Mettle Monday - Missing My Shot

Inspiration can strike in the unlikeliest of places. For some, it’s in the shower. Others may be hit by a moment of clarity whilst out in nature, meditating or reading a book. Personally, my great awakening occurred in a less holistic environment. I was in a hotel room, surrounded by empty bottles scattered around the cramped space like shrapnel from a grenade of self-destruction. The morning sunlight burned an accusatory glare through the curtains as I stared at my crumpled reflection with bloodshot eyes that had not seen sleep for 36 hours. And when that revelation hit me with a sobering jolt, for the first time in a long time, I knew I had a purpose. A mission, a goal...an objective that I knew I absolutely had to achieve, and no element of self-doubt or chemically enhanced anxiety could stop me.

My mind was made up.

It was time to kill myself.

Taking the leap

Of course, it won’t be a ‘The Usual Suspects’-level spoiler if I tell you I soon discovered that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. And besides, it’s bad for your health. But I only decided to exit the hotel from the ground floor rather than the roof that morning thanks to a very long, very tearful conversation with the UK suicide hotline, The Samaritans.

Once I promised the compassionate (and extremely patient: imagine some drunken oaf yelling “but I don’t want to liiiiiiive” down the phone at you on repeat for two hours whilst you’re trying to enjoy your Cornflakes) lady that I wasn’t going to do anything silly, I put down the phone and looked at my reflection once more.

32 years old, skin so deathly pale and black rings around my eyes so deep that I could have been munching on bamboo in a faraway zoo, about to embark on an species-saving mating programme. My belly strained against my shirt and the threads in the seat of my trousers were pulled tighter than my nerves. Chipped, nicotine-stained teeth jutted out like yellowing tombstones as I grimaced at myself.

I gave a huff and a puff and tried my best impression to pull myself together.

After all, it was time to go to work.

Putting your hand up

Now, in the Hollywood version of this story, this would be rock-bottom. The defining moment when I turned my life around and rose like a phoenix from the ashtray. But I always prefer to tell it like it is. Because we’ve all read the articles, seen the TV shows and listened to the podcasts. We know what to do.

Put your hand up. Ask for help. Talk to someone. Remember that suicide is the biggest killer of UK men under the age of 45.

I did all these things, and for a while, it worked.

On the surface, life was good. I had a young family, good job, wore a £1,000 suit to work, drove a beaten-up Porsche, had nice holidays, kept my drink and drug consumption firmly in the weekend warrior camp without ever totally drifting into ‘Requiem for a Dream’ territory.

But the warning signs kept appearing. And I stopped putting my hand up and started hiding my true feelings. Because asking for help is fine. Bosses, colleagues, friends and family gather around and walk on eggshells as they quietly keep an eye on the levels in the whiskey bottle and the knives in the drawer. Then we get the help and the counselling, and we tell the stories and cry the tears. And we expect to be ‘fixed’.

Car not working? See a mechanic. Phone screen cracked. Get it replaced. Mental health shot to pieces? See a therapist. Job done. But really, I knew it wasn’t.

Sometimes I’d want to stay in bed all day, or maybe I’d go out for a quick pint and then fall through the front door at 6am. On a Tuesday. Or there would be the time a drug dealer held a loaded gun to my head and threatened to pull the trigger.

But I’d always laugh it off. Because I’d created a whole persona around being ‘Fun time Freddie’, the good-time-guy, the bloke who was first at the bar, first to get the shots in, first to get thrown out of a club, first to lose a mortgage payment in a casino.

What a legend.

I felt I couldn’t let people down. Everyone loved that guy. If I stopped being him, I’d be selfishly depriving my friends a night of entertainment with the court jester. I didn’t think they would like the real me. After all, how could they? I didn’t like the real me either.

The old me

And so, I continued flushing my hopes and dreams down the toilet. Oh, I had big dreams alright. I could talk about them for hours. The adventures I’d go on, the things I’d achieve, the grand goals I’d accomplish. And I’d do it...straight after the next promotion, the next child, the next project, house, holiday. I’d do it all, just as soon as the world seemed a bit more ‘stable’. Sitting on the sofa every night, beer in one hand, large slice of Mighty Meaty in the other, I’d scoff at the people achieving things on TV. The bitter excuses flowed quicker than my loafing shuffles to the fridge.

“Yeah, but they’re an athlete” ... “It’s easy for them, they used to be in the SAS”... “If I had rich parents and went to a posh school, I’d be an adventurer too”.

But to my credit, I tried to change. I heard the podcasts by Robbins, read the books by Goggins, tried to feel the fear and do it anyway, and became an expert in the subtle art of not giving a fuck. And never did a damn thing to change. The messages never resonated with me. There’s only so many times a perma-tanned Californian millionaire can tell you to “forget about money”, or a burly ex-military bloke can shout at you to “smash your comfort zone”.

