This Mum Runs

by Jo Pavey

  Thankfully when I met Gav’s parents and his brother, Alex, and sisters Julie and Alison there were no such mishaps or drama. They were very welcoming to me; Alex even gave me his treasured horseshoe from one of their grandad’s favourite racehorses as a good-luck memento.

  It’s funny to look back at how young and naive we were and think that the eighteen-year-old boy who we joked about stalking me is now my husband, my coach, my physio, my race manager, my best friend and the father of my children. I don’t know where I’d be without him. We finish each other’s sentences, guess what the other one is thinking, say the same thing at the same time – although I’m sometimes left thinking, ‘Did he really say that?!’ He has always been able to make me laugh. If something goes wrong, his default is to find humour in a situation and that is a priceless quality. Since first meeting we’ve gone through life together in a happy-go-lucky way and never consciously worked on planning for the future. Life just unfolded in front of us. When Gav went to university in Bristol ahead of me and I eventually followed him, we always knew we would live together. As students, we even put our money together in a joint account. I regard it as luck. I met absolutely the right person for me at a ridiculously young age. We all have our ‘what if’ moments that map out our lives. It’s extraordinary to think that if one element of our early story had been different – if Gav had not wanted to join Exeter Harriers or something – then it wouldn’t have been.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Lost Years

  As a runner, you often do ‘interval sessions’ – short periods of hard effort where you run fast, with recovery periods in between. When children play they often do lots of short bursts, a bit like an interval session, but the difference is they aren’t doing it for anything other than for fun. Their natural instinct is to move fast. They’ll stop and start again constantly, like when they are dashing around playing tag. As soon as they can walk, they want to run. Saying ‘I’m going out for a run’ sounds a perfectly valid, sensible activity to a child. Running? It’s simple. They get it. However, I would struggle to tell my children that running is my job. I’ve never viewed it that way myself; I just feel so lucky to be doing something I love and to share my passion for running with Jacob and Emily. They are so used to me running; they wouldn’t think to question it, especially as we regularly go training as a family outing – unless I’m running on the treadmill. Sometimes I wonder whether athletes are people who never lost that simple love of running, who never wanted to abandon the pure joy of it. Running will always be a part of my life until I physically can’t do it any longer.

  One of the reasons why I love it so much now is that for many years, despite showing early promise, I struggled to put any consistent training together. In 1990 I followed up my 1988 junior (Under-15) double at the AAAs by winning the intermediate (Under-17) 800m and 1,500m titles. But at the end of the track season I had severe pain in my feet and my Achilles, and calf problems too. First I was reduced to hobbling, then I had to stop altogether. I was diagnosed with hallux rigidus, more commonly known as arthritis of the main joint of the big toe in the ball of the foot, caused by a wearing out of the joint surfaces. It meant that I had a massively reduced range in my big toes, especially on the right. In order to run freely and mechanically correctly you need a good range in your big toe to achieve ‘toe off’ – the phrase used to describe the movement through which your foot leaves the ground via the ball of the foot. Owing to the hallux rigidus, I could only get the range I needed to toe off by coming off the ground with my foot in a position of excessive pronation. (In layman’s terms, excessive pronation is when your foot rolls in too much after landing.) This had the knock-on effect of causing injuries in my lower legs and affecting how efficiently I can run, too.

  It became clear that in order ever to run again, I had to work hard to get movement in both big toes to a functional range. Because I’d had some pleasing performances as a junior, I was referred to the Olympic Medical Centre at Northwick Park Hospital, and they recommended orthopaedic surgery in Exeter. I had an operation on my right foot to improve the range, but it was an extremely painful recovery. I was on crutches for a while and it took a long time to settle down. Little things would cause massive setbacks. During these years I saw many podiatrists, some very good ones who were helpful at that particular point in my career. However, I became a bit troubled by the huge differences in the various orthotic inserts I would receive to put in my shoes. I accumulated piles of them, and was left confused about which ones I should be putting in my running shoes for the best results.

  Gav and I had not long been going out when I developed this string of injuries. Over the next few years, it was one step (or limp) forward, two steps back, over and over again. If someone had told me it would be seven years before I was back in competition again, I’m not sure I would have believed them. Throughout my career I’ve often heard the phrase ‘you’ll never run competitively again’ – and it has always gone over the top of my head. I was blinkered in my focus on overcoming each setback as it arose. I can’t believe I lost the entire seasons of 1991 to 1996 inclusive to a catalogue of injuries. When I was sidelined, I went along to the club because Gav remained in training and was full-on with his running up to 1994. It was important to feel involved in the club, and I loved being there to support him.

