by Keith Russell
The first time it did it I passed it off without a second thought. The second time was slightly more unnerving and the third time had me close to paralysed with fear the likes of which I had never experienced before. In the passing of 80 heart beats my life had been changed and over the next 19 months would become unrecognisable.
Throughout the night the heart palpitations continued and I lay in bed convinced the next one would most likely kill me. A violent heaving in my chest would leave me breathless and bathed in a cold bath of fear-induced sweat as my passing from this world seemed increasingly imminent. Normally a man to steer clear of the doctor’s office, I was practically banging on her door the following day as the palpitations showed no sign of abating.
My normal life had ceased a few years previously, as my wife’s deteriorating health, as the result of a rare genetic disorder, had required me to quit my career as a photographer to provide the care and attention she needed to stay safe. The result of that passage of time for myself was a rapid decline into depression and only a couple of months before the palpitations started I was being treated for a variety of problems that can be summarised as ‘mental illness’. The idea of not having to go to work appeals to many people but the reality as a 32 year old was very different.
All my ambitions had to be shelved, all my plans for the future forgotten. My prospects included watching my wife deteriorate into total blindness and deafness over the course of time, not to mention the social exclusion people in our situation endure. Every day activities that people take for granted such as going for a drink or even going to the shops became increasingly difficult and in some cases impossible. Sue’s condition can be eased by very bright lights and our house is lit 24 hours a day to enable her to see at least something. Walking into friend’s homes with their subtle lighting arrangements and flicking on all the lights soon annoyed them to the point where the invitations dried up. The excuses were good but we knew the truth, it was simply too much trouble to have us round and with my wife on a very restricted diet (her condition is controlled purely by this) no one wanted us to come for dinner.
Hard to maintain a feeling of belonging and worth when you’re treated as outcasts by people you actually cared about. The defence mechanism on my behalf was to cut myself off from society as much as possible. Of course, regardless of my own mental health issues I had responsibilities to my wife and daughter that couldn’t be neglected.
The most obvious manifestation of my own problem was an inability to go outside the house without suffering terrible panic attacks. The mere prospect of going out would reduce me to a terrified wreck and on the occasions I did venture out I was never unaccompanied or out for more than an hour. Despite her disabilities Sue remained as independent as she could and in good bright weather would accompany our daughter to school or venture into town brandishing her white cane. However, having been hit by a car she didn’t see as she tried to cross the road with our daughter at her side (mercifully without serious injury to either), splitting her face open on a lamp post she didn’t see and ripping the ligaments in her ankle when she fell down some steps in town did nothing for her own confidence. Beyond essentials such as food shopping and taking Kim to and from school we rarely left the house.
Comments from people I’d considered friends and even family who refused to believe the extent of Sue’s illness did little to boost my self esteem and I gradually cut off all contact with people. If I didn’t see or hear them they couldn’t make me feel any worse about life than I already did. In my heart I knew I was doing a good thing by being my wife’s carer. However, being told that I was merely doing it to avoid going to work by members of my family was hard to take. It’s hard to explain the degradation a man of my age can experience when unable to work for any reason, so these comments cut deep. If Sue hadn’t been such a strong, resilient person and provided me with as much mental support as I provided physical care for her, I don’t think I could have survived.
Briefly I’d like to mention my friend in America, Dave Warner, who always provided a beacon of hope for me. We became friends via email as a result of a shared passion for NASCAR, an unusual thing for a British person to like. He invited Sue, Kim and myself to come to America and spend 10 days at their condo in Disney Land and a further 10 days in their upstate New York home. Sue and I saved for two and half years to pay for that trip, we even sold our car to help finance it. Looking back that wasn’t a good thing to have done as it removed our means of transport and added to our seclusion, but visiting America and meeting people who’d become dear friends was far more important. In short, we had the time of our lives as guests of Dave and his wife Jo in July 2001, an experience we’ll never forget.
The downside was that the months after our return were a terrible anti-climax and only added to our already sorry situation. With nothing left to look forward to life became almost intolerable. I was living on a diet of fast food, taking anti-depressants and I rarely slept. I’d wake up each morning bitterly disappointed that I had done so. In retrospect it’s hardly surprising my heart rebelled.
The day I walked into my doctor’s office I was 181lbs (at 5’8”) and barely able to walk up a flight of stairs without being badly out of breath. Even faced with such a frightening condition I couldn’t go to the doctor’s alone, my fear of being outside greater than my fear of a heart attack!
After an examination my doctor was satisfied that my complaint was not going to kill me instantly, but she’d seen enough to know I had to do something otherwise a heart attack was inevitable. 24 hours later blood tests revealed dangerously high levels of fat in my blood and that I had clogged arteries as a result of that. The beta-blockers she prescribed helped ease the regularity of the palpitations, plus the assurance of the medical professionals that death was not a heart beat away had helped me calm down but I was forced to face my own mortality like never before. Suddenly I knew that I simply couldn’t carry on life as I had done the past five years and that unless I made some radical changes I wasn’t going to live much past my 40th birthday. Strangely the effect on my mental condition was rapid. What other people thought of me seemed small fry compared to the prospect of an early death and I found doing things for myself such as finding a diet of fat free food to be motivating. The onset of my heart condition was actually doing me more good mentally than any of the treatments I’d already had!
