30, 2018

Well, well.

That’s really all I can think to say, to begin this latest blog.

Last time we met, I was on the point of pulling out of the British Masters Indoor championships, in order to rest my injured right calf, ahead of the European Masters in Madrid, beginning a week later. I did indeed pull out of the British championships, though I needed to force myself to leave my kit and shoes at home, in order that I didn’t change my mind when I got there.

I grabbed a chance of a very thorough leg massage by one of the British Masters Medical Services team before photographing the Sunday competitions got underway. I was told that if I’d torn something in my calf, I’d have hit the roof during that treatment. As I hadn’t, what I had was more likely the result of some kind of cramping syndrome, which would probably be helped by careful application of some kinesio tape when (if) I raced in Madrid. 

I spent all that weekend on my feet, photographing the events , and had sore legs anyway when I’d finished, but I think it was the right thing not to race. Events proved me right, as you’ll see if you read on.

I can’t say I really saw much improvement in the four days between the British and my departure for Madrid. I had a useful session as usual with Jesper, my chiropractor, and got some good advice about protective kinesio-taping my leg. Jesper confirmed that it was his view too, that I’d not actually torn anything in the calf. That was encouraging.

Madrid was in the middle of its coldest spell of March weather for 20 years when we arrived. On the Sunday that I went to the excellent Gallur Stadium to register for the Championships, get my numbers, etc, I took the opportunity, along with a dozen or so other athletes, to use the track’s warm up area for a practice run-out. I felt this would be “make or break” because I was due to race two days later. I’d taped my calf, and generally felt pretty comfortable. The warm up area was much colder than the name would imply, but I went through a complete pre-race warm-up drill, followed by half a dozen practice starts using starting blocks.

To my surprise, nothing hurt. I seemed to be able to run comfortably, in flats and in spikes. Rather than tempt fate, I stopped and returned to the hotel. I was due to race at about 5pm on the Tuesday, in the heats of the 60 metres. If I ran well (BIG if), the semi-final was just after 10pm that same evening. Ah well, at least I’d get most of the day to rest in the hotel.

Actually, I wasted that opportunity, and visited the huge Prado art gallery and museum on the Tuesday morning. Culturally, it was a great experience, but probably not my wisest move, if I was wanting to play things safe. In the back of my mind, there was the constant nagging thought that the last time I’d raced at 60 metres was two whole years earlier, at the European Masters in Ancona. I’d not had to run fast out of starting blocks since August 2016 either. Suffice it to say that warm up for my 60 metres heat was a nervous time.

I had lane 2 on the track, with no one in Lane 1. I got a brilliant start, and at 30 metres, there was no one in my peripheral vision. I finished second in the heat. The guy who won it set a Spanish national age group record to beat me! I’d qualified easily for the semi-final, and was overall 5th fastest of all who had raced in the heats. Better than expected? You bet!

(One photo below is by Bob Douglas, the other by the stadium photographers)

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Five hours later, at a time I’d usually far rather be in bed, I was warming up again for the semi-final. This was crunch time. I ran well from Lane 6, although I was so focussed that I wasn’t entirely sure where I’d finished. The big screen flashed up a list of names, and mine had a 6 against it. I was really disappointed, because I thought I’d done better. However, just as the eight of us in my race were being escorted from the track, the screen changed. What they’d shown first was simply a repeat of the lane draw, not the race result. I’d actually finished 4th in the semi-final, and had done enough to make the final next day! Wow. After a whole year away from competition!

(Below: 1) A good practice start in the semi-final. 2) Me looking very unsure where I’d finished. 3) The moment I realised I’d made it to the final.)Screen Shot 2018-03-30 at 14.27.21





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I re-ran that race in my head endlessly that night. I knew I hadn’t really sustained my running right through the finish line in both the heat and the semi-final. Some video my wife had shot confirmed this. Nevertheless, here I was again, in a European Masters 60 metres final, where I’d been in both of the two previous European Championships. 

We were due to race at 6.30 on the Wednesday evening, and everyone had timed their warm ups around this. However, some other events in the stadium unexpectedly over-ran on time, and when we reported, at the required 20 minutes before race time, the call-room officials turned us away and told us they were not able to say when we’d be racing. Highly unsatisfactory. We all mooched around the warm-up area, trying to hold a balance between being warmed up and not over-doing it. We were finally admitted to the call room, but then told there would be a further delay. At least the call room was warm.

Some time after 7pm we were eventually led out on to the track. I’d got lane 2 again, once more with no one in lane 1. Well, it had been lucky for me in the heats…

Someone false-started, but we settled down, and the race went at second attempt. I felt that I flew – for 40 metres at least – and video confirms I got another great start. However, Europe’s very best were too strong.

As I ran through the line, a glance to my right suggested I’d finished 6th. I was disappointed to begin with. I’d been sixth in the 60 metres in Ancona, two years before, in a race where one hundredth of a second had covered third place to sixth place. This time, I was a bit further adrift of the action.

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However, there I was, standing with the others in the line for the obligatory group photos. Still nothing hurt! I was sixth fastest in Europe in my event, and more than a few demons had suddenly been conquered.

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No rest for the wicked, as they say. The next morning the 200 metres heats were due to begin. I needed to get a meal and a good night’s sleep, and come out fighting once more.

To be continued….

Pain or Paradise?

March 6, 2018

Right, it’s about time I updated this thing. My title is taken from an Albion Band song, and matches how I felt a few weeks back.

I left you in suspense last time (two months ago, it pains me to admit) as I began my preparation for my return to racing, after an injury-enforced lay off in 2017. Well, sad to relate, it hasn’t all been plain sailing.

