Marathon Man Read online

  MARATHON MAN

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2016

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © 2016 by Rob Young

  This book is copyright under the Berne convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Rob Young to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  The author and publishers have made all reasonable efforts to contact copyright-holders for permission, and apologise for any omissions or errors in the form of credits given. Corrections may be made to future printings.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-5287-0

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-5300-6

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-4711-5289-4

  Typeset and designed in the UK by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd are committed to sourcing paper that is made from wood grown in sustainable forests and support the Forest Stewardship Council, the leading international forest certification organisation. Our books displaying the FSC logo are printed on FSC certified paper.

  To Joanna, Olivia and Alexander.

  And to my second family, the running community.

  ‘Sport has the power to unite people in a way that little else does. It speaks to youth in a language they understand. It can create hope where once there was only despair.’

  NELSON MANDELA

  ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going’

  WINSTON CHURCHILL

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 All for Twenty Pence

  13–14 April 2014

  2 Marathon Man UK Is Born

  15–26 April 2014

  3 To Milton Keynes and Beyond

  27 April–11 May 2014

  4 Never Give Up

  12–16 May 2014

  5 The Bets Are Off

  17–29 May 2014

  6 Climb Every Mountain

  30 May–15 June 2014

  7 Out of Breath

  16–27 June 2014

  8 In the Brutal Midnight . . .

  27–29 June 2014

  9 Solving the Enigma

  29 June–6 July 2014

  10 Reaching my Century

  6–16 July 2014

  11 It’s All About The Times

  17 July–3 August 2014

  12 One Hundred Miles and More

  4–10 August 2014

  13 A Fight with Mr Negative

  11 August–3 September 2014

  14 Setting More Challenges

  4 September–28 October 2014

  15 Disaster Strikes

  29 October–26 November 2014

  16 Getting Game Ready Again

  27 November 2014–13 January 2015

  17 Taking on America

  14 January–23 February 2015

  18 Closing in on the Record

  23 February–13 April 2015

  19 Journey’s End at the White House

  14 April–3 June 2015

  Epilogue

  Appendix 1 – The Crazy Running Handbook

  Appendix 2 – Checklists

  Appendix 3 – Training

  Acknowledgements

  List of Illustrations

  Prologue

  Dad punched me again and I could hear my heart beating fast. Then I slipped and fell onto my knees and his foot came up fast as lightning into my stomach. The force of it flipped me onto my back. He had blood on his knuckles which he noticed for the first time now. I think it came from my cheek.

  The sweat was pouring off him, but he looked energised, not tired. He rolled up his sleeves and came back for more, punching and kicking wildly. I stayed down. This had been going on ever since I could remember, an almost daily occurrence. I’d learnt the best thing was to not to put up a fight. Just to wait it out.

  Then he started shouting at me, telling me what a useless good-for-nothing I was. ‘You’re no good, boy. You’re no good!’ he screamed. ‘You can’t even defend yourself!’ I could see his face so angry and creased, I remember thinking he looked more like a monster than a human being.

  Crazy as it sounds now, this was all pretty normal for me. It was just a part of life, the only one I’d known anyway. And scary as it was, it was bearable, unless he was really drunk and then he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. Then he’d hit me too hard and I’d be a wreck for days and have to stay in my bedroom.

  Usually the beatings took place in the living room and when we were alone in the house. Or my little sister would be up in her room doing God knows what. She never came out when Dad was beating on me, though. I imagine she just kept quiet and prayed he wouldn’t get bored with me and come visit her.

  He grabbed me by the ankle and dragged me to the bottom of the stairs. I knew what that meant. The panic rose up in me. My heart was beating fast and I felt really hot by now. I grasped the stair rail, desperately trying to get away, but his fist came down hard across my arms, breaking my grip.

  What was coming next was the thing I hated the most. So I got ready, going deep inside myself to a place that was all mine. The volume would go down on his shouting, like it was a TV turned down low. Inside I was preparing to endure something. It needed all my focus to do it right or I’d be in trouble. I had to get control of myself and not be overcome by my fear. I couldn’t afford to get dragged in. By now I was in a state I call ‘locked-in’.

  He pulled me by my feet to the top of the stairs, my head hitting each stair on the way up. It didn’t matter too much because I was ready now. I was ready for his sick little game. It was going to start very soon and I was prepared.

  I was only five years old.

  CHAPTER ONE

  All for Twenty Pence

  13–14 April 2014

  I woke up at about 9.30am in Isleworth, south-west London, a bright blue sky peeking through the crack in the curtains. I could hear my missus, Joanna, next door playing with Alexander, our son. Now she was telling him off. He was only a year old, but he was always getting into trouble with her, almost as much as I was. I stumbled next door to join them. Alexander looked upset as he didn’t like getting told off, then his face broke into a great big smile and he rushed over to me.

  ‘Put the telly on, Joanna,’ I said. ‘The marathon’s on.’

