Injury lessons 3: Brains

I think I’ve made it fairly obvious that sometimes I get injured. I’ve also been pretty open about how poorly I deal with it. I tend to become quite depressed, and have an extremely unhelpful habit of training before healed enough to really be doing so.

Roller derby is a pretty questionable sport for me to take up, considering all of that. Its injury rate seems disturbingly close to Black Friday in a Walmart and I’ve been particularly clumsy. Before my first year of training was over, I had experienced a sprain bad enough for a brief spell on crutches, which I complained about roughly as much as people who break both their legs and maybe a wrist, landed on a haematoma, which made me scream embarrassingly, and concussion.

Concussion means you have a headache and feel weird for a few days and then you’re fine, right? You might get light sensitive or feel kind of sick but it’s hardly as bad as that sprain. Right?

Wrong.

This is the worst injury I have ever experienced. When I had an abdominal tear, it was devastating to be basically unable to move for so long. When I hurt my ankle, that brief spell of being on crutches made it really hard to even eat (it was a good few days before I was able to eat a hot meal, and that was a Subway sandwich) and knocked my confidence hard. And that was partial weight bearing – people who have a break have a MUCH harder time than me. Having my shoulder get injured over and over again has led to me paying a hell of a lot for physiotherapy, without which I would never be able to climb or do parkour again. And the haematoma thing was just really cringeworthy. Oh, and it hurt. But with a concussion, what’s injured isn’t a limb or a joint. It’s ME – everything that makes me myself.

The initial concussion came about when I ran at someone on roller skates (I’m pretty sure that’s basically how you play derby, right?) and fell over backwards, smacking my head off the floor in the process. I was checked for concussion symptoms and told to sit out for the next three jams, which I did while staring mournfully at the coach like a sad stray puppy stuck outside in the rain. And also a truck has just swerved and splashed muddy water all over it. And also it was just abandoned by a family who were moving and didn’t want to take it with them. And… anyway, you get the idea.

A couple of hours later, I started feeling very unwell in the pub, falling asleep and hacking up bile in the bathroom. I was taken to hospital. I remember bits about this – I was completely convinced I was going to be in trouble for saying I was fine during training, I cried on the bus about the stickers on my helmet, I was afraid of the doctor’s pen when he asked me to track it with my eyes and I had a CT scan before being taken home at about 2am. Not my home. A loyal buddy had stayed with me the entire time, and took me back with her, where I stayed in a nest of blankets and sofa bed for two days, cried a lot and made her put the Babadook on Netflix because I thought the sounds would be soothing.

I didn’t go back to work for over a week. I spent my time asleep. I don’t remember a lot, but I know I didn’t eat much. I couldn’t cope with going outside to the shops – at one point I came across a derby friend who works in a local supermarket, and started crying helplessly because I hadn’t been able to find bin bags for days. She found me bin bags. I lived in a constant brain fog, and it was an achievement the first day I only needed one nap.

When I did go back to work, it was a nightmare. The phone ringing hurt. Two people talking at once would overload me and leave me staring blankly straight ahead. The screen hurt my eyes. I had no emotional control over myself. I had two weeks of leave coming up, and spent most of it resting. At some point when symptoms went down, I worked through the recommended steps for return to exercise – short periods of cardio, gradual introduction of harder stuff – until I was back to roller skate fights.

This was a mistake. I wasn’t actually fully okay. I still had memory issues, was a little slower, and had burst of intense anxiety. And then it happened. I ran at someone, I fell backwards, I whiplashed and there I was again. Not as badly as the first time, but bad enough.

So as of now, where am I at, and why is it so bad?

I’m back to work. It’s difficult. I have problems with headaches, processing instructions, spelling, multitasking… this has all improved a lot lately, but for a good two weeks all I could do was come home and sleep.

Training is very limited. I can swim and do mobility. I hope to start running soon. I’ll probably be able to skate next month, but not contact. I won’t be touching any contact sport until at LEAST October.

There are quite a lot of things I have lost.

  1. I don’t write so good no more. This is the first time I’ve been able to write a long piece for three months. I make silly mistakes, like mixing up there/their/they’re and to/two/too. Numbers are a lot harder, too.
  2. My personality is bad now. I have negative feelings. It’s harder to interact with people, partially because I get tired and confused easily and partly because I’m just not me. During the worst of it, I was like a five year old. I’d cry at anything, I needed a nap every hour or two, I barely knew how to feed myself and I was incapable of coherent thought. Now? I feel like I don’t even know me, let alone like me. I’m really not sure I like me.
  3. I can’t do all the things. My life revolves around climbing stuff, running around, skating, jumping, lifting things – I can’t do this right now. There was a brief period between concussions when I could, but my symptoms got worse and I had to stop. It was a major milestone when I went swimming two times last week and did some contact juggling.
  4. I was never a calm person, but after concussion 2 I was having panic attacks on the tube in the morning. I’ve lost a lot of ability to deal with crowds, especially commuting.
  5. I do not have confidence now. I can only think a few days in advance. I can’t imagine skating properly again, although I talk about it like it’s a thing. I doubt myself constantly – even telling people about concussion effects makes me feel like I’m a wuss or a hypochondriac, because many people have no idea what a concussion can do. I know that physical brain damage can be present even when concussion symptoms are fully clear, so I’m going to be terrified even when all the symptoms are gone. I got a cold this weekend, and panicked in case it was my brain regressing again.

