by Mo Farah
Zara Hyde Peters also worked for the endurance team at St Mary’s. Zara was the Technical Director for Endurance, and she worked in the office that Alan had on campus. From the very moment that I met Zara I knew she had Somali heritage. Somalis have this ability to recognize each other from a mile off. In the same way, I suppose, that a Jamaican can spot a native of Kingston at first glance, Somalis can instantly tell when they meet someone else from their homeland. In fact, I can spot the difference between someone from Somalia, Ethiopia, Eritrea or Djibouti. It turned out that Zara had been born in Ireland but her dad came from Somalia. She was the hands-on member of the team. I’d see Zara whenever I popped into the office to pick up my mail. She liked to call me, Chris Thompson and Sam Haughian her three musketeers. If that was true, then I was a musketeer driving without a proper licence.
One day I remember driving back to St Mary’s campus after a hard training session over at Thames Valley and seeing Neil Black standing at the side of the field, watching me steer my knackered Fiesta into the car park, windows rolled down, Tupac pounding out of the tinny speakers. I killed the engine, unfolded myself from the driver’s seat and nodded at Blackie.
‘What’s up?’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Mo. But have you got a driving licence?’
‘Yeah, yeah, course,’ I replied.
Without saying another word I showed him my provisional licence. Neil’s eyes went wide with disbelief. ‘This is your driving licence?’
‘What’s the problem?’
It didn’t take long for Blackie to set me straight. I only had a provisional because I’d never taken my driving test. And I’d never taken my test because I thought the provisional covered me to drive just as long as I had the ‘L’ plate fastened to the rear bumper.
‘What about insurance?’ Neil asked. ‘Do you have that, at least?’
The answer was no. It was pretty clear that I’d had a narrow escape, driving between the club and the campus like that. There were all kinds of things like this that I just didn’t know – stuff no one had explained to me, that everyone assumes you know. A lot of my life I’ve been learning on my feet, having to pick things up as I go along. I booked myself in for my driving test, took it and passed, glad that Neil had pointed out to me the deal with provisional licences before I’d got into serious trouble.
Later on, I was almost banned after overtaking an old-age pensioner who was driving up a hill too slowly for my liking. I hadn’t realized the vehicle behind me was a police car. Another close call. My driving is much better these days.
Kim McDonald, my agent, tragically passed away in November 2001, when I was eighteen. Kim’s death came as a real shock. He died of a heart attack in Brisbane, just forty-five years old. Tributes flowed in from around the athletics community and the many athletes he’d taken under his wing. Following Kim’s death, an Irish former middle-distance runner called Ricky Simms took over the business. Like Kim, Ricky also really knew his stuff. They had guys like John Mayock, Mark-Lewis Francis and Tim Benjamin on the books, as well as Sam Haughian, and I decided to stay with the company, now called PACE.
Slowly, more athletes arrived on scholarships at St Mary’s or to train in the Teddington area. There was Andrew Walker, an Irish runner who trained with PACE. Andrew was a twin, the same as me. I used to wind Andrew up about his taste in music. He was an absolutely massive Bob Dylan fan and he’d always try and get me to listen to some of his songs.
‘Mo, Mo, sit down!’ Andrew used to say. ‘Listen to this tune, man.’
I could never get into any of that type of music. Too slow. I like a good beat. I’d listen for a minute, get bored and throw on some Tupac. One of the old classics like ‘How Do U Want It’ or ‘I Ain’t Mad at Cha’.
‘Now, this is the real deal,’ I’d say. ‘This is what I’m talking about.’
Andrew would just make this face and switch the music back to Dylan.
Then there was Big Frank.
I already knew Yasin Nasser, aka Big Frank, from the athletics club. He lived by himself in a nice flat and sometimes a few of us would head over to his place, play Pro Evo or watch a few DVDs. We loved all the crime movies – Goodfellas, Casino, Training Day. Yasin was half-Somali and half-Arab, and I could never resist taking the mick out of him. He had this down-to-earth, reasonable manner, but I just had the knack of being able to push his buttons and get him properly irate. One time we were watching Goodfellas when one of the characters came out with the line, ‘Call me Frank.’
