HAVING clocked 800km on the bike here in Belgium it is time for the reality of life with a tumour to kick in.
It is time for my next MRI.
As you sit to read this, I will be preparing for what I feel is an important scan.
I guess they are all important but early in this journey I felt immortal, I had bounced back from the operations I had and just never sat and processed this journey.
I was too busy chasing my sporting dreams. It feels different now. I no longer feel immortal.
I now firmly know that I am walking a thin line between life and death, and that scares me.
Before leaving Belgium, I had one more ride I wanted to do.
So, on my last day I left Bruges and rode to Ghent. It was an 80km ride on what was already a tired body, but it was beautiful.
I chose a route along the canal and even though it was probably a bit much to ask of my body after an intense week on the bike, I knew it was the best place to hide from my own thoughts.
With my body running on empty the last few km were tough cycling into the famous head winds that cycling in Belgium is known for, but as long as I am turning those pedals, I am not thinking of my scan or the gravity of sitting in oncology in a few weeks for the results.
Unfortunately, the pedals did stop. A quick change of clothes and my bike put into the car it was time to drive back to London.
The first few days I was too tired to function, then Friday arrived.
I woke up feeling my stomach crunching, I wanted to throw up.
Not even a coffee could settle my nerves.
And this was still had a full day before my scan.
I remember Steve Peters’ advice - ‘don’t build the WHAT IF bridge’.
But my body wasn’t listening, my hand almost unable to type my column as it shook.
This also coincided with me delivering a talk on zoom around mental toughness and my last 12 years of this journey.
The perfect trigger to set off a cascade of emotions around my scan, and the trauma connected to it.
What I would give to be back in Belgium, to be back on my bike.
Instead felt trapped in my body, in my mind and before I knew it, I was on the floor not longer after I had finished my zoom session.
My body was sending me signals - the fear of scan is now so overwhelming I don’t know how much more I can fight this.
I felt I needed to be sick but couldn’t. “Go to my breathing I tell myself,” the
That’s what I would advise someone else: I close my eyes and try to connect to my breath.
I know I will get through it, 24 hours from now it will be over and after one more medical appointment next week I will be free until result day.
I have always wanted to share the real raw emotion of trying to live a life in sport with my tumour with you here.
It would be easy to fall into the social media trap of saying everything is great, but the reality is far from the picture social media would have you think.
It is impossible to just be positive, to always be strong, anyone who is facing challenging times will know this.
It has always been one of my guiding principles here to share the reality of the situation in the hope to help others who might be facing a similar path.
It is why I believe sport is so important to us, not just chasing wins and medals, but when facing cancer, moving our bodies has such a key role to play in both our mental and physical health. I know as long as I have sport, I will fight for my life.