There are a couple of good points in all of this. Firstly, people have been really great. I’ve had helpful medical advice (from qualified people), derby friends checking in on me throughout the whole thing, and let’s not forget that one person who stayed with me until 2am in a hospital and fed me chicken nuggets for two days while I whimpered on her floor. Secondly, some of it is slowly going away. The most helpful thing so far as been acupuncture. I hate needles and I don’t like alternative medicine, so god knows why. I don’t even care why. I’m desperate.

The scariest thing about this, though, is that I’m not at all alone. There has been a lot of media lately about the previously ignored effects of concussion. This guy’s experience is particularly upsetting, with a ray of hope. There’s a whole community of derby players out there who have suffered badly after concussions. Some have had to quit their jobs. Some skate again, some never do. It’s not much fun.

I don’t really know how to end this. Mainly, I just want people to know what a concussion can do. I hear people talk casually about them like they’re no more serious than a bruised-up knee. They can change your life completely, and put everything on hold. So yeah. Helmets don’t save you, don’t fall backwards, and try not to be me.

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Adults don’t play

Some lunchtimes, I do something childish and utterly unacceptable in modern society. It’s a thing I have absolutely no business doing as an adult woman with a professional desk job.

I go out to play.

If you don’t know any better, it sometimes looks like I’m exercising or training for something, which puts people a bit more at their ease – stretching is a little odd, but if it looks like I’m doing yoga, then that’s fine. If I’m running around, that’s even better. Running is admirable as long as I’m doing it to lose or maintain weight, burn off chocolate or even train for a race, although at 34 years old society is a little doubtful as to whether I should really be doing sports. Isn’t that something you only do until mid-twenties. Juggling is also okay. It’s a little laughable to coworkers, but to random park users, it looks like I’m a busker rehearsing an act. Apparently adults can play with toys as long as it’s to earn money, but when bystanders ask me about it and I explain it’s just for fun, it can be quite confusing for them.

Skating, however, is not acceptable for adults. Don’t I know any better? People may think I look silly. And even worse, I sometimes go out in the sun and practise very basic tumbling and moving around on all fours. There is no excuse for a grown-up doing a forward roll or a cartwheel, or lolloping around like a monkey. Unless you are a professional athlete, it’s an undeniable truth that one day, you do a forward roll joyfully, freely, just for the sheer delight of it, and then you never do another. You have crossed an invisible line into adulthood, and like the border of a foreign country, there are things you may not carry through, and there are new laws you must obey.

You may not carry your skateboard, unless it’s to reminisce over. You cannot bring your yoyo, your hula hoop or your rollerskates, although bicycles are allowed for certain activities such as travelling to and from work. Movement is only allowed in special areas. You may move rhythmically to music in clubs if you are a young adult, or to dancercize music at any age provided you are inside a designated gym area. Exercise is for a purpose, not because you just like it. You must have a goal. You can choose whether it’s to burn calories, get stronger, be healthier or look better, but you must have one. Ball games may only be played with children, unless you participate in an organised training group of some kind. Stretching is allowed, but requires a mat and a flat, temperature controlled indoor space, and preferably an authority figure in the form of an instructor. In fact, the only forms of solo exercise a respectable adult may perform outside in the public eye are running and cycling – and female runners in particular are still subject to catcalls from those who have better sense than to do something so undignified.

When you are not exercising in a permitted manner, there is no wasteful moving for fun. You run only when necessary, because you are late. Otherwise, you walk. You do not do anything that may mess up your hair. You dress in limiting, uncomfortable clothing and avoid puddles, getting sweaty or touching the ground to keep it pristine.

As an adult, there is no climbing outside of very special gyms especially for that purpose. Pavements (and only pavements) are for walking on, and a wall may never be clambered up or over. Benches are for sitting on, never for vaulting. Clear, empty outdoor urban areas are for standing in or walking across to get from one destination to another – never for practising quadrupedal movement, or rolls, or sprints. Railings are never, ever for standing on.

Think I’m exaggerating? You’re wrong. I’ve been present while random members of the public approach my friends and I because they don’t want children to see us balancing and think it’s okay. I’ve seen old men complain because we are jumping from one flat paving stone in the grass to another. I’ve heard a police officer say – after acknowledging our right to be where we were and admitting we were not causing a nuisance, damaging anything or impeding anyone’s route through the area – that people don’t like that we’re doing it. I’ve had people mock me for running, and coworkers ask if people laugh at me for tumbling.

Adults do not go out to play.

You know what, though? It’s fun. It’s really fun. Have you ever envied the freedom of a child running just because they love it, instead of out of some sense of guilt or duty? Do you remember what it’s like to look at a flat, grassy area, a hill or a wall and see a million things to do? When was the last time you experimented from moving from one stretch or balance position into another just to see what would happen? Do you remember what it’s like to test your limits – not in a macho self-improvement way or to test your fitness, but just seeing how long you can balance on one leg or hang upside down out of pure curiosity? Have you ever taken one of those giant inflatable gym balls and instead of steadfastly doing your usual pilates routine, tried to see how far across the room you can get on it without touching the floor?

You’re still able to do all that. You never lost that freedom to feel wind in your hair when you run. You can still jump over puddles and random objects in the street. You can kick a football outside, or balance on things (just don’t damage them!). You can even do cartwheels – and nobody can actually stop you. Sometimes they will try. Sometimes they will make fun of you. But they can’t make you stop unless you choose to.

