Having said all that, the greatest distance runner of all time, Haile Gebrselassie, had a kink in his technique, a crooked left elbow, which was a legacy of his childhood in Ethiopia where he used to run six miles to and from school every day carrying his textbooks under his arm. And back in Chiswick, Mike’s avoided the question about Jeptoo. She’s the Kenyan who came within five seconds of winning gold in the 2012 Olympic marathon. Eight months later she returned to the city and obliterated the rest of the field to win the London Marathon by over a minute.
Jeptoo is the first to admit that her style is idiosyncratic to say the least, even ungainly. However, she’ll also point to her phenomenal success as a long distance runner and tell you that she gets away with it. So, Mike, perhaps you can run ‘like an octopus’ and win.
Well it’s actually quite simple. She’s fast, but she could go a lot faster. And because of those knees buckling, sending her ankles flailing, she gets more than her fair share of injuries. So she runs a race, then she’s out for ages, and that’s basically down to her biomechanics. You would have thought someone would have told her, but I do a lot of work with elite coaches and their athletes, and it never ceases to amaze me how they don’t look at what I call the bleeding obvious. So if one leg is moving this way, there has to be a counter movement because that is the way the human body works.
Jeptoo may disagree, but for me, Mike and his team were absolutely spot on. Not only have I rarely been injured since going to running school, but also, whenever I’m struggling on a long run and I can feel myself fading and my technique flagging, I simply remember to start pumping my arms, which seems to act as a trigger for everything to come together.
So as I bid farewell to Mike and leave the school for the final time, I can’t resist a quick peek at the treadmill I was once taught on. There’s another bloke on it now, clearly a new boy as his gait is all over the place. He’s another octopus.
I stop for a moment and stare. I can’t help a little smile. It does look funny; arms and legs swinging wildly in various directions. But give it a few weeks, and he’ll be fine.
Donovan Bailey
Double Olympic champion, three times World Champion and 100m world record holder. For much of the nineties, he was the fastest man on the planet.
I never thought running was my thing. I was born in Jamaica, where track and field was certainly as big as football in the UK. I guess football’s getting like that in Jamaica too now, but when I was young, it was like every single Jamaican child, at some point, is a runner. Or at some point is an athlete, because that’s the easiest sport to do.
I grew up on a farm. There were only three things: it was school, church and sports. Those are the only things we did. I didn’t grow up in an age of computers and all that stuff, so playing meant playing outside, and it was very important. Activities were very important. We ate well, but we were outside playing games. It might start out as early as when you first start to walk, just as little silly races, but then it grows from there.
We start school in Jamaica at three. When I was five I had my first sports day, and you kind of do a whole bunch of events. The ones I really enjoyed were the long jump, triple jump, and 100 and 200 metres. I probably discovered I had a special gift when I was about ten years old, again, at school sports day. I won a couple of ribbons, so I thought I was special anyway.
When I’m flying down the track, a lot of the time I don’t think of anything. It’s either absolutely nothing, or everything. I think that at speed, thinking is different. Sprinting is so very different to running. As a sprinter, when you’re racing, there’s not a whole lot to think about. You have to concentrate on your drive phase, when you explode out of the blocks, and then when you hit top speed, it’s all about breathing. But essentially, you get up every day, and you do monotonous things to perfect every aspect of the sprint, to improve your drive, transition and speed, all for when you’re actually on the track in a race. You’re like an engineer constantly tinkering with a finely tuned sports car trying to coax more speed out of it.
I only understood that when I got to be professional. As a child, you’re only really trying to run. Or actually, you’re just trying to beat your opponents. But professionally, there are definitely phases in which you run. You have to understand gait. You have to understand your diaphragm. You have to understand breathing. You have to understand every single thing about your body. Living, breathing, and dedicating your focus and essentially your life, all of it to the sport. It can be difficult sometimes.
When I think back to the world records I’ve broken, those are probably the easiest races I ever ran. It’s almost like your body’s at one with the track, or with the environment around you. Maybe it’s a zen state, or you’re in the zone. Anytime I’ve ever gone and tried to run fast, it never happens. You have to understand, it really is the best feeling, when everything falls into place!
