by Geoff Wolak
I was in the middle of the gap, a large group ahead of me, and when I turned a tight corner I glanced back, another large group a hundred yards back. For now, this seemed a reasonable strategy.
On a straight stretch, tall towers in view, people cheering, I started to inch ahead slowly without meaning to, as with Darlington, and I felt OK just about, and half an hour later – according to the huge digital display – I was leading the large group, the next group strung out some two hundred yards away.
I felt like I was not straining anything, so I aimed for the next group, and over the space of the next half hour I closed the gap and moved towards the front.
Ten miles to go, the sign said, and I glanced at the time, and I figured I was on track for a similar time to Darlington.
The pain hit me in the diaphragm, and then the left shoulder again, but it passed, and I found that the men ahead of me were slowing down, till I realised I had somehow speeded up. I counted in my head, not too far ahead of 9pmh in my estimation, but somehow I was moving slowly past other runners, and now my view was full of small African runners.
The gap behind me grew as the minutes ticked by, but so did the gap ahead of me.
Bongo peered up at the TV screen, pint in hand.
“... and that’s the Kenyan runner Obaigo, if I pronounce it correctly, and behind the pack is the runner we mentioned a moment ago, second place in the Darlington Marathon, a runner from ... the RAF, 51 Squadron...”
‘Fuck me,’ Bongo let out, the support crew noticing the TV now. ‘Wilco is on the TV!’
They closed in.
Bongo added, ‘He’s like ... thirty places behind the lead guy.’
“...it’s all the more remarkable because the RAF runner came from the back of the crowd...”
The roar of the crowds was tuned out as I ran, and I ignored the interesting London landmarks. Finding a straight stretch ahead I figured I would chance it, and I moved out to one side and put the power on, suppressing the pain, counting in my head, and I slowly inched past ten runners and cut in on the next corner, a shoulder making contact.
And I was very wary of the metal railings, the support legs of which stuck out and could trip a runner.
Another straight stretch, a motorcycle with a cameraman ahead of me and seemingly focused on me, and I tried to concentrate on my aching limbs and my pace, taking two more Africans before we hit the next turn, and they blocked me out, almost causing me to trip.
I had no idea who was ahead of me, or what my time was. It was as Sgt Chandon said: you race the people not the clock.
Turning the next corner my heart skipped a beat, a police officer or three directly running across my path, suddenly a girl with a placard, a white sign saying something – I dropped my shoulder at the last moment and slammed into her, sending her flying, and run on, and for a few seconds the adrenaline suppressed the pain. That and the fact that I was already in as much pain as a human body could take.
“... my god, the RAF runner has collided with a protester, and ... he’s bleeding, a cut on his head, but it hasn’t slowed him down any...”
‘Fucking bitching cunt!’ Bongo shouted at the woman on the TV, who was now unconscious on the floor, my support team equally as loud.
Unknown to me, some twenty thousand RAF personnel the world over and in various time zones were on their feet and shouting at the TV - loudly. Back at Catterick a large crowd had gathered in the bar and were now watching, and on my side simply because I was RAF.
I realised my head was cut, I could feel the blood, but something odd was happening to my left arm. I was slowing down, my arm not responding. I tried to shake it, no response, and I slowed to a walk, grabbing my left shoulder with my right arm. It was dislocated – yet I could not feel it.
A glance over my shoulder, the crowd screaming “run”, the pack was closing fast. There was nothing for it. I moved to a metal railing, grabbed my left wrist with my right hand, shoved it into a join and twisted it tight, and on national television - a camera ten feet away, I yanked myself to the right, a ‘pop’ felt, a grimace adopted.
Faces grimaced the world over; they had felt my pain.
“... my god, he just reset his shoulder, it must have been dislocated with the impact with the protester...”
“I ... so wish I had not seen that,” said a male presenter, his eyes watering. “I felt that from here.”
Pulling my wrist free, I walked forwards massaging my shoulder, swinging my arm like mad, and then started jogging slowly, and step by step the feeling came back as a runner passed me. I picked up the pace, my left arm starting to cooperate, as well as starting to freeze and boil during alternative seconds, a pain growing in my left shoulder.
I focused on the guy who had passed me, and put my head down, angered and determined, and wanting to punch the guy for some reason, and I sprinted for all I was worth, soon passing that guy with a smug grin and finding my gap again.
With the sign saying five miles to go I thought ‘Fuck it’, my race had been spoilt by that placard and I would have to stop soon. So I simply adopted a short term view and ran as fast as I could before my arm gave out again. Unknown to me, I was getting more air-time than any other runner.
And I had forgotten to tell my parents I was here, who now sat dumbstruck as their lad had his bloodied face all over the news, the neighbours filling my parents’ living room, the kettle working overtime.
“...he’s picked up the pace and put on the power,” the lady present excitedly reported, ignoring the lead runner. “Just look at the determination on his face, and he must be in so much pain.”
“I dislocated my shoulder a few years back, and I was bed ridden and on pain killers for weeks, let alone running at that pace,” her male colleague chimed in with.
