George Stephen journal: the highs, the lows, and rock bottom

George Stephen is the latest contributor to The British Continental’s 2026 journal series. He rides for BCC Race Team, studies at the University of Nottingham, and at twenty has already lived through more than most young riders meet in a career.

In his opening entry, he writes about the Winnats Pass Movember challenge that came to mean more than he expected, the crash in France that fractured his femoral neck, and the avascular necrosis diagnosis that arrived just as he had got back to racing. It is a piece about rock bottom, written by someone who has been there — and who knows the climb may not be over.

It’s taken me a good while to work out where I want this journal to start, but I think it appropriate if I start with a low. Midway through 2024, undertrained, underperforming, somewhat out of my depth. Unable to hold my own in a National B never mind a National Series race. Left with a feeling of inadequacy after every race. I’m quite lucky because I never fell out of love with the bike, but racing wasn’t really doing it for me. I decided I wanted to do something that would make me feel fulfilled. A goal where I could feel like I’m doing something to help not just others, but also myself. A challenge was set, 11,000m of elevation, the equivalent depth of the Mariana Trench, 57 reps up Winnats Pass in the Peak District. I wanted to prove to everyone that no matter how down you felt, how hard life was, there was always a way back up from rock bottom. Raising awareness for mental health and the Movember charity. But I guess I was trying to prove this to myself as well.

This challenge made me learn so much more about myself than anything else prior that season. Six thousand metres in, just over halfway done, mentally I was ready to carry on but physically, less so. Cramp in every muscle imaginable, and I’m not exaggerating. Then a knight in shining armour emerged and I don’t think he will ever know the significance of his appearance. Jack Hartley arrived to do a couple laps with me, unbeknownst that I was almost ready to climb off. It was at this point that I started to realise the real meaning and significance of my challenge.

This was exactly why I was doing this ride, not only to show people that there is always a way up from rock bottom, but that it’s almost impossible alone

Without the support of Jack, “Rapid Rich”, an infamous name in the hill climb scene, or anyone else that offered their support, there’s no way I would’ve completed it. 240 watts normalised, over 12 hours’ riding time and about eight million Haribo later I finished the ride in the dark. I saw my family, who’d sat at the bottom of the climb all day, alongside the Hartley brothers and Max Krasinski, who despite having a trip to France the next morning had shown up to support me. This was exactly why I was doing this ride, not only to show people that there is always a way up from rock bottom, but that it’s almost impossible alone.

I was left with such a high, a feeling that I was doing something with purpose and meaning. Little did I know in a matter of weeks I would be at rock bottom once again.

I lined up at Côte d’Or, a stage race in Dijon, France, ready to prove to not only myself but everyone else that I was capable of performing at a high level. I wasn’t thinking I was going to win, but I thought I might be able to be in the mix, be involved in a race. The flag dropped and not three hours later I was in a French hospital. No phone, unable to speak the language, no familiar faces around, unsure what was wrong with me other than being in an inexplicable amount of pain. An experience of feeling so alone and isolated that has left me with nightmares years later.

All my goals were completely flipped on their head, in my mind I was still a cyclist, but in reality, I didn’t know who I was

A complete vertical shear fracture of the femoral neck and overnight everything changed. I went from counting grains of rice and analysing my average power to not being able to go to the toilet by myself. All my goals were completely flipped on their head, in my mind I was still a cyclist, but in reality, I didn’t know who I was. Everything became a mission to get back on the bike. Countless hours of rehab, physio, monotonous exercises. Despite being unable to put on pants or socks independently I was naïvely certain that I would be back up and running in no time. Just shy of seven weeks after the crash I had achieved just that, cycling on a turbo. Two weeks later I was back in a hospital bed, waking up from surgery, completely back to square one after the femur had healed as a non-union. In layman’s terms, not good.