There’s lots of injustice in the world. Awful things happen to good people. The rich take from the poor, children die, law enforcement shoot people based on race alone. These are big things, and I am a small person, but the social stigma surrounding free movement and play for adults is the one thing I feel like I can stand up to. So can you. Set yourself free. Rediscover how your own body works. Show others they can do it too. Go out to play.

 

January part one

Over the past couple of years, I’ve started to see January in a brand new way. I spend the entire month not sure whether to laugh, cry or punch everyone I see in the face (sorry, guys!) And the reason for this is something that enriches my life massively – training and nutrition.

I’m not the kind of person you expect to see complaining about new people at the gym. Nothing makes me happier than seeing people find a sport they love, learn something about their eating habits that improves their health and ability to move, or tries something new and difficult. I grin like an idiot every time I see someone skating for the first time. When I see a noob attempting their first ever vault at parkour I want to stop everything, hug them and throw them a party. I do a happy little dance inside every time a woman who’s been told that weights are just for guys picks up a barbell. If I could high-five every runner I see on the street, my palms would be even more raw than they are already (barbells are hard, guys). So why am I bitching about the month where people make an effort en masse? It should be exactly what I want.

But it’s not. It’s more like witnessing an entire herd of innocent, wobbly-legged fawns make their way into sunlight for the first time only to be gunned down by hunters who are such douchebags they probably don’t even put their rubbish in the bin afterwards. And those hunters are the fitness industry.

The fitness industry is honestly pretty terrible year-round, and a great example of this is Zumba.

First off, I do not believe in telling people that they should not be doing activities I do not personally find useful. Unless you are playing volleyball with the kettlebells or using the squat rack for your planks, then you do you. I’m not anyone’s boss, and everybody everywhere should be free to enjoy whatever movement activities they want without people on the sidelines telling them they won’t get anything out of it. Do you enjoy Zumba? Good. You do that thing and don’t let anyone tell you to quit, least of all me.

However, let’s take a look at the marketing. Zumba.com tells me that it is “a total workout, combining all elements of fitness – cardio, muscle conditioning, balance and flexibility, boosted energy and a serious dose of awesome each time you leave class.” A cursory google search strongly implies that you’re going to burn 500 to 1,000 calories during a one-hour class, with emphasis on the 1,000.

Leaving aside the issue of exercise being about burning calories because this is a post all of its own (I eat calories deliberately for exercise, I don’t exercise to burn calories), let’s consider that in the context of my own overall energy use in any given day. My caloric burn if I am sedentary and maintaining weight is around 1500 calories – this isn’t high, but I’m pretty small at 55-56kg. My burn if I am training at my preferred level, which is pretty much daily with occasional days off, but also multiple sessions on other days, averages at around 2,200. I figured this out with a combination of nerdy spreadsheets, advice from Emmet and self-monitoring, which is a lot more investigation than most people feel the need to do – and even with that much observation, I would be completely unable to tell you what my burn is for any of my activities. I can tell you how many sets and reps of what weight I did on last Tuesday’s squats and bench press. I can tell you how many laps I did in that part of last Sunday’s derby training. I can tell you how far I ran in how much time, how much I ate and with what macros on any given day, and approximately how often I need to refeed while attempting to maintain with a daily base of 1900 kcal (it’s twice weekly if I’m training a lot, FYI).

You can’t get much more obsessive and nerdy about this stuff than I am. And yet I can’t tell you how many calories I am burning if you have me do an hour of zumba. There are so many variables – my size and current weight, whether I am using calories to recover from what I did yesterday, how intensely I am following along (and this is pretty damn subjective) and what exactly the movements are in that given session. If I take the lowest “average” burn Google casually suggests, I’d be burning 500 – that’s an entire third of my basic sedentary energy burn. Very, very unlikely – but a great selling point if you want to sell weight loss to people. Hmm.

Now onto the “complete workout” claim. Zumba is dancersize. It’s actually a lot of fun, and I would definitely agree that it is cardio – dancersize is very like aerobics, after all. “Muscle conditioning?” Not so much. You are not providing any resistance whatsoever, unless you add tiny wrist weights. This would give you some initial muscle gains, assuming you are brand new to conditioning, but you would plateau extremely quickly.

Balance and flexibility? If you have not trained balance at all and are very new to movement, then trying to keep up, stand on one leg when necessary and so on will help you with that. You will not continue to progress beyond that, however. Improving your balance is hard work. Balance is pretty important in both parkour and skating, and it’s something I’ve had to work very hard on, being dyspraxic. The most improvement I have seen personally is when I’m regularly attending the Chainstore balance and accuracy class – this is an entire hour devoted every week to improving your balance skills.

Anyone can improve their balance, with focused training and work. They can’t do it with an hour of musical aerobics, and anyone selling a class on that basis is ignorant at best and a liar at worst.

As for flexibility, I have no idea how Zumba could possibly increase that. This is not helped by the fact that there is no methodology provided for this claim, and no evidence – what’s the average increase in hip range of motion in people doing one Zumba class a week for an entire year?

If you are selling an exercise based on a claimed result, you need to be able to back that up. You don’t get to perform medical procedures on people to create a physical change without explaining exactly how that works and the chances of success. You shouldn’t get to make spurious claims that you can improve someone’s balance without some evidence behind that.

Zumba is fun. Zumba is moving around in a way people enjoy, and I am willing to believe it can improve your cardio fitness, confidence and coordination particularly if you are not currently exercising a lot, or do little cardio. Zumba is absolutely not, however, the all-in-one, weird trick that will turn you into a super fit person with visible abs, amazing balance and flexibility and sleek, “toned” muscle (don’t even get me started on that). You enjoy Zumba? I’m happy for you. Carry on. The guys making money from making these claims to you? Yeah, we need to talk.