It actually began as farce. As a result of a completely chance exchange of tweets, I discovered the date I had in my diary for my first event was, in fact, only the closing date for entries to that event, The competition itself was not happening until two weeks after! Now, if I tell you that I only found this out on the Friday immediately before the Sunday on which I thought I was racing, you’ll realise how close I came to the embarrassment of turning up a fortnight too early for the event. That would have seemed a bit keen, even for me! Thanks for saving me, Mike!

There were consequences though. I’d tapered off from the fairly heavy regime I’d been pursuing through January, and suddenly found I had two weeks training still to put in before I really began back on the track. I was a bit lost as to what to do, and things drifted a bit, if I’m honest. I could probably have done a good week, and then rested, but I did two not very good weeks, instead.

Another shock was the belated discovery that I now faced four weekends of racing in succession, followed by four days at home before travelling off to the European Masters Championships. I thought I was going to have a competition, two weeks off, then three weekends racing. Just a bit more palatable. Thus, if anything were to go wrong, there was a risk it would all go wrong.

First race meeting was the Southern Counties Masters Championships. I’d won the 60 metres and the 200 metres here in 2106. These championships are unusual in that they put the 200 metres on before the 60 metres in the day’s programme. I have always hated that. Well, I was quick to get back into some semblance of my warm-up routine. I found that during my year off, I’d somehow forgotten my usual starting block settings, so I had to scramble to rediscover these by trial and error, before heading out for the 200 metres.

First race indoors since early in April 2016. First time in my racing spikes since August 2016. First time on the steep and hard banking of the Lee Valley track since March 2016. I set off well, and felt very relaxed. I overtook the two guys in the lanes outside mine pretty quickly, and while this was reassuring, it meant I then had no one in my actual or peripheral vision to give me any indication as to how well I was actually running. Reassuring calls from spectators at the start of the second bend suggested all was going ok, though. Then, at the crown of the bend, with about 60 metres to go, my right calf began to tighten up significantly. Injury, not fatigue, it was clear.

I went flat-footed on the right leg, to take some strain off, but as the track’s banking swung downhill almost immediately, this was hard to maintain. I was later sent a video of the whole race, and I can see exactly the spot that the calf trouble began. My knee lift diminishes almost immediately, and I must gave scrubbed off a fair bit of speed. Well, I pushed on, and I won the race, but there was little pleasure in doing so. Misfortune had found me again.

Half an hour later, it was painfully clear that I wasn’t going to have any chance of racing in the 60 metres. It was a bugger that there was no ice available in the stadium, too.

Next day, I was hobbling. The spot that hurt was easy to locate, and didn’t seem very deep into the muscle, so icing it was straightforward. I had an exploratory visit to the gym to see how much movement I had in the calf without pain (not much) and then headed for a conveniently pre-arranged chiropractor session. I’m well-disposed towards acupuncture, and it usually does me some good. Jesper’s needles eased some of the tension in the calf, but even so, it was a simple conclusion to draw, next morning, that I’d not be racing that coming weekend. It was all going pear-shaped a bit soon.

The week that followed saw some of the worst winter weather down my way for quite a few years. I went for a few walks in the snow with the camera, but the gym had to close early on a couple of days, and much of the rest of my time was spent shivering indoors, doing business admin, editing photos, etc. As rehab, it wasn’t much. I had a plentiful supply of ice, though!

The weather had relented by the time that the Masters Inter-Area match came around the weekend after. I still had to dig the snow out of my front drive the day before travelling to it, however. I was due to be photographing the event, and as many people couldn’t or wouldn’t race that day (a week before the national championships, you see) I’d felt pressured into taking to the track a bit before I thought I was ready. I warmed up at Lee Valley, with an industrial quantity of kinesio tape on my dodgy calf, and some on the other one, “just in case”. To my surprise, my 200 metres race went well. I took second place, felt smooth, and pain-free.

I probably didn’t use the hour or so after the race, very well in terms of keeping my calf mobile. Then, to close the match, there was the 4×200 metres relay. I ran last leg for a team that knew it had little or no chance to shine, and I took over the baton when we were plain last. No point in pushing it, so I just ran the lap at a steady moderate stride. And wouldn’t you know it? At precisely the same place on the track as two weeks before, my calf began to complain. This time, I had the opportunity to slow right down, and crossed the finish line almost at walking pace.

And that brings you right up to date. I’m back to icing the leg, hoping for a miracle, and things like that. I am supposed to be racing in the British Masters next weekend (as I write), when my events both look likely, from the entries on paper, to have heats and finals. I am not at all convinced I’ll be lining up to compete, and even less convinced that I should, because it’s then only a few days before I travel off to Madrid for the European Masters. In Madrid, whatever happens, I am simply not going to be competitive, but I’d like to give a couple of races my best shot, even if I do get eliminated in the heats, which is highly probable. Further damage to my leg next weekend would screw my chances of that totally, I think. Having written it down, it’s a no-brainer really, isn’t it? No miracles for 64 year-old sprinters.

I’ll let you know how it went – or didn’t.

(Update: Well, the British Masters Indoors didn’t “go”. I made a last-minute decision to scratch from both of my races, and try to save my leg for Madrid. I’ll know in a week or so if that was the right move.)

Getting there. An update.

January 9, 2018

Well, to be honest, I was surprised that it’s only three months since my last blog here. It’s been busy, but all along, I’ve felt rather mindful of the risk of tempting fate by writing about how things are going, what is coming up, etc. So, it seems better to base this largely on a bit of reflection on the last few weeks and months in the life of this elderly sprinter,  instead.

Last time we met, I had a finger in a very solid splint, and was coming to terms with how this was going to impact on the key period of my winter’s training. Well, it did impact, and the impact was pretty severe, in that it basically stopped me doing very much at all that I’d normally have done. However, I got around that pretty much from the outset by deciding to do it all differently anyway!