I turned to Yasin. He was tall. The Mafia guy on the screen was also tall. And for some reason I thought Frank suited Yasin better than his given name. I grinned at him and said, ‘That’s your name from now on – Big Frank!’
‘What?’ Yasin screwed up his face. ‘No way, man. My name ain’t Big Frank.’
‘Now it is … Big Frank.’
‘Stop calling me that!’
From that day on, whenever we were heading out to a party or to meet up with mates, I’d introduce Yasin as Big Frank. He’d be spitting mad, protesting that his name wasn’t Big Frank. But no one listened to him. The name stuck. Everyone around St Mary’s knew him as Big Frank. People would pass him in the street: ‘Morning, Big Frank.’ ‘What’s up, Big Frank?’ ‘Hey, Big Frank, you coming out tonight?’ Every time someone addressed him as Big Frank, Yasin went through the roof. I cracked up any time I heard someone call him by his new name. Many people still know Yasin as Big Frank. He lives in Canada these days. They probably call him Big Frank out there too. We’ve become great friends, so I think he’s got over his initial anger about his new name.
I’d find other ways to wind up Big Frank. Sometimes I’d ring his phone while he was sleeping in the middle of the night and leave prank messages on his voicemail. Or I’d call him up on my mobile and say, ‘Pal, what’s up? I’m just in Germany for a race. What’re you doing?’ I’d be saying this as I stood outside Big Frank’s front door. He’d be like, ‘Yeah, cool, how’s Germany?’ And then I’d knock on his door. ‘Wait a second. Someone’s knocking.’ Then Big Frank would crack open the door and I’d spring into view, and he would jump back in surprise.
My main partner-in-crime was Tom Bedford, Dave Bedford’s son. Dave had been a brilliant distance runner in the 1970s. In 1973 he broke the world record in the 10,000 metres, running 27:30.08. You’d know him if you saw him – he always sported these bright red socks and a bushy moustache, a bit like those guys in the 118 118 ads. After retiring, Dave became the race director for the London Marathon, so ultimately I had him to thank for being able to enrol on the scholarship at St Mary’s in the first place. His son Tom became a great friend of mine. Neither of us could resist playing a joke or doing something nuts. I got to know Dave better through Tom.
Of all of us at St Mary’s at that time, Lee McCash was undoubtedly the craziest. A distance runner from Manchester, Lee was one of the very few runners who seriously pushed me in the English Schools cross country races, even beating me on occasion. Lee had won the English Schools Intermediate title in 1998, running for Lancashire. I came second in the same race. Lee was a talented and tough competitor. We were in the same boat in that neither of us had the qualifications you strictly needed to study at St Mary’s. He went to the same college as me, over in Richmond.
Lee also loved a good fight. He used to tell me about all the scraps he’d got into while growing up in Burnley. About how he’d go out to the clubs in town with his mates and as it got towards the end of the night, he’d go up to some lad and ask if he wanted a fight outside. There was no beef with the guy. He just wanted someone to have a scrap with in the street. Usually this other lad would take one look at Lee, who had the slight build of a distance runner, and readily agree to the fight – not realizing how tough Lee was. Then they’d go outside and fight. No weapons, just fists. Lee usually won. When the fight was over they’d shake hands and go their separate ways, as if nothing had happened. According to Lee, this sort of thing w
ent on all the time up north. I couldn’t get my head round it. Fighting with someone who’s trying to attack you or has done something to hurt you, that’s one thing. But just going round a club, asking who wants a fight? It didn’t make any sense to me. Lee had put all this behind him by the time he joined the high-performance centre. But still. It was totally random.
