Weight-Training for Psychological Resilience

 

14 years ago, only a few months before my daughter Ruby died, I started running. And I thank whatever gods are out there that I did. I downloaded the Couch to 5K app to my phone and after a few false starts got cracking. From the very first day (walk 60 seconds, jog 60 seconds, repeat five times) my right knee constantly grumbled because of the seriously excess weight I was carrying. I sought advice from a personal trainer about my options for continuing, I was hoping for some gentle and nuanced wisdom, and he looked me up and down and said "too fat, lose weight, try again". Nice. So I paused the training at week 3, went on a crash diet and did hard cardio at the gym every day (60 minutes of treadmill walking, rowing machine and spin bike) to burn as many calories as possible until I'd lost a few stone- this took only a few weeks as I was simultaneously eating next to nothing. Although this intense approach to weight loss is strongly not recommended for the violent shock my body had to cope with, it worked at lightening the load on my knees and I cautiously started the Couch to 5k again. Some weeks of the training had to be repeated as there were small plateaus here and there but after 3 months I could very slowly manage 5km. My speed hasn't really changed in the last 14 years. Becoming a runner has been one of most joyous discoveries in my life- an exemplar concept of "making things better"- improving my mood, simplifying what really matters in life and keeping my body healthy. 

But for all the psychological positives I get from running it may be weight training that is the true exercising secret to coping with grief. I started lifting weights three years ago for one reason only- chronic physical pain. I had tried everything else to reduce sciatic pain that had been disabling me for a year as the discomfort was constant, sometimes mild and sometimes so bad I couldn't get out of bed for a day at a time. But it was there every minute of every day for a year. The pain brought me to tears many times and I was forced to seriously consider the true possibility that I may have mobility issues for the rest of my life, affecting my relationship with my son and wife, work and friends, day to day life may be different, holidays wouldn't be the same. 

Some physiotherapy exercises, Pilates and yoga stretching had given me some relief from the sciatica in that it reduced the pain for few hours here and there, enabling me to go for a short jog each week, but it never went away. Medication was just a sticking plaster. Meditation, mindfulness, anxiety-management and muscle-relaxation techniques didn't work. I read some comments online about recovering from back pain at the gym and so in desperation I bought the cheapest second-hand set of weights I could find online and completed some back squats after watching instructional clips on YouTube. 

Logically, I assumed, stretching my back and leg muscles should surely open up any trapped nerves and hopefully free me from the daily pain that was pointing me towards insanity. I would try almost anything at this stage. 

Miraculously, it worked. Overnight. The next morning, I winced as usual as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed ready to be stabbed in the back from the pain of sitting up, as I had been for a year, but it didn't come. My legs were stiff but mobile, my muscles underused but full of potential and I freely stood and tentatively walked around the bedroom waiting for the pain to kick in but it never came. It has never returned. Never, since that day, have I had a return of the sciatica nor have I experienced any serious back pain and I entirely attribute this to weight training. I have been lifting weights every week since then, my primary motivating factor being the fear of that pain, the worst I ever felt in my life. 

My romantic attachment to back squats remains to this day. Although my weight training goals have shifted recently towards using it as a tool for longevity and for more efficient running, I continue to weight train to get stronger and stronger. I have noticed a number of changes in my body and mind over these three years but the continual adding of extra weight to the barbell (so called "progressive overload") has encouraged my body to perform a more and more difficult task. Over the years I've got stronger, of course, but the weight gets heavier too and so it never gets easy, it is a constant challenge, small but consistent, and it is the continual challenge that makes it worthwhile. 

The concept of "progressive overload", of adding extra weight to the barbell each week or month, ensures increasing strength because of the way the muscle breaks down due to this new stress and then rebuild itself stronger next time around (other concepts in weight training are also important such as the time the muscle is under tension and also performing each movement using the full range of motion for that muscle but "progressive overload" is a gold standard). It's a concept that can be applied to continual growth in other areas- creativity, mental health, physical improvement. David Bowie said it well when he talked about his creativity, he states it's like wading out to sea until the water is at the level of your chin. That next step you take, into the unknown where your feet cannot touch the seabed, is where his creativity starts, he said. That is the trick- you don't do anything totally new and extraordinary, you simply extrapolate slightly (that is, travel in the same direction as usual)  and take one small step further than you've taken before. This, where you overload progressively, is where growth starts.

The same idea is used for some phobia therapy- it is called "graded desensitisation" or "exposure therapy"- but the concept is the same, extrapolate slightly from your current position and overload in an organised and progressive manner (for example, a very gradual introduction to spiders for an arachnophobe- small photos of a spider, then bigger photos, then a small real one a long distance away, bringing it gradually closer, etc). Improvements take time but the key is consistency and deliberate continual change in a specific direction. 

With my professional and personal interest in mental health and trauma I have noted continual developments in brain imaging techniques and related research that appears to show how doing difficult things, whether due to deliberate progressive overload challenges (like weight training) or surviving unwanted psychic pain (such as traumatic grief), can increase resilience and help us make more sense of our distress. 