To me, looking back at the 1996 Olympic Games 100m final, breaking the world record and winning the gold medal, the way I would describe it... One, I thought I had a terrible start, which I did. But then, if I was to stand and look back at how I could see the crowd for instance, everyone just looked like an abstract painting. I came out of the blocks, and there was absolute silence – although, as we know, when you watch sport, the Olympic 100m final, the stadium is completely deafening, huge decibels of sound. But to me there was completely dead silence. And then when I crossed the finishing line, gold medal, world record, it’s like the volume got turned up again.
Nowadays I stay in shape by playing a bit of basketball, a bit of golf, but last week I did a crazy thing. I decided to go for a 22-mile run, which as a sprinter, is just the worst thing in the history of the world. Yeah, it was good afterwards, but I am just not built for that. I’m completely built for speed. In fact I’m still hurting today. I’m hurting terribly today, so I definitely respect runners a lot more now.
* Gross motor skills are the abilities usually acquired during infancy and very early childhood as part of a child’s physical development. These skills are improved and refined until adulthood. As the gross movements develop in a head-to-toe order, kids will typically learn head control, then trunk stability, and finally standing up, walking and running.
5
Kanye West, Runaway
‘Outlaw’ Ironman Triathlon, Mile 5
It’s sudden. Urgent. Desperate.
One second ago, literally one second in the past, everything was OK. By which I don’t actually mean OK at all. I mean still agonising, exhausting, excruciating. But this is a new and utterly compelling problem that dwarfs all others: it’s serious, distressing and needs sorting, like, now!
Oh, and I ought to say, I’m really sorry about what you’re about to read. I apologise in advance. This is hardly the sort of thing you’d expect to find in a wholesome book about running. I mean for all I know, you could be about to eat your breakfast. I think breakfast is when you’d least like to read what’s coming up, though lunch and dinner are a close second and third. So basically, I hope it’s nowhere near any of your major mealtimes, and that you’re generally OK with this sort of thing.
Because this is mile five, and as I say, it’s sudden, urgent and desperate.
I need a poo.
This is not a gradual realisation, you understand. Or a mild pointer towards the closest convenience. This is the most abrupt, unforeseen and dramatic poo compulsion in human history. One moment I’m happily (well, not happily exactly, but you know what I mean) running along by the Trent, and the next – the Very. Next. Moment. – I’m horribly and acutely aware that I have five seconds to find somewhere to defecate, or else I’m going to soil myself.
Now of course I do know that marathon runners, especially (apparently) female ones, have long had to deal with similar problems. Indeed in one infamous case, live on television, hunched over on a kerb in central London.
But firstly, I’ve never previously needed so much as a wee during a marathon befor
e. In fact during any run. And certainly never number twos. Also, and I’m clearly not speaking from experience here and research is a little tricky to come by, but from what I can gather, when the poo urge strikes mid-race, it tends to do so with a lot less drama and a little more forewarning.
So what to do in my current predicament? I now have four and a half seconds to find a makeshift toilet, which narrows my compass to around ten metres in every direction. Finding an actual public lavatory nearby, preferably a clean, unoccupied one, would be perfect. I look around me. Evidently not. Everything to my left is open parkland, where people are walking dogs, eating picnics, kicking footballs, generally enjoying a carefree Sunday afternoon. And there are kids about. I discount everywhere to my left immediately.
Three seconds remaining.
Immediately in front and behind me is the Trent towpath. Every few metres a would-be Ironman staggers onwards, either in the same direction as me, away from the National Watersports Centre, or back towards Holme Pierpoint (these runners are around ten miles closer to the finish than me, the lucky, speedy gits). Obviously, the actual towpath is a no-no as well.
Two seconds remaining.
Which leaves the area to my right, the few metres between the path and the river. The water isn’t actually visible from where we’re running, because there are thorn bushes growing luxuriously from the ground to about head height. They’re thick, verdant, and extremely painful-looking. Doing a poo in there would be bottom suicide.
One second remaining.
