Marathon Man Page 11

  ‘You’re meant to be resting,’ she told me.

  ‘He wants to play,’ I said. ‘He won’t leave me alone.’ She gave that look again, only more of it.

  ‘I lost my kilt,’ I said. ‘Someone stole it in Wales. I took it off because it was wet. And a couple of hours later and it was gone.’

  ‘What are you going to do, then – get another one?’

  ‘I wonder if it was an Irish thief?’ I said. Joanna looked puzzled. ‘An Irishman stealing the Scottish kilt of an Englishman in Wales.’

  The next morning I was back in Richmond Park for my usual marathon. It was tough, as I was beginning to grow worried about my left leg. I ran a quick time in the end, but after about mile 16 my leg was really killing me and I had to limp the rest. I still finished in under four hours, so it didn’t slow me down too much, but I knew I couldn’t go on like that, so I called Pippa to arrange some physio and Dominika to book in a massage.

  Pippa agreed to see me the next day and I went to her clinic in Richmond after I’d run a marathon in the park. I’d limped much of the way around again, and called work to say I’d be late as I needed to see her first for some advice.

  Pippa was great, but she was very concerned. She told me I needed to ice the swelling and elevate my leg, as there was no magic wand to make it better, though she did have a tennis ball and a Geko device to help. She wanted me to roll the ball on my sore heels to work into the sore areas and alleviate some of the tension there. I can’t say I used it that often, but when I did it seemed to do something. The Geko device helped a lot. It’s not an actual lizard (they’re useless for physio), but a strap that you attach to the back of your knee. It emits electrical pulses that stimulate blood flow to your leg when you are at rest. So it helps the knee to get more blood into it and so to heal. It’s not a life saver, but I reckon it’s helped me quite a bit since I started using one.

  Even with her help and equipment, Pippa looked at me as if to say: you’re not going to be able to keep this up for long, are you? But I knew I could; this would pass and move along – it usually did. I just had to keep going and keep the Geko nearby.

  At work, when I finally got in, my boss was clearly annoyed with me. His patience for what I was doing outside of work was wearing thinner and thinner. I didn’t know what to do about it, because I wasn’t going to stop running. I could see that we wouldn’t be able to go on like this for too long, and that something was going to give eventually.

  That day, I found a kilt on eBay that was similar to the one I’d lost and bought it for about £30, which was a bargain. The weekday Richmond Park marathons continued as usual, and friends and others who had heard what I was doing kept turning out in the mornings to run or cycle with me. The World Cup was on at the time and people wanted to talk about that, but I had no idea what was going on as I hadn’t seen a single match. I soon learned that England weren’t going to win the World Cup, which of course I already knew.

  I had another hectic couple of days on the road lined up for the weekend. The Enigma marathon was on Saturday and after that I had to get up to the Lake District for the Coniston marathon on the Sunday. It would have to be trains and buses this time as nobody had volunteered to drive me around. Fortunately, I had my Virgin Trains pass and a few quid in my pocket, so I was confident it would all work out fine one way or another.

  On Saturday morning, I got up early and found my way to Milton Keynes for the Enigma marathon in time for the 8.15am start. There was a very friendly atmosphere at this marathon and I liked it from the moment I got there. Every marathon has its own unique feel, in my experience. Some feel like they’ve been put on by non-runners in an attempt to make money, or by a council who are required to do so. They don’t have much of a soul, although the participants inject what they can into it. Then there are the ones put on by marathon enthusiasts with lots of nice touches and every detail thought about, the runners’ needs met in every possible way.

  The course was really simple but beautiful. Basically, it was seven and a bit laps of Caldecotte Lake just outside Bletchley (where the German Enigma messages were decoded in the Second World War). It was a pleasant route – I always like running by water, for some reason. There were no epic views to take in here, but at the same time no dangerous slopes to overcome either. This was a mild marathon, perfect for anyone wanting to take on the distance for the first time. After the scrambles and dramas of the weekend before, I was glad for the gentleness of the course and the incredibly supportive runners around me. Marathon Man UK gives you a vote of approval!