To thrive well after a challenge is all about the anterior cingulate cortex (ACC) and the cognitive triad. The ACC is a part of the brain that is used in motivation, emotional regulation and decision-making and it is placed very near the pre-fontal cortex (relating to executive functions and self-control). It also has connections to the amygdala (threat/fear) and the hippocampus (memory formation) and it is the ACC along with these other three (the cognitive triad are also strongly associated with processing trauma) that is of interest here. The ACC responds actively- it literally changes its neural connections- when we do something challenging. This, in turn, positively affect the cognitive triad and changes how we emotionally regulate (that is, how our central nervous system manages it's electrical activity to an appropriate level and helps modulate the strength of emotions and whether they overwhelm us or not), our sensitivity to perceived threat (past trauma keeps our amygdala firing all the time- it believes there is a threat and keep us constantly, exhaustingly, mentally alert- this is called "hypervigilance") and our formation of memories (traumatic memories have been poorly processed and instead of being neatly stored in a "memory bank" of our brain float around our mind, spontaneously and violently recalled- these are the "flashbacks" and recurring nightmares of PTSD). 

In other words, doing hard things may reduce traumatic memories, reduce long-term exhaustive alertness and always "being on", may help to manage difficult emotions and can increase future resilience in times of distress. By doing hard things other hard things feel easier.

In addition to the potential neurological benefits of weight lifting there is also a very basic truth at stake, an honest leveller that is both humbling and rewarding- does the heavy thing get lifted or not? It's as simple as that, the weight either leaves the ground or it doesn't. There are no shortcuts, no cheat code, you can't enlist the help of anyone else, you either get that weight off the ground or it stays there. And if you can't lift it, you practice and practice and get stronger and stronger until you can. With weights, as in life, you do your best and if that is not enough it shouldn't matter as it was beyond your ability to complete. You gave it your best shot and there are few things more honest than that. 

Physical strength is an extraordinary feeling. Getting out of bed is easier, so is putting on your socks and tying your shoelaces, shopping bags are lighter, your sphere of capability increases as you become that person friends call to help with moving house or reconfiguring their garage or getting their rubbish to the dump. You become more in tune with your range of motion ("yes, I could climb up there"), your range of strength ("yes, I'll get one end of that washing machine for you") and your limits ("that gap is too far to jump"). And all these movement possibilities of which you are now aware equates to expanded boundaries of your dynamic and static positions in the physical world- you can move in that direction for however long you want, using whichever locomotive force is best, for that amount of time. 

You don't get strong when you lift heavy stuff, that happens when you rest. "Rest is recovery" as they say at the gym and it is true. Providing that initial stimulus to a muscle slightly damages it and it then repairs itself to a stronger level to cope with that stimulus again. That repair happens only when we are resting and therefore sleep becomes an essential part of the strength equation. We need sleep to get strong.

Tired muscles need to rest, of course, but I need no extra sleep on days I have completed a long or intense run- this is simply tiredness but broken muscles, ones that have been lifting a weight heavier than we are used to, need reparation. And that repairing takes time, water and nutrients more than simple rest. There are fewer sleeps as deep as the one after a heavy weights session. Restful sleep usually means a healthy sleep pattern (alternating shallow, REM, dream-sleep and the deeper "repair" sleep when our bodies go through various restoring processes to our muscles, central nervous system and brain) and, in turn, improvements in mental health. To dream is to process the days events and thoughts, to dream well is to address serious psychic work that needs taken care of. 

When we go through stressful events in life- grief, moving house, relationship issues- we often dream more than usual due to the extra processing work our brain needs to do. Anything we can do to focus on sleeping and dreaming well- having a good evening routine, reducing caffeine, a comfortable sleeping environment, weight training- will help us feel more relaxed and in control the next day as we've less to worry about. 

In addition to sleep and plenty of water (muscle repair, like many processes in our bodies, needs water to complete) we also need the right nutrition. One of the many things that suffers when we are depressed or anxious or traumatised is that we don't feel like eating- literally, our appetite goes down-  but this necessity for nourishment after weight-lifting can unconsciously encourage us to eat more healthily, it can improve our appetite and give us the extra energy we need for daily activities and motivation. The body needs very specific chemicals to rebuild muscle and we get these from eating a wide variety of foods. After a session at the gym I am always famished- my body is strongly signalling "GIVE ME SUSTENANCE TO REPAIR MYSELF". Food is fuel, to eat is to be energised. This is not only for muscle repair but for growth of many healthy tissues- bones, ligaments, tendons- hence the success of weight-training as the perfect "future-proofing" tool for older people. 