I dive into the thorn bushes.
The skin on my legs and arms rips savagely as I try to get out of sight before tearing down my shorts and allowing the explosion to take effect. Even though I’ve had this problem for only a few short seconds, the relief is massive. Waves of sheer happiness wash over me as I deliver some unexpected compost to the thorn bush. If my feelings at the finish line are anything like as ecstatic as these, then the whole experience will perhaps have been worth it.
More skin ruptures as I exit the thorn bush sheepishly, but contentedly. Who cares about the cuts? I’ve dodged a bullet there. And as I continue on my way, I almost have a spring in my step.
By all rights, my brother-in-law should be more nervous than I am: he’s with a load of strangers whilst I’m amongst friends. But the crucial difference is that he’s been running for years and knows he’s going to be OK today: he’s seen it all before, done it all before – and then some. In fact he’s done it all before – and then not just some but same, as in same again. Because David’s already run a marathon, and this is just a half. Not even a proper half either, because the course is apparently too downhill to count as a bona fide half-marathon. So what I’m about to attempt, what I’m nervously contemplating, what kept me awake for much of last night is actually, officially, merely a 13.1-mile mass participation race. Or, if you prefer, the Great North Run. It’s my first race of any description.
I’m especially nervous because for the year or so that I’ve been running, running is all I’ve talked about. At home, at parties, in the office, even on air, I’ve been evangelical about how brilliant running is, how I’m really enjoying getting out there, how I’m losing weight whilst gaining fitness and endurance. So people, understandably, have inferred that I’m quite good at it. I mean nobody goes on about something to this degree if they’re not at least passably talented, right? And certainly my friends, colleagues and brother-in-law are all thinking that even if I’m not especially fast, then certainly I’m proficient enough to manage a measly half-marathon without too much trouble.
This is an erroneous impression I’ve done little (nothing at all) to correct. I rather like being thought of as a good runner. But I’m very much afraid that in the next few hours, I’m very publicly going to be unmasked.
Phil Williams, Radio 5 live presenter, Aston Villa fanatic, all round good guy, has organised the BBC team for the run. There are about a dozen of us in all, including Luke Harvey, jockey turned racing broadcaster, and George Riley, fellow 5 live sports presenter (at the time I worked on Breakfast, and George on Drive, so between us we had both ends of the day’s sports news neatly wrapped up in three-minute bulletins). The entire station was out in force in Newcastle because the race coincided with one of the now defunct annual 5 live festivals, bizarrely called Oktoberfests, which were a fairly transparent attempt to boost listening figures in the North of England (Hull and Sheffield also got the Oktoberfest treatment). And somehow my brother-in-law, a headteacher on the south coast, has managed to infiltrate our running team.
Dave had dinner with us on the eve of the race. It was a very virtuous affair during which everybody ate a healthy, high-carb meal and nobody touched a drop of alcohol. Nobody, that is, except Luke, who cheerfully downed three or four lagers with his pre-race pasta and then proceeded to comfortably beat us all in the following morning’s race. Dave meanwhile, who hadn’t booked anywhere to stay for the night, managed to persuade me that my hotel room was big enough for both of us (which it wasn’t).
Our race numbers were handed out, and I discovered I would be 909 to Phil’s 693, the two medium wave frequencies of 5 live. And I also learnt that, apart from the look-at-me numbers, the organisers had laid on race chaperones for us both, experienced runners who would complete the route alongside us. Dave thought this was hilarious; it made me even more nervous.
I didn’t sleep well that night, around 50% due to David’s extraordinary snoring, and 50% down to nerves. I honestly had no idea whether I could get round 13.1 miles. I’ve just had a look at the list of runs I did to prepare for the race. I’m a little besotted with my running lists, so much so that I’ve made a note of every run I’ve ever done – and ahead of the Great North Run, it seems my longest training effort was an eight-miler the weekend before the race. I usually put a little comment by each run and that one, at 11am on a Saturday, was ‘hard for the first hour then sort of OK. Very sore and swollen left knee after.’ That pesky knee had been giving me grief on and off for months, and I genuinely had no idea whether it would survive the pounding it was about to take from Newcastle city centre all the way to the seaside at South Shields.