For starters, gripping to lift or pull on anything was simply impossible with a middle finger that was splinted out straight, was completely inflexible, and needed to be protected from further damage. I’d been told that the finger needed splinting for eight to ten weeks, and that I was not to bend it at all during that time, particularly when the splint was removed for washing, etc. Tendons, it seems, take far longer than bones to heal, and even small movement was going to damage the scar tissue that was attempting to join both ends of the broken tendon back together. I was advised not to try to sprint, because, even with the splint on, flinging my hand around quickly was not going to do that re-joining process any good either. I was a good patient and did what I was told.

Thus, I needed an alternative to the (mainly) strength-based training I’d usually hope to be doing in the last few months of a more typical year. I’d decided while rehabbing my damaged shoulder earlier in 2017, that I’d spend time and focus this year on developing my basic fitness in both aerobic and anaerobic terms. I am a huge fan of it, but you can read about my love-hate relationship with Parkrun (as a runner, but not that kind of a runner) in several earlier blogs, where you’ll also see some stuff about what I was doing with a Wattbike down at the gym. Before damaging the finger, I’d reached the point where my bad left shoulder was largely pain-free and generally stable, but now needed strengthening. However, in practice, the kind of strength work I needed to do for it was impossible without using my damaged right hand to help keep the strength work from becoming very lop-sided. I found various things I could do with bungee cords etc, and built them into some of my gym routines, but the big differences were always going to come from that complete change of emphasis towards basic fitness work.

By the time I reached October, running a 5k Parkrun every Saturday morning, and doing two high intensity sessions a week that included work on a Wattbike, was beginning to show benefits to my overall fitness. That’s to say, I no longer felt quite as dead at the end of a Parkrun, or quite so close to losing bladder control (yes!) at the conclusion of a particularly intense Wattbike workout. However, while running in my local Parkrun’s Halloween fancy-dress event, I was overtaken by a runner dressed as the Grim Reaper, and I could not suggest any better metaphor for how I was feeling at that moment! It was good to learn that one’s fast-twitch muscle fibres are amongst the major beneficiaries of training at a very high percentage of maximum heart rate. If that’s the case, mine have had a great time of it lately.

Nevertheless, I was feeling able to push that little bit harder in Parkrun, and was a little more comfortable than I’d expected at higher power output on the Wattbike. I never did reach my notional target of a 1,000 watt peak burst on the bike. I was pleased with over 900, though, given that the thousand has been plucked from the air anyway. I did also get within about half a minute of my 2014 Parkrun personal best. I was quite satisfied with that, and had several weeks of consistency in what I was running.

However, that’s ended now. I have about 4 weeks to go before I return to the track and put in (I hope) a full indoor season before going to the European Masters in Madrid in March. I have stopped running Parkrun, and imposed on myself quite a tough regime of circuit training to take its place. Somewhat unexpectedly, the circuit training delivered the worst two days of delayed onset muscle soreness I have ever suffered from. Fortunately that coincided with two rest days, during which I really felt older than my years, and probably looked it as I shuffled about, struggled with the stairs, etc!

So, that’s where I am now. Apprehensive about my return to racing? Of course I am. I last raced in August 2016. Put off by the thought of it? Not at all. For me, there is no greater motivation.

The Damage You’ve Done

October 3, 2017

Well, if you’re a regular here, you’ll be pleased to hear that it’s largely been the case that “no news is good news”. Well, up to a point. I’ve not really had much to report, so I’ve not blogged.

With hindsight, I can say that I am really glad I took 2017 as a “non-competitive year” on the track. It hasn’t only allowed achieved the target of allowing me to focus very diligently on getting my injured shoulder properly fixed. I’ve spotted two other good gains:

While not racing or preparing to race, or recovering from racing, a number of other niggling injuries have also had proper time to heal. Well, ok, I did gain a new achilles tendon problem this year by going for it a bit too hard to soon on my return to adding running regularly at Parkrun to my training. That seems to have settled down quickly, thank goodness. More persistent has been the elbow problem I seem to have picked up doing the remedial work on my shoulder. I’ll return to this in a moment.

Not racing, preparing to race, or recovering from racing has also put me in a position I don’t recall ever having been in before during the summer months. I’ve been able to crank my summer’s training up to its highest level for several years, and sustain this for several months. Normally summer would be made up of building for races, tapering before the important races (yes, even Masters sprinters like me do tapering!) and recovering from recent races. Racing is hard, and it doesn’t get easier as I get older. What’s more, the effect is quite cumulative. In a normal summer, I race often, and spend a lot of time and energy trying to walk the narrow line between racing often enough and racing too often.

I think there is an extent to which my added training efforts this summer have been a (barely) subliminal substitute for not racing. I’ve regarded some of the hardest work I’ve done on the Wattbike, for example, as an occasional surrogate for racing. Trying to advance my maximum peak wattage output has often felt just the same as chasing “season’s bests” on the track.

The elbow problem has been a bit of a bugger, I’m afraid. It began as a very precisely focussed area of pain, completely consistent with all the symptoms of tennis elbow. Like many repetitive strain injuries, it hasn’t responded to acupuncture, deep massage, or even to an elbow strap. It’s moved on to become a more general soreness in a larger part of the elbow and forearm.

I added an “up to a point” caveat to my first paragraph. Sure, I’ve become probably as fit this summer as I’ve been for a long while. I’ve been really looking forward to starting winter training, and preparing to begin competing again in 2018. I took a small holiday to the French Alps in early September. For reasons I don’t need to go into here, we’ve not had a proper “big” family holiday this year, so the opportunity to escape with just me, on my motorbike, and visit a part of the Alps I don’t know very well was welcome.