I am convinced that three years of weight training has slowly but convincingly increased my ability to bounce back from setbacks. Due to the necessary effort required, I often don't want to go into a weight-training session- it can be complicated and difficult, progress in sometimes imperceivably slow, there's no "runner's high"- but the advantages of reduced physical and mental pain are almost incalculable. It has helped me manage my emotions (for example at job interviews or reducing my social anxiety) and has prevented me ruminating on things that went wrong because those negative memories either haven't been formed or are so well processed and filed away in the memory banks of my brain they play no significant influence on my anxieties. Also, the discipline needed to continue a habit as hard work as lifting weights has serious carry-over into other aspects of my life- consistency produces progress, it increases self-belief in my own capabilities and has taught me that I can adapt well. It is early days for me, a weight training career lasts decades not months, but there have been clear positive changes in my body and mind in the last 3 years and I hope to continue well into old age.  

RIP my old friend Gemma Nash

 

It was recently the 8th anniversary of my mum's death. I wasn't too worried beforehand, I'm well versed in how to grieve well. I'll plan my days in the ways I usually do, I thought, knowing that the runup is likely to be worse than the day itself and, as usual, have a vague plan for the day with easy, time consuming distractions. In this case I was going to the office with a few simple meetings to attend- ones I've been to a thousand times before, no surprises, no tension. As expected, it was sad week before the day itself (30th January), a few tears here and there, I told a handful of closer colleagues so they need not expect too much from me. 

But with grief you always have to expect the unexpected. This week, only two days ago in fact, I got news that an old friend, Gemma, died. She died last week, on 30th January, the same day as my mum, after a short illness of cancer. I didn't know she had been diagnosed and was very shocked by the suddenness of her not being here any more. I have cried many times in the last few days and the knowledge of her death hits me in waves.

It is true that when someone has been genuinely traumatised the abrasive memories haunt them in pulses- they relive the experience through flashbacks or repeated nightmares. It is as if their brain has found the experience simply too painful to fathom, too emotional to rationally process, and so the unprocessed thoughts go round and round and round, shocking them again and again. Similarly with a less traumatic but still very surprising shock, the thoughts disappear for while (you simply can't cope if they're always present) but then suddenly jolt into your consciousness unexpectedly. This is how I have responded to this shock- wave after sudden wave of upset and tears that are gradually receding as my brain processes the experience and, eventually, accepts the truth of Gemma's death. 

Gemma wasn't a close friend but she was an old friend. We were teenagers when we met and were pretty much inseperable for few years, we were in the same close group, went on holiday together, we even went to Glastonbury music festival together. We shared many drunk evenings together, got stoned for three days after overdosing on homemade "special fudge" and, due to her disability, I accompanied her as a loyal "plus one" on many gigs, family events and even a job interview or two. We were close for years, we shared relationship woes, saw other friendships come and go. We grew apart in our twenties but reconnected through social media a few years back and, although we never physically met again due to geographical distance, there was an unspoken bond that often exists in old friendships. The bond may not have been strong- we weren't as close as we once were- but it's deep and old. 

Gemma was a connection to my past- she was someone who knew me. I have often thought it is unimportant to know people that used to know you, I am not nostalgic and my default setting is "forward". Certainly anyone I have become friends with again after years apart is someone with whom I have a new and valuable relationship based on who they are now and not what we had many years ago. But I have to admit the loss of Gemma is also about a loss of personal history and of my own past. My lived experience- all our lived experiences- is so intertwined with others that to lose someone else is to die a little too. Bereaved people know all this, of course, but sometimes it becomes so clear how much we are of other people, within other people, how much they really are part of our lives even if there's been no contact for 25 years or more. Gemma and I may not have spoken for two decades until recently but she was genuinely formative in my teenage years and therefore formative in who I am as an adult. I will think of her every day until I die and I will miss her greatly. 

Rest in peace, Gemma Nash- musician, artist, disability rights activist, my old friend.

Take Silliness Seriously

 

Don't confuse my silliness as a lack of seriousness or levity. My superfluousness is hard-won, it has taken years, decades of such a broad range of experiences that I have had to conclude how I feel and act. It takes years of sustained reflective effort of all those "serious" experiences  to earn the right to behave exactly how I want. It means I don't have to express interest in some very earnest topics that other people feel are so important- maybe because it isn't important to me or because my resilience tells me not to for self-preservation- and it may mean that lightness, sometimes, is the most valuable approach. 

I take my silliness very seriously, as seriously as I take psychotherapy, and can dismiss seriousness in the blink of an eye, if needed. I can express a lightness of touch that only people who have experienced the exact opposite can express. People like me who have survived the terrible darkness of grief or trauma or depression are also able to fully embrace and appreciate grades of delicacy that many other people are desensitised to- from the deftness of Fred Astaire to the pure joy of a baby's laugh or the nuance of 100 shades of white- we have fought for our right for this. Post-trauma, I have put in the psychic effort of years of reflection and resilience-building, culminating in my legititmate dismissal of irrelevance and my acceptance of importance. My battle was righteous, the result weighty and considered. 

