Twin Ambitions - My Autobiography

by Mo Farah

  I did return to the UK briefly in mid-July for the Grand Prix at Crystal Palace. This was my last race before the Olympics and the place was buzzing. You could feel the mood of the whole country, this sense of excitement building up. Everybody was talking about the Games. The torch relay was going through towns and villages. Every time you turned on the TV it was about the Olympics. I tried not to think about any of this going into the Grand Prix. ‘Just focus on doing well here,’ I told myself. I knew that if I didn’t do well in the 5000 metres, there’d be another round of negative stories in the press. ‘Mo isn’t going to do well at the Olympics,’ ‘Farah out of form,’ that kind of thing. I was on a winning streak and I wanted to keep it going. Tania and Rhianna weren’t there – the doctors had advised Tania that she was dangerously close to going into labour with the twins, so she was ordered to rest up in Teddington and not go anywhere.

  The track was slick with rain that day in London but I was the strong favourite and I came through to win ahead of Moses Kipsiro and Collis Birmingham, breaking clear of the competition on the last two laps. My speed was something that I’d been working on with Alberto in training. Finally, everything was looking good. I had put in the hard hours on the track in Portland. I’d done my high-altitude work in Iten. I was in the shape of my life. I was ready for London.

  In the back of my mind there was the realization that if I didn’t run well in London 2012, people would say that Daegu was a fluke, that I was a flash in the pan. I tried not to think about that. I went into London with my confidence high after the Worlds, knowing that if I performed to the same level as I’d done in 2011, I had a great chance of finishing up there on the podium, a gold medal around my neck.

  In between training sessions in Font-Romeu I watched the Olympics on TV. I saw Danny Boyle’s breathtaking opening ceremony. I watched the other guys on Team GB competing for medals in the first week of the Games. It was a strange feeling, sitting in a room high up in the Pyrenees, watching Tom Daley and Peter Waterfield compete in the synchronized diving, Rebecca Adlington taking bronze in the 400 metres freestyle. Knowing that, in a few days’ time, the attention would switch to athletics and those same cameras would be focusing on me.

  On 2 August I flew back to London and headed straight to the Olympic village. Tania and Rhianna were in Teddington. Tania’s due date was September, but we were told that twins are born on average a month early and sometimes two. It’s very rare that twins go to full term, which meant that Tania might be going into labour during the Olympics. I wanted to be with her, but we had agreed, along with Ricky, that I needed to focus purely on the Olympics. Any distractions could undo all the hard work of the last few years. It got to the point where we decided that if Tania did give birth while I was in training or at the village, she wouldn’t let me know. This was an agonizing time for me. There I was, preparing to run the biggest race of my life in front of billions of people, and I kept thinking, ‘The twins might already have been born …’

  Once I arrived in the village I went through the usual routine of collecting my accreditation and doing all my blood tests. On the second day I rested. Even if I wanted to, going outside the village wasn’t an option for me. British athletes were getting mobbed everywhere they went. If you were wearing a Team GB vest, you were getting loads of attention, didn’t matter who you were. On top of that, you had to go through a ton of checkpoints to get in and out of the village. Instead I stuck around the village and watched as many Olympic events as possible. More and more Brits were winning medals and I was really getting into it. I caught some of the boxing matches. I watched Andy Murray beat Novak Djokovic in the Olympic tennis semis at Wimbledon to set up a final against Roger Federer. I felt the excitement building as I counted down the hours to my first race.

  The following morning is Saturday 4 August.

  I wake up early and go for a light jog around the village. I do 3 miles. I don’t see much of Alberto today. Normally he’s the calmest guy on the planet – so laid back he’s almost horizontal – but you don’t want to be around Alberto on race day. He gets so nervous that he makes everyone else nervous too.

  The race doesn’t start until 9.15 p.m., so I have a lot of time to burn. For the hours leading up to the race I try to keep things as normal as possible. Every athlete has a pre-race routine they like to stick to. Galen, he has his pre-race pancakes. Me, I like to shave my head – to feel my scalp smooth, the refreshing sense of slapping cold water over it. It’s sort of a ritual, I guess. Then I’ll listen to some tunes. Depending on my mood, it’ll be some Tupac or maybe Dizzee Rascal. If I want something a bit more chilled, I’ll put on some Somali music. The older stuff from the 1970s and ’80s has a really good beat to it. People sing about the country, about the history and the culture. I have a few favourites: Walaalaha Sweden (Brothers of Sweden), which is where the duo, Sir Mohamud Omar and his brother, used to live. Then there’s Hibo Nuura, and K’naan, the rapper and poet who recorded ‘Wavin’ Flag’, the official song used for the FIFA World Cup in South Africa. I’ve met K’naan a few times. Nice guy.