The journey out there was fine. It’s 1,000km from home to where I was staying, and needed a couple of overnight stops. On the morning after my second stop, I was pushing clothes into a bag, ready to load stuff on to the motorbike, when the middle finger of my right hand went “pop” quite audibly. There was no pain, but when I looked at it, the top joint of the finger was hanging downwards. Although I could straighten it with the other hand, the joint was pretty much hyper-mobile and would not stay straight. I could not straighten it by moving the finger in the usual way. I thought I must have dislocated it in some way, but the absence of any pain or swelling caused doubt on that point.

I needed to move on to my destination, so I taped the joint straight and as rigid as I could make it, with surgical tape. It could get my bike glove on, although it was awkward to ride the bike with the finger like that. I managed a few hours of riding through a downpour of biblical proportions, before needing to stop for petrol. While it hurled it down with rain outside the petrol station’s warm and welcoming coffee machine area, I went online to see what I had possibly done to the finger, and what I could do about it.

Immediately, it became clear that I almost certainly had “mallet finger” – caused by a snapped distal tendon. That’s the one that runs over the front of the knuckle joint, and controls straightening of the finger. It would explain the “pop” and was apparently occasionally known to happen without causing pain or inflammation. Remedies? Get professional help as soon as possible. For the moment, the best I could do was to use two halves of a plastic sugar stirrer and a fresh application of surgical tape to splint the joint straight even more firmly, while I completed my journey. Improvisation, eh?

I reached Bourg Saint Maurice late in the day, and after settling into the apartment I’d rented, I looked up the local hospital. I was in luck. Bourg Saint Maurice has a hospital with international fame for its orthopaedic work with skiers from the numerous nearby winter ski resorts. I was there at Reception at 9.30 next morning.

I was the only person in the casualty waiting room. I was seen by a triage nurse within three or four minutes, and by a doctor fifteen minutes after that. She confirmed a probable diagnosis of mallet finger (same word in French) and arranged for x-rays. I had these after just half an hour more. Last time I’d been in casualty in a UK hospital, it had taken five hours to get this far! The x-rays showed no fractured bone, so the injury was definitely a tendon snap. I was fitted with a plastic splint to hold the top finger joint straight and motionless, and taped up. I was then given some stern warnings about not allowing the joint to flex – even a little bit – for the next 8-10 weeks! The complicated process of changing the tape and keeping the splint and finger clean was demonstrated to me, and I was sent on my way. Total, around two hours at the hospital. There was just one other person in the waiting room as I left.

I’d not mentioned to the doctor that I was out in France on a large motor bike. It really slipped my mind more than anything, but I was glad that the splinting left a pretty good range of movement in the middle joint of the finger, and that the splint fitted pretty well inside my bike glove. Riding was occasionally clumsy, but I managed.

I’ve certainly found, whenever I’ve hurt myself, or had to have something bandaged, plastered or splinted in the past, that our human bodies certainly have no “spare parts”. That’s to say, it is amazing how often you find you need to use the very piece of you that you’ve injured. I am very right-handed. Some years ago, I broke a finger badly in stupid fall in the mountains, and had to have it plastered up to the elbow (see photo!). So much of life was so very restricted until that plaster came off.

Well, splinted middle fingers are not a whole lot more accommodating. The first cup of tea I picked up with finger and thumb simply pivoted downwards, spilling its contents everywhere. One of numerous such incidents subsequently.

It poured with rain for a great deal of my trip away, leaving me just two days to go out into the mountains in the best of the bad weather. The good news is that I felt fit and strong on my walks. The 1,000km bike ride home was basically boring. The injured hand worked tolerably well, but a compensatory tighter grip on the handlebars by my left had quickly triggered a nagging and increasing pain in my poorly left elbow.

Now home, it seems that this injury, modest though it looks, is going to prevent me doing any work in the gym that requires gripping, pulling or pushing. I can’t risk bashing it again, and for extra safety when exercising, I need to temporarily tape three fingers together. A real bummer.

I’ve also discovered that the elbow and hand problems together are conspiring to prevent me working as a photographer. The left elbow hurts too much to support my usual camera. The plastic splint on the right hand makes using the camera shutter almost impossible. Happily, work is light, and some of it could be postponed for now. I can use a camera supported on a tripod, but I don’t do much work involving that. I’m just glad I’m not a professional piano player!

While I was writing this, I got the news that my favourite rock musician, Tom Petty, had died, aged just 66. My title is the title of one of his classics. Seemed appropriate. Rock on, Tom!


August 5, 2017

I was very poor at maths at school, all those years ago. I also hated it. But if I had a particularly weak area of study amongst the subjects I enjoyed, it was sciences. I remember an end-of-year report when my chemistry teacher prophetically wrote “Enthusiasm for the experiments is just not enough”. Say no more! Such basics of science that I now tenuously possess have come to me much later in life. My enthusiasm for the experiments remains, however, and that’s really what this blog is about. Read it in tandem with the last couple of episodes, for context.

The incentive to learn any such science has, of course, been sport. While earnestly trying to add value to my training, about ten years ago, I began to dabble in the black arts of heart-rate based training, and stuff like that. This was a mix of good and bad things.

The good was that, by and large, (dying batteries notwithstanding), the heart rate monitor didn’t lie, and the results could be written up for future reference. The bad was that almost all heart-rate related articles online, and recording applications, etc, were based around the needs of distance runners. There has been an explosion of GPS tools, heart-rate and activity monitors, mobile apps, and so on in recent times, but I’d not be sticking my neck out too far if I said that the needs of distance runners still completely dominate the design and features of these. I’ve yet to find anything of that kind that is really any use to a sprinter.

One thing every athlete needs to do is to get their VO2max measured, and re-do this from time to time. To the distance runner, it’s a valuable benchmarking tool. To a sprinter like me, it provides a benchmark too, it’s true, but, less helpfully, it also serves to show how far adrift my ability to use the oxygen I breathe in is from what most distance runners would regard as good. This will be the case with most pure sprinters. On the half a dozen occasions I’ve tested my VO2max, it has never risen beyond the level most results charts declare as “Fair”. Fair comes below “Good”, of course.

