by Geoff Wolak
‘Let’s talk about pace.’ I took in their faces as they took notes. ‘Early on I struggled with pace, and pace was very important, especially for marathons. If you take a typical runner and monitor his speed as he runs for an hour, you will note large variances, variances that the runner doesn’t notice, and doesn’t care about.
‘But, in competition, that pace is key. So I devised a system based on military marching - left two three four, left two three four – and I counted in my head. It became like a song, and we all have the ability to know that a record is being played at the wrong speed.
‘If you get into the habit of the song, you can judge your own speed. I had a guy with a bike follow me around, and he set the pace with his speedometer, and I realised that I naturally had three speeds, and that my body fell into those speeds. I did not run at speeds between the natural speeds - for very long.
‘Having mastered the song, I could set my pace and know my pace, and if running ten laps I would vary the pace up and down, a way to stretch myself, the fastest pace being one that would win a marathon.
‘I paid a guy to cycle with me since he had to get up early anyhow, and I ran twenty six miles in 2.40. I repeated the exercise, and the cyclist was amazed to find that world marathon champions were struggling to hit 2.20.
‘That led to professional runners joining me, and when they saw what I could do they arranged for me to enter the Darlington Marathon and then the London Marathon at the last minute, the result being that I was tripped.
‘Since then I have refined the technique and the paperwork, the key part of which is the minimum effort to maintain optimum performance. What some of you will also be interested in is how someone gets to peak performance in the first place.
‘The answer to that is this: they run at least four days a week, timed and measured – that’s critical, and not more than six days a week. Five is optimum. The runs should be of the same distance three or four times, one being twenty-five percent more, yet can be slower.
‘After ten or eleven days, the distance is extended. Not sooner, could be a little later. That’s four runs a week at say three miles, one run at four miles, and after twelve days that goes to five miles a day times four, one run at six. The graduation in distance is quite steep, the graduation in time or pace is more down to that individual’s body shape.
‘From a standing start, a fit and healthy individual can run a marathon in three hours after eighty days, call it three months.’
‘I have six guinea pigs lined up,’ Kate called. ‘We’re going to test that on them.’
‘How exactly were they selected, Ma’am?’ I asked.
‘They’re new recruits with delays before entering, and each has been assessed to be able to run three miles, but be puffing at the end.’
‘Sounds like a fair test,’ I approved.
‘We have a second batch,’ she added. ‘Carefully selected men who are six months in to a year in, and they can all run ten miles just about. We want them to run a marathon, so eighty days or less it is. Hopefully much less.’
‘What they won’t have here, unless you want to include it, are the supplementary exercises I undertook.’
‘You can help set the programme,’ she said.
‘I used to run sideways, and I performed leg lunges for about three hundred yards at the end of most runs. I got quite good at the leg lunges. I also used my bit of wood for arm exercises.’
She took notes.
‘Any special diets?’ an officer asked.
‘None, I eat complete crap, sir.’
‘Do you drink?’
‘Some, sir, not a lot.’
‘Would you say that your diet is typical for an enlisted man?’
‘Yes, sir, meals on base. But I do insist on high protein before I sleep, and a small amount of high protein before I run.’
‘You drink coffee or tea?’
‘Tea mostly, sir.’
‘Fruit and vegetables?’
‘I avoid them, sir.’
They laughed.
‘So much for a healthy diet being a factor,’ he quipped.
‘Why the moving averages?’ a lady officer asked.
‘As I get older, and as I put on seasonal weight, and as my working environment changes, so will my fitness levels; I have no intention of measuring myself against how I did aged twenty.
‘Peak performance changes with age and bodyweight, so I adjust as I go, and when I see the thirty day average dip against the three month average I make an effort. One dip in the seven day average is not a panic.’
‘Clever stuff,’ an officer said. ‘And you have five years worth of averages?’
‘Yes, sir, more or a less, a few gaps.’
‘We’ll be using a computer to analyse it,’ he said.
