Jessica Ennis: Unbelievable - From My Childhood Dreams to Winning Olympic Gold

by Jessica Ennis

  It meant I was not best pleased when Andy’s brother, Matt, knocked on the door one day close to the Games. I went to give him a kiss and he backed away.

  ‘Don’t come near me,’ he said. ‘I’m full of cold.’

  I was a bit incredulous. ‘Matt, why did you come here, then?’

  We went out for a meal but I stayed down the other end of the table. Afterwards I was quite stroppy and did ask Andy why Matt had visited if he was ill. And then I did get a cold and Matt posted a message from a safe distance on Facebook saying that he hoped he had not ruined Jessica’s Olympic dream. He’d meant no harm, but Olympic planning is all about the small details.

  I was stewing even more at my next race. It was May, and I was back at the Great City Games, where I was running 100 metres hurdles in Manchester city centre. It was a true test for me because I was up against Dawn Harper, the reigning Olympic champion at the event, and Danielle Carruthers, the runner-up at the World Championships in Daegu.

  I had been suffering a bit with a cold but I ran well. It was one of those days when it felt effortless. I beat them all to the line and the time, a new best of 12.75 seconds, flashed up. I was ecstatic. But again, just like in Istanbul, it was short-lived. It was my old rival, Kelly Sotherton, watching on television, who alerted people to the fact something was awry.

  ‘Thought 100m hurdles was great but I’m sure there were only nine hurdles not ten,’ she tweeted. She was right. The organizers had only put out nine hurdles and so any times and records did not count in the official stats. It was a silly mistake and an unbelievable one. I was genuinely angry afterwards and let my frustration show in the interviews I gave afterwards. ‘I feel let down,’ I said. ‘It felt like it was a good race, I was running well, I was obviously coming through at the end, stick another hurdle on there and it would have been the same outcome but, argh, I’m so annoyed.’

  People wondered how we had not realized we were a hurdle short, but you don’t count when you are running. I thought it seemed a long run to the end, but you are so in the moment that you do not see the bigger picture. ‘I can’t believe that,’ I continued. ‘It’s a great event but that’s a massive, massive mess-up. As an athlete you expect that everything should be set up properly and there should be no mistakes like that.’

  Kelly, who was still hoping to make the team in London in the heptathlon, tweeted again when she realized it was becoming a story. ‘I feel bad! People probably think I’m being a cow bag!’

  The organizers, Nova International, issued an apology. I understood people get things wrong, but it was a pretty basic mistake and I wanted everything to be right this year. Already I had lost in Istanbul and I needed things to start clicking into place.

  Chell said he had never seen me like that before. I don’t like conflict but it got to me. I think the pressure of the whole year got to me. I was upset and mad. Andy drove me home and I rang my mum to talk it through. I was already getting tetchy and tense ahead of Götzis the following week and Andy was already walking on eggshells around me, but I hadn’t gone to Manchester to have fun. It’s never ever just fun for me. Even a throwing event in Barnsley is deadly serious. Chell rang and was adamant he needed to speak to me, but I didn’t have time for him. He couldn’t understand why I was so annoyed. The next day Andy Caine, from the organizers, rang me up. He apologized but by that time I had softened and said: ‘Oh, it’s fine, just one of those things.’ They sent flowers too. I love the event and have never slagged it off, but it was an almighty cock-up. I just wanted things to go smoothly for once. So we flew out a few days later to the Hypo-Meeting in Götzis for what was a huge meeting, the final heptathlon before the Olympics, and that was when Fatgate broke and things got even stranger.

  11

  TRIALS & TRIBULATIONS

  The headline in the Guardian read:

  Jessica Ennis coach hits out at UK Athletics for labelling her ‘fat’.

  It was Friday 25 May, the day before the heptathlon started in Götzis. The gist of the story was that Chell reportedly said a ‘high-ranking coach’ within our sport – he refused to say who – had suggested ‘that she’s out of condition and she’s got too much weight’.