The pain from running had completely masked the pain of my shoulder, and soon I could hardly feel it. And soon I had taken three runners from the pack, slowly gaining on a pair of Africans ahead of me. Unknown to me, that pair were behind the front eight runners; there were ten runners ahead of me stretching out five hundred yards.
The BBC news was not unaware that there were ten runners ahead of me, and not that far ahead.
“...there are just ten runners ahead of him, and if he maintains that pace he could win this...”
Around the world, RAF personnel – all RAF personnel, were now glued to their TV screens or radios. And my parents and their neighbours were stunned that it was me, the little trouble maker from their street.
Back at Catterick, the officers mess was full, men shouting at the TV screen, and in London the AOC himself had been glued to his TV screen at home.
Squadron Leader Witson answered a call at home. ‘Hello?’
‘Squadron Leader Witson?’
‘Yes.’
‘AOC here, in London.’
‘Sir!’
‘Just why the fuck am I learning about one of yours winning the London Marathon from the TV, and not from you!’
‘Well, sir, he’s new to running...’
‘New to running? He came from the back and is about to push aside those Africans! And that’s with a dislocated shoulder!’
‘His first race was just two weeks ago, sir, the Darlington Marathon, after which we offered full support, light duties, time for training, but we never figured he’d do this well.’
‘Damned excellent for recruitment, man, damned excellent. We’ll be talking on Monday, I want to meet this young lad.’
The line went dead.
The pair of Africans were close now, and they glanced back at me several times, a tall white guy about to spoil their day. They put on the power, so did I, and I started to close the gap.
Two miles to go, the sign said, and I knew I could finish, since that was just eight more minutes of this hell.
A corner neared, they moved in, I moved in and caught them just on the turn.
A sly glance from a black face, a leg out, contact made, and I hit the road with my fac
e.
Around the world, RAF personnel everywhere were on their feet and screaming louder than most thought possible, a few TV screens smashed.
“...he’s tripped, there was a contact and he’s ... he’s in hell of mess, he can’t go on...”
“I’ll hold judgement, but that looked like a nudge.”
‘A fucking nudge!’ Bongo roared. ‘That dirty black bastard tripped him!’
My support team, now quite drunk, turned the bar into a war zone, Bongo heading out to find me in a rush.
I was dazed, my nose hurting like hell, my wrist throbbing. Using my right wrist I eased up, wincing, still breathing hard, my heart still racing. I could see the blood down my top and on my legs as I sat back on my heels and angrily watched runners pass me.
I hand to my nose and I figured it broken, my wrist maybe broken, and I was in a bad way as a man in green ran over, bag out.
‘Are you OK?’
‘No I’m not fucking OK,’ I growled as I tried to stand, wobbling. ‘I’m going to finish.’
‘You can’t go on like that!’
I pushed past him, my right hand cradling my left wrist, blood pouring down me, and I ran as best I could.
“... my god, he’s trying to finish the race, his left arm broken. Christ, someone has to stop him...”
A large man in green rugby-tackled me, doing more damage than the fall, and two men pinned me down, pads on my face. ‘Don’t move!’ were firm orders I was not about to challenge.
As I lay there looking up at blue sky and someone’s nasal hair, I could glimpse the other runners passing me, and fifty or a hundred must have passed before I was lifted up, shoved through a gap in the barriers and into an ambulance.
My heart was still pounding, but now I was chilled, a blanket thrown over me, and everything seemed like a dream. I sat on a trolley as we drove off, a ten minute ride to a hospital, and as they led me in I noticed many other runners, most red in the face and in a state of collapse, a great many space blankets employed.
Sat on another bed, a high one, the blanket still around me, I was checked over, questions asked, lights shone in my eyes, my nose tested – I yelped, my wrist tested – another yelp and a loud curse issued. Nothing was broken, stitches were put in my face, my wrist was bound up, my formerly dislocated shoulder checked for range of movement and blood supply to the arm.
They finally gave me a cup of tea and a biscuit, and I sat quietly for ten minutes before Bongo turned up, remonstrating with the medics.
‘He’s with me,’ I told the doctor. ‘My support team.’
‘Well he can damn well wait outside with the rest!’ I was firmly told, Bongo ushered out. But he left my bag, so I put my clothes on over my running kit, and felt warmer, the sweat dry now.
As they were about to discharge me a blue RAF uniform appeared, an officer. ‘Milton?’
I stood. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘AOC sent me. Actually he screamed down the phone, then sent me. I work here at the MOD, and you’re now in my charge.’
I stood. ‘Oh. Right you are, sir.’
‘Follow me.’
We collected Bongo, walked to a car around the corner, a driver waiting in it, and I was whisked to an RAF medical centre near Harley Street and given a room. Bongo sat in a chair, I was told to strip off and get into bed, and ten minutes later two elderly RAF doctors appeared and went through all my injuries, a physio booked for later.
The RAF officer appeared later, after I was allowed some food. ‘Good show today, apart from being tripped by that little bastard. Fair to say that all RAF personnel, everywhere, saw that.’
‘How many were ahead of me when I was tripped, sir?’
