LITMIR.BIZ

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they really began when, early in 2004, I resolved to prove to Fred that I was worthy of his highest praise. It seemed to me that, unlike most of my rivals, I lacked core strength. I had studied core stability at university and thought I’d include some additional abdominal exercises in the gym. Determined to pull myself up from the same static level and, having a degree in Sports Science, I considered myself sufficiently qualified to decide whether another set of work on my abs would be of benefit.

      However, as I soon learnt, the regimented order of Fred’s training programmes meant that any deviation or change was discouraged. Someone told Fred. They dobbed me in – as I might have said if I was still a teenage schoolgirl. Fred called me into his office. ‘What’s the matter with the programme I give you?’ he asked angrily.

      ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I just thought I was being proactive …’

      ‘No,’ Fred said cuttingly. ‘You’re being disrespectful to the programme – and to me.’

      ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. ‘I should have asked for your permission.’

      ‘You should respect me more …’ Fred said coldly.

      I was mortified. My respect for Fred ran so deep that I ached for his approval. I could not believe that, instead, I had unleashed his disdain. In a recurring theme of my youth I had always feared letting down figures of authority, my dad most of all, and so I felt diminished by disappointing Fred.

      Later that week, at the end of a hard training phase, I was literally blowing after a morning on the track. I felt finished. That sense of deep fatigue disturbed me. I needed to work still harder. So the next morning, I added another ten minutes on the rollers before breakfast. I thought my body needed it; and it was just a way of getting a sweat on before the day’s real work began.

      Again, someone chose to report me to Fred. I was called once more into his office and, this time, he tore strips off me. I had never been chastised so severely. Dad might have used his silent treatment on me, when I was a girl, but this was different. Fred ripped into me.

      ‘Not only did you do this once,’ he said furiously. ‘You did it twice. I cannot believe you would do this again!’

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said in a familiar echo. ‘I’m just not thinking straight.’

      Fred was unrelenting and I felt terrible. Our relationship deteriorated from that point. He doubted my integrity. How come, he seemed to ask every time I spoke to him, I was the only person at the academy who felt the need to disregard a programme he had planned so methodically? My apologies could not change anything. It felt as if something had broken between us.

      I spent many hours in my room, alone, feeling an outcast. Castigating myself for letting down Fred, I questioned my own worth. It got worse. I cried to myself and became still more withdrawn. The hurt inside me was like a raw wound. I needed to take my mind away from such a dark place.

      At first I just stuck my fingernails into the skin of my palms. It was not enough. I needed the next step. I felt like hitting myself. I was that low and stupid. I wanted to bruise myself as a kind of penance. I know men sometimes punch walls in frustration. They even crack their skull against the bricks to draw blood. It’s violent and it’s angry but it offers some kind of release.

      I didn’t feel violent or angry. I just felt desperately sad and unworthy. I felt the urge to mark myself.

      The first time, before Melbourne, I used the knife almost thoughtlessly. I did not sit down and decide, consciously, to cut myself. It was almost as if, instead, I slipped into a trance. I held the Swiss Army knife in my right hand, feeling the solid weight, as if it promised something beyond the empty ache inside me.

      A shiny blade traced a faint line on the pale skin of my left arm. It didn’t hurt, as I had yet to add any pressure. The slight indentation was at least three inches above my wrist. I had no wish to cause myself lasting damage; and there was no thought of me using the knife to open up the blue veins in my wrists.

      I did not want to kill myself. I just wanted to feel something different.

      Pressing down harder I had a sudden urge to make myself bleed.

      The cut, when it came, did not really hurt. It was a sharp and clean sensation. I only drew a little breath at the sight of a thin line of blood. It was a tracer of my shame. After staring at the cut for perhaps a minute, seeing how it opened just a little wider as the blood trickled from the sliced gash, I cut myself again. I pressed harder and deeper and, this time, I felt it more plainly.

      My skin opened up like a peach. The blood looked very red. It flowed more quickly.

      I felt calm. It was not a bad cut and the bleeding soon stopped, taking away some of the pain inside. My arm stung a little but, mostly, numbness spread through me.

      The next morning, waking early for training, I looked down at the red lines running down my arm. One looked much angrier than the other but, as I pulled on a long-sleeve top to hide the scars, I could not really regret what I had done. It had happened and, for a while, it had helped. I put it out of my mind.

      It happened again, and again, and each time the same soothing numbness spread through me.

      So here I am, once more, post-Melbourne, reaching for the same Swiss Army knife. I hold it in my hand. It carries the usual comforting weight. I look around me. The walls in my room are white and clinical – and very different to the redness of the cutting. I think of the gorgeous scenery outside. I know how lucky I am. I am living and working in a place of remarkable beauty. Other people are paying for me to ride a bike around in endless circles. I am fortunate. I love the training. The pain of pushing myself hard satisfies me. I relish the gruelling work.

      Knowing how lucky I am, that my problems are so trivial compared to the trauma that people all around the world face every day, I feel ashamed. I don’t want to be weak. I don’t want to be self-indulgent.

      I know the truth. I am not starving. I am not in a war zone. I am not being tortured. I am free from persecution and injustice. I am a white, middle-class twenty-three-year-old English girl from the Home Counties. I am in the midst of an opportunity of a lifetime. What right do I have to feel so bereft?

      The question goes round my head as if, like me, it’s riding a bike in circles on a wooden track.

      I think of Fred, and his disappointment in me, his certainty that I no longer respect him. I feel, again, worthless and useless.

      In my bad moments I have sometimes managed to ward off the need to cut myself. I turn to a cutting instead, with Peter Keen choosing me as his sporting figure to watch in 2004. I keep it in a slim plastic wallet. Now, trying to be rational, I put the knife down. I hold the plastic wallet in my hands and, through the shiny surface, I re-read some of Peter’s words about me:

       Vicky is bright, learns quickly and has natural speed and power that have only come through since she’s put in the strength training. Superficially she looks fragile, but she’s incredibly determined. She’s a complete sprinter now, and 2004 could be her year.

      I am determined. I know it. I’ve been determined since those early Sunday mornings when, chasing Dad up a hill, I pedalled hard until it felt like my heart would burst. I never lost sight of Dad. But I not only look fragile. I am fragile. I feel as if I could crack and splinter into hundreds of pieces.

      Peter Keen’s sentences blur beneath the plastic. I don’t feel bright or speedy or powerful or strong. I don’t feel like a complete sprinter. I feel like a wreck. I feel like a waste of space.

      I put down the plastic wallet. I pick up the knife. I know I am about to cut myself again.

      Calmly and coolly, I go to work. I open up my skin. I am careful to avoid any veins. I don’t want anyone to know what I do in the sanctuary of my room with a trusty Swiss army knife.

      I start to bleed and, with the blood, the pain seeps out of me. I cut myself again, for the last time. I watch the redness trickle out of me and I wait. I want to feel different. I want to feel

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