Next up: how January is like a giant 24/7 Zumba advert, and what that does to people.

 

 

Injury lessons 2

I sprained my ankle last week. For everyone asking “what happened?” the answer is basically “roller derby.” I’d like to pretend I did something totally badass, but I basically just fell down like a twat.

Everything indicates that it’s a pretty simple and low-grade sprain, as opposed to the really nasty ones, which can be just as bad (or worse) than an outright break. As ankle injuries go, mine is pretty much the least that could possibly happen, particularly as someone else actually broke their leg in three places the day before. I was bearing some weight on it before I even left the hospital. It has still been an educational week, though. These are the things i have learned so far.

  1. Don’t go skating when you’re not 100% well. I was still a bit off-colour from a kidney infection, and hadn’t been able to eat properly for about a week, partially because of the amazing side-effects of my superstrong antibiotics and partially because of basic unwellness. Yes, I know it’s entirely my own fault. Don’t worry. I’ve had plenty of alone time to reflect on exactly how much I screwed that up and remind myself how stupid that was.
  2. Roller derby people are really, really pro at first aid. I went down on a track full of skaters weaving around each other in both derby direction (anticlockwise, in case you were wondering) and in counter-direction, heard a nasty crack and experienced pain. About 30-45 seconds later, I was off that track, had the skate off, had been assessed and had an ice pack on. Within about two minutes, someone was getting my stuff and someone else was changing out of their kit so they could take me to A&E (thanks!) Within about ten minutes, I had been moved out of the building and was en route, without ever having inadvertently put weight on the ankle and hurting it further. At no point did anyone lose their cool, or allow me to lose my cool. I was not left alone at any point – the person who took me to A&E stayed with me until a parkour buddy arrived to take over (thanks, Denny!)
    It’s not just the first-aiders/coaches who are pro. I have been in situations where someone hurts themselves in a parkour class and the other participants invariably stop what they are doing, turn around, stare and comment, sometimes quite audibly. This is not meant badly, but it’s beyond unhelpful. Imagine it. You’ve gone down, you’re on the ground. You’ve heard something – maybe a crack or crunch. You’re in pain and vulnerable. A group of people is STANDING OVER YOU. They’re excited and frantically asking if you’re okay. Are you okay? OH MY GOD, WHAT’S HAPPENING?
    I’ve actually had well-meaning people crowd me in an acrobatics hall when I got accidentally kicked by someone and needed a minute to control my breathing. This took me from a slight bruise and needing a minute to chill out to having a full-on panic attack in a corner, curled up in a ball and hyperventilating because I couldn’t escape from all the people.
    In roller derby, you’re taken off the track, or if you cannot be moved, you’re blocked off. Nobody crowds you. Someone calmly assesses you, and some people are assigned to get your stuff, take you to get checked if needed and so on. Everyone not assisting gets on with training and skates around as normal. This is not callous. It’s pragmatic, and actually helps to keep things calm.
    By all means, do help if someone goes down at parkour or somewhere. I’m not saying everyone needs to ignore someone screaming on the floor. If you are the first-aider on scene, start helping as appropriate. If you are a first-aider but not responsible for people in a class, make sure someone is getting the coach or responsible person. If the casualty is already being first-aided and you are not doing anything useful, back the hell off and give them space. Stay in earshot if you think you might be needed, but otherwise, just get out of the way. Do not stare.
  3. B Team definitely exist. Not only that, they are capable of picking me up and carrying me across a track full of skaters even when I’m informing them precisely how many kilograms I weighed that morning and how heavy that is because I’m such a huge weightlifter. Thanks for not squatting me. I wouldn’t have enjoyed it at that point.
  4. A&E is really boring and you will wait for a long time. This is not a complaint – even if the leg is actually broken, you won’t die. Other people coming in with mystery abdominal pain, breathing problems and their heads falling off are more urgent than you, and that’s how it should be.
    However, feel free to make your own entertainment while you’re waiting. If you’ve just come from skating, a fun game is to wear your helmet while being wheeled about. Make sure to tell any hospital staff you pass that you’re really great at rollerskates. It’s fun for you AND for them!
  5. People who don’t do a high-impact risk-bearing sport can be extremely unhelpful. This isn’t true for everyone, but it is a thing. On my first day back at work, I had someone approach me and cheerfully ask if “this was it for skating now”. He then went on to inform me that skating is entirely for teenagers (this is pretty awkward, seeing as roller derby is for 18 and up – there is a junior version, but I get the impression it’s a lot gentler) and heavily imply that I shouldn’t be doing it at all. I was informed by someone else that “at a certain age” it’s extremely difficult for injuries to heal (I’m 33, by the way, and healing perfectly fast, thank you) and the parting shot on Friday by coworker number 1 was to remind me to not skate this weekend, not because I was still on crutches, but because I’m not a teenager.
    I honestly have no idea why people believe that teenagers are basically Wolverine, and the minute you hit 25 you must simply stop moving and live attached to your office chair like a barnacle that has settled onto a rock at sea. I also have no idea why they find injury almost funny. I don’t need outpourings of sympathy for a sprained ankle, but the guy assuming I would have to quit skating seemed actually cheerful about it. If I did have to quit, I would be absolutely devastated. There’s almost a sense of schadenfreude about it, like I should never have even tried.
    This is all for a grade 1 sprained ankle. They didn’t amputate my leg. It’s not fatal. It will take a few weeks of rehab before I can skate even non-contact, but it’s an incredibly minor and routine injury. I cannot even imagine what the reaction would have been if it had actually broken – which happens to skaters a lot, by the way. And no, they don’t just automatically quit.
  6. Stuff seems pretty much pointless, even with a minor injury. I eat at intervals because I have to, I make myself go to work because I have to, and other than that there doesn’t seem to be any reason to really do anything. If I didn’t have to go to work, I’m not entirely sure I’d even have had a shower this week. About 90% of my non-workplace social contact is based around training, and the other part (Zen) is based around being in a small area with too many people for me to cope with right now, so I don’t hang out with people much. Even blogging has seemed too hard, so I’m pretty much no use to myself or anyone around me, especially as I am currently rehabbing my shoulder as well. This is 100% my own fault, so I’m not complaining, and I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on exactly why I am dead weight. It’s not fun, though, so sometimes I watch DVDs or play Sudoku instead.
  7. Crutches actually require skill. Also upper body strength, so if you think you might hurt your leg at some point, start training your triceps now. You can use the edges of the rubber stoppers at the bottom to gain and direct momentum and get some real speed up. It does tire you out, though, and you do have to be careful to not slip and accidentally impact your wrecked leg. You also can lose feeling in your hands. Learning how to do various things with them is actually quite fun, though, and you will be motivated. Getting a cup of tea from the kitchen to your room pretty much becomes a Crystal Maze challenge, without the fun parts. This is on easy mode, too – I was partially weight-bearing from the start, and the pain was really slight.
    It may seem odd I’m using crutches for an incredibly minor injury. The trouble with an ankle sprain is that simply walking around repeatedly loads the currently-unstable joint with all 55 of my kilograms, which isn’t particularly helpful for healing. I’m down to one crutch already, and can walk normally for short intervals, but breaking into a jog or stumbling could cause a resprain, which is bad news.
  8. You have to use your words. A lot of people volunteer to give me a seat on public transport. A lot of others do not. I am absolutely not going to stand on a moving vehicle and risk wrecking myself further, so I ask them to let me sit down. There’s no need to be a dick about it – people may appear physically able when they are not, so don’t get accusatory, but anyone who is able to stand should be letting someone on crutches sit, and I approach them with that mindset. Say please, say thank you, but definitely express that you need to sit. The chances of an entire bus or tube carriage being occupied by people with invisible disabilities is pretty damn low. Someone can get up for you.