‘The end result is in my head, sir, just ask me,’ I said with a smile. ‘But it is very important that age, weight gain and ergonomic conditions are factored in; a man working in the jungle for three months can’t go for a jog very easily, and dehydration is an issue.’
‘You applied this to boxing?’ he asked.
‘After a fashion, sir, but testing and measuring was more difficult, so I devised a complex programme based on tiring out a muscle group. When the acid build up got too painful, that was the marker, not linear distance and time.’
‘Look forward to seeing it.’
‘I have your personnel file,’ Dr Kate mentioned. ‘It’s huge.’ She faced the officer who had been asking the questions. ‘He speaks German, Russian and Arabic, self taught, Latin, and several pubs have banned him from quiz night for always getting the answers correct. He used the same technique for study.’
The male officer said, ‘You’re a very smart fellow, so why the discipline problems?’
I controlled my disappointment in the question. ‘They are no discipline problems, sir, there are problems with other people’s discipline,’ I insisted. ‘After I nearly won the London Marathon the first time men threw bricks through my window at night. After being shot, a man broke into my room, and when asked they simply replied that they hated me because I was famous.
‘A year ago, I put thirteen Engineers in hospital. Why? Because they recognised me as having put one of their men in a coma in the boxing ring, so they surrounded me and decided to kick the crap out of me. But they lost. I have no discipline problems, sir, but I am allowed to defend myself.’
‘Yes, I can see that. And your time in prison?’
I controlled my anger. ‘Someone jealous of my marathon running broke into my room and I woke to find him peeing on my face. I shoved him, he fell and hit his neck, partial paralysis, so I faced a charge of accident grievous wounding, but I appealed it and won, and was compensated many thousands of pounds. I dare you, sir, to go through my file and find a single instance when I was in the wrong. Find one and I’ll buy you a new car.’
He exchanged a look with Dr Kate.
I added, ‘The RAF, sir, is made up of people, and despite the uniform and the regulations and the codes of conduct – they are just people, and they behave like idiots a lot of the time, and they all have petty jealousies. If you stand out ... you get praise from some, criticism from others – that’s human nature.
‘I had senior officers wanting me to win more medals for the RAF, and at the same time I had people breaking into my room on a weekly basis to trash my kit. I even had one officer tell me that if I wanted to fit in and get along with people ... that I should stop running.’
‘Appalling behaviour for an officer,’ the senior RAF officer stated.
‘His advice was the most practical, sir, since none of us can live in isolation on an RAF base, and I studied military law as a necessity to survive day to day. With things like that in my file, you can see why they still have me cleaning the floors.’
An hour later and I was stripped to my pants for a medical, and when Dr Kate came in I got an ‘Oh wow’. She quickly added, ‘From a medical perspective I mean. Muscle t
one.’
‘Of course,’ I mocked, the nice nurse smirking my way.
They measured me every which way, weighed me, and took blood. My eyesight was tested, hearing, the works. When the nurse asked for a urine sample, I said, ‘Are you trying to take the piss?’
‘Ha ha, good one, not heard that before,’ she quipped.
Dr Kate said, ‘From now on, all urine samples in a beaker.’
‘You really are taking the piss,’ I said. ‘All of it.’ When she put a heart monitor on, I said, ‘You best know about my odd physiology.’
‘What ... odd physiology?’
‘Very low resting pulse, extremely low sleeping pulse with Sleep Apnoea, some resting palpitations.’
‘You suffer from Sleep Apnoea?’
‘I don’t notice it, but girls sleeping with me have known to panic. My heart stops, and my breathing.’
‘Well that needs some research by itself, but all athletes have a low resting pulse. Yours seems to be extreme. I’ll put a monitor on you at night and in the evenings.’
Half an hour later she wanted a test run, a test of my heart rhythm, and more than six doctors appeared for the test, and a dozen machines with green or orange screens started bleeping or flashing as I mounted up. On my hip was a device that gave out a radio signal, and it was connected to the nodes on my chest.
