Apologising like A British Gentleman & Passing Out in the Bathroom: Phil Collard (Part 2)

When I wrote my first guest-blog for this site, 'It’s Enjoyment, Jim, But Not As I Know It', I hinted that it may be part one of a two-parter. 

Said blog was, in no small part, about how my life had been turned upside down by a sudden and mysterious illness, which left me breathless at the merest hint of physical movement (even brushing my teeth) - and when I wrote it, I genuinely didn’t know what was wrong with me or whether I was ever going to recover. 

I was, to put it bluntly, very scared. 

As it happens, with that blog having been published on 31st August, I was just a few days away from finding out exactly what was wrong with me. 

Sat in the house, at about 10pm, I decided to call it a day and head upstairs to brush my teeth before going to bed. The next thing I knew, I was waking up on the bathroom floor, half an hour later, staring at the bottom of the bath. 

I must have dragged myself up the stairs only to pass-out with the exertion. 

I very nearly brushed it off as 'one of those things' but, as it happens, it was a rare evening where the rest of the family were out, and I was alone... and having no-one else around added a different dimension to the whole episode. After about half-an-hour deliberating, I decided to call 999 (apologising to the operator in true British style, of course, for the unnecessary inconvenience I was causing!). 

The operator took the view that I wasn’t causing an unnecessary inconvenience - and arranged for me to be rushed to hospital.

Life was about to get exciting.. and terrifying. 

I was discharged the next day - seemingly okay - but, 24 hours later, a phone call from my GP… my panicked GP… suggested that I wasn’t okay at all. It turns out that the results of one of the tests they’d run in A&E (but which were expected to be fine - hence them discharging me) showed that I was pretty much as close to death as I could get, without actually BEING dead. 

I needed to get to hospital as soon as possible - no time to pass go… and no time to collect my £200. 

It turns out I had a 'severe saddle pulmonary embolism' (that’s a clot in both both lungs to you and me), likely brought on by Covid. Well that would explain my breathlessness over the previous few weeks!

The doctor was pretty clear that I had been lucky to regain consciousness, having reached that point of passing out a few days before... and that, had I not contacted 999 when I did, the outcome might well have been... well... you know. 

I’m not going to leave out the bit where I tell you how frightened I was – searching Google in the dead of night, from my hospital bed, all alone, only seemed to confirm that these were, in fact, the last days of Phil Collard.

There were tears.

When I finally got to seek property medical guidance – from, you know, an actual doctor doing his morning rounds, rather than Dr Google, he confirmed that, since they’d identified what was wrong with me in time, my prognosis was for a full recovery… and, after a few days under observation in hospital, just to be safe, I was going home (albeit with a bag full of blood-thinning medication and a fear of cutting myself shaving, lest I bleed to death!) 

My instructions were simple (thank goodness - I’m a simple man!); limit movement for the next few weeks. I could then start doing short walks (a few minutes at a time). After another few weeks, I could START to do other stuff, like riding my bike (again, for a few minutes at a time). 

The key was to gradually increase the amount of time I was exercising, and the intensity of that exercise, such that I never find my limit, if that makes sense - I needed to avoid, at all costs, getting breathless. 

It was not a nice journey to go on, but I followed the instructions TO THE LETTER and, after a couple of months, was very gently attempting my usual “daily” 20-mile cycling routes. 

So much fitness had been lost that, if it weren’t for how grateful I was just to be alive and cycling, I might have started to feel a bit depressed… but I plugged on. 

A little while later and I went out for a 100km ride - again taking it steady. My breathing and heart-rate were steady throughout, which was a great sign. 

Roll forwards to where we find ourselves now and I’m back to averaging c120 cycled miles per week and a couple of miles swimming. I’ve done a few more 100km rides, too, and I’m looking at a return to my 'standard' 200km rides in the not-too-distant future. 

In fact, I’m in Majorca as I type this blog - having brought my oldest lad away for a few days cycling in what very much appears to be paradise (who knew that EasyJet flew to paradise!) 

And, yesterday, we cycled a little over 60 miles with around 6,800 feet of climbing (that’s around 100km with 2,100 metres of climbing for you metric types)… including the famous climb of Sa Calobra (one of the 'list' of climbs I’ve always wanted to do). 

In fitness terms, yesterday’s ride showed me that I’m far from fully-recovered - and the reality is that I’m probably a few months away from being able to say that… coming back from Covid and a life-threatening embolism is, funnily enough, not a five minute thing. 

BUT - I still completed a ride which many cyclists couldn’t do at all - so I take huge pride in that… plus, of course, I’m alive and well enough to do it… and for that I’m hugely grateful. 