  My left leg was still hurting and I was running with a noticeable limp for the last six miles, but I finished in 4 hours 11 minutes – a good time, all things considered. Running the entire year without injuries wasn’t realistic. I’d have to learn how to get through marathons by managing my injuries, altering the way I ran at times, and doing things to look after myself (like using the Geko). Under Pippa’s and Dr Kipps’s advice, I had been trying to land more on my mid to front foot, rather than on my heels, which I tend to do in the latter half of races as I start to tire, or intentionally slow things down to begin my overall recovery. It was a question of listening to my body’s feedback and trying to work around the aggravated areas. And if all that failed, I just carried on regardless, pretending everything was fine. It wasn’t a sophisticated plan, but it worked for me.

  The key, I’d come to realise, was that I needed to stay positive all the time. If you have an injury, don’t dwell on it: tell yourself it will be fine tomorrow and keep saying it, and it will help you recover quicker. It’s a question of fighting your own doubts and fears, even when you’re running. I found if I stayed positive and light, made a joke about the situation, and used my mind for my cause, rather than letting it turn against me, that it helped. And I tried to remember that everyone else was going through the same thing as me, even though I might not have been able to see it.

  When that race was over I did my usual thing, standing at the finish line encouraging other runners over the last 100 yards. I had a bit of time before the next race the following day, though it was a good 250 miles away by public transport. There was another race, the Enigma ultra marathon, starting at 2pm, run over the same course only more of it, over 30 miles this time. I was tempted to try to run it as well. In the end, after chatting with other runners there, I decided against it. It might not have left me enough time to get up to the Lake District for the next day’s racing.

  I hung around at the race HQ for a while longer and had some lunch at the café there before watching the ultra race get underway. I had the rest of the day to get up to Coniston, so there didn’t appear to be any hurry. In the end a nice lady, Alison, offered me a lift to the train station in Milton Keynes, so I got on my way. It had been a great event, really friendly and I’d recommend it to anyone.

  I don’t prepare for journeys much, just as I don’t look at course routes before I get to the races. That’s partly because I’m so tired all the time. When I’m not busy I’d rather disengage and rest my mind. Wrestling with a course map is the last thing I’d want to do, but I also like to make it all a surprise on the day. When I got to the station, I started trying to work out how I would get to Coniston. I learned the best route was a train to Preston and then another train to Ulverston; a bus would take me the rest of the way to Coniston. It sounded straightforward, and I thought it should have taken me about four hours – a bit longer than I’d reckoned, but I’d still be there for about 9pm and have a good night’s kip ahead of me.

  It didn’t turn out that way.

  It ended up being quite late by the time I finally got to Preston, and I was lucky to catch the last train to Ulverston from there. So far so good, though. There were a lot of drunks on the train that night and it was an interesting ride. Some women started chatting to me and were being very flirtatious. One got a bit carried away and suggested I could stay at her house near Coniston. Tempting as a warm bed sounded, it probably came with
strings attached so I politely declined.

  We pulled in at Ulverston and I began looking for a bus station. I asked a taxi driver where the nearest bus station was (which strikes me now as a pretty dumb move). He told me there were no buses at that time of night. The only way to get to Coniston, he assured me, was by taxi, which would cost about £45. Not a huge amount of money for most people, I realise, but a fortune when you have only £20 on you. So I asked how far it was to walk there instead.

  He laughed: ‘You can’t walk it. It’s a good fifteen miles.’ He didn’t know me.

  ‘In what direction?’ I asked.

  So he told me the best way to walk to Coniston. I had a heavy backpack and my feet were a bit sore, but I could walk 15 miles in the moonlight. It might even be nice.

  ‘You’d better get some food here if you’re hungry,’ the driver said. ‘There’s nothing open in Coniston at this time.’