This used to disappoint me. Back in the day, the way most people got their VO2max measured was by way of a “ramp test” on a treadmill or a bicycle ergometer. Both methods push you hard over a given period, then push you harder still, and so on, until failure. They are designed to get you to give 101%. They usually also require someone to be on hand to catch you when you collapse at the point at which you can go no further. Done conscientiously, this is not a pretty sight at times! Nowadays, there are ‘phone apps and stuff that put you through far less trauma, but have enough of a body of data underpinning them that they can extrapolate your VO2max with accuracy. This has its attractions for me, because it means I can do what I do best, and work really hard for a short period of time. And, to begin with, thinking this would declare that I had good VO2max after all, I dutifully did.

However, even these things tell me my VO2max remains firmly in the “Fair” category. A bit of reading consoled me that, to a certain extent, VO2max is genetically determined, and that it can be trained upwards a little, but never a lot.

So, I have come to terms with what (for example) running Parkrun every Saturday tells me: I simply don’t get as much physical performance out of a lungful of air as some other people. What is called my “aerobic” capacity is, and has always been, typical of a sprinter. I could have tried as hard as I liked in younger years to train my body to use each breath better, but it would never have made much difference. On those few occasions I’ve ever raced over 400 metres, I used to say to myself, with 150 metres left “GO!”. My body always used to reply with the message that it had actually “gone” somewhere around the 200 metres mark, and had little left to give!

What I can muster well, however, is anaerobic power. That, put simply, is my ability to continue turning out the power even when operating at close to maximum heart-rate while, of course, breathing as if every breath would be my last! It’s part of the physiological skill-set that marks most of us sprinters out.

It’s also what I’ve recently been using the Wattbike at my local gym to probe, because the good thing I read is that anaerobic capacity can be trained and improved, albeit not without pain. Most of the Wattbike tests are longer or shorter variations on the Wingate Anaerobic Test. To me, any such test that is designed to be carried out over 30 seconds is just fine. The Wattbike even has a test to establish peak wattage that is just six seconds long. I like that too!

However, what are giving me greatest satisfaction at the moment are the tests that last in the region of 20 to 30 minutes all told, and which are based around repeated, really hard efforts of 10 or 20 seconds duration, followed by, say, a 40 or 50 second “recovery” period. Typically, five hard burst/recover efforts are spread over six minutes or so, and repeated three times in all during the test, with a gentle phase of pedalling for a few minutes in between. During this phase, you try to remember who you are, what day it is, and what you’re doing here. This sort of thing often goes under the name of “high impact interval training”. The acronym “HIIT” is very appropriate.

Here’s a graph from one such recent session. The yellow line is cadence – the speed I’m pedalling at. The blue line is the power in watts that I’m putting out. The red line is heart rate.

My wattage peaks come in the short “power bursts”. There are 15 peaks (3 x 5) in this test, over a period of 24 minutes. The wattage peaks are achieved by pedalling as hard as I can, hence the blue peaks come at the same time as the yellow peaks. However, the key feature of this test is that it’s designed to be done at or near maximum heart rate, which is reached very early on in the test, because of the effort required to achieve the specified wattage level. My max is 160 beats per minute. Most of this test was done above 155 beats. Notice, however, that the red line has no corresponding peaks and troughs. The power is coming when my heart and lungs cannot process any more oxygen than they are already coping with. This is anaerobic power.

It’s not just a fluke of that test, either. I do a regular 20 minute warm up routine where my power, cadence and heart-rate all pretty much flatline for most of the time. However, the sting in the tail is three full-on sprints near the end. Each is very short, but very intensive, and has virtually no recovery time before the next. And here too, as the graph below shows, my ability to suddenly whip my output wattage up to far greater heights comes without my heart-rate suddenly spiking as well. The power isn’t coming from my body gulping in increased amounts of air and converting this to power. In this example, I’m not working at quite so close to heart rate max as in the previous example. The peaks are higher and shorter, and, as with a sprinter busting forth from the starting blocks, there is no time for heavier breathing or a faster pumping heart to provide the wherewithal. The power is anaerobically generated.

That’s it, really. A few things I thought it would be interesting to share.

Regulars will know I like to find a suitable blog title from within my big music collection. This time it was harder than usual, and Pink Floyd’s “Breathe” is (shamelessly) a little ironic.

Tall In The Saddle

July 20, 2017

Last time I wrote here, things were looking up, after a bit of a spell in the doldrums. Well, happy to say, that’s continued to be so over the last five week training block, which I can now look back at, courtesy of a pre-planned week of “active rest”.

I mentioned last time the improvements that a refit at my local gym had made to my training, and I name-checked the Wattbike I’ve been using as one of those positives. Well, lately it has been something of a mainstay, as I’ll explain shortly.

This summer is strange for me. If you’ve been reading my blog for a bit, you’ll recall that, courtesy of a bad left shoulder injury, I’ve not been racing. I’m fine with that, though I thought it might test my patience. Actually: not at all. I’ve been working harder than ever. You see, normally, the period from about mid-May to late August for me, as with most older sprinters, is spent doing “just enough” in training so that I arrive feeling fresh for competitions. That’s coupled with specific work to sharpen up for races, and time set aside to recover from them. It’s all pretty up and down.

This year, I’ve had the luxury of being able to train hard right through mid-summer. OK, I may just be making up for the five months spent re-habbing my shoulder since new year, but I arrived at the end of May feeling fresh, and confident that the shoulder was getting better by the week. I wanted to take the opportunity of doing something special for what amounts to “pre-winter” training. To be frank, I also needed to scratch the competitive itch that was building from not racing.