  All morning long I’ll be drinking water to keep myself hydrated. The rest of the morning is spent chilling out and talking to one or two of the other athletes. After lunch I grab a couple of hours’ sleep. Then I wait.

  Three hours before the start of the 10,000 metres race, I head down to the stadium and make my way to the warm-up area. The atmosphere around here is tense. Everyone is stretching, jogging, watching the races unfold live on TV. Waiting for the call to head out to the track. Some people share a few jokes or comment on the race times, wishing each other good luck. Others are wearing their headphones and listening to music, trying to shut out everything else. Alberto is hanging somewhere in the background. He’s got a second pair of spikes with him – ever the man who’s prepared – just in case there’s something wrong with my regular ones. Neil Black is waiting for me in the warm-up area. I lie down on the massage table and say, ‘Make me feel good, Blackie.’

  Neil just laughs. He knows what I’m like. He understands my body and the sheer hell I am about to put it through. At the end he claps his hands and says, ‘You’re good to go. Now get off my bed.’

  Barry Fudge is there too. I met Barry a couple of years before the Olympics through Ian Stewart, the Head of Endurance for UK Athletics at the time. Barry is the physiologist for the English Institute of Sport (EIS) at UK Athletics. For the duration of the Olympics, Barry is my go-to guy. Whatever I need, Barry is there for me. While I was in the training camp, he would periodically check up on me and make sure that everything was going okay. When I had my blood tests done, he’d look at the samples to make sure my levels were good. If I need to be driven somewhere, Barry is the man. If something bad has happened or if something is bothering me, Barry is the guy I talk to, the guy who gets it sorted. Barry has allowed me to focus solely on the race.

  As I wait for the race to begin, I watch Jessica Ennis beat Lilli Schwarzkopf and Tatyana Chernova to win the 800 metres and take the gold medal in the women’s heptathlon. ‘Jess has just got a gold,’ I think.

  Now it’s my turn.

  Twenty minutes before a race, I’ll normally drink some coffee to wake me up. So now I have a shot of espresso – only nothing happens. I want to be pumped up for this race, so I take a second espresso. As I make my way out to the stadium track, I feel this massive caffeine high come on. I’m buzzing. My hands, my legs – everything is shaking. Then I stick my head out through the tunnel leading from the warm-up area to the track and the crowd goes mental. People are screaming and waving Union Jacks and shouting, ‘Come on, Mo!’ There are banners with the words ‘GO MO!!!!’ written in big letters. Each person shouting out pumps me up even more. And I’m already pumped up to my eyeballs from the caffeine. At that moment, I am more pumped than ever before in my life. My hands are trembling. My eyes feel as though they’re about to burst out of their sockets. As I approach the track, I do a couple of strides and put my hands u
p to wave to the crowd. The whole stadium just erupts. The crowd is unbelievable. The noise is deafening – like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I try to search out Tania in the crowd but I can’t see her. Too many people. Everywhere I look is this mass of noise and colour. It’s the biggest day, the biggest moment of my life. Everything has been leading to this.

  I’m looking around and telling myself, ‘This is my moment. This is it.’

  I am ready to race.

  There’s a lot of expectation on my shoulders going into the 10,000 metres. I’d done well in the Worlds. I’m in great form. Now I have to do it all over again. I have to bring that gold medal home, no matter what. All the big names are there for this race: the Bekele brothers, the usual mix of Kenyans, Ethiopians and Eritreans: Zersenay Tadese, Moses Kipsiro, Moses Masai, Bedan Karoki. Then there’s my Oregon training partner, Galen Rupp. He’s a threat. Everything has been going well for him in training, and I know what he’s capable of. We are called to our marks. The crowd waits.

  The gun CA-RACKS.

  ‘Shit!’ I think. ‘The gun’s gone. It’s started.’

