Marathon Man Page 12

  I remember I was starting to compete at that time, too. We used to go over to the local parks and, when I wasn’t fighting with other boys, I’d be racing against them. I loved to race, but even more than that I loved to ride bikes. My dad had a bike when I was younger and I wasn’t allowed anywhere near it. He kept it in the outhouse where I wasn’t allowed, but I was fascinated by it. I used to sneak out and turn the pedals on it, sit on it even. I once tried to ride it, when my dad was out, but I was so nervous as well as being too small for it. I ended up falling onto the crank and cutting my leg. I got blood all over my trousers that day. That didn’t go unpunished, I can assure you.

  At one of the homes I stayed in, there were a couple of bikes that we were allowed to ride. I was so happy. We’d go out with one of the staff and I would let rip. He couldn’t keep up with me, though. I’m not sure Chris Froome could have back then. I used to fly by cyclists on their expensive racers and they’d look at me on my rusty old bike, a ten-year-old, and wonder what on earth was going on.

  Eventually, I got moved to a better orphanage, in London, and I settled down there. I think I’d got a few things out of my system by then and I was big enough not to feel so vulnerable to the other boys around me. After years of asking to go to school, I finally got the opportunity. I remember my first school uniform and feeling proud, like I had won the lottery or something.

  School was hard for me, as I had to catch up on all the stuff that other children knew already. I worked pretty hard though, I liked learning, and I was bright enough to do OK. But it was the sport that was the big excitement for me. I used to rush out into the playground at break and fly around non-stop for the whole time. I often missed lunch because I didn’t want to stop playing. And I was competitive, too – always trying to win races, hit the ball the furthest in rounders, get the most baskets in basketball. I wanted to win at whatever I did.

  Making friends wasn’t all that easy for me at school. People knew I didn’t live in a normal home, so I got stick for that. And I didn’t really trust people that much, I suppose. I’d been used to fighting my corner on my own for too long. Things were moving forward, but I was still a handful and I needed someone to give me a proper home and show me the right ways in life and some real love. Everyone needs someone to do that. I don’t know how anyone can make their way without it. Growing up, like running multiple marathons, is not something you can manage on your own.

  By the time I was 12, going on 13, I was doing lots of sport and getting less angry with everyone around me. I was raw and undisciplined, still pissed off with the world, and my patchy education meant there were big gaps in my understanding. As much as anything, I lacked a proper moral upbringing. I didn’t know how to behave or what was important in life. But I was lucky. Someone came into my life around that time who would fill that gap; he saw something in me and wanted to help – enough to rescue me from that home and give me a fresh start. I’ve always called him my godfather. His name is Peter and I think he, more than anyone, is responsible for me becoming the person I am today.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Reaching my Century

  6–16 July 2014

  That Sunday night after the Coniston marathon, I got back in time to give Alexander a bath before putting him to bed with a story, so I was in Joanna’s good books. Almost. When we sat down to dinner she wanted to know why I hadn’t called her the whole weekend. We had the usual semi-playful conversation about it and I promised to try to text more, but first I needed to remember to take a phone with me. Apparently, Ali Parkes had been trying to get in touch with me the whole time, too. The truth was that I was struggling to keep up with any aspect of my life beyond running marathons, and all that was involved in doing that, so I wasn’t giving enough attention to everything else.

  Ali had decided to turn his Twitter page into a fan page for me to drum up awareness for what I was doing, hoping to reach big hitters such as Richard Branson, and try to get them involved somehow. We even talked about finding sufficient sponsorship so that I could stop working and concentrate on the running and the recovery between races. He was always on my case to go to some meeting or to re-tweet something – in short, exactly the sort of thing a good manager should do. It was what I’d asked him to do, but more and more I just wanted to switch off in between races and couldn’t face the non-running aspect of my challenge.