I made a start, and I had used one of these fancy treadmills before, but this one was larger, longer and wider, and had lots of controls. I could see the MPH setting, and on the right was a lever for faster or slower. Kate set a moderate pace, and they base-lined my heart, and after ten minutes my heart had slowed to a base line on their machines.
‘It’s low,’ was mentioned a few times.
Dr. Kate knocked the speed up, and my heart rate went with it, another baseline established, and she finally got me up to a speed I called a fast run, and what I knew was just over marathon pace. I was counting in my head.
‘132,’ people told each other, as if that was significant.
‘You’re not factoring stride length,’ I puffed out.
They looked at each other. Dr Kate said, ‘He’s covering more ground than a shorter man; same speed, fewer strides.’
They set about keenly measuring my stride, and rudely grabbed Smurf and Smudger, and had them running at this speed, their strides measured. I was four inches longer, which came to more than ten percent. They were excited about some computer programme and headed off, Dr Kate telling me to shower and eat.
That evening I sat with Smurf in the lounge, mugs of tea in hand. ‘So how come the SAS let you get three months off?’
‘I had an eye injury, partial detached retina, and I needed the time off anyway – no blows to the head.’
‘Running a treadmill is no good for a detached retina. Why did they really let you go?’
He lost his smile, and he sighed. ‘I had problems with a sergeant, right cunt of a guy, he was doing whatever he could to trip me up, damage my kit. I complained, but there wasn’t much evidence. Then the injury, and ... when I go back they’ll make an assessment, but if he insists I go ... then I go.’
‘That’s what some sergeants are like. I, on the other hand, have very good legal counsel, a colonel, and he’s busted up a few officers.’
‘SAS wouldn’t be impressed with that, they don’t have to explain kicking someone out.’
I nodded. ‘How long you been in?’
‘Nine months, not long.’
‘I did HALO a year back, came across many troopers, hit a few.’
‘How’d you get on HALO?’
‘Senior officer owed me a favour; I often drive senior officers around. I did the Close Protection Course as well, I’m qualified as an armourer, medic, you name it. All I need now is the chance to use it, but back at Brize Norton they have me sweeping the floors or guard duty.’
‘Why’d they give you so much shit?’
‘Long story, but I have a way of finding trouble, or it has a way of finding me. A group of Engineers jumped me and I put thirteen in hospital, eight so badly hurt they were medically discharged. Stuff like that makes me unpopular. And I had an officer arrested. That stays on your file, and people fear you.’
‘Shit...’ he let out.
‘I’ve had my room broken into more times than I can remember, people jealous of the fame, my car damaged. If you’re in the press, the average lazy bastard wants to have a go at you. I have the competition medals that the corporals want, and they all resent me for it.
‘I should be with a squadron, training properly, but I’m in a holding pattern at Brize Norton because they don’t know what to do with me.’
I stared into my tea. ‘I don’t know why I stay in, and sometimes I think it’s because I want to fight the system, that if I quit then they win. I never did anything wrong, but I got years of shit for it. There are lots of faults with the military, and there’s always some arsehole that wants to make your life difficult for no good reason, they do it just because they can.
‘Unlike Civvy Street, they can make you run around the airfield for no good reason, do jumping jacks, clean the floor. In Civvy Street they can fire you, but they can’t make you do press-ups.’
‘Thought I had it tough,’ he noted.
‘Your CO, Colonel Richards, used to be my next door neighbour, I’ve known him for years.’
‘Really? Maybe you can put a good word in for me.’
‘Maybe I could, or maybe I could just kick the shit out of the guy hassling you.’
For a week I ran like a guinea pig on a wheel, knocking out thirty miles a day in three or four stints, wired up to machines. When I had a facemask on it was hard to breathe and I had stop several times, not getting enough air. They changed their policy, so I would be stopped suddenly and then have to breathe for five minutes into the tube, and then run again with the mask off.