  Early on the going is slow. I just focus on doing my thing, starting from behind and taking it as easy as possible. Telling myself, ‘Work your way through the pack. Don’t make any mistakes.’ All I’ve got to do is hold level with the lead group of runners and put myself in a strong position heading into the last few laps. Then I can kick on for the big finish.

  The pace is going backwards and forwards. In the corner of my eye I can see that Greg Rutherford is doing well in the long jump. He wins the gold as I pass by on another lap. The crowd is whooping and cheering. Greg has just jumped 8.31 metres. It’s enough to win the gold. It’s a one-two for Jess and Greg. Eighty thousand pairs of eyes turn to watch the climax of my race. At the 5000 metres point, Tadese, the half-marathon world record holder, suddenly puts a big surge in, upping the pace. Then Kipsiro goes down. The field scatters. I slip back alongside Galen. He tries to go with the pace.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I tell Galen. ‘Don’t go with them. Chill.’

  Galen eases off. He settles alongside me towards the back of the pack. Gradually the two of us start picking off the other guys, working our way through the group. Just like we’ve trained to do under Alberto. With four laps to go, we close in on the front runners. We’re still working our way through. Every lap, we’re gaining a little more. The leader of the race is changing all the time. One minute it’s Tadese. The next it’s Tariku Bekele. Then it’s Gebremariam.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I tell myself. ‘This is good, I’m where I need to be.’

  Now the other guys start trying to get rid of Galen and me by pushing the pace. The race gets faster. But I’m calm. I know I’ve got my sprint finish. As long as I’m near the front with two laps to go, I’m golden. This is my race. My time. I’m not going to lose to anyone. Not here. Not in front of my home crowd, with everyone in the country cheering me on.

  As we hit the two-lap mark, Tariku Bekele takes the lead again. I am right behind him with Galen on my shoulder along with Masai and Karoki. I wait for my moment to kick on. The last lap rings out.

  Now I kick as hard as I possibly can. I surge past Bekele and take the lead. The crowd goes ballistic. I didn’t think it could get any louder than before. But I try not to get carried away. I still have a job to do, there are still guys to take care of. Instead, I try to use the energy of the crowd, digging deeper and deeper as I veer into the final turn. I’m in a lot of pain. I’m running flat out. It hurts. At last, with 200 metres to go I manage to open up a gap between me, Tariku Bekele and the rest of the chasing pack. The crowd is roaring and driving me on. I’m not looking behind. I’m not looking at the clock or the screen. I don’t know where Bekele is or where Galen is. I focus everything on the finish line.

  ‘Keep going,’ I tell myself. ‘Keep going.’

  It’s only once I cross the line that it hits me.

  I’ve won.

  My immediate reaction is, ‘What?!? I’ve won!’

  I look across my shoulder and see Galen coming through. On the home straight he pulls ahead of Tariku Bekele to take silver. I don’t know what I’m doing at that point. It’s a mad, crazy blur. All I can think is, ‘I’ve just won the race and my training partner has finished second. What is going on?’ I think back to training with Galen in the mountains in Albuquerque. Alberto had predicted that we would finish first and second in the Olympics, but he wasn’t sure in which order. Somehow, standing here now, watching everything unfold, it doesn’t seem real.

  I see Alberto in the crowd. I run over to him and give him a hug.

  ‘Go and enjoy it!’ he shouts above the electric noise of the crowd. There are almost tears coming out of my eyes. It’s an emotional moment for me – for all three of us. I’m still struggling to believe what I’ve just achieved. The crowd is shouting my name. Someone chucks me a Union Jack. I wrap it around my shoulders like a cape and pose for some pictures. I do the Mobot, but honestly I’ve got no idea what I’m doing any more. I’m just like, ‘Oh my days! I’m the Olympic champion. Have I really won? Did that really just happen?’ Winning gold at the Olympic Games, in the city I call home, is one of those things that takes a long time to come to terms with.

  Rhianna comes running onto the track. Then Tania joins her. The three of us together, after a month away. Tania’s stomach is huge. Her doctor didn’t want her to be here. I give both of them a big hug. Sharing this moment with them both is the best thing ever. The sacrifices they have made too … Tania is telling me, ‘Go and enjoy it!’

  I’m telling Rhianna, ‘Come jog with me, one lap around the track.’

  And Rhianna’s plugging her fingers in her ears and shaking her head and saying, ‘No, no! I’m scared, Dad!’