Lee was awesome at cross country. Put him on a muddy, hilly course through a park on a cold winter’s morning and he’d wipe the floor with the competition. On the track, however, it was a different story and he’d struggle to finish in the top eight. Generally, every runner has a preference for a particular surface, but for Lee the difference between track and grass was like night and day. I’m not sure why. Some people find track runs boring; they like the variation in the scenery on cross country runs, the fact they’re actually getting somewhere rather than just running around the same stretch of track over and over. Maybe Lee had the same problem. I can’t say for sure. It’s something that a few athletes have to deal with, though. I was happy to run on both track and grass. In that way I guess I was lucky.
Take Haile Gebrselassie. This is a guy who won Olympic gold in the Atlanta and Sydney 10,000 metres, who dominated the World Championships between 1993 and 1999, who took gold in the World Indoors four times, and broke twenty-seven world records during his career. Without question, he is one of the greatest athletes of all time. He’s a hero of mine, for sure. But it’s a known fact that Gebrselassie wasn’t as good doing cross country as he was on the track. He twice finished behind his great rival Paul Tergat in the World Cross Country Championships; his best achievement was bronze in the Worlds at Budapest. There are a few other guys who’ve struggled on either the track or the field. By and large, though, 90 per cent of athletes are good on both surfaces.
In the evenings I hung out with Tom, Lee, Big Frank, Andrew and a few other lads. During the day, I trained under Alan Storey.
I remember coming away from my first session with Alan and feeling so shattered that I could hardly move. Every muscle in my body was aching. Alan believed in training Hard, with a capital ‘H’. You’d have to put in some serious mileage over the course of a week. Alan’s theory was that you had to build up a lot of miles in your muscles before you could start to think about running fast. First comes the distance, then comes the speed.
I quickly discovered that training under Alan was very different from anything I’d done at the athletics club. A typical session with Conrad would involve short, fast reps. It was rare for us to do anything very long in terms of distance. There was a good reason for this. Under Conrad, I was still a young athlete. You can’t go from doing 400 metres to 1 kilometre overnight, otherwise you’re going to get injured. The idea is to train that little bit more each time, then rein it in on the recovery session. That’s how you add more power and stamina: bit by bit. Now that I was preparing to race in major international competitions, I had to step it up.
Under Alan, the distances were much longer. Sometimes I’d be out there on the track doing much longer reps. On top of the sheer intensity of our sessions, Alan had me running twice a day. That was a real shock. Before then I’d trained once a day, max. Even recovery sessions under Alan were gruelling. He was always looking to push you that little bit further, which was good. I’d complete my training session, turn away to get changed and leave and Alan would say, ‘Not yet, Mo! I want you to do one more set.’ I’d be hurting all over. I’d literally have to scrape myself off the track to go around again.
Alan varied my training. Some coaches give you a set programme for four weeks, and that’s it. You stick to the plan, done. With Alan, you never knew what was coming next. He’d tell me what I’d be doing for the next session – say, 1 kilometre reps. Then I’d arrive, begin my warm-up, and he might suddenly say, ‘Right, Mo. You’ll be doing 2 kilometre reps today.’ And I’d be like, ‘But you said 1 kilometre!’ It was all part of his plan to keep me on my toes. To his credit, training was never boring under Alan.
I responded brilliantly to Alan’s coaching at first. I’ve never been one to shy away from hard work, and I had no problem with putting in the extra effort Alan demanded. Anything he told me to do, I’d do it. If Alan told me to jump, I’d jump. I was ready to do anything to become a better athlete. I think that’s one of the things that helped us to bond. We were both big believers in the value of a good work ethic. Once I adapted to the training, I started to feel stronger and fitter than ever before.
Running is all about pushing your body that little bit further. That extra inch. Your body can do certain things comfortably, but to win, you need to go beyond that. And it’s not easy. That last sprint? Take it from me – it’s a lot harder than it looks. Some people think that all I do is flick a switch in my brain that says ‘Run’ and up my pace. It’s not like that. It comes down to effort. As I’m piling down that home straight, I have to dig really deep. At that point, the pain is nearly overwhelming. My legs? Completely gone. All I can think about is holding my stride. Keep going. Don’t stop. Hold it for a few seconds more. Then the pain is over. You work in training so that when you’re out there on the track, you’re prepared for the big hurt.