That weekend, the Saturday, a few of us headed into Cheltenham dressed smart and found a nice wine bar, a few nice ladies around, Smurf trying his hand with a short girl.
Leaving, and walking down a street of dated Georgian Houses, I glanced into a restaurant window and saw Kate and her man sat at a table.
Smurf said, ‘What she see in him, eh, he’s a twat. He touches up nurses, and he’s tried it on with Nurse Lewis.’
‘Fellow officer and doctor,’ I said with a sigh. ‘They don’t have sex, they go to the opera.’
‘Opera? Fuck,’ Smurf left out, and we found a lively bar down the street.
Beers bought, we found a corner, and I got a tap on the elbow, turning to find Lesley, the beautiful receptionist.
‘Hey,’ I offered, in a manner that said “let’s fuck right here”.
She cocked an eyebrow and smiled back. ‘We’re not supposed to date the inmates.’
‘Inmates?’ I repeated. ‘It’s not a prison.’
‘You know what I mean, them and us, professional standards.’
‘Like Dr Kate’s wandering boyfriend...’
She lost her smile for a moment. ‘Not for me to say.’
I looked beyond her. ‘Got any nice friends?’
Her mouth opened in surprise, and mild offence.
‘You’re not allowed to date us inmates, remember,’ I teased.
‘I’m leaving in four weeks.’
‘Oh...’ I let out, a bit too sarcastically. ‘So we could try and keep it quiet for four weeks, or you wait four weeks and then I make you scream.’
Her mouth opened again. ‘Behave.’
‘Where’d you live?’ I asked above the music.
‘Not far,’ she said with a glint in her eye. ‘Walking distance.’
A big lump of a guy pushed past. ‘Right love,’ he said, leering at Lesley.
I gave him a look that said “back off” and placed my drink down ready, but he walked away.
Lesley brought her group of friends over, and we merged, Smurf always keen to get in there, no fear of rejection, Holly always talking up his med
ical training, Smudger being a completely useless twat with the ladies. He was soon talking cars and engine oil to a girl.
We moved to the rear, a separate room with no music and more space, high tables and high chairs near the window, a small bar in the corner. Lesley sat on a high chair, so she was more eye-to-eye with me. I also got a better view of her cleavage, playfully told off a few times for looking, and for rubbing her boobs with the back of my hand as I held my beer closer to her.
Half an hour later, and Smurf was nudged from behind, and it looked deliberate, the big lump back, plus five big mates.
Smurf turned. ‘Got a problem, fat fuck?’ he shouted, everyone in the room stopping and staring.
‘Who you calling a fat fuck?’
‘You, fat fuck,’ Smurf’s girl let out.
I put my drink down. ‘Smurf, back-up.’
‘Smurf?’ the mob laughed. ‘That your fucking name?’
‘Shouldn’t you be blue, Wanker?’
I eased off my jacket, Lesley holding it. I had expected her to say something, but she was surprisingly mad at the mob, and not about to hold me back. I moved Smurf aside.
‘You want some bother?’ the fat fuck snarled at me.
‘Always. But first ... I’ll take my shirt off, save getting it ruined.’
‘Might get blood all down it,’ one of the other men suggested.
I unbuttoned quickly, catching Lesley smiling as she closed in, and her confident smile was caught by the puzzled mob.
Shirt of, a few gasps came from the punters.
Lesley loudly stated, ‘You wanted some bother, he’s the heavyweight boxing champion of the British Army. See how long you wankers last.’
Fat slob had lost his bluster, now worried, his mates worried as well as I rolled my shoulders ready, Smurf at my side, Smudger keen for a fight.
But a tall thin man appeared from behind and pushed in, a badge flashed. ‘Anyone fancy a night in a cell followed a court appearance?’
‘I don’t mind,’ Smurf told him.
Fat slob used the excuse to back up, his hands up, and he quickly led his posse out as Smurf threw insults after them.