  ‘We were trying to eat breakfast,’ she said, her hands on her hips, as I switched on the TV.

  ‘I’d love some toast,’ I said, smiling at her. She looked exasperated: two naughty boys to look after, it wasn’t easy for her.

  The wheelchair marathon was already underway. David Weir was in the leading group, a real competitor. I’d met him a couple of years earlier at a school fundraiser and he seemed like a really nice guy, but tough with it. He’ll take some beating, I thought.

  I played with Buddy (the nickname we have for Alexander) but kept my eye on the marathon in the background. Mo Farah was running his first marathon, and all eyes were on him: the double Olympic gold medallist from two years earlier, at the 5,000 and 10,000 metres. Mo was class, a world champion, but could he handle the marathon?

  Joanna came over and stood in front of the telly and tried to talk to Buddy and me, as she wanted to go out somewhere. ‘We can’t stay in all day,’ she said. I wanted to wat
ch the marathon, though.

  ‘Buddy and I want to watch the race,’ I replied. ‘Come on, join us. We can go out later on.’

  Unimpressed, Joanna disappeared to do some chores, leaving me with Buddy and the race. I’d find a way to make it up to her later. It was almost 10am now and the runners were gathered at the start of the race. It was a warm and beautiful day, uncommon for April in London. You could see the professional runners, all skinny and fit-looking at the start line. The indefatigable Kenyans looked serious, as though nothing in the world mattered more than this race.

  Behind them was the sea of club and park runners that make up most of the 40,000 entrants. Wearing their colourful charity vests or fancy dress, they were the marathon to me. Most had a heart-rending tale to tell of someone they knew who’d had cancer or dementia, and they were the reason they were running. Every year Joanna and I would cry a few tears hearing someone’s story. All these people putting themselves through something tough to help someone less fortunate, it made you feel good to be part of the human race (no pun intended).

  I’d find out later that £53 million was raised on that day. A big pile of money that would keep charities going, buy life-saving medical equipment, fund research, pay for nurses and more. Money that would give people hope and change lives, save lives even. It’s pretty awesome when you think about it!

  Joanna marched in from the other room. She’d clearly finished the ironing and was ready to do something. Anything. ‘Why are you watching this, Rob, when we could be doing something? Buddy needs to get out to get some fresh air. Let’s get some exercise, not watch other people getting some.’

  ‘I’m going to run a marathon,’ I said. ‘So I need to watch this a bit more, get some advice.’ That wasn’t exactly true. I had no plans to run a marathon any time soon, but I did want to watch the race.

  She relaxed and smiled. ‘You’ll never run a marathon,’ she said with such certainty.

  ‘I will,’ I said, standing up. ‘You just watch me.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re too lazy to run one, Rob. You can’t even take your family to the park.’ She was baiting me, but I didn’t care.

  ‘I could run fifty marathons,’ I said. I have no idea where that number came from.

  ‘Fifty marathons!?’ Joanna laughed, shaking her head as though it was the most ridiculous idea she’d ever heard.

  ‘I’ll bet you twenty pence I can,’ I said, offering her my hand to shake. We were always doing 20p bets back then, usually over silly things. She took my hand without hesitation.

  ‘You’re on,’ she said. And then she stared at me, her beautiful blue eyes becoming more serious now. I think it was dawning on her that I might not be joking.

  And that was how it all began: no huge forethought or preparation, no great intentions. Just a little bit of banter and a girl laughing at her fiancé’s plans. Ladies, be warned!

  That bet quickly turned into my attempt to run more marathons in a year than anyone had ever done before. The year that followed would be tough on our family and there’d be times Joanna would deeply regret having challenged me. Marathon running would turn me into an absent boyfriend and father, our money would dry up and eventually we’d be forced to leave our home. But we got into this together and we’d come out the other side together, too. Happier, wiser, richer even.

  Well, two out of three isn’t bad.

  The rest of the day is a bit of a blur, to be honest. We did get out the house and to the park, but my mind was elsewhere: something had clicked in me, since that conversation. A light had switched on in my brain and rusty cogs had started to turn. I was motivated. The idea of running 50 marathons had turned into a bigger idea. How many marathons could I do in a month? How many in a year? What are the world records for these kinds of things? Looking back, this all seems quite ridiculous when you consider I was just a 31-year-old office worker who hadn’t run his first marathon yet.

  Though that’s not strictly true. I had been in the Army in my twenties and I was always the one who could march the furthest and the quickest with a heavy pack. Then I was a pro cyclist for a while and represented Britain as a junior triathlete, so I knew I had some sporting ability and a talent for endurance. That kind of thing doesn’t just disappear – even if it had been lying dormant in me for the last seven years. Add to that a dream that had been dancing around in the back of my mind for ages now, a vague idea, entirely without focus. I had always wanted to do something inspirational, involving sport, to raise money for underprivileged kids. I didn’t know what exactly, or how, but still the idea kept nagging away at me.