For example, I have little interest in currant affairs or the news, a statement that makes me a little uncomfortable to express. It didn't used to be this way- before Ruby died 11 years ago I would read 3 newspapers a day, listen to the news on the radio, watch it on the TV, I was a news junkie. But now it does not feel informative. I now have a much greater understanding of my own usefulness and knowledge of my sphere of influence and power, I know how I can positively affect negative world events (for example, financial donations, direct local action, supporting affected people through my work helping refugees face to face, etc) and I also know the limits of my influence. In other words, my interest in those events is lower if I cannot contribute to helping those affected and is limited to the scope of my direct action. I still get daily news from different sources but my interest is practical, not broadly informative as it used to be. 

I dismiss the seriousness of current affairs and I dismiss the weight of many "serious" issues if they are totally outside of my control (the Stoics would have us concentrate our greatest efforts on things that are somewhat in our control because those things can be most influenced and should be our main focus, as opposed to things completely in our control about which only a small amount of mental effort should be apportioned). I have earned the right to this dismissal without guilt or blame. I know what counts as serious and what counts as not serious not through superfluous rejection or burying my head in the sand but through studied reflection and mental effort. If I am being breezy and seemingly thoughtless about a topic you can be assured that is very far from the truth. The more likely truth is that I have given the topic great thought and have concluded, on reflection, that is simply isn't worth my psychic energy.

Delicateness, lightness, nuance, silliness. These are extremely important concepts and their profundity should never be confused with a redundancy of thought. To know delicacy you have to feel substance, to be light is to know weight, to truly appreciate nuance you have to have known labyrinthine confusion. And you have to take your silliness seriously. 

Grief's Unexpected Path

 

The day she died, the day she was born, Father's Day, my birthday, Christmas. It was the date of Ruby's birthday recently, traditionally the second most difficult day of the year for me, a grieving parent. Most people would imagine each passing year should dull the pain, that life should run smoother especially at those difficult dates but those same people are happily unaware the true path of grief is straggled with twists and bends and the occasional impasse that identifies itself at inopportune times. The road of grief is not linear, of course it isn't, but there are times when even the most experienced griever is thrown into seemingly spontaneous discomfort. Ruby's recent birthday- she should have become 23 but died at 11- was such a day.

As with every death day, birthday, Father's Day and Christmas I prepared myself as best I could in the weeks leading up to it. In truth, when one date has passed (in my case, my birthday in July) I begin to consider the next one, I think how to best manage it and prepare myself for the path leading up to that day. I remind myself that the previous weeks and days are worse than the actual day itself, I remind myself to be as kind to myself as I would be to a loved one in similar circumstances, I remind myself that everything passes, that time does not change its pace and that, before I know it, the day is over and all will be well. 

Except this year was different. The path I had created for myself leading up to Ruby's birthday felt different, I was wading through treacle every day and it felt a great effort to keep my head upright. I couldn't straighten my back, I couldn't lift my limbs high, I couldn't focus. On her birthday I barely had enough energy to get out of bed or complete the mindless chores I had prepared for myself. Only one person- an old friend- contacted me, no family or other friends were in touch and that lack of connection amplified my loneliness. It affected me deeply and it took weeks to recover. 

In those weeks of recovery this year I lived with almost constant thoughts of loss, of not being whole or even wholly present- one day a cat ran across the pavement in front of me and I half turned to smile at Ruby but, of course, just turned back again. Another day I swear I heard her voice or maybe something like her voice and I started saying "huh?" but just slowly exhaled instead. On many days I thought I could feel the wiry brush of her thick hair under my chin, her shoulder in my arm pit and her hand on my back (she was never taller than my chin). One day, just after this recent birthday, I think I felt her balled-up fist in my palm- her hands were never large enough to comfortably interlace our fingers and I would cradle her entire hand in mine. Then I suddenly knew it wasn't her and my breath was taken from me and my legs lost all power and I had to sit down for fear of collapse. These were almost hallucinations, felt sensory experiences rooted in such profound deprivation as to be willed into being. I had never experienced this extraordinary physical manifestation of Ruby's wake before and was affected it by it for many weeks. 

Grief doesn't make sense, it follows no logical or expected path. Even now, 11 years after Ruby died, there are days, weeks, months, years and specific anniversary days that are utterly different to all the others, that have power to surprise and move me in new ways. Some are easier than others- mostly I live as well as I can and at peace- but there still exists the spontaneous power of grief to take my breath and my strength, that makes me feel things that aren't there, that reminds me I have missing parts where I look and see nothing. 

11 Years Without Ruby

 

I last saw Ruby 11 years ago. She was 11 when she died and so I will soon be without her longer than we were together. As can be the way with grief, certain dates and times get lodged in memory whether you want them to or not and they can be hard to shake. For example, on a particularly low day not long after Ruby died in 2013, at aged 11 years and 237 days, I worked out the exact date when Tom would be at that same age- 1st August 2022. In hindsight, thinking rationally, it was a terrible idea. For years I hoped the date would dissipate from my memory but it was tattood into my mind forever and so the weeks leading up to August 2022 were some of the toughest yet.