A real mindset shift was needed. I still couldn’t walk, I couldn’t cycle, I found comfort at the bottom of a bottle, specifically a bottle of chicken wine. But what I was not prepared for was the feeling of loneliness, or to rephrase, not feeling lonely at all. Three weeks after my crash I was moved into my university house, surrounded by all my friends. Carried down stairs so I could be involved in house parties or pushed up Derby Road by strangers who saw me struggling in my wheelchair. I didn’t miss a lecture despite professors advising that I could take a year out, wheeling my way back and forth from campus.

Despite being a cyclist that couldn’t cycle, I never felt more at home in the University of Nottingham cycling team. Being allowed to remain in the performance squad, attending every gym session I could, getting a level of treatment I probably did not warrant. I was no longer worried if I could position myself at the front of a peloton, but instead I was worried about bin day, and whether I could fit on the pavement in my wheelchair. Setbacks became commonplace, but in the same regard, achievements did too.

I was left with an experience that was haunting, yet weirdly an experience I’m grateful to have gone through

Little by little everything got better, but I was left with an experience that was haunting, yet weirdly an experience I’m grateful to have gone through. I learned to be proud of the little things, and in writing this journal I feel like this is a skill I still sometimes forget. The feeling of carrying my own dinner from the counter to the kitchen table, without any walking aid, tray or assistance would be so unremarkable to a normal person it isn’t even worth thinking about, but for me it warranted a happy dance and a phone call to my mates. I learnt to appreciate everything I achieved, even though it paled in significance to the six hour rides I was doing just a few months prior.

The most important thing I learnt from this experience was to just focus on myself. I learnt that there will always be someone more injured, with a more horrific story. Similarly, there will always be someone better than you, faster, stronger, someone with more friends, someone that can down a pint faster than you or drink more chicken wine (although I think I was up there for a while)*. It sounds cliché but if you compare yourself to someone else you are always going to be left disappointed.

What followed was the most amazing year. I put in the work, and it paid off, I was back on my bike, performing at a higher level than before my crash, enjoying my riding and racing. But there is always something that is waiting to get you down. In my case, Avascular Necrosis. As a result of my initial trauma and a lack of blood supply, the ball of my femur is dying. Slowly wasting away. After all the rehab, all the hard work, all the highs, I was back at rock bottom. Being told by a leading expert that he’s never seen a hip in worse condition, which was just brilliant. Surprisingly, this was only a week after competing in BUCS Hill Climb and more importantly taking the infamous Fabis KOM on Strava in Nottingham. It appeared out of nowhere.

The hardest thing to deal with is the certainty that soon my hip will give out, but the contradictory feeling of ambiguity in that it could be tomorrow or it could be next year. At that point I will be back in a hospital bed, awaiting a hip replacement.

Everything I do now is an opportunity, nothing is promised and you are not owed anything. Every interval session is a chance to improve, every race is a chance to enjoy something I love doing so much, every essay is a way to prove how hard I work

There’s only a limited number of words to explain how this feels, I will let you use your imagination to work them out. But it has taught me more lessons that I think are worth sharing. Everything I do now is an opportunity, nothing is promised and you are not owed anything. Every interval session is a chance to improve, every race is a chance to enjoy something I love doing so much, every essay is a way to prove how hard I work.

It is so easy to fall into a rut, something I am definitely guilty of, where everything feels like a chore and nothing feels rewarding. So why am I telling you all this? Well maybe I just want to tell everyone how hard I’ve got it and how brave I am, and in some respects, this might be true. But really, I want to show people that no matter what you are going through, you can do it. The pain you feel currently, the stress that is hanging over your head, it will all go away. I won’t try and pretend like I’ve got all the answers at the mere age of twenty, I most definitely do not. But I will try to tell you that nothing is stopping you from succeeding.

I will leave you with an anecdote from my second year of university. Dressed as Lightning McQueen with homemade decorations and lights pinned onto my wheelchair, on my way back home from a Halloween party. Pint in my hand, whilst masterfully controlling a one-handed wheelie, a speaker blaring Rascal Flatts from the Cars movie soundtrack. I realised that life is most definitely a highway, but you’ve just got to ride it all night long. You’ve only got one chance at this life, so be kind to yourself. But in the same respect, you only have one, so don’t waste it!