  It quickly became a big story about me being accused of being fat, with lots of people wading in and saying how ridiculous it was. Eating disorder groups were rung up and said this sort of story did not help their cause. And, of course, the media wanted to know who it was who had said the words in question.

  It was irritating because it was another distraction. Olympic year threw up lots of different challenges and, in any other year, issues like this would not have gained anything like the same attention. Chell had been annoyed that the person in question had suggested I might be carrying too much weight as he is very sensitive about the impact of discussing weight issues with athletes, particularly female athletes. Neither of us expected the story to be printed on the eve of competition. Suddenly ‘Fatgate’, as some dubbed it, was big news.

  I was not bothered about the stories personally. I was happy with how I was performing and was happy with my body so I felt secure in myself. I let it wash over me – I didn’t want to make the story any bigger. However, it did make me think about the messages that the story was sending out to kids. They probably looked at me and thought I was really skinny, so to hear that people might regard me as fat could create issues, not for me but for other people. That did bother me because it is important.

  The words and meaning ended up twisted, but once it came out I knew what it was referring to. As an athlete you look at your body in a very different way to a ‘normal person’. It’s all about muscle and fat ratio, so I think the remarks were more in that athletic context. It was not a general ‘you’re fat’ remark. But it did go out of control for a few days and I do think you have to be careful and sensitive when talking about people’s weight, in whatever context it might be. If I had not been performing well then that would have knocked me and maybe I would have thought, ‘Yeah, maybe I am a bit heavy’. That would have got me really down, but I was in a happy state at the time of Götzis.

  Chell was being defensive but there was no need. Götzis showed that. It was one event that went like a dream. I was fast in the hurdles, average in the high jump and then everything just clicked. It was seamless, the 14.51 metres in the shot put connected to a 22.88 personal best in the 200 metres. It was a delicious domino effect and, by the time I had equalled my personal best of 6.51 metres in the long jump, I was 251 points clear of Chernova and 415 ahead of Dobrynska. The latter’s poor form was understandable. In the interim between Istanbul and Götzis, Dobrynska’s husband had lost his battle against cancer. It put things in perspective and made me realize just how astonishing her performance had been in Turkey. While the stories about my weight were raging on that sunny Friday morning, I went over to her and said how sorry I was. Sometimes, in the blinkered world of sport, it is easy to lose sight of the truly weighty matters.

  I was on a high, though, as I threw the javelin 47.11 metres, a personal best and a pointed message to all those people who had suggested I couldn’t throw after Daegu. I realized that finally Denise Lewis’s record was there for the taking. I also did the calculations with Chell and knew that a time of 2 minutes 9 seconds in the 800 metres would break the 6900 points barrier, something only seven women had ever done.

  I ran the 800 metres perfectly in terms of the time. I won the competition and added 75 points to Denise’s record. Yet Chernova had done everything in her power to pass me in the last few yards of the last event, our final duel before London. It did not affect the scores, but it obviously gave her some confidence. As I spoke to reporters on the infield she was doing the same. ‘It was a great personal best,’ Chernova said of my efforts. ‘But in the next competition it will be, “Can she beat that record? Can she get the same points or not?” I know what I can do and I will work towards that. I’m not afraid of anything. If people just look at one girl, it will be very hard
for her to compete. I’m very popular in my country and my country is bigger than Great Britain.’

  I didn’t care what she said. There were two months to go and, whatever anyone might have thought, I was in the shape of my life.

  As a multi-eventer it is not often that you get invited to Diamond League events, the big, glamour nights where the best athletes in the world get to compete. I had run in New York before, but the chance to hurdle at the world-famous Bislett Stadium in Oslo in June was perfect for me.

