Day 35 – Of Cake Roads, Cycle Paths, and a Tiny Bit of Kindness

Day 35 – Of Cake Roads, Cycle Paths, and a Tiny Bit of Kindness

I’ve officially lost track of what day of wheeling it is. Time has melted into one long, chilly, cambered, back-breaking blur—and it’s only September 30th. Thirty-five days into this challenge, and Bristol appears to have skipped autumn and hurled itself straight into the jaws of winter. Delightful.

The day kicked off with a brutal hill. Nothing says “good morning” quite like dragging yourself uphill with frozen hands, a frozen spine, and a frozen smile. The roads were, in a word, cakey. As in, uneven, lumpy, and crumbling under pressure. Much like me, really.

Physically, I was drained. Mentally, I was wrung out. Emotionally, I was somewhere between invisible and “please don’t say anything unhelpful, or I might actually scream.” I’m surrounded by people, and yet, I feel completely alone. Everyone else seems to have their crew, their shared jokes, their camaraderie. Me? I have a support team that seems allergic to actual support (minus the ones working their butts off at home & the awesome relay of drivers...). When I muster the courage to say, “Hey, I’m really tired,” I get hit with either a sarcastic “So am I” or the classic “Well, you chose this!” Thanks, super helpful.

I didn’t choose chronic pain. I didn’t choose to feel like a stranger at my own event. I did choose to fight for women’s rugby and to raise money for incredible causes, and I’d just love—just once—for someone on this crew to pat me on the back and say, “You’re doing amazing.” Or at least hand me a hot chocolate and not make me feel guilty for having a hard time.

The infamous cycle paths made an unwelcome return. For the uninitiated: these aren’t paths, they’re off-road nightmares. Think jagged rocks, sinkholes, and mud pits better suited for a 4x4 than a wheelchair. I tried explaining this, but the response was a dismissive, “Well, if you’d chosen the other route…” Right. Because I obviously planned to be stuck halfway down a gravel deathtrap with a body that feels like it’s been through a car wash made of hammers.

But, because quitting isn’t in my bones, I pushed through. Yesterday’s ball from Chepstow was stunning. I’d have kept it wasn’t towards the cause.

There were highlights: filming with Karen, who was a bright spot in the day (she’s an actual gem); a lovely woman from ITV whose name escapes me (curse this tired brain); and the visit to the Bristol Bears. We arrived three hours early (oops), but the players were kind, genuine, and completely wonderful. Three of them even signed the ball and joined the interview. I was buzzing.

Then came the moment that melted my cold, achey heart: the Bristol Bears’ coach came out and gave me their brand new kit—my name on the back and everything. I nearly cried. Okay, I definitely cried. It was a moment of being seen, of being valued. And I’ll wear that shirt with pride—yes, even if it makes me a bit of a traitor to my team.

After all the warmth of that visit, we got a little lost trying to find the hotel, and by the time I got to the room, it was 6:45 p.m. Dinner was at 7. No shower, no time, no dignity—just food. And still, despite the chatter and clinking cutlery, the isolation hung heavy. Neil and Pam deep in conversation, and me… well, just there. Again.

This wasn’t how I imagined it. But I’m here. I’m doing it. And I’m not giving up. I’m counting down the days till I see Vicky the physio—because my body is screaming louder than a ref at a dodgy scrum. But I’ll keep pushing, keep wheeling, and keep holding out hope that someone, somewhere along the way, says, “keep going, your doing great".

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