In those earlier years after 2013 my grief timeline was like a mountain range- up and down, up and down, peaks and valleys of no clear discernable timeframe, grief may hit hard for a day then dissapear for days, then return for  a week or longer then there would be weeks of stability then mabye an awful month and so on back and forth. There were noticable periods that were harder than others, particularly difficult weeks within a month, low months within a year, even years that were recognisably harder than other years. 

Normal life gets in the way, of course, influencing my bereavement "process" and I failed to take that into account for years. My other relationships with Tom, with Claire, with friends, family and work colleagues, the ebbs and flows of my job, my own interests and joys and setbacks and dissapointments and achievements all play an influential part in my own grief. Maybe this is fairly usual for other grieving parents, that the bereavement of losing your child becomes, after many years, such an integral part of daily life that it is as usual and, it maybe needs admitting, as banal as a regular irritant. Its effects vary greatly within me of course, and one day it may feel like an irritating neighbour making too much noise but on another day it feels like I have been forced to drag a 100kg bag of soil behind me wherever I walk. 

Over the years it has become impossible to differentiate my grief as something "other", as separate from me and outside of me. The primary disadvantage of this diabolical union of me and my grief, which has existed since the day Ruby died, is that it is always there with me. I am my grief, it can never leave me. But there is also advantageous power in recognising this uncomfortable fusion- or more specifically the pain associated with my grief rather than the grief itself- as being within me, something that I can have potential control over, something I can positively change. It takes many years of hard psychic work, sometimes with professional guidance, but, as has been recognised in a therapeutic context, pain may be mandatory but suffering can be optional. In other words, all my efforts in managing my grief over the last 11 years have been directed towards the navigation of my bereavement, not in ignoring its existence. Having agency is a major coping mechanism.

The importance of having agency- some sense of self-control- was clear to me from day one. In those very early times of shock and disbelief, some tiny message at the back of my brain whispered to me "start your homework now before the shock wears off". So I got to work reading about humanism, philosophy, grief psychology and anything else that I thought might be of use for the mental mountain I knew I was due to climb. I emailed a respected humanist, Professor A.C.Grayling, asking for advice and he wrote back with compassion and informative kindness. I bought books, read articles, asked questions, gathered information. 

A few months after Ruby died the shock began to wear off and the true depth and breadth of the work ahead of me began to reveal itself. Looking back I don't know how I had managed so early to arrange this skeleton upon which to build some kind of new future, I imagine it may have been my deep unconcious making a feeble attempt at damage limitation. Whatever the cause, it developed within me a necessity to disconnect from being a slave to my environment and instead forced me to live in a considered way. In other words, if I was to survive grief I had to investigate the right way for me to do this, to put active effort into how I lived, thought and behaved.

I didn't always travel in the right direction. In the last 11 years there have been many setbacks and many avenues I have walked down only to come to a dead end. I have started friendships which have fallen short and I have investigated therapeutic supports that have come to nothing, I have spent months reading recommended books that were all but useless. But any effortful enquiry that may appear to have failed has at least failed under my direction and as per my instruction- after all, these were my choices to consider- and so their lack of success is not as wasteful as might otherwise be the case. To have choice is to have agency. If I fail I fail on my terms. Eleven years ago I unconsciously chose to become an active participant in my bereavement which means I could ask new questions and create new ways of looking and thinking and coping. Somehow, a part of me knew this to be true- I can be influential in my recovery. 

This influence in my own affairs is an absolute necessity because what else am I to do? At times I feel I have no choice except to put uncommonly huge amounts of energy, all the mental effort I can create, into simply surviving. Just for today. If I didn't I would cry or scream or both and probably never stop. And I know this to be true, sometimes, so when I am quiet or distant this may well be the true reason- it might not be a thoughtfulness that occasionally overtakes me or an acute wonder what Ruby would think of this or of that, it may not be an introspective meditation about loss- it may simply be a defence being internally created against the potential riot that could explode at any moment. A riot is, after all, just an expression of anger and frustration without the polite necessity of control. And who wants that?

Every anniversary every year is different. Not necessarily more easy to manage each year, some years are worse than before, others are not. But a common theme, present every anniversary of her death, has been that I should expect something unexpected, forget that I am expecting this and then become shocked at this year's unusual event. In essence I become unexpectant of the unexpected. This year I felt an anxiety like never before in the days leading up to the anniversary date itself and also on the day (I am not used to irrational or sudden anxiety. Like anyone I would get nervous when it is expected- a job interview for example- but less than once a year I would have a "panic attack" or a similar type of acute anxiety). I was supposed to expect the unexpected, as I have told myself every year to do, but of course I forgot, as I also do every year, and so this anxiety totally shocked me. My anxiety always signals its arrival with waves of nausea too so that was a nice surprise. 