  I love hurdling. I always have done. And in Oslo I would be up against Sally Pearson, the Australian who had taken the event by storm. She looked odds-on to upgrade her silver medal from Beijing and was the reigning world champion, indoors and out. Also in the field were the likes of Tiffany Porter and Lolo Jones. I felt confident. Not for one moment did I think I would beat Sally, but I felt I could beat my lifetime best. Then, with the sun bathing the famous old stadium in evening light, and Usain Bolt limbering up for his 100 metres, I jumped the gun. I stood impassively in my lane, trying to disbelieve the reality, but was then shown a red card. I was disqualified. Now I knew how stupid Bolt must have felt the year before at the World Championships. I walked back under the stand and felt crushed. I had wanted to show that multi-eventers are not merely average at everything. I wanted to show I could compete against the best. But instead I had blown it and it was another thing in the back of my head going into the Olympics, another seed of doubt planted.

  I had got all my media and sponsor commitments out of the way beforehand. There had been talk in the media about how much I was now earning. Some of the figures were way off, but I was making a good living now and had forged long-term relationships with a number of companies – Adidas, Jaguar, Olay, Powerade, BP, British Airways, Aviva and Omega. The bigger profile helped enormously in some ways.

  That was certainly the case with my shoes. My first spikes had been the hand-me-down shoes from Chell’s ex-wife, Nicola. At the time I felt special to have spikes rather than my normal trainers, but as you get more serious you need different shoes for different events. The shot-put shoes are smoother to match the surface of the circle, the high-jump ones have more grip on the heel and the hurdles ones are lighter and put you on your toes. After winning the world title, I was at a level where Adidas would talk to me about my specific requirements. Mark Dannhauser from the athletes’ services department came over from Germany to watch me train and talk to me about the shoes they were making. In 2011 they had a long-jump shoe that had a zip on them. I said I didn’t think the zip was needed and just created more bulk, so they got rid of it and went with laces. It was great to have that input and I think they valued my opinion; obviously because I am a heptathlete, I have to wear more shoes than most.

  As London approached, the demands from the sponsors and media grew. It was another time that I felt I had to be firm. Sponsors wanted me to go down to the Olympic Stadium for shoots, but I refused all of them. The reason was I wanted it to be new and fresh when I got there. I wanted that adrenaline buzz. I wanted to see the stadium when it was full of people rather than an empty arena. I had been there once, when it was still a building site and there was no track down, but the next time I went there I wanted to get that rush of newness.

  There were other offers too that I felt strongly about. A local BBC film crew wanted to follow me up to the Olympics. I didn’t want to do it. Chell was keen and said it was not about me, it was about him. I got annoyed. I didn’t mean it arrogantly, but I said: ‘It’s not about you, is it? It’s me running that they will be filming.’ I was strongly against the idea, but Chell let the guy come. I had nothing against the people involved – they were lovely – but it was not something I needed. One day Chell asked if they could go and film an interview with my mum and dad. I didn’t want that either. My mum has done a few things, but they are private people and don’t like being in the spotlight.

  ‘Why don’t they go and film your mum if it’s all about you?’ I asked him. He shrugged and walked off.

  As London got nearer, though, Chell and I were communicating well. We were in this together, thirteen years of joy and pain coming down to these two days in Stratford. Sometimes Chell would be concerned I was doing too much and would tell me to take an afternoon off. I would refuse that too. If I missed an afternoon for anything then I would wonder where we were going to make it up.

  There were two weeks between Oslo and the Olympic trials which doubled as the UK Championships. I threw the javelin and did the long jump in Bedford in the interim and then went to the Alexander Stadium in Birmingham for the trials, which were being held from Friday 12 July to Sunday 14 July. Unlike many competing that weekend, my place in the team had already been decided. I also knew that Louise Hazel and Katarina Johnson-Thompson would be my heptathlon team-mates. Kat was only nineteen and had produced a string of personal bests to get the qualifying standard while I was in Oslo. She is certainly the star of the future and has already beaten my junior records. I was pleased for her.

  However, the trials were still important for me and the first day was mixed. I won the hurdles but struggled in the high jump. The warm-up for the latter was seriously shocking and I failed to clear any height. I was panicking a bit and went over to Chell.