All in all, I’d give mildly spraining your ankle a 3/10 for fun activities – it’s not enjoyable, but it’s pretty damn minor and provides useful crutch training for worse injuries. You also get to work on your assertiveness skills, and develop your problem solving abilities. Always a silver lining, right?

The Comfort Zone: An Experiment

It’s now six months since I fell into a Black Pit of Despair (BPOD), which you can read all about here if you feel so inclined. Incidentally, it’s the third most popular post I’ve ever written. Go figure.

Since that pretty miserable time, I’ve learned a few things. I learned that sometimes you need to regain the magic of training, which I wrote about here. I also learned a little bit about how much pressure I can put on myself, and what that does to my enjoyment of training and ability to learn, and you can read about that (and about how fun skating in circles is) here.

But there’s something else I learned that was even more important than these things.

When I was in the midst of feeling really low, lots of friends gave me great advice. One friend sat down with me and made a few suggestions that changed pretty much everything for me.

In any fitness or training setting, you will hear all about your comfort zone. Your comfort zone is, apparently, not where the magic happens. There are no gains to be had in it. You won’t progress if you stay in it. In fact, you’d be forgiven for thinking that your comfort zone is a horrible trap designed entirely to ensnare you and keep you miserable, weak, slow and pretty much incapable of anything, and that the entire purpose of training is to escape this trap into a wonderful world of fear and pain that will forge you into some kind of superhero.

There’s a seed of truth in there. If I had never pushed out of my comfort zone, I would never have tried parkour. I definitely would not have returned to it after injury, and I wouldn’t be typing this while looking at my LRR Fresh Meat graduation certificate (I know, right?! They let me through to wreck league! They must be crazy).

I am very willing to push myself. This is not as impressive as people often seem to think. My comfort zone is so damn small that if I didn’t step out of it, I might not even leave the house in the morning. That’s not a hilarious exaggeration, by the way. I do frequently wait to leave my room because I heard a neighbour outside and it makes me anxious.

So since the very first time I walked up to a bunch of strange guys on a dark and freezing cold November evening with my guts churning and my legs trembling, I have trained outside of my comfort zone, and I had seen that as an entirely positive thing and a requirement for learning.

When my friend sat down with me, she suggested I try training within my comfort zone. This was a brand new idea that was the opposite of everything I’d heard, and after considering it, I realised that I did not even know where my comfort zone actually was. Every obstacle I approached in every session was an object of fear. I’m not saying I hated parkour – this was often controllable fear, and I was quite used to it. What I was doing, though, was causing myself huge amounts of stress. I face fear quite often (it comes up a lot when you’re as twitchy as me), but if you ALWAYS face fear, it’s going to take a mental toll. I now believe that I was feeling this toll, and if I had kept going in this direction, I would quite probably have walked away from parkour entirely within a few months.