  Joanna suggested I gave Ali a quick call to chat about the weekend (which is easier said than done as he always has plenty to say), but we ended up talking for half an hour. We discussed the focus for the coming week, and how the fundraising and profile-building were coming on. He was concerned about my leg and checked I was doing all the exercises Pippa gave me. Ali mentioned that he had the attention of a journalist at The Times who wanted to cover my story. It was clear that no one was pressing more for my cause than Ali. If only we could work out a way to get the donations to pour in. It would be easier to run knowing that all my efforts were making a difference to the children I was trying to help.

  Joanna wasn’t best pleased as our conversation went on – I’d been away for the whole weekend, and now I was ignoring her. After I finished on the phone, we were able to relax together for a while and enjoy each other’s company, but before I went to bed I looked on Facebook for a while to see how my page was doing. I always take the time to reply to my followers’ comments. A simple reply lets them know they’re appreciated and I’m listening. That evening my knee was still troubling me and I knew I needed to get more help with it. I put on a Geko strip to help it through the night. It was gone midnight by then, so I got in beside Joanna and was soon fast asleep.

  I awoke the next morning and headed off for my 91st marathon. After some nice weather at the weekend and the week before, this time the rain came down. Splashing around Richmond Park in the early morning was cold but fun; I just had to be careful not to slip. I got through the run OK, though I was still limping along at times. Closing in on the 100 mark was a big deal for me. If my leg grew worse, I had already decided I would crawl to the finish if I had to, but hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Crawling in a kilt might be a bit undignified.

  I had the Wales marathon in Tenby lined up for the Sunday, but hadn’t managed to find a marathon (that would have me) for the Saturday. I was enjoying my weekends away, running more and more official marathons. It wasn’t for the shiny medals, but for the credibility that came with them. If I’m honest, I was also becoming a bit addicted to the whole marathon scene and the adventure of getting across the country between marathons, by whatever means possible. It gave me something different to look forward to, beyond the relentless routine of pounding out the miles round Richmond Park.

  So I put the word out on Facebook to see if anyone knew of any marathons/ultra marathons I could do on the coming Saturday. Someone quickly told me about the Harden Hard’un, an ultra run in Yorkshire. It sounded perfect: boggy terrain, 27 miles long and 4000 feet of elevation! That should put me to the test, I thought. I gave them a call. It turned out they’d heard of me and were happy to have me along. The weekend promised to be a challenge logistically, with the marathon on Sunday in south Wales, 250 miles from Harden. I’d just have to deal with that when it came.

  That week’s running went well and my times were consistent, especially given my sore leg. However, the weather was rain and more rain. At first it was a nice change from the heat, but then it started making me cold and miserable. A bit of rain I can handle, but the big downer of the week was having my bike stolen from outside Richmond train station. I was really pissed off about that. It was an old rust bucket of a bike and couldn’t have been worth anything to anyone but me – I needed it to get around each day. It meant travelling would take even more time out of my day, which I really didn’t need, as I’d have to run to Richmond Park for the Thursday and Friday marathons, adding another three miles to my tired old legs.

  On a brighter note, I was cheered up that week by getting to meet some key people from the
NSPCC, along with the Dreams Come True representatives. I came away from that meeting confident my fundraising was in safe hands – it seemed we had a plan in place to spread greater awareness about what I was doing and get the donations pouring in.

  Soon Friday night had arrived and I was packing my rucksack to the brim with clothes, towels, food, Geko strips, tent and all the rest of it. I said my goodbyes to Joanna and Buddy and gave them both a big hug, then I was on my way to Yorkshire for another adventure!

  Largely thanks to Virgin Trains it was an easy (and partly free) journey north. It still took a while to get there, as I had to catch a train to Manchester, then a connection to Leeds before hopping on a bus to Bingley. So it was gone midnight when I finally arrived at the race start and assembled my tent, in ramshackle fashion, and crawled inside it for a few hours’ sleep.

  I went out like a light but ended up waking early, probably because I was so hungry. I got up and dug around in my bag for some food, finding some chicken sandwiches Joanna had put in there. Delicious! I had a can of Sprite, a bag of Doritos and a chocolate bar. There’s nothing like a good hearty breakfast to start your day right (I guess that was nothing like a good hearty breakfast, but it would do).