  I thanked him and found my way to the nearest Indian restaurant and ordered a takeaway. While my meal was being prepared, I went to the Tesco on the same street and stocked up on food for the next 24 hours. Soon I was on my way: bulging rucksack on my back, Tesco bag in my left hand and

  Indian takeaway bag in my right. I thought about stopping to eat my food on the way, but I wanted to get to the race start first. I knew how these things can end up taking longer than you think, especially if you get lost.

  I had some pretty specific directions from the taxi driver which took me along a quiet road to Lowick. This was a short cut, he had assured me. It was a long walk but not unpleasant. The weather was a little colder now than I’d have liked, but I made steady progress. After three hours or so, the road passed Coniston Water. It was about 2am by then and it was magnificent, this huge body of water, shimmering in the moonlight.

  My left leg was sore, so I was glad when I finally reached Coniston, but finding the race HQ ended up being the trickiest bit. I had to cross some big fields to get there. I was relieved to have made it to the start of another race, my epic journey successfully completed. It was probably not the ideal preparation, truth be told, and I put up my tent in about a minute, in typical Rob fashion, so it was barely standing.

  It must have been about 3.30 in the morning by then and time to eat dinner. Not-too-warm chicken tikka masala was on the menu. Yum! I gobbled it down and topped it off with a little chocolate milk and a can of coke. Delicious! Then I crawled into my tent to get some sleep. With the roof of the tent practically in my mouth, I passed out like a light.

  I slept so well that I woke up in a panic. Had I missed the race start? I hurriedly pushed my way out of the tent to find a hive of activity outside: runners getting ready, stretching and filling up their water bottles, cooking up sausages on gas stoves, while others struggled to pin their numbers on. I was just in time.

  First up, breakfast. I looked in my Tesco bag to see what lay in store: some pasta in a pot and a big bottle of water. That would do it. I ate my food, dug out my kilt and fresh socks and started to get ready. It was a beautiful, clear morning in the Lake District, about as wild and beautiful a place as this country has to offer. It felt good to be alive and on a mission. I made my way down to the race HQ to get my race number and register. I said a few hellos and chatted to a couple of runners about the race, who told me it was ‘hilly, very hilly’, with over 2500ft of elevation. Here we go again, I thought.

  The HQ was at Coniston Hall, a big old country pile right on Coniston Water itself. It was a bit like Skyfall, James Bond’s house in the film, except on a lake – a beautiful setting and you couldn’t help but be knocked out by the perfect running conditions and scenery.

  This was my 90th marathon in 84 days of running. I didn’t want to pat myself on the back (you could dislocate your shoulder trying to do that), but I did allow myself to think that was pretty good going. I hadn’t always been 100 per cent certain I’d get this far and I think it was touch and go at times. There had already been a few nights when I went to bed thinking that I couldn’t go on, but my body always recovered well enough as I slept for me to feel able again in the morning. And so here I was. Marathon Man was starting to live up to his moniker. What I wanted now was to get 100 marathons under my belt. That would be something. I should be able to reach that milestone at least, I thought.

  The race got underway and it was perfect. I felt really fresh in my spirits and the warmth of the sunshine was doing wonders for me, despite the fact that my left leg was definitely swollen and hard to run on in the beginning. The first few miles were a bit of a wake-up for my tired old muscles, but after that I was in the flow and felt ready for anything.

  The views in every direction were stunning. I could see how it got its reputation as the most scenic trail marathon in Britain. It was tough, though, with lots of hills to get over and down, and varying surfaces underfoot: loose shale, smooth road, bog and bracken, grassy hillside and, towards the end of the run, a load of gnarly tree roots which needed some careful picking between to get over safely.

  I was in no hurry during the race; this was one to savour and enjoy. I took the time to stop to chat with marshals and other runners as I went along. I was even photographed doing a few of my trademark fairy dances, which involves spreading my arms out like wings and doing a ballet jump now and again while running along. A little bit of silliness goes a long way (26.49 miles on this occasion).