  On the telly, I saw the runners who inspired me achieve their dreams. I watched Sonia O’Sullivan’s incredible medal haul: silver in the 1993 World Championships in Stuttgart, followed by golds in the 1994 Euros and the 1995 Worlds in Gothenburg, where Kelly Holmes won the silver. Where was I? Working hard to battle against injury setbacks and undoubtedly busy with other things in life. I never gave up on the dream of seeing what I could achieve if I could train consistently. It was always in my mind. I would run for a few weeks or months then the problems would recur. I’d be forced to stop again. After the pain subsided, I’d start running again and then the injuries would return. Again and again. I felt trapped in the cycle, but I refused to let go of my passion for running.

  Gav couldn’t believe what I was putting myself through. ‘You could be doing yourself long-term damage,’ he’d say. I was having none of that and wouldn’t even discuss it. I had only one agenda – and that was to run. I just wanted to regain that incredible sensation of running freely at speed. It was all about not letting go of that precious discovery I had made as a young schoolgirl. In that intense period from 1988 to 1990, running had come to be such a big part of who I was. I was determined never to lose the ability to run, to experience the exhilaration of racing and all the other positive things that running brought to my life. Gav saw that I was committed to regaining full fitness. ‘Stubbornly’ committed, he’d probably say – and he was 100 per cent supportive in helping me. I never thought that it wasn’t meant to be. I always thought if I worked hard enough, I could get it back. I was so passionate about wanting to run and finding out what I could do that I didn’t consider doing anything other than trying to get back. I never made a conscious plan or gave myself ultimatums, I just kept at it.

  To an extent, injuries are part of sport but training young athletes is often a delicate matter. Determined youngsters are going to have that inner drive to want to do well. Allowing them to achieve some of their goals in a safe, sensible way will help keep them interested in the sport. However, you have to know when to back off, and monitor their training carefully to ensure it is age-appropriate and suitable for their stage of growth and development. It is also important to know when to tell them to stop overdoing things. As a teenager I trained hard. I put a lot of pressure on myself. As I could see my times getting better and better, I worked harder and harder to continue the trend of personal bests. It’s part of my character to want evidence of improvement as a result of work I’ve put into something. I enjoy working towards a goal. In my training, in my racing – and in my period later as a physiotherapist – I love the reward of an improved measurable outcome. In those sessions, runn
ing with the men in the club, I pushed probably more than I should have done. When I was set a task in training I always wanted to do it to the best of my ability. In a way, that pushing, that finding out what I had in me, nurtured my love of the sport.

  While I was resigned to the struggle to recover from my foot injury, I gained a place to study Maths at Birmingham University following my A levels. I loved maths and science at school – subjects with measurable outcomes, I guess. I was in the car with Mike Down, who was Gav’s coach – and later became mine – coming back from a race in Stratford that Gav had competed in when the conversation turned to university. I said I wasn’t sure about choosing maths. I wanted a career I felt passionate about; I wanted to help people. I said I wished I’d applied to do physiotherapy – I’d seen so many by then I could see it was rewarding work and, through my own injuries, I’d become interested in the way the human body works. It was officially too late to change, but Mike said, ‘No, no, you must just write lots of letters.’ Inspired by his words, I did just that and was invited for an interview at the Avon and Gloucestershire College of Health in Bristol. They had two places left, which four of us interviewed for. The interview was quite scary. I had accepted the idea of taking a year off in order to swap courses – and couldn’t believe it when they told me then and there that I’d got a place to study for a physiotherapy degree that term. Dad took me for a meal in the Harvester pub to celebrate, and in September 1992 I started the three-year course.

  Despite the thwarted attempts to get back into competitive running, my university years were very happy and busy. On my course I had a good friend, Julia, who later became my bridesmaid. The course inevitably had some practical elements to it. On our first day, they threw us in at the deep end to get the embarrassment over and done with, asking us to take off our clothes down to our underwear to identify certain points on the body! The nature of my degree course meant I was on work placements all over the west of England, particularly down in Cornwall, it seemed. Because I was from the south-west, I was given all the jobs in that area – Truro and then up north as far as Hereford as well – so it wasn’t easy to keep doing the rehabilitation work needed to get over the latest setback, but I was definitely not one to wallow in the frustration of my running injuries. A physio degree didn’t always allow for a typical student lifestyle. With the placements, I was essentially doing a full-time job while also trying to do my reading, my dissertation and other projects. I sometimes looked with envy at friends who had a few lectures a week and then just had to write essays in their own time. Typed essays and paperwork were a requirement of my course, but this was before anyone had their own laptops or tablets. I’d have to travel daily to my placement, get back to university, spend all night in the computer room bashing away at a keyboard, grab a bit of sleep, then hop straight on a train again the next morning. It entailed lots of classic all-nighters, with a nine-to-five job thrown in for good measure. However, we made sure we fitted in the hugely important crazy student nights out in Bristol during the times when we were all back from our placements. We certainly knew how to work hard and play hard!