My first task, then, was to figure out where my comfort zone actually was in terms of parkour. I’m going to be very honest here – after testing myself on some really small objects, it turned out that the only obstacles I did not feel a little spark of fear at were around mid-thigh height. This was shocking, fairly embarrassing and also shed a lot of light on some of my vault difficulties – if I was already scared running up to a hip-height object, how could I possibly throw myself into it enough to learn the most basic of vaults, particularly as most obstacles I was training on were higher than that?

My second task was to work within that zone. No, it didn’t look impressive. Yes, I did feel like a twat basically hopping over tiny walls. But for around six weeks, I did it. I deliberately avoided group parkour training, and I stayed with tiny obstacles that caused no fear whatsoever. And my stress started to dissipate, and I actually started to enjoy the movement. I came up with little variants – I’d side vault, then try to pause right in the middle of the vault and hold myself up there as long as possible.

And then things started to change. Ever so slowly, things started seeming a bit easier to learn – not being under constant stress allowed me to appreciate what I was actually doing, and the time spent doing low-pressure stuff allowed me to actually focus and enjoy it. There were no overnight miracles here. I’m not Jump London material. I’m still fairly slow, I’m still not great at vaults – but when I got back to a place where I felt okay to test the boundaries of my comfort zone, they’d grown out a bit. Obstacles looked much smaller to me than they had previously, and I was moving with a lot more confidence and willingness. I went back to parkour classes, eased myself in slowly, avoided too much pressure and gradually got back to feeling okay about training.

And then there was a moment at a women’s jam one Sunday, where we were all vaulting a rail just about my hip-height, and someone stopped, looked at me and asked me how I managed to get it so easy-looking. I’m pretty sure “crushing depression followed by hopping for hours and hours over really small objects about the height of your knee” was the answer she was looking for, so I just mumbled something about practice and wandered around in a happy daze for the rest of the day.

I don’t think leaving your comfort zone is a bad thing, and it’s completely necessary if you want to try new stuff or see how far you can go. But pay it a visit occasionally. It’s a nice place to recharge, and it might even help you see things differently.

All credit for this comfort zone experiment goes to Charlotte Blake, who runs Free Your Instinct and knows how brains work far better than I do. Thanks, dude!

Fresh Meat: The End

Way back in February, I went to my first ever roller derby game (they’re called bouts. I don’t know why, but I stubbornly call them games). Afterwards, I saw a dark-haired girl smoking outside. She had quite distinctive purple Doc Marten boots with a vine pattern, and I heard her mention something to someone about Fresh Meat.

I didn’t know that a few months later, we’d be belting around a track together while someone yelled at us to get lower. I didn’t know we’d be drinking together. I didn’t even know her name.

There were so many things I didn’t know when I made the crazy decision to start derby. I wish I had figured some of them out sooner.

There are a million articles out there about going through Fresh Meat, useful cross-training to do, gear to get and roller derby culture. There’s an entire book on the sport, called Derby Life, that I highly recommend. But despite all the resources, there are a few things I kind of wish I had understood earlier.

I didn’t know what my strengths and weaknesses would be.

I made plenty of assumptions, of course. I assumed I’d be really slow to learn, but at least have a reasonable fitness level. I thought I’d be afraid to fall.

In actual fact, falling wasn’t a problem. I really enjoyed the feeling of being able to bounce off my massive knee pads, and falling in a safe position just didn’t seem that hard or upsetting. I did, however, agonise over my learning speed for weeks before I realised that actually I was learning at a pretty normal pace for a new skater.

What I didn’t realise was that I’d find skating in a group incredibly difficult. While I was happy to fall myself, the idea of knocking someone else over absolutely terrified me and the general feeling of being crowded caused me a fair bit of panic. If I’d known this would be an issue sooner, I’d have been able to start working on it.

I didn’t know how powerful support could be.

I’ve written about transitions before. They’ve been almost everyone’s least favourite thing since we started them. Every open skate featured spontaneous Transition Support Groups, where we’d gather at the side of the track to slowly practice the damn things over and over and over.

Around the same time, we also begin to have mass suicides at open skate. No, we didn’t hate transitions that much – suicides are relay races, in which we’re divided into teams and take turns dashing up and down the hall, doing various skills, before tagging the next team member to go. First team to finish wins. I don’t know who came up with the suicide name, or why.

Every time one of us successfully transitioned during their run, there was a frenzy. We’d scream louder than a hysterical preteen at a Justin Bieber concert. I don’t think we could have been any more excited if one of us had brought about world peace.

I felt like I could do anything when you guys were cheering for me. Thank you.

I didn’t know how mistrustful I was.

I was really keen to do my best when I started. I also had no experience of team sports, and assumed that the coaches would be

I was terrified. I felt like I was a rabbit in a room full of wolves. I was convinced the coaches could smell my weakness (not likely over the pads, mind). I thought they were counting up the faults and failures.

The thing about skating is that it’s really unnatural and awkward before you learn to do it. You can have skills that help, like balance and leg strength (squat, people!) but there is nothing natural about having wheels on your shoes. Until you gain the muscle memory for it, your brain rebels and freaks out at the instability and sheer wrongness.

This means that there is pretty much no way you can screw up that the people coaching you haven’t seen already. Did you fall over 20 times in a row? Nobody cares. Did a bunch of you crash hysterically into each other? It’s happened a million times before and it will happen a million times again. Are you scared of crossovers? Yeah, you and the rest of the entire planet. I literally mounted an assessor like a scared yet horny puppy, and all I got was amusement.