After a while, it all became white noise. So, I settled into my existence of quiet desperation, sure that life was just never going to turn out the way I’d imagined.

“Screw the crazy goals and dreams”, I muttered to myself. “That stuff if for kids”

Fatherly advice

It was my father who taught me that life is short.

Although, rather selfishly in my opinion, he decided to teach me that lesson by dying. Late September 2017 found me slumped at my desk in a nondescript office, horrifically hungover, angrily stabbing at my laptops as I complained at a spreadsheet.

“Surely my life can’t get any worse”, I growled.

Then the phone rang. Four hours and 300 miles later, I was in an Intensive Care Unit, looking down at my unconscious father. Then I kissed him on the forehead and watched him die. Neither of us had known that day would be his last. I could easily say that was the moment that kickstarted my feeble attempts at transformation...but that would be a lie.

I’d just been handed a get-out-jail-free card. No one dares question your behaviour when you’ve lost a parent in such a sudden and brutal manner, so I spent the next six months partying harder, drinking heavier, giving less of a shit about work, caring about only myself. After all, I told myself, you only live once.

Then, on March 8th, 2018, after another solo night-out, staggering around the dark streets of a faraway town like an extra from The Walking Dead. A sickening feeling snapped me to my senses. It wasn’t fear, shame, remorse or the weapons-grade hangover that pounded at my skull.

It was the feeling of regret.

I thought about my dad, and the moment when he must have realised that day was to be his last. What regrets did he have? What opportunities did he miss? What moments did he miss out on when he was uncorking his fourth bottle of wine or lighting his 50th cigarette of the day?

I didn’t want that life. I didn’t want my children to have that father. So, after missing so many in the past, I decided to give myself one more shot, and find out what I was truly capable of.

The Desert Storm

And what action did I take as a bereaved, stressed, depressed, addicted and unfit 36-year-old?  Someone who couldn’t complete a Park Run without a beer and a smoke? The only thing that made sense to me. I entered the Marathon des Sables, more commonly known as the world’s toughest footrace. 200 miles, self-supported, across the scorching Sahara Desert. Or, to put in another way, I had to run seven marathons in six days in an environment that was designed to kill me. If I were to write down all the reasons not to do this race, the list would be plentiful.

It wasn’t the right time, I wasn’t ready, I didn’t have the skills, nor the confidence or time to train. I didn’t really have the money (thanks to too many nights in London’s slightly less holistic establishments). I wasn’t fit enough, strong enough and to top it all off, I felt like the world’s biggest imposter.

But a tiny voice inside my head whispered: “What if you COULD do it?”

I encountered temperatures exceeding 50 degrees Celsius, tornados, dehydration, damaged kidneys, detached toenails, sandstorms, poisonous snakes and scorpions, hallucinations...and only one spare pair of underwear. But I approached the finish line after running 200 miles across dunes, dried riverbeds and climbing mountains of sand that stretched a kilometre into the sapphire blue sky, I thought about the guy I used to know.

The joker, the piss-taker, the moaner and complainer, the guy who was great fun but you’d never take him seriously, the guy who once drank a cup of piss to get people to laugh whilst he was crying on the inside. I’d liked that guy, once upon a time. But now, it was time to kill him.

It’s about time

Surviving the desert could have been the end, but it was just the beginning. I donned my wellies and heavy waterproofs and ran my way into the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s fastest fisherman. Became an Ironman...after never attempting a triathlon before, never swimming in open water before, never cycling 100 miles before, and certainly never running a marathon straight after. Ran around my tiny garden non-stop for 13 hours to raise money for the NHS in the UK’s first lockdown ultramarathon.

Won ultramarathons, wrote a book (Starting at Zero, published in April), dived with Great White Sharks, walked on fire and started a business to help individuals and some of the world’s largest businesses to Dream, Disrupt and Deliver.

And most important of all, I got sober, stayed sober and became the father my children begrudgingly loved when they could tear their eyes from YouTube for long enough. But here’s the most important part, this isn’t about crazy adventures or extreme challenges, because I know most of you wouldn’t want to do these things (and I wouldn’t blame you).

In fact, it’s not really about health and fitness at all. It’s about time. It’s about living a life without regret. Because I believe that everyone has that thing they’ve always wanted to do. Be it write a book, go to an art class, climb a mountain, start an adventure, a relationship, a business or anything in between.

Why can’t you do it?

But if you want the things you’ve never had before. You’ll need to do the things you’ve never done before. I’m just an everyday guy who decided to do extraordinary things. If I can be where I was, and then do what I’ve done….

Then you can do anything you dream of.