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’

  I could see in his face that he was worried. He looked a bit lost. He will hate me for saying this, but he told me I could pull out, that I didn’t need to go through with it. I am not sure why he said it. I don’t know if he was worried I’d embarrass myself or if he didn’t want me to get beaten so close to the Olympics. Maybe it was reverse psychology or just a desire for me not to worry about having a poor jump next to my name. But I said I couldn’t pull out. If things went badly at the Olympics I’d have to deal with that. It would be a bad habit to get into and I’m not a quitter. The competition started and I cleared every height up to 1.89 metres at the first attempt. I took the UK title and mocked Chell.

  ‘Pull out, eh? Didn’t have faith, did you?’

  But the warm-up and the inconsistency had been unnerving. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but reasoned that I should go back to basics. Sometimes you don’t run the curve well and forget to lean away from the bar. So I thought, ‘Don’t overcomplicate it, run a good curve and lean.’ That’s what had given me my personal best of 1.95 metres back in 2007.

  The next day was worse. The long jump was still a problem. At Bedford I had done four fouls before getting in one decent jump of 6.40 metres. The grey clouds in Birmingham hovered over me as I started the competition in front of the main stand. It became an exercise in frustration. I lost my rhythm on the runway and then found myself having to speed up on the board. Then I was over the board. My position was all wrong and so I was fouling or pulling out of jumps and running through the pit with a look of deepening exasperation. In total, it meant that from my last twelve jumps in two competitions I had done seven fouls and two run-throughs. It was scarcely ideal preparation for London, but time was running out. My brain was wrecking.

  When things go wrong I want to see Chell straightaway. I want to repair the damage instantly. He was upbeat, saying we could put it right, but I knew we were running out of time. It was one month until the start of the Olympics and I was in tatters.

  12

  COUNTDOWN

  I am on the balcony of our hotel room at Club Quinta da Ria. It is another beautiful day, light blue skies reflected in the pool. It would be an idyllic scene but for the black mood festering away. I have just had the worst long-jump session I could have imagined. Every effort was a no-jump. There is a fortnight to go. Nicola Sanders, my room-mate, is in when I get back and so I move out to the balcony. I ring Andy and pour out my heart and fears. I can’t do it. I’m going to mess it all up in the long jump. What if all this work is for nothing?

  The saving grace was that before going to the Team GB holding camp in Monte Gordo, Portugal, I had done some good sessions with Chell and B
ricey.

  ‘Don’t worry, we can sort this out,’ Bricey said. We filmed every jump and then analysed it in slow-mo. Bricey went away to crunch the numbers, returning to tell me how much vertical lift I was getting. Then we decided to take the run-up back a bit. We had to try everything after the disaster in Birmingham.

  I had stopped reading the newspapers or watching the news. I did not trawl the Internet or spend much time on Twitter. You really do not want to be reading something bad on there so close to the Games. I was in lock-down. I didn’t want to talk about the Olympics. Before flying to Portugal I held a baby shower for my friend Charlotte at my house. It was good to see friends and catch up with normal life. I rarely like to go on about the Olympics. If anything, my friend Katie is the one who gets a bit excited and says how wonderful and amazing my achievements are, and complains that I don’t tell her everything. But that’s Katie and I love her to bits for it. I said my goodbyes to my friends and family and flew to Portugal. It would be three weeks until I saw Andy again, by which time it would all be over. As ever, Grandad told me to relax and and stay focused on my technique.

  There was a relaxed atmosphere in Portugal and I liked sharing with Nicola. We usually talked more about Grey’s Anatomy than the Olympics. We often watched it on our laptops. Earlier on in the year I had thought we were at the same stage and so mentioned a main character dying.

  ‘What!’ she cried.

  ‘Oh, er, well, he might not have.’

  A day later she saw him coughing up blood and so I was well and truly rumbled. The look she gave me could have killed.