  It was a lovely, warm day but the run itself was tough right from the off. It didn’t help that I went the wrong way after only two miles and had to double back on myself to find my way back onto the course. Nice one, Rob. What made the running so difficult was that a good half of it was across moorland that had become boggy thanks to all the rainfall we’d been having. Sticky and muddy underfoot, it slowed everyone down. We went up a lot of hills which then dipped back down across the valleys. It was a tough course, but it did grant some great views across the Yorkshire moors. We were exposed out there in rugged and beautiful countryside, and it was exhilarating, when you stopped long enough to appreciate it. There was some variety on the course, some big jumps across muddy expanses as well as barbed wire to negotiate, which I liked. It keeps the mind fresh when you have a variety of terrain and some obstacles to grapple with during a race.

  At about the halfway point, we climbed up a big hill and I was reduced to walking. My mood began to darken; I wasn’t in the best frame of mind by then and quite looking forward to getting this one out of the way. I spoke to some runners who could see I was struggling. Marathoners are always quick to encourage you when you start to flag and need a word in your ear or an arm around your shoulders.

  I got lost again (somehow) at a set of crossroads when I took the wrong turning. Things grew a little quiet and I soon realised I was all on my own. Eventually I had the good sense to about-turn and return to those crossroads (by then they were not the only things that were cross). I ran at least an extra three miles that day, in addition to the official 27, which was not ideal. What is it with me and going the wrong way? I think I must drift off thinking about cakes and ice cream and Doritos.

  People sometimes ask me what I think about when I’m running. The truth is anything and everything, like anyone else. Running-wise I try to manipulate my mind, so I often tell myself I’m at mile 3 of the race. It never feels bad at mile 3. I do that till I reach mile 13, when I tell myself I’ve done six miles. Come on, Rob, you’ve only done six miles, you can do a few more. Then it’s mile 20 and I tell myself: ‘It’s only a couple of five-k park runs left. You can do a park run, can’t you?’

  When I’m not thinking about the race, my mind will wander all over the place: ‘How am I going to pay that gas bill? It’s been due a while. Dog shit, watch out. If I jump over dog shit, does that make me a CrossFit athlete? What exactly is CrossFit anyway? Must remember to google that later on. Look, there’s another runner, I’d better wave. Shall I wave? Yep, I’m totally gonna wave. OK. He didn’t wave back, that’s not very nice. I’m never waving again. Little fairy jump over the stone. So Parkour! Another runner, should I wave again? No, you’ll get burned again. OMG she waved first. Hello! Did he just say it’s a forty-mile race today? I thought it was thirty miles. Oh, well. That’s just twenty miles each way. And I can do ten miles. It’s only two five milers and I can run five miles easy. I think maybe I’ll wait till the final reminder and then pay the gas bill. Or I could live in a tent. There’d be no more bills then. Joanna wouldn’t like it, though. I wonder how Olivia’s doing? Does she even remember me? Are we only three miles in? That’s OK then . . .’

  Fascinating stuff! Generally, I try to focus on the running, but sometimes I get distracted into other topics. That’s probably when I get lost.

  But at least I reached the finish. And there was a pub lunch after, which was awesome – fish and chips! It had taken me six and a half hours in all, so I think the course record was safe. I had met some great people here, like Sam and Andrea, a young couple who had helped me over the barbed wire. I came away feeling pretty good as it had been a challenge and I’d got through it. I kicked back at the pub for a bit, getting to know a few people and chatting about life and running, then I realised it was growing late and I needed to be on my way.

  Once I’d completed it, I recognised it had been a cracking event and a real challenge. Going off course spoilt my day a little, but that was nobody’s fault but my own. The food stations were great, plentiful and spread nicely throughout the run. I’d recommend it to anyone who likes to run up and down hills in beautiful surroundings and who wants a bigger challenge.

