The Art of Doing Nothing (Badly): A Week Off Training

I’m currently a few days into what is technically “a week off training.” Except, of course, it’s never just a week. It’s the weekend before, the week itself, and the weekend after, so really, it’s more like nine days of… not quite knowing what to do with myself. And here’s the strange bit: I don’t enjoy it.

I know, I know. Most people hear “time off” and think relaxation, lie-ins, guilt-free snacks, maybe finally starting that series everyone’s been talking about for six months. Me? I find it one of the hardest parts of the year. Because training, for me, is more than just exercise. It’s structure. It’s purpose. It’s progress. It’s getting outside, working toward a challenge I’ve set myself, and proving, week after week, that I can keep going.

When you’re used to wheeling yourself three marathons (or ultramarathons) a week, plus gym sessions, stopping doesn’t feel like a reward. It feels like something’s missing.

That’s not to say I don’t need the rest. I absolutely do. After seven or eight months of continuous training, fatigue creeps in quietly until one day you realise you’re running on fumes. This break is necessary. Sensible, even. Still… I don’t like it. Part of the difficulty is physical. Training doesn’t magically remove pain, in fact, sometimes it makes it worse. I deal with flare-ups whether I’m training or not, often for reasons no one can fully explain. But when I am training, I can handle it better. There’s momentum. There’s distraction. There’s a reason to push through.

When I stop, everything becomes a bit louder. Oddly, this is also the only time I really see what my body looks like without the constant swelling of recovery. When you train at a high level, your muscles are always repairing, always holding onto fluid. So this “rest version” of me is technically the most accurate, but it somehow feels like the least familiar.

Then there’s the practical side of things, something I wish was talked about more, especially for wheelchair users. When you go from being active on your feet to being wheelchair-dependent, your energy output drops dramatically. Your lower body, built for walking, running, cycling, doesn’t do the same work anymore. And your upper body, brilliant as it is, simply isn’t designed to burn energy at the same rate. The result? Your calorie needs change. A lot.

I went from a fairly standard intake of 1800-2000 to around 1200–1300 calories a day just to maintain my weight. That’s not dieting, that’s maintenance. And it’s a constant balancing act: eat enough to fuel training and daily life, but not so much that it impacts mobility, energy, or even something as practical as fitting comfortably in a wheelchair. It’s taken me years to get close to figuring it out, and I’m still learning. Now add a week off training into that mix. I’m hungrier. I’m less active. And mentally, I’m… unsettled.

Because routine is everything. Most weeks, I train five or six days, and the rest of my time is packed, admin, social media, meetings, life. I go from training straight into work, often right up until bed. There’s always something to do. So when that suddenly stops, I’m left with two things: a long to-do list I’ve been putting off… and, eventually, time. And that’s where it gets uncomfortable.

Because once the list is done, I’m faced with the idea of actually resting. Of having a day where I don’t optimise, achieve, or progress something. And for some reason, that comes with guilt. I’ve always had this mindset, since I was a kid, that a day can either be used well or wasted. I say “wasted” a lot, even though I know it’s not really true. No day is truly wasted. Every day matters. Every day you’re here, living, experiencing, existing, that’s significant. Especially when you’ve seen just how quickly life can change.

And yet, that feeling lingers.

I could take a full day off. Eat what I want. Watch something I’ve been meaning to watch for ages. Just switch off. But instead, I find myself thinking: Could I be doing something more productive? It’s a strange contradiction, needing rest, but not quite knowing how to accept it. That said, I do know this: when I go back to training next week, it will have been worth it.

Because right now, I’m tired. Properly tired. The kind that builds over months, nearly eight months, in fact, of relentless effort. In previous years, surgery forced a break. Six weeks of recovery built in, whether I liked it or not. This year, that didn’t happen. And while that comes with its own emotional weight, it also means this short break is the only real pause my body gets.

So here I am, in the middle of it. Not entirely enjoying it. Not entirely comfortable in it.

But doing it anyway.

Because sometimes, the hardest part of pushing forward… is knowing when to stop.

Welcome to the weirdness that is my life.