If you’d asked me a few weeks ago what my next training session looked like, I’d probably have opened TrainingPeaks, checked my watch and started talking about heart rate zones.
Instead, life had other ideas.
First up was Glasgow.
Metallica.
I’ve been fortunate enough to see some incredible bands over the years, but there’s something about Metallica that just hits differently. The opening chords, the roar of tens of thousands of people and the sheer energy that rolls around the stadium. For a couple of hours, everything else disappeared.
No work.
No responsibilities.
No bipolar.
Well… not quite.
Bipolar doesn’t take a night off. It comes to the gig with you. It stands in the crowd. It whispers in your ear before you arrive and again when you leave. But music has always been one of those rare things that can turn the volume down on the noise in my own head.
For a little while, James Hetfield was louder than my inner critic.
I’ll take that.
Not long afterwards came Eddfest.
A weekend with friends and, more importantly, my son.
As parents, we often think the biggest thing we can give our children is time. I’m starting to think it’s actually presence. Being properly there. Not distracted by work, training plans or the next challenge. Just sharing music, laughing together and making memories that won’t appear on Strava but will hopefully stay with us for years.
Those are the miles that really count.
It’s funny how quickly I can start feeling guilty when I’m not training.
There’s a little voice that says, “You’re losing fitness.”
Another one chips in with, “You should be out running.”
Then the sensible voice, which admittedly sometimes takes a while to wake up, reminds me that life isn’t something you squeeze into the gaps between training sessions.
Life is the reason we train.
One thing bipolar has taught me is that balance isn’t something you find once and keep forever. It’s more like trying to stand on a paddleboard while someone keeps making waves. Some days you’ve got it. Other days you’re in the water wondering what happened.
The important thing is climbing back on.
I can feel something changing again.
Not in the manic, “Let’s enter six events before breakfast!” kind of way.
I’ve learnt to be wary of that voice.
This feels quieter.
Healthier.
It’s more of a gentle nudge than a shove.
I’ve caught myself looking at routes again. Thinking about early morning walks. Wondering how long it’ll take before the legs stop complaining. Looking ahead to the next challenge rather than obsessing over it.
That’s usually a good sign.
I’ve spent enough years living with bipolar to know that recovery isn’t just about surviving the difficult days. It’s about recognising when you’re ready to move forward without sprinting headfirst into the next obsession.
So that’s the plan.
No dramatic comeback montage.
No ridiculous declarations that I’m going to conquer the world before Christmas.
Just getting back to doing what makes me feel like me.
One walk.
One run.
One bike ride.
One swim.
One step at a time.
Because I’ve learnt something over the years.
The finish lines are brilliant.
But it’s everything in between that makes the story worth telling.
Bipolar Ironman 