Over breakfast I’m quiet, unusually introverted. Then I’m shocked at how frequently I seem to need the toilet. Welcome to a race day! Next, another race ritual to experience for the first time – fumbling with safety pins. My inaugural attempts to attach a number to my running vest result in several painful holes in my thumb. I’ve never managed to get the hang of these. I’ve attempted the procedure many, many times since, and always seem to puncture myself in the process. Perhaps, when I finally persuade a race number onto a shirt without any form of self-inflicted injury, perhaps only then will I be able to say: I am a runner.
Not this morning though. This morning I’m just terrified.
Terrified of failing to finish, terrified of finishing in an embarrassingly slow time, terrified basically of being unmasked as a fraud.
There follows a lengthy walk to the start line during which I join in enthusiastically as everybody on the 5 live team tries to outdo each other with earnest tales of how little training they’ve done. I also tell anyone who’ll listen how much my knee has been hurting. Blatant tactics: get the excuses in early. We reach the start, and I naively expend much of my seemingly limitless nervous energy running up and down the first few hundred yards of the course. Trouble is, because we’re lucky enough to begin at the very front, the empty road stretches out invitingly ahead and almost begs to be run on. Tens of thousands of pounding feet are about to be released onto that tarmac, and this feels like making the first footprints on virgin snow. I just can’t help myself.
My brother-in-law goes off to ‘get his race head on’ as I stop for a quick chat on air with Stephen Nolan. He’s presenting the 5 live Weekend Breakfast programme from the start line. ‘Why on earth would you want to put yourself through 13 miles of hurt?’ he asks, entirely reasonably.
‘For what I believe you Irish
call the craic,’ I lie smoothly, before adding – truthfully as it happens – that I’m also hoping to raise money for charity.
Despite the nerves, I have to admit that the atmosphere around the start line is intoxicating. Sure, people are edgy, jittery, jumpy. But they’re also excited, happy, resolute and generous with genuine good wishes. It’s a terrific place to be, overflowing with positive energy.
Minutes to go until the race is going to be officially started by Ant and Dec, and I meet Paul who’s to be my chaperone. He’s incredibly nice about being drawn to run with some bloke who broadcasts on a radio station he’s never heard of, but having recently accompanied Nell McAndrew (beautiful, great company and a terrific runner with a marathon best of 2:54) round the Manchester 10k, I know he must secretly be a little disappointed.
Actually, speaking of a rough draw, and speaking of Ant and Dec, I was once with the pair of them at a charity golf day in Surrey. Eighteen teams of three players who’d each paid lots of money to play at a posh club with one of eighteen celebrities of wildly varying status – everyone from the nation’s favourite TV presenting duo, to a Breakfast Show sports reporter who was there as a last-minute replacement. There would be a pre-round draw to match the ‘celebrity’ to the team. After 15 of the 18 names were picked out of a hat, the three that remained were Ant McPartlin, Declan Donnelly, and myself. Next to be drawn: Vassos Alexander. The unlucky team couldn’t stop themselves letting out a loud, involuntary groan. However hard I subsequently tried to make it up to them for the five hours it took to complete the round, it was no use. No amount of indiscreet stories or tales of general sports reporting incompetence could make up for the fact that I was the unwanted 33% chance of not getting to spend the afternoon with either Ant or Dec. In golfing terms, they were two up with three to play, and lost.
But back to the Geordie duo at the start of the Great North Run, along with my chaperone Paul. He’s chatty and charming as he asks what sort of time I’m hoping to achieve. Now at this point, surely, I should come clean about my running ability, or lack of it – but even here, on the start line of my first ever race, with no hiding place in front of me, just 13.1 unforgiving (though overall slightly downhill) miles, I try it on. ‘An hour and a half, or thereabouts.’ This reply, optimistic in the extreme, is out of my lips before I can think straight, though I’m also eager to tell Paul about how injured I am in the knee department. I tell him that a lot.
Don't Stop Me Now Page 4