On the day itself, 8th May, Claire and I laid flowers in particular places and kept ourselves gently distracted. Lunch out, plenty of walks, busied ourselves around the house, waited for Tom to come home from school and focused on the evening's routines until an early night to bed to as early a sleep as possible. Then the worst day of the year was over.

It is the worst day of the year, it always is and always will be. The weeks and days leading up to it are difficult, some years maddeningly so, and the day itself is always awful. We have learnt to have a plan for the day but also to let ourselves flag when we need to, be angry if we need to, fall apart if we need to. But we survive, we always do, and then it's over. It is, after all, just another day. Everything passes.

I miss Ruby so much, so, so, so much. I hear a song and I think of her, I read a book and I think of her, I watch the TV and I think of her, I do nothing and I think of her. I work and cook and chat and I live a normal day-to-day life and I think of my dead daughter. I meditate and I have free thought and I allow myself to look out the window and wonder and day-dream and still I think of Ruby. Of course the grief is easier to bear now 11 years have passed- of course it is, how can it not be- but she still isn't here with me and I still remain without her. There is a space near me that I am always aware of where there is nothing, no thing, that is forever existent and forever affecting of the rest of the space near me. Eleven years later there are faded memories, sometime only memories of memories. Grief is at once both visceral and at the fringes of living, it is all-pervading but also indistinct, it is congruous but also inconsistent. It can be fucking horrific, so painful and so distressing and so dreadful. But you survive. You have to. And you keep going, one day after the next, sometimes thoughtfully, sometime on autopilot, and you can eventually thrive again, live again, you can even live well. We grieve because we love but we survive because of it too. 

Lifespan or health span?

Do you want to see your 100th birthday? What if you do get to a century but you have spent the previous 30 years unable to move fast or far, unable to lift bags of shopping and able to breathe only shallow sips of air without daily medication? Instead would you prefer to live to only 80 but with painless mobility and independence until year 79? Modern healthcare and medications can aid our longivity but at what cost? Continual research adds to the body of evidence that fairly simple lifestyle choices can help massively reduce the risks of excess pain and illness in late life and can lengthen the healthiest time of our lives. It is never too late to start.

Most people who survive childbirth and infant years eventually die from heart disease, strokes, respiratory issues, cancer, diabetes, accidents or suicide. Aside from having genetic or geographical luck here are some recommendations that have been shown to reduce the risks of dying younger but also, crucially, increase our health span. 

1) Don't smoke (or "if you smoke, stop now, you'll get better"). Biggest killer in the world, it's a no brainer. It appears to be the case that smoking less or less frequently doesn't make much difference, you have to not smoke. If you smoke you are likely to have a greater than 50% chance of it killing you (cancer, heart disease, COPD, etc). If you stop smoking (treatments are free and plentiful) your body can potentially recover back to the condition of you being a non-smoker but the evidence is not conclusive and, if true, it takes many years and much hard work (a decade of running will probably do it).

2) Calorie frugality (or "don't eat more than you need"). Err on the side of appropriateness with regards to quantity and aim for a plant-based diet- many animal products and most processed food can be linked to heart disease, cancer and other illnesses. You don't have to be vegan to live to 100 but it really helps to be as vegan as possible. There are many accurate online calculators of necessary daily caloric intake and bear in mind the dustructive power of viseceral fat ("belly" fat and around the organs) as compared to the less unhealthy subcutnaeous fat (under the skin). Obviously genes play a part here but even regularly active runners and weightlifters like me should know that the "fat and fit" idea is very nearly mythical. Don't drink alcohol- the evidence now proves that any amount of alcohol is risky (yes, even one glass of red wine a day). The safe alcohol level is…zero.

3) Move (or "be non-sedentary"). Move throughout the day, every day. You don't have to exercise very hard- evidence is inconclusive that huge amounts of exercise helps you live longer but usual recommendations are to get at least 30 minutes of raised heart rate activity each day. What is clearer is the positive evidence for occasional higher intensity movements for cardiac and overall health (such as having a weekly variation of cardiac strain- bouts of high intensity heart rate plus bouts of long, slightly raised heart rate for example). But what is truly conclusive is that being sedentary over the longterm is extremely unhealthy and contributes to heart disease, strokes, COPD, depression and other major killers. Moving little and often every day is a characteristic of the oldest populations on the planet (such as in Okinawa, Japan or Sardinia) but most of them also live up in the mountains so that helps too. So get moving, at least a little and very often. And live in a village halfway up a mountain. 

4) Weightlifting (or "resistance training"). Falls and accidents in older people contribute to rapid deterioration in health and early deaths. Resistance training increases balance and proprioception (ie. our location in space- where is my body in relation to that chair I am about to sit down on?), it enables stronger muscles to save you falling as you trip- imagine a strong but flexible arm grabbing the headrest of a chair as your foot accidentally catches the chairleg- and stronger muscles mean denser bones which means fewer fractures. Start lifting weights (either body weight, iron barbell at a gym, tins of beans in the kitchen) at any adult age but it's more important the older you get. No-one is ever too old, or too young, to start (and evidence now proves that even children can take part in considerate, careful weightlifting to good health benefits with no negative effects on bone development, as was previously thought to be the risk). 