Initially, I was using the Wattbike to help me do structured, low-impact warm-up sessions. However, I strayed on to one of its pre-set “tests” that asked me to put down maximum pedal revs (cadence) at high load, to achieve good peak wattage (power) for a mercifully short peak period. High cadence I can do. High cadence at high load was hard, but when I found I was hitting 400 watts, I was quite impressed with myself, admittedly with nothing to compare against, though. The notion began to form that building my peak wattage would do me no harm, provided that I could discover ways to translate what I was getting on the Wattbike into what my legs could turn out, running fast – and particularly, running fast out of the starting blocks.

A couple of tentative weeks in, when I tested the optimal cadence/load combination I could best sustain for a good wattage peak, my “personal best” rose quite quickly. I think I wasn’t necessarily getting fitter, just getting better at the test. I hit 541w, then 649w, and not long after, 670w. Out of the blue, I pencilled in a target of 900w by October. No idea if I can do it, or what it will involve by way of preparation, but that’s the plan. Then came 716w, and finally 756w. I’m beginning to believe this is on! I’m not a pretty sight after one of those maximum wattage sessions. As the expression goes, you have to “leave it all on the bike”. A couple of days ago, I even did a bit of archaeology in my loft, to dig out my old cycling shoes, and bought new pedal cleats for them. I’m going to take this wattage thing seriously!

It’s become competitive. Only against my oldest rival, of course – me, but it really is giving me a regular substitute for some of the racing I’m missing. The feeling the day after setting a new wattage personal best is remarkably similar to the day after a race, mentally and physically.

The Wattbike sessions I’m doing are pushing my aerobic fitness hard as well as helping me right up at the anaerobic end of things, although they’re doing nothing for my running at Parkrun every saturday. I’ve been too tired by the time I’ve got there lately that I’ve not acquitted myself at all well! All this wattage and power stuff in the gym stuff is only as good as the result of turning it into running power, of course. Last blog, I mentioned the “sledging” tyre thing I also now have at my disposal in the gym. That’s becoming my benchmarking tool, because using it is quite like exploding the first 20 yards or so out of the blocks. I’m getting faster and able to sustain a session of an increasing number of repetitions. And it feels good!

I also mentioned the trampoline/ball device I have available, in the last blog. That has become a major piece of work in every training session, to give my shoulder some prolonged and dynamic exercise. My hand-eye coordination and balance while using the kit has improved to the point where I can do throws one-handed and catch one handed too. The balls used are about basketball-sized, so quite a bit of effort and control is required. I have a bit of a chronic “tennis elbow” thing after all the shoulder rehab stuff my left arm’s been doing, but at least this doesn’t make it worse. Because these sessions are split into left arm, right arm, and both arms together segments, crucially they also give me a like with like comparison between the strength and mobility in my left and right shoulders. And as the weeks go by, the news is good!

What You Do With What You’ve Got

June 16, 2017

When I checked, it surprised me that one of my very favourite songs from the repertoire of the great Dick Gaughan has never before graced my blog as a title, but this one is to put that omission to rights.

This episode of my occasional blog here picks up directly where the last one left off. The gap between the two is shorter than usual. This time, that’s a good thing!

Last time I was bemoaning to myself that training was rather lacking in any kind of “wow-factor”, and I was really pretty demotivated. Although I’ve chosen this year to be a non-competitive year, training’s nevertheless not lacked what you’d call “a direction of travel”. Next year will be here soon enough, after all, and I intend to be ready! No, but I’ve found that having a direction of travel is simply not proving itself a particularly motivating factor for me. I can guess it’s ok to know where you’re heading, but you won’t necessarily get excited about it.

I also quoted a former boss of mine, who was fond of the old adage “If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you always got.” I’ve found it to be true, but it’s a two-edged sword. Regularly churning-out tried and tested training sessions that have brought success in the past can be tempting, but the potential price to be paid is boredom, and a failure to keep pace with others whose training efforts are helping them improve more, and beat you! Despite the fascination, at times, of training to rehabilitate an injury rather than training for immediately upcoming competition, think I’d got into a bit of a training rut. Writing that blog probably helped me put some shape around that particular theory.

I also mentioned that the gym I use for a lot of my training was being refurbished. The renovation work etc, well-handled though it was, had probably knocked me off my stride at a key point. Well, I’ve no complaints any more. The facilities in the refurbished gym areas are really rather good, and have injected into my routine a huge chunk of novelty, learning, and simple variety, right at a point where these things are proving to be exactly the medicine I needed!

At the moment, three things I’ve adopted into my weekly cycle of effort stand out for me most. One is a very simple piece of apparatus in front of which you stand and throw a weighed ball (basketball-size) at a small, adjustable-angle trampoline thing, about a meter and a half in diameter. It bounces it very sharply back at you, Catch. Repeat. There are balls of several different weights, and, as physics and snooker both teach, “the angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection”. This stuff has been a really significant boon to my recovering left shoulder. There are many ways to throw the balls, and as many ways to catch them – to one side of the other side, arms over head, etc. Classic concentric/eccentric exercise stuff, with dynamic work guaranteed, and hand-eye coordination at a premium. My core session with this thing involves over 150 throws and catches, broken down into five sets of thirty, with rising difficulty, weight and speed. Put that simply, it might not sound much, but the effect on my shoulder strength, its stability and speed of movement is proving impressive.

The second new toy is of a different order of complexity altogether. You can read something about Wattbikes here. These things are frequently a training tool of some of the world’s top racing cyclists, and are loved by other athletes too for their ability to allow the user to focus on leg power delivery, and to give feedback in an, at times, bewildering range of detail. The gym I use now has two of these bikes. I now have an integrated way consistently to measure raw power delivery and relate it both to objectively recordable things, like cadence, heart rate, etc and also to the subjective factors that tell me just how hard I’m working – inability to speak, stand, breathe, etc at the end of a session, for example! I’m also learning that my left leg is slightly more dominant than its partner. Actually not a bad thing, as it is my “power” leg from the starting blocks when sprinting, and probably works harder round the bend in a 200 metre race too. I’ve used a spin-bike in the gym for a lot of aerobic training for several years, but this is an altogether different order of device. I have a lot still to learn, but the state of me at the end of a few of the sessions I’ve achieved lately tells me in no uncertain terms that I am being worked beneficially and very hard indeed!