Absolutely, definitely give everything 100%. Do it for yourself, do it for everyone else around you – but do it because it’s right, not out of fear.

On day one, I was terrified that our coaches were watching us for weaknesses. Before the final assessment day, they turned up en masse to an open skate session, divided themselves up, and spent time with every single one of us present to work one-to-one on hitting, transitions and other stuff. There were no predators here after all. Thanks for everything, guys. Even the shoes.

I didn’t know how much potential people have.

I was also nervous of the rest of my Fresh Meat crew. Everyone seemed perfectly nice on day 1, but as I got more and more overly stressed about how slow I was, I felt like they could feel my fear. I assumed that as time went on, they’d look at me as the one who couldn’t keep up and was in the way.

At the start of Fresh Meat, I was terrified of being near the fast skaters on the track. At the end, they were skating laps with me, helping me with getting up my own speed and giving me pointers (I still screwed it up in assessment, though. Sorry).

We’ve given each other strength in different ways. Being there to practice transitions with each other, handing out cake, lending equipment, sympathising with the hard parts and celebrating the victories – do you all know how valuable you are?

We’re not just a team. We’re a strong team.

And yet it’s all pretty coincidental. We all chose to start derby, but we didn’t specifically choose to train together. We didn’t pick our intake based on who we thought we’d be friends with. Fresh Meat made us this close, despite the fact we just happened to sign up at roughly the same time.

How many people do I walk past every day, barely noticing, who have it in them to be someone I trust and lean on? How many walk past me, and have no idea that I could be cheering my heart out for them in relay races, assuring them their plow stops rock and persuading them to make dinosaur sounds?

I wonder what I fail to see in the people around me. I wonder what they fail to see in me.

In the end, we came through this together. Not everyone stayed on skates from start to finish. Some of us got injured. Some of us maybe decided it wasn’t for them. In the future, who knows what will happen? Some of us may move out of London, or decide they prefer another sport. People might drift in and out. I don’t know.

I do know that whether you finished Fresh Meat exactly at the same time as us or not, or whether you plan to be a skater or a referee, you started with us. In parkour, we have a saying – “we start together, we finish together.” Derby isn’t so different. Instead, we had “no meat left behind”.

Whether or not you integrate into Wreck on the same day as the majority of us, or are heading off to be an official rather than a skater, you are part of us. If injury keeps you off skates for a while, if you move away from London, if you decided halfway through FM or decide at Wreck that this maybe isn’t for you, know that we’ll be waiting. We’re waiting for your injuries to heal. We’re waiting for you to visit us if you’re based elsewhere. We’re waiting in case you change your mind about whether this is for you. We’ll wait forever if we have to, because we’re your teammates.

I didn’t know why open skates were important.

Everyone can tell you that open skates are great for getting extra training in. If I had only gone to Fresh Meat weekly, I think I would have really, really struggled – more than I already do.

What I didn’t realise was that open skates are also a way to get to know wreck league. We’re going to be integrated into regular training very soon, and I’m nervous, but if I didn’t already have friends in wreck I’d be terrified.

Whatever league you’re in, I’m pretty sure your Fresh Meat coaches will be happy to talk to you about what wreck/rec/whatever is like. There might also be social events, volunteering stuff etc where you can meet the regulars. We had an amazing night in a pub that involved too many shots, arm wrestling and human pyramids with a rugby team, but I’m sure it varies from league to league. Not everyone can be as special as us.

However, nothing could compare with being able to see your future wreckmates regularly, making friends and being able to ask them about stuff on a regular basis. I’ve been able to ask what exactly happens at assessment, whether anyone else struggled with the stuff I did, what happens if you’re not scrimmage-ready at the end of Fresh Meat, what the coach is like in their sessions. Nobody but your own wreck league, who have been through the same Fresh Meat you are going through right now, can tell you this stuff.

I didn’t know how unique this was.

We will never go through this again.

Sometimes people repeat Fresh Meat. It’s more common in some leagues than others, because they all do things differently. In some leagues, people have to repeat the full course if they’re not scrimmage ready at the end. Some people move city and start again. Some people might repeat because life or illness or injury forced them out at an early stage – and if injury knocked you down at any point in our FM, first day or last, you are a warrior, and we ❤ you, and you’ll always be one of us.

If you repeat for any of these reasons, the experience won’t be the same. I’m not saying it will be less, and you’ll be an awesome source of strength for your teammates. They’ll appreciate your experience and advice. You can tell them that everyone gets stressed, that transitions truly are a struggle for everyone, and if you’ve experienced injury, you will be there to pick up anyone else who gets hurt. You will be their rock. They will need you.

But whether you quit in disgust after a couple of weeks, get temporarily stopped by a broken bone or are still skating on the final day, whether you had the time of your life or wished it was over for the whole period, there is only one time you walk into a sports hall for the first time not knowing what to expect, and being completely overwhelmed by the newness of it all. There’s only one time you are shocked to learn how awful pads smell after enough training time. There’s only one time you realise with surprise that you’ve become part of a team, when at first you thought you wouldn’t fit in. Whether you loved it or hated it, you were part of it. And now it’s over.

Everyone has times they look back on and remember as totally unique and special – time spent at university, or travelling, or maybe even high school. It’s a period you were often happy, even if you didn’t know it at the time, but not always, because experiences that shape you are often a crucible. It’s a time that you maybe didn’t fully understand how much was changing you, and that life would never be the same again. And that’s what Fresh Meat has been.