5) Have agency (or "take control"). Find someone who will listen to you and who will help you get control of your life (or learn and practice great introspection). A quarter of the world's population will experience depression, anxiety or other serious mental illness (and almost all of us go through bereavement). There are many therapies and interventions that help including psychiatric medications and talking therapies that are, literally, lifesaving. Aim to be in control of the things we need to be in control of (ie. agency) and aim to let go of what we don't need to be in control of- we can do this most easily by finding someone to listen to us. We all feel an internal chaos, if only occasionally, we all look around for the adults in charge, at times we all feel guilt and insecurity. Work at understanding where you unconciously come from and how to increase gratitude. This is hard work but is always possible, all difficult things can be worked through and addressed, all traumas healed- this is not anecdotal experience, it is medical fact as evidenced by centuries of knowedge. Forgive the child you used to be- that was then but this is now. Allow yourself to be happy. Allow yourself to be happy. Allow yourself to be happy. 

Reflections on an Ultramarathon- I run therefore I am

 

Some weeks ago I completed the run of my life- a 50km ultramarathon- the culmination of five months training after five years reflection on the only marathon I have run. After running the Belfast marathon in 2017 I reassured myself that I wouldn't do anything so ridiculous again- at the time I was undertrained, unenthusiastic and deep in grief for my mum and for Ruby who had died four years previously, almost to the day. It was the most difficult voluntary action I ever performed and took a month or more to recover as I missed half my training due to a chest infection and then my mum died, suddenly and unexpectedly, two months before the marathon. I trained, if it could be called that, by running the classic combination of easy-, training- and long-runs for as many times as grief and exhaustion would allow me. This was nowhere near enough. 

The run was memorable for all the wrong reasons. I had only ever run alone and at the marathon start-line I was surrounded by thousands of people, acutely aware that I experience social anxiety in the company of even small groups. It was un unusually hot May morning, I ran out of my electrolyte drink a quarter of the way through, I ran the full distance barefoot on roads I had never run before and my soles were cut and bleeding within 10km because the surface was so stony. After the marathon I could barely walk for three weeks, my muscles atrophied and the soles of my feet were shredded. And so, considering this experience, I vowed to never do it again.

But a few years later, partly due to my interest in endurance running and long distance racing by runners who could only be described as super-human (100km mountain race, anyone? 260 miles over the Pennines? 24 hours non-stop around a running track?), I got the itch to look into my unfinished business of successful marathon completion. The usual 42.2 km (26.2 mile) length never really interested me - I only chose Belfast marathon five years ago for easily-recognisable fund-raising purposes - and so a 50km ultramarathon (31 miles) was the next logical step. I made the decision to aim for the ultra and, just like that, the commitment was cemented (this realisation about commitment was slow to grow in my mind over the years- to agree to something, even something as seemingly insurmountable as running 50km barefoot, is as easy as saying "OK, go on then" and that's it, I'm signed up). 

But there was a serious obstacle. A year previously I developed sciatica after a run of pure bad luck- three pulled back muscles in three days- and was floored for weeks with the worst pain I've ever experienced which includes motorbikes crashes, broken bones and more than one burst gum abscess. A rigorous stretching regime was the most successful treatment for the acute pain in my back at the time of injury but even though I became a little more mobile after a month and could run again within two I still woke up with sciatic pain every morning after then. A year later I had decided to run the ultra and, to feed two cats with one bowl (Tom and I decided years ago that this is a much more pleasant way to put it)- to train for the ultra and to finally rid myself of daily back pain- I bought a rusted and bent second-hand set of weights and barbell, taught myself how to deadlift on YouTube and designed a training regime. 

It worked. From that very first morning after lifting weights I woke up with no back pain, I evangelically shouted for joy with the zeal of the newly converted and jumped out of bed like a child on Christmas Day. It was revelatory and so I started training for the ultra in earnest by running three times a week (the usual short/training/long) and lifting increasingly heavy weights three times a week too. I quickly realised that you can use weights for different health/aesthetic benefits and, for me, this meant keeping an eye on "functional" body strength (being strong when moving through a range of different motions instead of just one plane- the difference between moving a sofa and deadlifting) but also using the weights to focus on running-specific exercises to increase the strength in my joints and core.

My runs changed slightly over the next five months as my cardiovascular fitness, mobility and strength noticeably increased. A typical training run might include hill repeats- in the early stages a warm-up jog down to the sea at the bottom of the hill I live on, race up the hill for 30 seconds which is as far as I could go before retching (this speed is zone 5 heart rate), slowly jog back down to the sea (zone 2 heart rate) then repeat 6 times- but by the end of five months training I was running up that hill 12 times for 50 second bursts. Similarly, my easy run started at 5-8km and ended at 15km five months later, my long runs started at 20km and ended at 40km. 