If you'll permit me a moment of mushiness, I’ve the NHS to thank for being alive - and my wife and boys to thank for their support whilst I’ve been recuperating… I genuinely couldn’t have done it without the physical and emotional support I’ve had. 

What’s next? I don’t know, to be honest. I have a review of my blood-thinner medication next month (to decide whether I can stop taking them)… and I think they’ll run a heart scan or two (to make sure that the whole episode didn’t damage my heart)… but, for now, I’m planning on enjoying the ability to exercise - an ability I took for granted before July last year, no doubt. 

And if you take anything at all away from reading this, I hope it’s that YOU shouldn’t take exercising for granted, either - enjoy, cherish and celebrate what you fit bunch of people are able to do! 

To finish off, here’s some photos of our Majorca adventure!

... Phil Collard

It’s enjoyment, Jim, but not as I know it - GUEST POST - Phil Collard

* A GUEST POST by PHIL COLLARD* 

This may be a one-off blog… or it may be part-one of a two-parter. Which of those it is very much depends on my health over the coming days/weeks.

Let me take you back to mid-July - just before the school holidays (I have sons age 15 and 12, so school holidays are still relevant to me).

The weather was hot and my motivation to swim/bike/run was high - I particularly wanted to keep up my 9 year, pretty much unbroken, habit of at least one long ride every month (which, for me, is anything over 200km).

Partly because of the heat - and partly because we fancied something different - a mate and I hatched a plan to do said long ride overnight.

And once a plan is hatched, it just has to be seen through. 

That’s the law.

That 200km ride was probably one of my strongest ever over that distance… not just because the average speed was higher than normal (it’s not all about average speeds, right?) but mainly because of how composed I felt throughout, how much I enjoyed it, and how fresh I felt at the end (I positively jogged up my garden path when I got home).

If you’re really inclined, you can watch a short video of that, here: 

But my world of swim/bike/run cycling was about to fall apart.

To cut a very long story short, someone flicked a switch and within 36 hours, I was struggling to even ride 5 miles.

It got worse.

Any exercise at all became practically impossible over the course of the next 5 weeks.

Whilst I never felt ill, as such, I developed a persistent cough and an inability to exert myself without getting shockingly out of breath.

And I really do mean “shockingly”.

For context, I was even getting out of breath brushing my teeth… going up stairs became really difficult… riding a bike (even slowly, to the end of the road) became impossible.

Chest X-rays came back clear and a visit to my doctor concluded that, whilst I’d never tested positive for Covid, I simply “must” have had it… and that I was now feeling the after-effects.

It was devastating.

Not least because, over the summer holidays, I had so many plans to be cycling with both my boys.

My oldest lad, Angus, is an established cyclist with a string of achievements already to his name: a few Strava KOMs to show he’s strong in those all-important “segments” - and plenty of “longer rides”, up to and including 250km, to show he’s got endurance sorted, too.

My youngest, Evert, was showing an interest in joining me and had set his sights on us doing a 100km ride together before the new school term had started.

All of a sudden, those plans were gone.

As it turned out, over the last 6 weeks of inactivity, it’s my boys who have taught me a very important lesson.

At my request (because they both seemed to be waiting for me to recover… and I desperately didn’t want them to do that), they started riding 20 mile routes without me.

Yep - they went out on their bikes - two brothers - just getting on with it.

And they got on with it with style, too. Utterly full of enthusiasm and loving every minute.

So what was the very important lesson I learned?

I learned that cycling can be enjoyable even if I’m not the one doing it. 

I can’t tell you how much I love listening to their post-ride stories about the great time they’ve  had.

Even overhearing them talking to each-other about their ride, and where they might go next, puts a smile on my face.

And, whilst I already knew my oldest was fast (I’ve spent over a year watching him ride away from me!), my youngest (who I shall remind you is only 12 years old) has shown himself to be no slouch, either. His last two 20 mile rides have been at comfortably over 17mph average so, in reality, he’d comfortably be able to join a club I ride with on a Wednesday evening (something he’s pushing for). The next step for him is cleated pedals, I think (something else he’s pushing for!).

As I write this, I still find myself laid-up now - although things have moved on a little. 

In a bizarre twist of fate, my ability to breathe seems to have improved but, at the exact same time as I started to recognise that improvement, I started to “feel” really very ill indeed.

I tested positive for Covid - around 6 weeks after, presumably, I’d had it for the first time.

When will I recover?

Goodness knows - there seems to be lots of horror stories out there about “never” recovering (I can’t read those anymore!).

Realistically, I’m taking it one day at a time but you can count on one thing - if I “can” get back to it, I bloody well will.

By Phil Collard