  My student life was as far as you can imagine from that of a professional athlete. At the end of my first year at college, Gav and I spent the summer driving around France in our old red Ford Fiesta. We didn’t have credit or debit cards. We just took a wodge of cash to get us around our planned route on a tight fuel budget. We pledged not to buy food, or eat out, so we crammed the car boot with tins of baked beans, tuna and spaghetti hoops, alongside a camping stove and a two-man tent. Our planned route would take us through Brittany and on to the Loire Valley, turning south-west towards Geneva and then back via north-west Italy and the South of France to Perpignan, and finally looping back to Brittany via Toulouse. We hadn’t budgeted for campsites either so we also took plenty of bin liners and tape to cover the windows when we pulled over somewhere and slept in the car. It became apparent the old Fiesta was not as fuel-efficient as we’d calculated, which messed up our careful currency plans. These were the days before the Euro or twenty-four-hour service stations, and we only had a certain amount of francs and lira. There were several nightmare moments when we were about to run out of fuel and the road in the Maritime Alps forced us back into Italy with no lira. It was crazy.

  Our pace was slower than we’d plotted too, because we couldn’t afford toll roads. We’d drive at night or early in the morning to make up time, then get very tired. Once, when we’d woken at 5 a.m. to hit the roads before rush hour, Gav instinctively went out on the British and wrong side of the road. Neither of us noticed until a car came in the other direction, honking and flashing its lights, and we swerved and mounted the kerb to escape an impact. The car kept breaking down too, always in an awkward situation. We were in a long queue of traffic on a narrow road going up a steep gradient towards the Matterhorn when it overheated and abruptly stopped. To the amusement of the line of drivers behind us, we somehow manoeuvred it 180 degrees and then free-wheeled down the entire winding mountain road.

  As Gav drove, I was continually re-calculating our expected costs against a dwindling budget. It was very stressful at times, but a true adventure. Would we have enough to get home? In the end we bailed out early in the Pyrenees, and bypassed the Bay of Biscay coastline, to ensure we’d get back to the UK. It was all good fun – and I’m so grateful I had those authentic student experiences while I was too injured to pursue my running – although one incident was far more sinister. We’d pulled into a garage to fill up the car and Gav went in to pay. He whipped out his wallet, which at that stage was still bulging with cash, and when he asked the garage attendant for directions to our next destination, the guy behind him in the queue said he and his mates were going that way so we could follow them. It was dark. We didn’t suspect a thing. We kept driving on their tail and followed them down a turning, which led into a deserted industrial area. They stopped and all got out of their car, approaching us with menace. It suddenly became clear they intended to rob us. I don’t know how Gav stayed so calm as he quickly did a three-point turn and we raced away.

  When I felt frustrated about my injury woes, I’d always get support from Gav and I kept in touch with Tony, who’d also keep me chipper. He wanted me to know he was always on the end of the phone. His calm words of encouragement were always reassuring to hear. For as long as I’d known him, Tony had always worn thick pebble glasses. I knew that his sight had been getting poorer over the years, but during one of our phone calls he confessed he’d been told he would soon be blind and that he worried that he might never see me race again. That was heartbreaking for me to hear him say. I discussed it with Gav and we came up with a plan for me to run a 3k in the Women’s Southern League in Exeter so that Tony could see me run one last time. I was determined to stay fit enough to see this through. By now, his vision had deteriorated to the extent that he could just about see me when I ran past him, but he couldn’t register the rest of the action around a lap.

  We all went to the meet together and I felt so emotional running past him, I really went for it, going off far too fast for my level of fitness. I was blowing up big time by the end, but I won and came across to ask if he’d seen me. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I knew you’d be in the front.’ Then we both broke down and cried.

  Ever my motivator, Tony quietly remarked that he would still be able to see me on a large-screen TV.

  ‘Right,’ I joked. ‘I better get selected for the GB team again!’

  I said it in jest, but it was a goal that stayed at the back of my mind while I continued enjoying a normal student life, burning the candle at both ends. If I had been somewhere that had a serious athletics set-up, I might not have had so much ‘student’ fun. I loved the challenge of trying to fit in my early run while travelling to placements and doing all-nighter essays. I recall running early then walking an hour to my placement at a hospital in Taunton, my wet hair frozen; or arriving somewhere early and finding a local park to do a quick run b
efore I started work. I tried to do my running in any spare time I could find because I loved it.

  I was busy studying for my degree, away a lot on placements, and it was very important for me to see Gav. Injuries permitting, I ran with him in Mike Down’s group when I was back from placements. Mike was our coach during our time in Bristol and I still raced now and again while at university. He was a great support and arranged for me to do hours of ‘aqua jogging’ at the Bristol University pool. My Aquabelt – the buoyancy device, which suspends you at shoulder level in water so you can transfer a land-based programme to a non-impact session in the pool – became one of most trusted pieces of kit.

  I didn’t have enough understanding of my injury problems to deal with them effectively at this stage, but I remained determined. I craved getting in a solid block of training to see if I could reach a good level. I never considered giving up. With physio placements all over the place and continual niggles, I struggled to put together a logical training programme. But I have so many good memories of running when I could and the inner drive to keep going for it was always there.