by Jo Pavey
In May we headed to the Holland Thales FBK Games in Hengelo. I felt good, running freely, enjoying the race when, with about five laps to go, my calf started to feel sore. Two laps to go, I felt the muscle tear. It was unbelievably painful but thanks to the adrenalin flow – and the fact I was running well under the qualifying time – I somehow kept going. I had to make a very quick decision. I could sense the injury was bad, and if I stopped now and didn’t get the Olympic qualifying time, I knew I’d never recover soon enough to re-attempt it in time for selection. If I pulled up, I would not be going to the Olympics. So I carried on, aware that I would get my qualifying time, but might well be too injured to compete in the Olympics. It was a dilemma and I had to reason it out swiftly whilst racing. I dropped back behind the field a bit but, decision made, suddenly started working my way back through the field. I was running through excruciating pain but I thought I’ve just got to go for it and gamble that the muscle would recover in time. I pushed on and finished 2nd in 14:55.04. I’d got the time I needed but at what cost?
The tear was so bad I couldn’t even walk. For two months, it was back to that all-too-familiar routine – cross-training twice a day, every day in the pool. Aqua jogging is a good form of cross-training but, because you are not bearing any weight, it’s hard to get your heart rate high enough to achieve effective cardiovascular work. It means you have to train much longer in the pool, and much more intensely, to get a similar benefit to running on land. Every day I’d be in the pool for an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon. I was fortunate to receive funding for accommodation so Gav and I could be based for six weeks at the High Performance Centre in Birmingham. It was a motivating environment and I received great treatment from physio Dean Kenneally. The Royal Ballet School in Birmingham had kindly let me use their pool for training. I was aqua jogging, swimming and cycling on the stationary bike. I was also obsessively determined to keep some impact going through my bones and muscles to minimise the loss of conditioning. I believed this would be crucial in order to make competing in the Olympics a possibility. There were lots of cricket fields, so even when I couldn’t run a step, I developed a galloping motion, with high knee steps, mostly leading with my good leg because I couldn’t toe off. I must have looked completely mad! I would also jump up and down on the spot with my ankles in a locked position, because I couldn’t propel forwards. People may have thought I was crazy but I believe you’ve got to do what you can do at all times. My view was that if I waited for my body to be perfect and free of injuries, I would never have a career so I had to keep going however possible. I decided that for the rest of my running career, if there was any way I could get my body from A to B I would do it. This is not the advice I give to others, particularly youngsters when I chat to them, but that’s the attitude I wanted to take.
It was a couple of months of absolute hell. I progressed to doing interval sessions on the cricket field, every foot plant painful, but focusing on the job at hand. I also continued with the aqua-jogging sessions, consisting of reps with very short recoveries to get my heart rate up and keep it high. One day Gav was at the edge of the pool shouting commands: Start! Stop! Over and over again. I was getting towards the end of the session, taking stock in one of the recoveries, when Gav saw me sink silently under the water. I had fallen unconscious. Gav had to lean over from the edge of the pool and drag me out. I quickly came too – I’d only been out for a few seconds – but Gav ended the session there and then. Mindful of the fine margins in gaining fitness, I couldn’t stop early! I jumped back in and finished the session. That was my obsessive mentality, trying to keep my Olympic dream alive, not taking any chances.
Once I was on the road to recovery, and I believed things were truly improving, I had a scan at the hospital. ‘There’s quite a lot on that scan,’ said team doctor Bruce Hamilton when he saw it, raising his eyebrows to indicate a huge understatement. Bruce was a doctor from New Zealand. He was good fun and brilliant at his job. Gav and I became great friends with him and his family. He subsequently used me as an example of not letting a scan determine what you can and can’t do. Scans often depict a bleak image and cannot show what’s achievable with a modified, flexible (and stubborn) approach.