  It’s so loud it is literally scary.

  I head off on my lap of honour around the track. I wave. People wave back. I don’t know where I am. I just see this huge wall of people stretching out before me. I enjoy that moment. I enjoy it like you wouldn’t believe.

  Super Saturday, as it was later known, would go down in history as the greatest day in British athletics. In the space of forty-six minutes Greg, Jess and myself have all won Olympic gold, making it the best performance ever on a single day for British athletics. The gold rush had begun earlier in the day at Eton Dorney, with Andy Triggs Hodge, Pete Reed, Andy Gregory and Tom James winning the men’s fours in the rowing, followed by Sophie Hosking and Katherine Copeland taking gold in the women’s lightweight double sculls. A few hours later, the track cycling team landed another gold with Laura Trott, Dani King and Jo Rowsell winning the women’s team pursuit, setting their sixth successive world record in the process. Then it was our turn. By the end of the night, Team GB had won six golds – the most successful day our country has enjoyed at an Olympic Games for 104 years.

  People would soon be comparing ‘Super Saturday’ to England winning the World Cup in 1966 and Jonny Wilkinson kicking the winner against Australia in 2003. Seb Coe called it ‘the greatest day of sport I have ever witnessed’. Andy Hunt, chef de mission for Team GB, said, ‘It is a day our country will never forget’. For me, standing there on the track, soaking it all up, it’s a simply incredible feeling, to be a part of something so special. It’s something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

  It’s gone midnight by the time I get back to the village. I grab some food. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. I’m still buzzing from the crowd. The next day I have arranged to meet Tania and Rhianna at the Nike HQ at BMA House, this grand old building in Tavistock Square, a stone’s throw from Euston Station and King’s Cross. All the Nike-sponsored athletes are at BMA House, anybody’s who won a medal, plus all the top Nike executives. Getting there is a mission in itself. The traffic is ridiculous and someone explains to me that I’ll have to pass all these security checkpoints going by car. It sounds like a big hassle.

  ‘I’m not doing all that,’ I say. ‘I’ll just ju
mp on a train instead.’

  Having changed out of my Team GB kit, I am now wearing a big jacket and a hoodie and a pair of jeans. I pop my hoodie tight over my head and hop on the Overground. My disguise works. No one recognizes me. I spend some precious time with my wife and daughter at Nike HQ. My old mate Malcolm Hassan is there too. Malcolm and his dad have come down from Sunderland; I’d managed to get them tickets for the 10,000 metres. ‘I can’t believe how well you’ve done, man!’ Malcolm says when I greet him, his Geordie accent thick as the day I first met him. We joke for a bit. Then it’s time to head back to the village. I take the train back. This one guy recognizes me. He’s about to say something when I put my finger to my lips and go, ‘Shhhh!’

  To his credit, the guy doesn’t say a word. It’s our little secret.

  When I at last get back to the village, I’m knackered. Alberto and Ricky are waiting for me back at the village. I’ve still got one more race to go. They can both see that I need to get some rest. But it’s hard sometimes, because the other guys in the village are coming up to you, saying, ‘Well done, mate!’ Wanting pictures of you, wanting to shake your hand. The attention is lovely, but it also saps the energy out of me at the exact moment when I most need to conserve it.

  The following day I try heading down from my room in the village to grab a bite to eat. Again, there is a lot of attention on me. Usually I wouldn’t mind, but I still have a race to compete in and this isn’t ideal preparation, posing for pictures and shaking hands wherever I go. In the end I decide it’s best not to leave my room, but how am I going to get food? Barry Fudge steps in to save the day, making food runs back and forth from the restaurants. I also get rid of my SIM card in my phone so that no one can get hold of me. The only person who has my new number is Tania. Anyone else that I needed to speak to on a regular basis, like Alberto, is already in the village. It’s a case of cutting off the outside world. Even my brother and mum don’t have this number. (Later I’ll find out that some random guy ended up with my old phone number. Every time I do well in a race or I’m in the spotlight, this poor guy’s phone explodes with phone calls and text messages from people looking for me.) Today I do nothing but sleep and chill. Rest is the most important thing. The 5000 metre heats are set for the following Wednesday. I have to recover in time, because if there’s one lesson I learned from Beijing it’s that you can’t take your place in the final for granted.