This is my theory: when I first started to race, if I sat at the back and gradually picked my way through the group and comfortably finished in first place, but felt only a small amount of pain, I wouldn’t be happy. Someone would come over and say, ‘You won! Great result!’ And I’d shrug and think, ‘This isn’t right. It should have hurt more.’ I would feel like I hadn’t put in the proper effort. Forget the result, I hadn’t tried hard enough. That’s why I developed this habit during races of heading to the front of the group and going crazy fast, pushing myself hard all the way to the end. As long as I felt that intense, almost overwhelming pain, then I was happy with my performance. It didn’t matter if I placed first, second, third, wherever. That pain told me I’d worked hard. That I’d put in the effort. The result was meaningless. Nowadays I tend to run a more gradual race, but I’ll still look to put in a hard shift and really go hard on that final lap. When I run now, I always have the sense that I can go 2 or 3 per cent harder. I can always push more. In training, I’d make it a mission to race my last repetition faster than the previous ones.
Like I said, I’ve never shied away from hard work.
I developed a very strong bond with Alan. He could be crazy at times, but in a good way. A bit like me, I suppose. Alan was a true curry fiend; he loved the stuff. We often went out to the local curry house in Teddington after putting in a hard session on the track. One time Alan decided that he was going to eat curry for dinner for the next two months. Just like that. He stuck to his plan too. I’ve no idea why he decided to do it, but that was Alan.
He also went through periods where he’d run every day, no matter what. He would set himself a target – running, say, 7, 8 or 9 miles a day, every day of the week, for a number of months. Even when his legs were sore from the daily pounding, he’d still go out for his run. His weight went down from 15 stone to around 9. To an outsider, this kind of behaviour might seem extreme, but to me it was all part of Alan’s built-in determination and steely resolve, and as an athlete I responded to it. Alan had an incredible athlete’s brain, an unbelievable depth of knowledge when it came to running. I could ask him about almost anyone on the athletics circuit, and straight away he’d tell me everything there was to know about them: their records, tactics and training regime.
Our relationship was less coach–athlete, more father–son. Some coaches don’t like to be questioned, but Alan was never like that. We had a real dialogue. Alan appreciated the fact that I had quite strong opinions on my training needs, and if I didn’t feel something was right, I’d question it rather than simply carrying on doing the same thing and letting my frustrations simmer. For a while this relationship worked perfectly. We’d often sit down and discuss sessions. Alan might want me to do longer ones, explaining why he thought that was best for me. Then I’d tel
l Alan that I felt I needed to be doing shorter reps. We’d listen to each other’s arguments, talk it over for a while and meet in the middle.
Alan was more than just an athletics coach. He was someone who genuinely cared about me as a human being. I always felt I could be open with Alan, that I could tell him about anything going on in my life. I was lucky – privileged – to have him as my coach.
Off the track, the lads and me had a good laugh. There was a real family spirit in our dorm. After training, a few of us would head into town for a curry. Maybe later we’d head out to the Oceana club in Kingston, dancing away until closing time, even though I had two left feet. Afterwards we’d head back to the dorm, listen to some tunes, chill out, play some video games before crashing out at two or three in the morning. Then we’d wake up at ten or eleven, earliest. Train, eat, go out again. Life for me was one big adventure. Simply having my own room was a brand-new experience. There were parties on campus. In the daytime we’d gather round the big TV in the lounge and play mammoth sessions on Pro Evo. The windows were wide open, we’d be effing and blinding at the screen and the warden who lived opposite our dorm would be shouting at us to keep the noise down.
I saw nothing wrong with this at the time. I figured it was perfectly normal for an athlete to eat junk food, go out until past midnight, come back and play video games into the small hours instead of getting the proper rest and recovery my body needed. It sounds crazy, but I was convinced that I was training hard, putting the effort in, when in reality I wasn’t giving it 100 per cent. It’s funny how your brain can play tricks on you like that. It didn’t matter what time I posted on a lap or what I got up to between training sessions. For me, the only thing that mattered was that I didn’t miss a run.
