Apologies in advance for using this as a sort of 'brain dumping ground', but it feels appropriate to vent a little to people who might understand. Perhaps skip this post if you're not tolerant of a bit of wallowing...
It has been a pretty crap 2019. Everything started well, with a place booked on TCR No7 and a series of goals to tick off to deliver me to the start in some level of preparedness. The wheels started to come off in April when I crashed heavily during a solo bash at the Bryan Chapman route. I was fortunate, given the nature of the crash, to come away with a separated shoulder, whiplash, broken teeth and cuts and bruises, but my confidence (particularly descending) took a nosedive.
Training was dented, but not de-railed, until early June, when my Dad passed away after suffering a heart attack completely out of the blue. He was only 60, had been a formidable fell runner in his day and was still fit and very active. Devastating doesn't really cover it to be honest. Without going into the nitty gritty, my Dad is the sole reason I turned out OK after a rocky childhood. Anything good in me is a result of his unwaveringly solid guidance and refusal to allow me to drift too far off the right path. It chokes me up to think what a massive loss it is to my boy, who absolutely adored his Grandad and vice versa. Perhaps its fortunate that he's so young (4) and probably wont ever really feel the full impact.
After the funeral, I actually went so far as to email my withdrawal from TCR, but then changed my mind 2 days later, despite having completely abandoned the training which I'd hoped would see me peak in early July. Focusing on planning and salvaging what training I could gave me an easy way out of grieving, although this probably wasn't healthy in hindsight. Unfortunately, my partner then became ill, meaning that I had to abandon my new 'salvage job' training plans so I could look after our son and support her. To my shame, I did this through a cloud of resentment which was of course spectacularly unfair, but also added to my mounting levels of stress.
The weekend before TCR, we had a family gathering to mark what would've been my Dad's 61st birthday. It was a really great evening, with a bonfire and BBQ in his (and my Stepmum's) garden in Lancashire. I'd also planned to ride the Fleet Moss 200 with my Dad's best friend, Andy, the day after. They'd ridden the calendar event together in the early 90's on bikes scrounged and cobbled together. Neither were really cyclists at the time, but got round due to their fell running fitness. Andy and I had a fantastic ride, in spite of filthy weather and I was re-assured that my fitness hadn't totally waned. Unfortunately, I woke up the morning after (Sunday) with what turned out to be a bout of tonsillitis, which I'm prone to if I'm run down or under stress. With my flight to Burgas booked for Thursday, I couldn't really rest up due to the need to pack and take care of last minute faffing. I was hoping it might be the viral form of tonsillitis which tends to leave me alone after a week or so.
On the Wednesday, I decided I'd fly out in spite of still feeling crap with gunky tonsils and hope for the best. I met some TCR riders at the airport on the Thursday and the general excitement made me hope that I might be getting a bit better. Rebuilding the bike outside Burgas Airport, I convinced myself that I'd wake up on Friday, ready for rider briefing and registration feeling much better. It probably didn't help that my hotel had ballsed up and didn't have my reservation, meaning I 'slept' in their basement, and on Friday morning, my throat was worse than ever, with a massive angry bulge on the right side which threatened to close my airway when I inhaled. I toyed with the idea of trying to get to a doctor and maybe delaying my start by a couple of days, but that was the point where I mentally caved in. I booked a flight home that evening and emailed the organisers of my intention to DNS. I spent a good 12 hours in the airport fighting back tears.
I arrived home to an empty house. My better half was at a wedding in Newcastle and our son was staying with her parents. I was overwhelmed with shame, regret and suppressed grief. On top of this, every time I tried to escape into sleep, my throat would completely close up, waking me up gasping for breath. I took myself to the out of hours surgery where they diagnosed a Peritonsillar Abscess and packed me off to the ENT specialist who lanced it with a F off big needle and gave me antibiotics.
Despite it being pretty obvious that there was no way I could've ridden, I couldn't escape feeling ashamed at my failure to even try to start. I was overtaken by a pretty severe bout of depression, not eased by watching the race and all its inspiring stories unfold. In truth, this has only begun to lift in the last week and I've been able to get close to something resembling normality and gain some perspective on the whole thing. I'm hoping to salvage something out of this season by riding a 400 in late September, which will complete my SR series, but I certainly wont get on my own case if this doesn't work out; I've learned that sometimes you've just got to roll with punches and accept what comes your way. There are more important things than riding bikes.
Apologies again for splurging, but it does help a bit to get it off my chest.