The cross-training and cricket-field work paid off. I only started back on the track three weeks before I went to the holding camp. My leg wasn’t ready, but it was now or never. Gav and I were very pleasantly surprised at the times I was achieving at the track, considering the time I’d spent away from it. I was still in pain but I gritted my teeth and went for it, and quickly started to hit some good targets in sessions. The British Olympic Association holding camp was in Paphos, Cyprus, and we were based in a luxury resort called Aphrodite Hills. I was sharing accommodation with Liz Yelling, Kathy Butler and Kelly Holmes. As the name suggests, the hotel is nestled in the string of hills above Paphos. My calf was so bad it couldn’t tolerate running on any undulations so Gav hired a car so I could run round and round the flat Happy Valley Park. I was trying so hard to keep my Olympic dream alive and soon I hit a session which was pretty much on the money, doing 6 x 1,000m reps with 90 seconds in between – in racing flats not spikes. It was so hot Dave Collins, the team psychologist who later became UK Athletics performance director, stood in the middle of the track with a special hand-cooling device, which apparently had the effect of cooling our entire bodies while we recovered between efforts.
It was hard to imagine how any host city could match the euphoria of Sydney’s millennium Games and its fantastic crowds. But Athens had the history of being the birthplace of the Olympics and for an athlete, an Olympics is an Olympics: it’s always special. There was a lot of talk about the facilities not being ready on time, but I thought the Athletes’ Village was brilliant, in spite of the hour-long bus journey to the stadium. Unusually, there were two training tracks within the village itself, so no transport to external training areas was necessary. The main track had an immaculate piece of grass in the middle, which runners ran round and round to save their legs. (Field eventers trained elsewhere.) The other track was situated in a quieter area at the end of the village. Yes, bits did look unfinished but this ‘wasteland’ was merely space that should have been landscaped and to me it amounted to an ideal area for some off-road running.
My heat was scheduled for 11.55 p.m., which I think was a pretty unique situation; it certainly added a bit of fun. I’d be starting the race on one day and finishing on the next! I’m not sure an Olympic track race has ever before or since started so late. Which day would I say I competed on? I’m definitely not a morning person so the timing suited me, but I noticed lots of my rivals training very late in the village, attempting to alter their body clocks.
I was pleased to qualify for the final despite the inevitable calf pain, but looking at the field for the final on paper beforehand, I realised I could run very well and still finish tenth. This was the highest standard I had ever competed at. It was going to be very challenging. Even in the heats I had had to run sub 15 minutes to qualify.
In the warm-up area just before my final, I was given the amazing news that Kelly Holmes had just won the first of her two gold medals. But there was no time to celebrate; I had to quickly refocus and line up for the final. We set off fast initially but no one wanted to take the lead and the pace was ridiculously slow. When you consider the first 200m are always fairly fast as people jostle into position, the next 200m felt like we were practically at walking pace, and we clocked a 90-second first lap. I’d never known anything like it. The next 200m was no quicker, but then two Chinese athletes, Sun Yingjie and Xing Huina, went to the front and picked up the pace. Approaching the halfway mark, Elvan Abeylegesse of Turkey put in a very fast 800m and everyone else went with her in a surge. She put in a 65-second lap, then a 66. I went too, but sensibly. Ethiopia’s Meseret Defar and Kenya’s Isabella Ochichi ran a 64 to catch up with Abeylegesse. This was insane pacing, more like a 1,500m race, and it didn’t slow again. With only
three laps to go, Abeylegesse had faded on the back stretch, leaving Defar and Ochichi to exchange the lead and ultimately battle it out for the gold. With only 200 metres to go Defar passed Ochichi and claimed her first Olympic title, finishing at 14:45.65. Ochichi took silver, and Defar’s teammate Tirunesh Dibaba took bronze. I was running fast and making headway. In the final laps, I found myself running with Yelena Zadorozhnaya of Russia and we were picking off athletes. I ran about 8:36 for the last 3,000m off a very uneven first 2,000m, so I’d given my all. It was a tough and unusual race. Everyone was exhausted. And, all things considered, I was fairly pleased to finish fifth.