  There was an infectious, small-marathon spirit to the event, and I think we felt like the privileged few, with the hills to ourselves on this perfect day. When I finally got to the finish, 4 hours 38 minutes after setting off, I wanted to hang around and socialise. That was one of the most enjoyable marathons I’d done to date, but I had a long journey home ahead of me so I couldn’t stay for too long. One of the runners offered me a lift to the station and soon enough I was sleeping on a train again with another medal around my neck.

  I don’t remember the name of the first care home I ever went into, or the ones that followed. Forgive me if this is all a bit vague, but it’s all blended into one now. Perhaps, at some level, I never really wanted to remember any of it too much. As far as how I felt about going into care, let’s just say I wasn’t too happy. I can look back now and see that my mum was struggling. I certainly don’t bear her any hard feelings or resentment. She was just trying to survive, like we all were, but at the time I was eight years old and I’d thought things were starting to get better. I thought we could be some kind of family and things might find their way to some kind of normal. Going into care wasn’t what I’d been lying in bed dreaming about.

  And, if truth be told, it scared the shit out of me.

  But that was the way it went and I had to face up to it. I had to survive and make the most of a bad situation, find a way onwards and hopefully upwards. However, that wasn’t the way I saw it back then. That’s an adult’s perspective. At the time I was just angry and scared, and I wanted to fight back at the world. From the moment I got there until I was about 12 years old, I was always in trouble. I got moved from care home to care home, always being uprooted and having to find my way in a new place. Here comes Rob, the new kid, they’d say. Watch out for him: he’s a loner, a loose cannon, someone to keep a watchful eye on. That’s not to say I was the biggest troublemaker in any of the homes. I wasn’t by a long shot, but I was no angel either. The thing about those places is the trouble always makes its way right to your doorstep, whether you’re looking for it or not.

  The worst thing about those places was sharing rooms with boys much older than me. Some were almost twice my age. The bullying used to be pretty bad at times and when the lights went out at night there was no one around to protect you. I did some dumb things in those homes back then, things I’m not proud of at all. I was bullied a lot, and pretty harshly, so I fought back and ended up making those bullies regret thinking they could pick on me.

  There was a strange coping mechanism I used to do back then. When things got really bad I would just explode. I would go absolute
ly nuts and hit out uncontrollably. It was like I wanted people to know if you messed with me, they’d get a crazy man. Groups of boys would start picking on me, I’d lose it and fight them all at once. It was a strange thing to do but it helped at the time, made the bullies scared to pick on me again. It probably helped to let off some steam after many years of frustration, too.

  It’s strange to remember myself like that now as I’m so calm and mild these days. It takes an awful lot to get me even slightly angry, and even then I tend to quietly speak my mind or retire into my own space to calm down. I don’t like confrontations much these days.

  Something significant happened back then to make me change my ways and stopped me from going further down a bad road that might have led to a more violent life. I’ll never forget it.

  Everyone knew everyone else’s story in those places and one time I was involved in a fight and a girl said to me, ‘You’re going to end up just like your father, Rob!’ That was like a punch in the guts. And it scared the life out of me, too. Straight away I saw she was right. That was exactly where I was headed. It was like I was sleepwalking and someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over me. I woke up that day, and from then on started finding other ways to deal with the violence around me rather than joining in with more of the same.

  As I said before, in the first couple of years I was moved around a lot. I stayed in a whole bunch of orphanages – it was like the Rob Young tour. So my schooling got broken up quite a bit. I was trying to learn to read and write at the time, to catch up on everything I’d missed. In the homes I’d read all the books I could and some people there saw what I was trying to do and helped me.

  Looking back I realise there were always a lot of people helping me out, even in the most difficult years, from the couple on the road who bought me the delicious burger to the people in the homes helping me to read. It was always just a few little things that they did, but in the end it amounts to a whole lot. There are so many people I wish I could thank now.