Yesterday marked the second anniversary of my final race where I won Bronze. From the outside, it might have looked like a perfect way to sign off my career, almost as if it was planned. On reflection, it seemed perfect. I had been off the pace for the two seasons following the Olympics. I was competing for Scotland at the Commonwealth Games; this was how my career began so it would be a symbolic way to bow out. Whatsmore, I had never won a commonwealth games medal, a major career goal.
The truth is that it wasn't planned at all.
I was selected to ride three events at the games. In the end, I only rode two. After the first event, I found my self in a severely compromised mental state, colloquially referred to as a “breakdown". I had been battling with depression since the Olympic Games in 2016. After the first event, the dam burst, and I was withdrawn from the next two days of competition. My coach covered for me speaking to the media and others he said that I had come down with a stomach bug. I was desperate not to have my secret exposed, not to appear "mentally weak". I was offered emergency medication, but I refused with the faint hope of getting back to fitness for the final event of the games, in retrospect the last race of my career.
After two days rest and support from my medical team and family, I felt as if I could compete. My thinking was relatively simplistic; the final event was the Kilo, a single time trial, four laps of the track. Then I'd be done, at least for a while, I could take my medication and slip into mindless post games parties with plenty of escapism and alcohol.
In the end, I performed well enough to earn a bronze medal, the hardest race of my life. In the photo above I have realised that I'm guaranteed a medal of some colour. I was hoping this would bring some relief, momentary happiness. It didn't, I was still profoundly distressed and exhausted behind that visor. Solace did come in the realisation that this ordeal was over, I could get treatment, hold it together for the medal ceremony then disappear.
Through my recovery, I've now started to associate more positive feelings about that memory. Taking pride in my resolve and mental strength to push on. Satisfaction in achieving some career goals and hanging up my wheels at a symbolic time. Most importantly was the love and support I felt from those who cared for me. My family, teammates, friends and coaches unconditionally rallied round me in my time of need and continued to support what would be a further rocky year and a half towards recovery.
I might be rock bottom in this photo, but now I look upon it positively, its when I started to get better.