Not to win a medal is always disappointing when you feel you’re on great form but, given my return from injury, I felt I had worked hard, given everything I had, and I had to be content with that. Tantalisingly, I had been closing in on bronze throughout the last few laps of the race. I look back and I know I gave it my absolute all on the day and finished as high as I possibly could. But I wanted more. I felt determined to try to do better . . . I was both pleased and frustrated. Before the Olympics my calf was so torn I didn’t go on the track for weeks and yet I achieved my best Olympic result. The Athens Olympic final was a turning point and spurred me on into 2005.
But before I’d seen out 2004, something very surprising happened: I won a bronze medal at the European Cross-Country. I’m known for being quite terrible at cross-country, and enjoy having a laugh about it. My legs seem to get stuck in the mud or slide out sideways in it! The Euro Cross is such a fun team event and my friend Hayley Yelling, who is fantastic at cross-country, won. Despite my struggles with the mud, I still enjoy the cross-country tradition we have here in the UK. As a young athlete, I used to love going to races with my Exeter Harriers teammates. Cross-country is fantastic for developing young athletes, and for strengthening you during the winter months. But I’m much better suited to a surface where there is not so much to upset my rhythm. I once had my mate Kathy Butler, who’s also a great cross-country runner, fly past me on a particularly steep hill at the Edinburgh race. She looked back at me and giggled as I struggled up the hill. I love the comedy. So I did find it amusing that I had managed to pick up a bronze medal. At least it meant in future years I had some ammunition when people took the mickey out of my cross-country running. Brendon Foster once – laughingly – suggested to me and Gav that I give cross-country a miss. I have since followed that advice in my later career, but in my training, I include elements of what could be described as cross-country. Just because you’re not good at something, doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.
CHAPTER 13
A Strange Sickness
After Athens I was already looking ahead to the 2008 Olympics. The Athens year had shown me that there was a possibility of winning a medal at world level, especially considering the battle I’d had with my calf injury. I was full of determination, but also aware that I was getting older. I gave an interview to a newspaper and said, confidently, that I thought I’d retire after Beijing, four years hence. That would probably be enough for me. Little did I know.
2005 was one of the years when I got into brilliant shape and was looking forward to the summer ahead. I kept my mileage high deep into the summer and travelled to Rome for the Golden League meeting with the express aim of getting a really fast time in the 5,000m. On arrival, my manager at the time, Ricky Simms, told me that unusually the Ethiopians intended to treat the race as a trial for the forthcoming World Championships, so there would be no pacemakers. I was slightly disappointed because, despite loving proper races, on this occasion I had come with one agenda: to attempt a PB. I realised I would just have to push the pace myself.
While we were in Rome, we heard the fantastic announcement that London had won the bid for the 2012 Olympics. Wow! London had beaten the favourite, Paris, by 54 votes to 50 at the International Olympic Committee meeting in Singapore, after bids from Moscow, New York and Madrid were eliminated. Tony Blair, the Prime Minister, called it ‘a momentous day’ for Britain. A home Olympics is a once-in-a-lifetime event – if you’re lucky – for competitors and spectators alike, so I would always have remembered where I was when we heard the news of the IOC’s vote, but I recall the next twenty-four hours with absolute clarity as the mood changed from celebration to tragedy.
The next day, 7 July – the day before my 5,000m race – Gav and I had gone out for a walk to stretch our legs and get some air. We mused on the implications of a London Games when I’d be thirty-eight. Ancient! Seven years ahead is a lifetime in the mindset of an athlete focused on the current season. At the time we were thinking what a shame it was that I’d be long retired by then. But maybe we’d be coaching after starting the family we planned, and we imagined some of the stars of London 2012 would be youngsters we’d not yet heard of. When we got back to the hotel, other athletes in the foyer came up to us saying, ‘Have you heard about what’s happened in London?’ They looked distressed as they told us of the terrible atrocities that had unfolded in the capital. We went up to the room, turned on the television and saw the awful scenes. Bombs on the tube and the bus. Like everybody else, our mood plummeted from elation to horror. Our minds were dominated by thoughts for the poor victims and their families and friends caught up in the devastation of that day. It made me stop and be very grateful for our health and happiness – and made any worries about how the race might pan out seem so insignificant.