‘Just ten or so I think. You would have got us good publicity with a placement, but as it stands ... you got more publicity that the lead runner, it’s all over the news, and they’re labelling it as you being tripped. Still, you came from the back and made up time, and that shoulder setting is getting some air time as well. All round, the AOC is very damned happy with how you did.’
‘I’d best call my mum later, she may have seen it on the TV.’
‘Yes, phone in the office down the hall. You’ll stay here a day or so, be driven back. I dare say your CO knows about you being tripped already.’
‘I should call the base, save being AWOL, sir.’
‘Tomorrow, relax for now.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Bongo and I sat chatting, wondering how Hesky and Mason had done, and where was the rest of my support team – had they gotten drunk and been arrested.
I called home later, my mother concerned for a while five minutes, my dad telling me how well his garden was doing. I called Catterick and gave a message to the guardroom duty corporal, then settled back for some well-earned rest.
‘Your face is fucking mess,’ Bongo noted.
I had a look in the mirror, and it was a mess. I would have some serious bruising in the morning.
At 9pm Bongo, now quite bored, headed back to the hotel, and I was left alone to read old magazines. I managed to get a little sleep, the pain hitting me if I turned over, and in the morning they checked me over, the physio having a good look at my shoulder and range of movement. Everything was OK, apart from the fact that may face was black and blue, and after Bongo returned a driver turned up.
We got a lift back to Catterick in a nice BMW car used for officers, chatting all the way up the M1 to the driver, who was regular RAF – admin, but had spent the last year driving senior officers. He sometimes got meals in nice restaurants and stayed in posh hotels, so it was not all dull driving.
When we got to Catterick I was sleepy, and so went to bed without telling anyone I was back, Bongo buying me things from the NAAFI and making a fuss of me.
In the morning I limped into the squadron briefing - wrist bound up and face black and blue, to a loud chorus of cheers and jeers, and just as many rude comments as after the Darlington Marathon, “useless wanker” used a few times.
The Sarge sent me to the CO, and I limped down to the admin offices, finding startled looks, wide eyes and many questions.
The CO had been outside his office and he came over. ‘Christ you look rough. Have you seen the MO yet?’ he asked, yet seemed detached and unfriendly.
‘Seen lots of doctors lately, sir, just need some time.’
‘Take all the time you need, but we need the MO to sign you onto the sick and then off when you’re better, so go see him now, then ... just take it easy. And well done, you caught the news the world over, had every senior officer on the phone yesterday, high hopes for the Forces Marathon – well – if you’re better.’ He managed to say all that whilst sounding like he was reading it from a page, quite detached, no heart in it.
‘It’s in four weeks, sir, so I should be. Nothing broken.’
‘Well done anyhow, excellent performance.’
I headed over to the MO, sat and waited, and was led in.
‘Christ, what happened to you? Been fighting?’
‘Er ... no, sir,’ I puzzled. He must have been the only one on the planet that had not seen me fall. ‘London Marathon, I was tripped and fell.’
‘Oh, that was you, I heard something.’
I wondered about his mental abilities as he checked me over, but he soon signed me off for seven days, an appointment booked with him for next week.
Back at the billet I made a lonely cuppa, soon very bored of just sitting here, so I picked up my German phrase book and started studying, the next day onto my Russian phrase book. Bongo had a lot of books, so I read about the Napoleonic Wars, the Second World War, Vietnam, and the time went by quickly.
By the end of the week I was eating in the canteen, but my face caused many looks, and many rude comments, making me want to think about hitting people – and did I want to stay here.
Saturday night I went to bed early after reading, but was woken by a brick coming through the window closest to my bed. I jumped up in time to see
two men running off, but I could not see who it was. I got dressed, cleaned up some of the mess, and then headed to the guardroom. Corporal Dire was on, the man an idiot.
‘Someone just through a brick through my window,’ I reported.
‘Yeah, so what’d you want me to do about it?’
‘What’s the normal procedure?’ I testily asked.
‘Fuck knows.’
‘Military police, I think,’ I nudged him, trying not to lose my temper.
‘Ain’t none here.’
‘There are in Catterick, so you call them or I will.’
‘You don’t fucking tell me what to do!’ he warned.
‘I’ll take that up with the Squadron Leader on Monday, Corporal. In fact, there’s a nominated duty officer, so I’ll check with the officers mess and wake him up.’
‘You’d be in the shit if you did that!’
‘I wouldn’t, Corporal, you would, because you failed to get up of your arse and do your job!’
‘You don’t fucking talk to me like that!’
‘I’ll see you Monday morning with the CO,’ I told him as I walked off. At the officers mess I found the sleepy night clerk, a bat man who was supposed to be on duty just in case of minor problems – like a nuclear war. He was a bit put out as well, but called the nominated duty officer, and I returned to my room, now a cold and draughty room.
Bongo got back drunk a short while later, puzzling the broken window, then mad as hell that someone had broken our window. Using newspaper and selotape, we blocked up the hole and cleaned the floor, an officer in civilian clothes pulling up in his car. I waved out the window at him, forgetting that I looked a mess.
‘What the hell happened here!’ he barked. ‘You two been fighting?’
‘No, sir, I was hurt in the London Marathon,’ I firmly told him.