Number three on my list is basically something I’ve wanted in the gym for ages. Some time back, I nearly switched to a gym that had a weighted sledge thing for power sessions. Mine didn’t, and there was no way to rig up a substitute. Well, we’ve still not got a sledge, but we have a 60 kilogram thing the size of a small tractor tyre, which can be dragged, flipped, pushed, and so on. It’s even more versatile. Adding weight to it will be possible too, though for now, 60 kg is quite enough for my needs. There’s a padded waist harness that can be attached, and I am getting some superb work in towing this thing for about twenty strides, in sets of four or five. Adding in visualisation of the first twenty or so strides out of the staring blocks in a sprint is making this a very hard, but very rewarding part of my sessions at the moment. It’s also showing up that my left shoulder as still reluctant to work as well as the right, but we’ll get there!

Novelty has a habit of wearing off, of course, and routine can become drudgery, as I was finding, but I’m set fair for a little while to come, for sure. There’s lots more in the newly replenished gym that I’ve hardly even looked at yet.

The song (written by Si Kahn) that inspired this blog’s title is on several albums, but my favourite is this, from Dick Gaughan, recorded at a concert I attended in 2013 . Doncha just love YouTube? In the last couple of years, Dick’s been very unwell after a stroke. I wish him all the very best. He’s a truly good guy.


May 26, 2017

Last time we were here, I took a very therapeutically necessary trip down into some dark places I don’t often go these days. It felt good to be able to describe a little of what severe depression was like as an athlete, and then to be able to pack those things back into their box and leave them behind. Taken a while to be able to do that.

I was, however, unprepared for the catalogue of disasters about to befall me. If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know the bare bones of “Project Rehab”, which is the label I’ve given to my steady and quite long term plan to recover full function in my left shoulder.

Well, I’d tackled the discipline of regaining full and pain free movement, followed by stability. I had then begun, a few weeks back, to move forward to a tentative process of starting to build some muscular strength. Not just in the shoulder muscles themselves, but in the whole left chain of action, which had suffered from the failure of a main component, as it were.

And bingo! Welcome back “photographers arm”. If I call it “tennis elbow” instead, you’ll get the basic idea. Except that tennis elbow more commonly strikes the underside of the elbow. Or so I believe. I don’t know because I’ve never played. Quite a lot of my time as a jobbing photographer usually shooting action events, is spent lifting a heavy camera and heavy lens up and down and trying to hold them still. There are clearly muscles and bits deep in my upper forearm that have decided over time that they don’t like this when it’s coupled with a regular dose of shoulder rehab work in the gym. I guess some would call it repetitive strain injury, though I find little of any insight in that description. The painful area is no more than two inches long, and readily accessible to massage and acupuncture, which have helped a little, but not enough. The traditional remedial tools such as a tennis elbow strap or neoprene elbow sleeve aren’t doing it for me either. It’s a work in progress at present. Or at least, a lot of work and not much progress, so far.

I’d also been enthusiastic to get a bit of decent aerobic training in, as soon as my shoulder was comfortable with it. I’ve recorded here that three 5k runs at my local Parkrun were enough to beat up my left achilles tendon. I’m not over that problem yet, eight weeks later, but at least the one very tentative Parkrun I did recently didn’t aggravate it. Annoyingly, my commitment to Parkrun tends to be hindered at this time of year by an increase in my photographic commitments at the weekend, and this squeezes my opportunity for aerobic work that is also, and importantly, in a sociable setting. Read that previous blog of mine again if you want to be reminded of the importance of that aspect.

So why title this piece “Help!”? Well, it could as easily have been “Streuth!” or “OMG!” but “Help!” is at least in keeping with my habit of titling these things after a song from my music collection. However, it’s not a rhetorical title. At this particular moment, I seem to lack an answer. I’ve realised that my sporting life has gone off the boil, and I don’t like it!

My local gym is key to the work I do to stay fit and healthy. It is excellent and staffed by good people. It’s part of a chain, and over the last few weeks it’s been undergoing a complete refurbishment of the gym equipment and gym layout. To its overall credit, the gym hasn’t closed for a single day during this time. A great deal of the work (new flooring, for example) has been done overnight. However, at least one of the three sections of the gym area have been closed off at any one time recently. New equipment has also been arriving and being set up for use. So what, you ask? Well, this has all made the gym heavily overcrowded with equipment, at the expense of the floor space I find essential for exercise. This will all pass, I am sure, as the project finishes any day now, but it’s had an effect on my training nevertheless.

Injury has made me very cautious of trying anything new at present, and, while I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, the aforementioned theft of floor-space has restricted the opportunities for quite a lot of what I’ve been doing in the gym over the last few months. So, to be frank, I’ve skipped a few gym sessions lately, until it all settles down. The injuries haven’t helped my enthusiasm to train, despite that I’ve actually grown fond of the learning experiences that accompany properly managed recovery. So, I can’t altogether blame injury for where I’ve reached.

I told myself I could afford at least a week of this lessened activity, because I was due a break. Even while I’m basically “just” doing a glorified version of injury recovery routines, I’ve remained aware of the need to give my body time to rest and adapt. However, inactivity sings a siren song sometimes. I’ve had periods of inactivity in the past, of course, but nearly always there has been a background ingredient in the mix that just isn’t there at the moment: motivation!