I don’t know how many of us will stick around. Every sport has an attrition rate, and this one is full contact. But nothing will ever take away this time and how crazy, frenzied, stressful and magic it has been. And now it’s over. There will never be another London Rockin Rollers Fresh Meat 2015 – we were it, and now we are done.

Next year, there will be another group of confused people falling over and stressing out about transitions or T stops or laps. They won’t be us. But you know what? They will need us, just like we’ve needed the 2014 graduates. Let’s be there for them.

See you all in wreck league.

Fresh Meat: The Slight Assessment Mess up, or “How I Accidentally Sat On an LRR Assessor”

Firstly, everyone would like me to amend league structure yet again. Apparently B Team wear scary-looking face paint all the time, and when I arrived for assessment this morning, many of my Fresh Meat friends were adorning themselves with mascara and far too much fake blood. I don’t really know why, but I’m not going to argue.

I have also been informed that as well as A Team and B Team, Main League includes “unrostered players.” I don’t know how someone goes from unrostered to a team, but I’m 99% sure it involves some kind of fight to the death.

Yet again, neither Wreck nor Meat care. So:

Fresh meat: Sunday morning training group, where we fall over for two hours then go to the pub. Will wear face paint and fake blood on special occasions.

A Team: If you have a problem, if no-one else can help, and you can find them, maybe you can hire them. Luckily, it’s quite easy to find them. Don’t wander onto the track in front of them as they are quite fast and sometimes bounce violently off each other. Occasionally, A team wear upsetting face paint just in case the violent bouncing wasn’t traumatic enough for you (guys, is that a scary skeleton or a terminator? Either way, that’s scary). They may also throw themselves in front of you to see what you do, or put a shoe on the track. A Team members may also be on B Team. I don’t know what their hire rates are, but they are definitely up for the following:

Putting shoes on the track

Wearing scary face paint

Bouncing off each other while going fast

Branding Fresh Meat and judging them while holding clipboards

It turns out you can also sit on A Team. More about that later.

B Team: B Team definitely exist. If you have a problem, if no-one else can help, and you can find them, then go find A Team because B are not for hire. When B Team throw themselves in front of you to see whether you’re going to die, put a shoe on the track to traumatise you or blow whistles, it’s for the sheer joy of it. B Team members may also be on A Team, at which point they are presumably for hire though. B Team are perfectly capable of wearing scary face paint if and when they choose to do so. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SIT ON B TEAM.

Unrostered Main League: These guys will train with A or B team or possibly both, I don’t actually know. I have only heard rumours of their existence, but I don’t want to give the impression I’m doubting it because we all know how much B Team enjoyed that. I don’t think they have scary face paint, however, and if they judge Fresh Meat, they choose to do so silently, and without any clipboards.

Wreck league: The guys who eventually turn up to the pub if we keep drinking for long enough.

We had assessment day one today. I wasn’t particularly stressed about it last week, so today I turned up feeling like I was ready to throw up. Considering I found my buddies outside the sports centre listening to Prodigy, covering themselves in fake blood and twitching slightly, I don’t think I was the only one experiencing some anxiety.

I’m pretty sure that different leagues will run their assessments differently, but this is how we did it.

We all gathered in the middle of the track looking terrified, and were told to chill out. We were then split into groups of 3-4, each with an assessor, who branded us with a number to indicate their ownership of us.

Wait, what?

Okay, that may not be the exact rationale behind it.

As well as our regular coaches, we had a bunch of A Team helping to assess us (they wouldn’t confirm their hire rates. Sorry, guys). To distinguish “their” Fresh Meat from the rest of the crowd, they wrote numbers on our arms in pen. Our assessor decided to number us according to helmet colour – I was 3R for my red helmet, and the rest of my team were 3B (for blue) and 3G (for black. Black is goth). I’m pretty sure the 3 came from the assessor’s own roster number.

Once we had been labelled, we pretty much carried on with a normal session, going in circles and performing our various tricks on cue – even transitions. The only difference was that people were watching us while holding clipboards.

If there is one thing I hate more than shoes, it’s clipboards. The sight of someone holding a clipboard and looking at me expectantly is enough to send me into a frenzy of terror. What’s on their checklist? What are they writing? WHY ARE THEY JUDGING ME?

Still, things went pretty well for me until we got to pack work.

I’ve worked really hard on not freaking out when skating so close to people. I’ve asked people for help with it at open skate, I’ve deliberately steered myself through groups to desensitise myself and practice avoidance, and when we’ve done the whole “coach diving sadistically in front of you” thing on Sundays, it’s been working out okay for me. Today, one of our assessors dived in front of me in a fall-small position.

What I was meant to do:

Skate around the human obstruction, demonstrating awareness and control. If a fall occurs, fall into a safe fall-small position, remain in place until the pack has passed, then get up and rejoin.

What I actually did:

Panicked, crashed into the assessor, tried to go over her and ended up sitting on her. Apparently I managed to get directly onto her head, which is either awful or awfully impressive. I then fell off, tried to adopt the correct fall-small position directly next to her and proceeded to have a hysterical freakout despite the fact she was completely unhurt and was strangely unconcerned by the fact I had just basically mounted her like a horse.

As you can imagine, this is a bit of a deviation from standard skating protocol as described above. Everyone seems to have been wildly entertained by it, although I’m not exactly sure how it will affect my assessment results.

If you are reading this, brave assessor, sorry about that, and also about apparently nearly kicking you in the face when I finally moved myself off your head.

I bet that wasn’t on those clipboards, though, was it?