When it came to the race the next day, difficult though it was, I had to try to concentrate my thoughts on my tactics for the race. Aware that the Ethiopians would make a cagey start, I was intent on running as hard as I could. When the gun went, none of the East African athletes wanted to take the lead or push the pace; they were there just to race it out for positions and to earn selection for their team. I ran hard, pushed and pushed. I was maintaining my pace well. Summoning up memories of my exhilarating schoolgirl races, I front-ran the race – only for about six athletes all from East Africa to fly past me at the bell. Even though I wasn’t reducing my pace, it felt like I was slowing down. To run at a pace to achieve a then personal best of 14.40 and then have the East Africans take off like rockets around me was tough when I’d done all the work leading the pack, but I ignored them, put my head down and finished as fast as I could. Gav and I were thrilled with my new PB, and I was very happy to have achieved that by front-running the race. It was a great platform from which to go to the World Championships.
When I arrived in Helsinki I was running well. My sessions were going great, I was hitting my target times no problem, and I thought I had a chance to do something special. During the heats the conditions were stormy, the most ridiculous conditions I’d ever competed in at a major championships – cold, windy, with torrential rain. The rain was so heavy I could hardly keep my eyes open as I ran. The thunderstorms seemed to signal the end of the world. My friend Goldie Sayers, the javelin thrower, went to get her laundry and came back terrified by the threatening black sky. I’ve never minded running in hot weather, but wet and rainy conditions are not my preference. However, despite a full-scale storm raging, I ran 14:53 to qualify third fastest for the final. In the heat, it felt like we were just jogging. I couldn’t recall a time when I’d ever felt so relaxed in a qualifying round, which was surprising considering the weather. I felt full of energy and was literally counting down the hours until the final.
Two days later, I woke up and tried not to acknowledge the fact I wasn’t feeling very well. I had a nagging achiness down my back; my throat was a little sore. I felt weird and feverish. How could this be happening to me? I’d been training for months without a problem and, in the cruellest twist, I fell ill on the day before the biggest race of the year. I was devastated. Gav wasn’t going to let me start, but I lined up despite his pleas. I don’t like watching and wondering. I told myself I might be okay. The only way to find out was to give it a go. I was coming down with something so bad I can’t even recall much of the race. I started and felt I could hardly put
one leg in front of the other. We all know that feeling, there’s no specific injury or pain, just nothing in the tank, but I’d never dropped out of a race in my career as a senior and I wasn’t going to start now. I crossed the line last, my season over. I wouldn’t run another step for three months.
The fluey feeling developed into a bad chest infection and virus, and then something worse. I was so weak all I could do was lie on the sofa or stay in bed all day with a severe pain at the back of my neck. The team doctors thought I might have a neurological problem. I had brain scans, electrodes placed on my head, blood tests, dozens of hospital appointments and still no one could diagnose what was wrong. I remember going out for Gav’s birthday in September to a restaurant near our home in Teddington. I could barely lift the knife and fork. I was tired all day. One time we were in Newquay, we’d been to the aquarium and I struggled even to walk back up the hill into town. Gav had to help me up the hill, sit me down and go and fetch the car. I’ve never been ill like that before or since. It was debilitating to the extent that every aspect of day-to-day life was challenging. It was really worrying – particularly, I think, for Gav, who felt helpless.
As quickly as it came on, it then started to lift. I noticed an improvement in the first week of December and by the middle of the month, I was my old self again and soon back running. We never got a definitive answer about what had been wrong with me. It was put down to a mystery virus – one I sincerely hope never to encounter again.
CHAPTER 14
