On Depression and Derailleurs

Having been a distance runner since I was 12, one of the best and worst things I’ve ever done is center all my coping mechanisms around my ability to perform athletically. For about as long as I can remember, running was my answer. Sad? Go for a run. Heartbroken? Go running. Anxious? Run. Spiraling? You get the picture.

For a long time, I thought this was the best solution possible. It didn’t just improve my mental health; it kept me in peak physical condition, as well. But as you might expect, there’s a “but” in this story. Actually, there are a few. You see, I never thought about what I would do if running was taken from me, even just temporarily. And that’s exactly where I found myself at the beginning of 2020 after tearing my ACL and meniscus, spraining my MCL, and fracturing my femur: lost and at the lowest I’ve ever been.

At this point in the story, I feel I should add a trigger warning for alcoholism and suicidal ideation. I had been drinking more and more leading up to my injury, to the point where it became a problem. I didn’t realize it was an issue right away, but I was regularly drinking 20 to 30 drinks in a week, returning to my regular bar 4 or 5 times for each row on the calendar. Ironically, the day before my injury was the day I decided to take a step back from this habit in an attempt to focus on my mental wellbeing. But of course, the universe wasn’t going to make it too easy for me, so as I left one issue behind, I gained another.

Without turning to alcohol and without my usual coping mechanism of physical activity, I went to an extremely dark place. One night, I tried to be social, attending a party for about an hour before deciding I didn’t want to be around other people and leaving early. This drive home was the closest I’ve ever come to taking my own life. Logically, I knew I would heal. Well, my knee would. I knew I was scheduled for surgery and that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, at least as far as my physical condition. However, I was having a hard time believing that my mental condition would ever be good enough to go on. I drove home with tears in my eyes, noting every single light post and tree that I could easily swerve into. I even let myself twitch the wheel in that direction a couple times, but forced myself to stick to the road. I’m not sure how I fought those urges off, but I did. And luckily, this is where the story gets better.

As you’ve probably guessed, I underwent surgery and had my knee reconstructed. Slowly, my flexion improved from around 80 degrees to something like 40, and my doctor told me I could start biking. “Biking?” I thought, “I want to run. That’s what I do; I’m a runner, not a cyclist.” But of course, all the stubbornness in the world couldn’t force my knee to withstand the impact that comes with running, and I was so desperate to start moving again that I wasn’t in much of a position to keep griping. So I got on the stationary bike. For five minutes, for ten minutes, for a half-hour, until I was finally allowed to ride outside. I rode 10 miles here, 15 there, then 30 and 40, and without even realizing it, cycling was turning from an unhappy necessity to a passion.

I didn’t really know what I was doing on a bike if I’m honest. I mean, I had owned one for years, but biking had always been a form of cross-training for me. I probably put in more miles during the first month of my recovery than I had my entire life leading up to it, and it was pretty obvious that I was out of place. I didn’t own a cycling kit, I had no clue what a derailleur or a through-axle was, and I didn’t even know how to properly signal a turn. But I was learning. And the more I learned, the more I enjoyed being on the bike.

In May of 2020, someone I barely knew from my hometown moved to Denver and hit me up. A really nice guy named Daniel, he had been introduced to me once or twice years back, but never became anything more than an acquaintance. At any rate, he said he had recently bought a bike and was trying to get into the sport himself, and we decided to meet up and go for a ride. Neither of us was particularly talented cyclists yet, but despite getting our cranks blown off by some jacked dudes on Cervelos as we ascended the roads outside Boulder, it felt amazing to finally have someone to ride with. Daniel and I started hanging out more often, and he introduced me to his best friend Logan, who had also recently taken up cycling. 

I quickly gained a reputation as the guy who pushed corners too hard despite having absolutely abysmal brakes on my 8-year-old bike, and the guys had to help me bandage road rash more than any friend should. They even joked that my girlfriend at the time probably hated them, because every time I rode with them I came back with less skin, but I didn’t care. I was loving it because now I had two people to ride with, and more importantly, I had two close friends that I could confide in.

This was about 8 months ago. Now, I see Daniel and Logan pretty much every day, whether we’re in the saddle or not, and they’ve become my most beloved support system. Being out on the bike or going for a jog still helps me clear my head, but I’m also learning to cope in ways that can’t be taken from me quite so easily, like reaching out to the people I love. And while I still have basically no idea what I’m doing with my life (I mean really truly no clue), I finally feel like I belong here again.

I guess what I’m saying is this: a bike isn’t going to solve your problems, and neither is another person. You can’t ever put all your eggs in one basket like that, as I learned the hard way. But, my bike did lead me to some people who are helping me work on those problems in healthier ways, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

I feel like that paragraph should have been the conclusion, as that last line really sums up what I’m feeling, but I do have a couple more things to add. The first is this: reaching out to people is hard. I thought I was good at it, and I still nearly gave up because I felt so alone. You can’t expect people to coddle you, but you also need to remember that anyone who truly loves you will never see you as a burden. You would want them to reach out if they needed some support, so it’s a safe bet that they’d want you to do the same. Men in particular struggle with this; I know I did, but I’m finally realizing that we’re a lot stronger when working through things together than we are when holding everything inside. And the second, of course, is this: Have fun. Ride bikes. Don’t be an asshole. 

Love you.