  I had a long old journey ahead of me to reach Tenby for the next day’s Wales marathon. How I would have loved a lift there and a couple of fast-food stops along the way. I managed to get a ride to Leeds station from Sam and Andrea so I could catch a train to Birmingham. By the time I arrived in Birmingham, I discovered I’d missed a really important connection and so wouldn’t be able to take the last train across to Tenby. It was only a minor setback, really, but at the time I felt like crying. I don’t know why, but I was becoming really emotional. Maybe it was losing my bike or maybe it was just exhaustion, but I was becoming convinced that things were going against me. They weren’t, of course, I was just tired and my leg hurt. It was a moment of weakness and I quickly pulled myself together.

  The lady at the information desk told me I’d have go via Bristol to get to Swansea now, and the next train was in two hours. I looked at my watch; I could already tell things were going to be a bit tight. It was then I had the brainwave of catching a taxi over to the Birmingham bus station to see if I could get a bus to Wales. It felt like a good idea at the time, albeit one born out of panic, but when I got there the bus station was deserted, with nobody to speak to, just a bunch of self-service ticket vending machines. And from what I could make out, every bus was headed either to London or Manchester.

  I thought about finding the motorway and hitching a lift but decided against it. In the end, I started running back to the train station, but I got a bit lost, so I flagged down another taxi to ensure I didn’t miss another train. I was running in circles like a headless chicken.

  I spent the next 40 minutes sitting in the station, playing games on my phone, eating out of a supermarket bag and watching people come and go. As it was late, I was worried I might fall asleep, so I started walking around trying to keep awake. There was nothing for it but to keep moving forward and have a little faith that I’d reach my destination in the end.

  Eventually, I caught that train out of Birmingham and a couple more trains later and I was in Swansea – it was the right country at least. It was about midnight by now, and I thought I might have to run from there, little realising it was still more than 50 miles away. Fortunately, I caught the last train to Carmarthen, which took me some way towards Tenby. When I looked it up on Google maps, I saw my destination was 26.2 miles away – just a marathon to go! It felt like I was jumping across a dozen stepping stones. I couldn’t believe how difficult one journey could be.

  Unsurprisingly after all that had happened, I drifted off only to wake up with a policeman looming over me, his sniffer dog at his side. It took me a moment to ge
t my bearings.

  ‘Everyone off. Come on, son. That means you as well.’

  ‘Where are we?’ I managed to ask.

  ‘Carmarthen,’ the policeman said. ‘The oldest town in the Wales and the end of the line.’

  I got my things together and stepped off the train into the cold night. It was 1am, and the race started in about eight hours’ time and I still had to reach Tenby. Outside the train station there were lots of transport police wandering around. I chatted to one about what I was doing and how I needed to get over to Tenby for the race in the morning.

  ‘I’ll probably have to run there,’ I told him.

  ‘But Tenby’s about twenty-five miles away!’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I know, but I’m not getting another taxi. I’ve already paid for two of those today.’

  I’ll never forget the look on his face. He couldn’t believe I was going to run all the way to Tenby. I might as well have told him I was going to fly to the moon. I didn’t want to run there as I was in no mood for that, but I couldn’t see any other way. It wouldn’t be that bad. I might even get there in time to have a bit of sleep before the race. I walked away from the station and put my bag down to take out some water. I was just having a sip when a police car drove up alongside me, stopped and rolled down its window. It was the same policeman I’d just been talking to.

  ‘You’re not walking all the way to Tenby. Or running. I’ll take you there. Hop in.’

  So there I was, in a police car, bombing along the motorway to Tenby. At first I thought he was a bit angry with me and that he must have felt I’d given him no other choice but to give me a lift, but then he relaxed. I was really grateful, getting a police escort, any kind of escort, into Tenby in the middle of the night. I tried my luck and asked if we could put on the siren, but he wasn’t up for that. He said that in return for the lift all he wanted was for me to let everyone know that the British Transport police are a good lot. That was the least I could do, I told him.