I’d been toying with the idea of a bicycle even before the heart condition made itself known. I had in the back of my mind a need for a mode of transport more rapid than walking but the stumbling block had been the panic attacks when leaving the house and I’d never really pursued it with any serious intent. Now it seemed like a good idea, as improving my health and losing weight became paramount! Whether or not I would actually be able to find the courage to go out on it wasn’t an issue when Sue ordered me a bike from a catalogue that enabled you to pay weekly and I found myself unexpectedly excited about it.
The day it arrived I was only just recovering from a serious chest infection. The early Spring weather was mild and pleasant that day and I felt reasonably content about being outside the house. I’d been going for short walks with Sue in a full on attempt to face my fear of being outside, and the motivation of living longer had proved enough to help control the panic attacks. Each time I felt I was losing control I’d just remind myself of why I was out walking.
My bike was a British Eagle Mission which at the time seemed like an awesome machine. A bicycle was a bicycle and this bright blue beauty with its chunky tyres, 21 gears and front suspension was light years away from the 5 speed BSA I’d last ridden as a 15 year old some 22 years before. Even though I felt physically very ill I knew I had to ride it there and then or I probably never would, so after putting it together I cycled up the road where I live with my daughter Kim for company. We cut across some wooded ground and then back to the house. The whole thing had taken less than 10 minutes and despite never getting out of first gear I was exhausted. The important thing was that even in those brief moments I’d realised that even if I wasn’t going to enjoy cycling it was something I could use to aid my quest for better health.
Over the next three weeks I started to cycle every day. Rarely off the smallest gears and never more than 20 minutes but I rode because I knew it was helping my health, mentally and physically. At this time cycling was purely about dropping weight and gaining some fitness.
Sue has a friend whose husband enjoyed cycling and was a regular in the London to Brighton charity ride. He invited me to join him on a ride one sunny afternoon and with some trepidation I accepted. Riding gently along he took me round the local roads and villages and I was stunned to discover we’d covered 12 miles when we got back to the house. I felt like near collapse and my backside had never been so numb but I’d ridden 12 miles, a feat I would have considered impossible that morning. It had also been an enjoyable experience with only the odd moment of panic that I had been able to easily control.
In the coming month I joined Chris on a regular basis and the time we spent riding grew and grew. I was still pushing very small gears, walking up what I considered to be big hills but I was enjoying myself more and more. I’d even started to go out alone which was a huge step in the right direction for me. As is the case even now, my time on the bike was governed by my wife’s needs so I was sure to make full use of any break in my caring duties and jump on the bike.
My weight was dropping fast, my doctor was delighted with my progress and visibly excited when I walked into her office unaccompanied for the first time. Life had taken on less of a black look but still lacked any real purpose and everything I did was aimed squarely at staying alive.
As summer approached I realised that I was now riding the bike not because I had to but because I wanted to. Chris had shown me off road routes using local bridle paths and a lengthy stretch of disused railway line closed in the 60’s and now a haven for mountain bikers. I’d bought a cycle computer to log my mileage and even a cheap pair of lycra shorts.
Then in July 2002 I had enough interest in cycling to watch the prologue of the Tour de France. I’d heard about Lance Armstrong and wanted to see him ride. He won the prologue and for the next three weeks I sat glued to Eurosport every afternoon watching the race unfold with zero knowledge of bicycle racing but tremendous admiration for the endeavours of the riders. As Armstrong stood on the podium celebrating his 4th win I knew two things; I was a huge Armstrong fan and I wanted a road bike!
My early investigation into road bikes was bitterly disappointing. The prices of even the entry level bikes from Trek, Specialised et al were way beyond my budget. I had considered the £110 my British Eagle cost to be a vast some of money for a bicycle and with my knowledge still very limited, it was hard to see why a road bike should cost so much money.
In Britain there is a chain of shops called Index, a catalogue based business were you select your goods from a catalogue rather than a display in store. The range of items available is massive and included bicycles. It just so happened that one of the bikes was a Falcon Peloton, a bright red road bike with 16 gears and a compact frame. More importantly it was only £170 and after a month of saving and some financial help from Sue I became the proud owner of a brand new Falcon.
The fact that it weighed a ton and handled like a pig was totally lost on me. Compared to the British Eagle it was a hard bike to ride with its tall first gear but within weeks I’d felt my fitness improve dramatically and I was loving every second on it. I pushed myself harder and harder, now embroiled in the common suffering of anyone who rides a bike! Under no illusions that I was anything other than a hobby cyclist, my motivation to ride came every time I had a palpitation, but the main reason I rode was because I loved it. With the approach of autumn I’d clocked over 1000 miles, dropped my weight to 147lbs and could ride 45 miles in an afternoon without too much bother. Climbing remained hard work and a number of hills in the area defeated me time and time again as I was reduced to a hyperventilating, vomiting wreck long before the top.