One thing I learned some time ago that works well for me is to try to turn the nervousness of anticipating competition on the track into a motivating force. But competition is out of my equation at present, and without a shadow of doubt, I’m severely lacking motivation in my training. Note, that’s motivation, not direction. My rehab plan gives me direction, but I seem to have found that if there is a motivating force from knowing where you should be heading, it falters after a while. Progress isn’t, it seems, always its own reward.

I can carry on doing what I’ve been doing, but one of life’s best guiding quotations (a former boss of mine used to use it, but it’ll no doubt be older) is “If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you always got”. In other words, I need a step-change in what I’m doing, which will be 1) physically and mentally absorbing, 2) as free from the risk of new injuries as I can reasonably hope for, and 3) motivating!

I’ll end this here. There’s therapy to be had in thinking out aloud like this.

Trouble in Shangri-La

May 8, 2017

I’m writing this in Mental Health Awareness Week, 2017. Many stories have emerged in the press etc recently of sports people suffering from depression and other mental health issues. Go back on this blog a few years and you’ll find that I was part of that gang too. It’s an area of my life I don’t revisit here very much now, but it’s part of me that never goes away, and probably never will. Depression was such a huge shock to me that I was, frankly, in denial for quite a long time.

In the twelve months or so period during which severe depression steadily established its grip on me, by some standards I had “no excuses”. Life was sweet in many ways. I was in my early fifties, and my training as a sprinter in Masters athletics was paying off. I was a regular finalist in World and European Masters competitions; I had very narrowly missed out on a medal in the last World Masters sprint final I’d raced in; and I was holder of three world gold medals from relay events. I was also in the world top ten for my age category, free from illness, and the back injuries that had plagued my life for the previous 15 years were apparently under control.

I had (and still have) a happy home life. I had a satisfying job, albeit with lots of anti-social hours. I had hobbies, and a sense of humour. And depression knocked me sideways nevertheless.

In my sporting life, I can’t say I felt unhappy in the accepted sense, but in a number of respects, I was unsatisfied. I was training hard and regularly, but one consequence of those frequent anti-social work hours was that I found it impossible to commit to training with a group of other athletes, or a coach. I just couldn’t guarantee to be there for any given session. I needed to grab opportunities to train when I could, and that usually meant solo.

I think I’ve always been a pretty self-critical person. Often that’s been with good reason. I don’t like just to think or imagine that I can do better; I like to set myself on a trajectory I think will lead me to “better”. And over time, I’ve come to realise that being your own control-group, only hearing your own voice as encouragement or criticism, only seeing yourself in the gym mirror, etc, can all be part of quite a dangerous cocktail. With no one to tell me what my sessions looked like and being largely dependent on how they felt to me, for feedback, there was usually only one answer to sessions that didn’t feel hard enough: try harder next time.

I wasn’t short of encouragement, from work colleagues, from my sports masseur and chiropractor particularly. My GP was (and still is) very supportive of this older athlete’s activities. Yet, there came a point when, with hindsight, I can see that diminishing returns set in. The harder I trained, the worse I seemed to perform. What I was doing and experiencing seemed to be lacking any “cause and effect” (as in “do A, and B should eventually happen”). And it seemed to me my options were limited to a single way forward: train harder still.

The nature of situations involving diminishing returns is that they quickly, and often stealthily, develop into downward spirals. I freely admit I missed all the indicators. No matter how untypical I knew I was for my age, my (then) 55 year-old body wasn’t made of Kryptonite, of course. It began to creak at the seams. Niggling injuries wouldn’t go away. Efforts to work around them simply meant less specificity in training, and eventually meant niggles just spread to previously healthy parts of me.

The expression I think I used most often, in my self-talk, was that training was beginning to feel less like something I did for sport and more like “beating myself up”. There is something relentless and deeply disturbing about self-harm. You eventually reach a point of paradox, where the activity that causes the harm actually begins to look like the way out. I lost several things going into and through severe depression. One was my sense of proportion – my sport was exactly that – sport. Not life or death. Yet I acted much of the time as if it was. I lost my coping strategies. I couldn’t cope with conflict or disappointment in particular. My mother died during this time. I simply couldn’t engage with that on any level.

An answer would have been to take a complete break from sport. However, to me then, that would just have smacked of squandering the effort I’d been putting in, and brought with it the certainly I’d just end up needing to do more, and harder, to “get back in”. So, the cycle of abuse continued. Until, that was, sitting in my hotel room one evening, while away on a trip to race in Europe, I was inwardly berating my day’s performance (despite having won two races and come second in the other!), and it finally dawned that I had completely lost the plot.

A few days later, I said this to my GP. After some standard diagnostic tests, he said to me “These suggest you are suffering severely from depression”. Depression? Me? Antidepressant tablets? Me? I went into further denial for a while, but did lots of reading about what depression is and how it works on you. Eventually, I had to concede that my GP was right, and I started taking the pills that had meanwhile been sitting untouched on the beside table.

There’s more to it, of course, than I can or choose to include in a single retrospective blog. Learning that depression was an illness, not a failing of character, was crucial. Being open about it to others was also quite important. Surprisingly so, given how dishonest I’d hitherto been with myself. The pills worked for me, and despite a few adventures in the process of coming off them, there came a day when I didn’t need them. In the intervening period to date, I’ve fallen back into depression’s clutches a couple of times, largely because old (bad) habits die hard, and depression is a stubborn bastard.

I still have lots of questions and not as many answers, but if this blog has touched a nerve with you, I’d say: be self-aware, ensure you have “significant others” who are able to give you feedback, and be open, both with those around you and with yourself. Good, honest internal dialogue is key! It’s not about kidding yourself everything is ok really, it’s about telling yourself how you feel and making that all-important deal to do something about it that breaks the cycle that got you to here in the first place.


My title comes from a great song by Stevie Nicks (ex Fleetwood Mac)