The open secret about running is that, once you can run for 5km without stopping (about 30-40 minutes), it isn't a great hurdle to run any distance because all you have to do is practise. It takes time and effort, of course, but there's no magic formula here - you simply increase the long run gradually until you are where you want to be- 10km, 50km, 100km or more. 

Early September was crunch time. It was a psychologically busy period of the year and is usually the most stressful time too- both our very old cats died within a few weeks of each other a month earlier (they had been with us for 17 years), it should have been my mums birthday on the 6th and it was also Ruby's birthday on the 13th  (she would have been 21 this year). The weekend closest to these two anniversaries arrived and part of me wanted to go to bed and ignore the world for a week which is the same part of me I have to make peace with every year (much of the management of long-term grief is about making peace with yourself, of navigating the journey rather than trying to circumvent it). 

But this weekend was different. The weather was perfect for running - chilly, bright and clear - my training was complete and it was also the tenth anniversary of when I started running, to the week. I was buoyant and I felt unusually strong so I headed out on the pavement with a rucksack full of flapjack, some peanut butter wraps and two litres of electrolyte fluid and, without warmups or fanfare or a starting gun, I started to jog round a double 25km loop on foot (which still makes me tired to even contemplate. 50 kilometeres, on foot, running, it's a pretty ridiculous idea by most standards). I was off.

Although unexciting to announce, the run mostly went like clockwork. I smiled around the first 40km or so, roads I had covered  hundreds of times over the last ten years. I ate and drank little and often and I ran effortlessly. I incidentally glanced at my smartwatch at 42.2km, the exact marathon distance, and took a big gulp as I had never run further than this in my life. But I plodded on and continued to gorge on wild blackberries growing in the hedgerows by the side of the road (the flapjack and wraps had become impossibe to digest after 30km). I pulled a muscle in my back when reaching up for this perfect autumnal roadside snack which hampered my breathing and speed for the last 8km (actually it was as painful as the broken rib I endured a few months previously but, this time, the pain dissipated by the evening) but I eventually hobbled across the finishing line, breaths like stabs, bruised soles, jellied legs but goal achieved - 50km complete. There is no shower as deeply cleansing as the shower after a long run and there is also no pizza as delicious.

So, was it a profound experience as I had hoped and had read it might be? Was I a changed person because of it? In short, yes and no. On a superfluous level (type 1 fun, as I have heard it called) I enjoyed the run for the simple pleasure of movement for movements' sake - there were times I jumped a little higher than I needed to when going up the pavement after crossing the road, times that I skipped down to the sea shore for a quick paddle halfway round and times that I stopped at a beautiful viewpoint (of which there many on that route) just to breathe it all in and appreciate the luck I have simply to be able to run. I waved at every runner, patted every dog, stroked every cat, thanked every car that gave way and gave a thumbs up to every child that looked my way. I think I even winked at a few people. One older gentleman even got a salute from me, something I've never done in my life.

But, in addition, type 2 fun is how runners really get their kicks and is the true, deeper reason we know it is worth putting ourselves through such hard work- all those cold, early mornings and vomit-inducing sprints and exhausting long runs, all the chaffing and rolled ankles and sore knees- all for the psychological rewards that sometimes arrive long after the run itself. The sense of achievement that I felt after running 50km was certainly not greater than reaching my first 5km ten years previously (I want to be able to feel that sense of joyous achievement again but have concluded, sadly, that if finishing a marathon or ultramarathon doesn't give me the same buzz as my first 5km, no run ever will) but it was nevertheless a distance to be proud of, being a man who has no real skills, no discernable talent and who hates training. 50km was a goal I had aimed for, that I had created a plan to achieve and I had put great quantities of effort into its realisation. The endeavour was worth all the hard work I had invested. 

Also, it isn't that I ran a long way that rewards me, it is that I can run a long way. The ability to move in a way that we as a species have evolved to do- particularly if I run long distances barefoot - proves that I am animal, that I am tangible and that I am afforded a place here in nature and this is where I should be. As has been stated elsewhere (notably by philosopher Heidegger) it isn't that I "have" a body, rather it is that I "am" bodily. Running a long way proves not only that I am a visceral member of the animal kingdom but also that I am psychically linked to, and coupled with, nature. My body is not separate from my brain, they are one and the same as I am with my surroundings. 

Some runners talk of "conquering" mountains, or even "combating" them, but I don't want to be an opponent. I want to be amalgamated with my surroundings and I want to relate to it. I want to be striated within it and, it turns out, running gives me this. The profoundest lesson I have learnt from running is this- to run is to be human, to be human is to be animal and to be animal is to be a component of the natural world, to be of it and within it. To paraphrase Heidegger, it isn't that I am "in" nature, it is that I "am" natural.