Now kitted out in full US Postal replica riding gear (virtually every penny of my weekly allowance went towards my cycling) I decided I would have to improve as a climber if I was going to wear the gear and not look an idiot, so I set my goal as being able to conquer Bury Hill near Pulborough, West Sussex, by the following summer. Bury Hill is 18 miles from my home, is about 1 1/2 miles long, starts after a lengthy uphill drag, averages 14% and has an 800 yard section of 20%. Cars struggle up it! I wasn’t even prepared to try it yet because I wanted to be confident I could climb it without stopping. Bury Hill was a symbol to me now; if I could ride up it anything was possible so I knew I had to do it in one go. Stopping would be failure and I didn’t need failure!
The winter months were spent working on improving my average speed over two hour rides and riding up and down hills that had defeated me before. The 17% 500 yard climb in Kurves Lane, the 12% 600 yard hill in Hayes Lane and eventually the one mile 12% road up the side of Leith Hill were conquered.
By January I’d learned enough about bicycles to know that my Falcon was hindering me, so once again my wife came up trumps by giving up an entire months disability allowance for me to buy a Barracuda Tifosi which had an aluminium frame, 14 gears and STI shifters. The first time I rode it up a hill I couldn’t believe how much easier it was, as the reduced weight of the bike really made a huge difference. I went back to climbs I’d failed on before such as Bostal Hill in Steyning which is nearly as bad as Bury Hill and instead of only making it half way up before blowing I’d get 3/4 of the way up.
As summer approached my climbing had really come on in leaps and bounds. I was floating up Leith Hill seated the whole way and my ability to cover distance had improved as well. Still I didn’t feel ready for Bury Hill but on 15th June 2003 I realised I was probably capable.
I rode the London to Brighton Charity Bike Ride with Chris and although his pace was considerably slower than I was capable of, I rode up Ditchling Beacon with relative ease. Ditchling Beacon reduces all but the most serious of cyclists to walking as it winds its way up over a mile of country road at a steady 16%. As I rode under the finish post the fact that I had just taken part in an event with 27,000 other people was not lost on me. A year before that would have been unthinkable and I got more congratulations for having been in such a huge crowd without freaking out than I did for riding 58 miles. After all, I’d ridden 55 miles on several occasions building up to the London to Brighton and much faster than I did on the day with Chris. Ironically, I received praise from the very people whose comments in years gone by had contributed to my mental state! They all knew I had mental health issues, none of them appreciated that they’d contributed to it.
The day after the charity ride I decided Bury Hill was next!
The day for my attempt dawned cloudy, dry but a little windy. 16 months after my visit to the doctor I weighed 128lbs and was ready to tackle the single biggest hill in West Sussex on my bike. I set off in a state of nervous optimism and riding to the hill I paced myself as I didn’t want to use too much energy before the climb and besides, I still had to ride home afterwards. After an hour of cycling I was rapidly approaching the foot of the hill. I cycled passed the sign for Bury Village towards the start of my ultimate cycling goal.
My heart rate soared as I looked up the road, saw it rear upwards like nothing I’d seen before and I thought, I can’t do this! It wasn’t the initial gradient that phased me, just the fact that even if I craned my neck back I couldn’t see the top, only a seemingly unrelenting ever steepening road. With more than a little trepidation I slid slightly back on the saddle and got on with the business of pushing the pedals round.
To be honest, the first part at 14% wasn’t that bad as I kept a steady pace without pushing myself as hard as I might on Leith Hill but the view ahead with no end in sight to the climb didn’t fill me with confidence. My legs quickly let me know when I’d hit the 20% section but I found I had strength I didn’t know I had and despite the increasing pain I kept pedalling. Breathing got tougher as my lungs couldn’t fulfil the demands for oxygen my muscles were making, but slowly the gradient eased and I was back on 12% which felt almost flat by comparison. I could see the brow of the hill and now I shifted up, got out the saddle and charged for the top. Riding over the top I punched the air and let out a loud whoop of delight! I’d done it, conquered Bury!
My ride home was filled with personal emotions as I realised that I’d not only overcome a physical health problem but a mental one as well. In some ways I wish it had been harder and in truth I could probably have ridden it much earlier in the year, but this was about achievement and personal ambition, something I’d thought would be forever missing from my life. There are cyclists out there who would consider Bury Hill a mere mole hill, but for me it was a mountain to climb from a physical and mental point of view. If I made a mountain out of a mole hill it was the best thing I could have done, because the road back home was more than just that, it was road to a better take on life, one with a little self esteem, some confidence, a feeling that I could achieve things after all ,and that could only be a good thing for me, Sue and Kim.
Now I have a Trek 1000 which is as much a step forward from the Tifosi as that bike was from the Falcon. I’ve been back to Bury Hill many times and hardly give it a second thought as I ride over the top. Bostal Hill and a new climb I found in Storrington have also been ascended and now I find myself yearning to stretch myself again. Climbing the Alpe D’Huez seems as big a challenge to me now as Bury Hill did last summer and I hope that one day circumstances will allow me to tackle that legendary mountain. Could I do it? Not as fast as Lance but I reckon I’d get to the top!
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