  So that evening was spent online, learning about those who’d gone furthest, discovering the world-record holders and those who claimed to be the record holders. The crazy ones. It turned out to be a little complicated. The Guinness World Records held American Larry Macon’s 157 marathons to be the most run in a single calendar year (2012), and he went on to complete 239 marathons in 365 days in 2012–13. It was impressive in its own right, but doubly so when you realise he was in his sixties at the time. They were all official organised marathons, the kind that are usually just held at the weekends. He must have had to do a lot of flying around the US to make it work (think of the airmiles!).

  Then there were other, unofficial marathon records. Ricardo Abad from Spain ran 366 consecutive marathons in a year in 2011, which meant running at least one every day for a year, with no days off. They weren’t all official, sanctioned marathons, so Guinness wasn’t interested. But I was – it was a real challenge, and one you didn’t need to be rich to take on.

  I also looked into the history of the marathon: why was it 26.2 miles long, for example? Everyone knows the first marathon was run in Greece, but it wasn’t originally 26.2 miles, as it is today. In 490BC, Pheidippides, a Greek soldier, ran approximately 25 miles, from the battlefield in Marathon to Athens, to report victory over the Persians. Then he keeled over and died.

  Some 2,400 years later, in 1896, the organisers of the first modern Olympic Games decided to celebrate the story by recreating the race, this time with a 40km (24.85 miles) course from Marathon Bridge to the Olympic Stadium in Athens. Twelve years later, in 1908, at the Olympics in London, the length of the course became extended to 26 miles and 385 yards (or 42.195km), so that the race from Windsor Castle could finish in front of the Royal Box in the White City Stadium in Shepherd’s Bush. In 1921, this distance was determined by the International Amateur Athletic Federation to be the official distance of a marathon. And it has stuck ever since.

  So, now I knew the history and the records, my next problem was how to get started? And where? It was 8pm by then. I was tempted to head off into the night there and then, to find a signpost to a place 26 miles away and set off there, but I figured I’d wait until the morning and run my first marathon before work. That kind of thinking is what counts as patience and restraint in my world.

  To be taken seriously, I knew I needed to run official marathon courses, even if they weren’t being marshalled at the time. The only local marathon I knew about was one held in Richmond Park each year. This leafy royal park in southwest London had an official course you could follow, and I used to do the occasional 5k park run there at weekends. After a bit of digging around online, I found a map of the course and printed it off.

  My next concern was getting verification for my achievements. How would anyone know that I’d actually done the marathons? I needed witnesses to verify my story and, as soon as I could, GPS tracking. I read different versions of this online, but most said I needed at least two people to sign off as witnesses of my runs. I asked Joanna to come down and then called a friend, Eva, and asked if she could come out to witness me running.

  ‘Why are you running a marathon on your own?’ she asked.

  ‘I won’t be alone,’ I said. ‘You’re coming.’

  No doubt she thought I was crazy, but that was something I’d just have to get used to. I packed a rucksack with a towel, my work clo
thes for afterwards and some fruit, then I set my alarm and got into bed beside Joanna who was already fast asleep.

  My alarm went off at 3.30am and I was up. Joanna stirred but didn’t fully awaken. My head had been whizzing all night with a hundred thoughts, mainly about charities, as I wanted to raise money if I was going to take on this challenge – I wasn’t just doing it for 20p. I had been trying to remember an advert I kept seeing on the tube on the way to work, with a picture of a child crying. Disturbing and motivating, it had stuck in my head, though what charity it was for I still couldn’t remember. I’d decided I was going to make a difference to kids and running was going to be my passport. It was all clear now, before I had even set foot on a marathon course. It’s funny how life can give you that kind of clarity sometimes. The rest of the time we just muddle around in the dark. I realised then that I had been looking for this sort of opportunity for years.

  I crept out of the bedroom and peeked inside Alexander’s room. He was sleeping serenely as children do. I never get tired of seeing him sleep. Then I pulled on my running gear and my worn-out trainers. I had a good look at the map of the Richmond Park marathon route I’d printed off the night before. It was complicated, but I knew where every point was. I tucked it in my shorts just in case.

  It took only about 20 minutes to cycle to the park, so it was about 4.15 when I got there. If you don’t know Richmond Park, then you should visit when you have the chance. It’s full of wildlife, including deer, as well as kite flyers, dog walkers, runners and the like. There’s nowhere more beautiful in the world.

  And right now I had it all to myself. I realised I’d have to be careful running in the pitch darkness, with only the moon and stars to light the way ahead, as the path was strewn with roots, rocks and deer poo. I put my bag down at the start of the route, took a deep breath and set off. I knew what I wanted to achieve over the coming months, but I had no idea what to expect, or whether I’d get anywhere near the targets I had started to set myself. I was literally heading out into the darkness.