Marathon Man Page 8

  There were sheer drops on the course that I’ll admit were a bit unnerving. If you don’t like heights then this will test you. I made slow progress up the Corridor and eventually came to the boulder fields. Scafell Pike is made up of volcanic rock that dates back 450 million years. The rocks at the summit had shattered into countless pieces turning it into a boulder field. Picking my way through them for the final half a mile to the top was slow going. I was cold now and visibility was very poor in the thick fog. What I would have given for a nice cup of tea!

  Just shy of three hours after setting off, I reached the summit of the mountain and England’s highest peak. I was battered and bruised but on top of the world (well, England, at least). I noticed I was running out of water, which was a bit of a worry. I didn’t pause for long as I needed to keep in touch with the guy ahead who I could still see starting his descent. I really didn’t want to get lost out there on top of everything else.

  Coming down was a relief after so much ascending and my muscles were glad for the change. I was more careful on my way down, after my earlier fall, as I just wanted to finish safely now. The last 13 miles were slow going as I picked my way down the mountain in a state of exhaustion. I got there in the end, though, and 6 hours 13 minutes after setting off, I crossed the finish line and collapsed on the grass with a big smile on my face. I’d come 95th in a field of over 200 top runners, which shows I belonged in the race. I think a lot of people in the marathon community saw I was for real after clocking that run. At the time that was important to me.

  Later, at the awards ceremony, I caught up with Ricky Lightfoot, who’d been narrowly beaten into second place that day by Cristofer Clemente, the leader of the European Mountain Marathon Series at the time. I’m not usually one who celebrates runs much. Once something’s done I’m immediately thinking about the next challenge, but this felt like an achievement. I shared a beer with the runners (or it might have been a coke) and before long Joanna, Alexander and I started our journey back to London. Apart from a few cuts and a big old chunk of skin that somehow went missing off my heel, I had survived the Scafell Pike marathon.

  Now I wondered what else I was capable of including in my year of running marathons.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Out of Breath

  16–27 June 2014

  Things sometimes have to get worse before they get better. That’s been my experience anyway.

  When I was about six years old I got the beating of my life. My dad came in from work one night and he was drunk. I was in my bedroom and I could hear lots of noise downstairs, doors slamming, plates being broken and my mum screaming and crying, so I knew something was coming my way sometime soon – it was just a matter of when.

  Soon enough, my dad yelled out my name and I came running downstairs fast as I could. I remember seeing the look of terror on my sister’s face as I ran past her room and down into the living room. My father didn’t say a word. Instead, he grabbed me and threw me onto the floor. Then he started telling me he was going to really hurt me this time.

  ‘You’d better be ready, boy,’ he screamed. ‘Because tonight’s the night.’

  My mum was hysterical, crying and telling him to stop. She seemed to sense something wasn’t quite right with him. Every now and then, he’d turn and hit her, telling her to quit yelling, that he would do whatever he wanted.

  ‘Tonight’s the night!’ he kept yelling. ‘Tonight’s the night!’

  Tonight’s the night for what though, I had no idea. All I knew is he seemed possessed with a manic urgency I’d never seen in him before. He threw me onto the settee and then stopped for a minute, getting his breath. Next he disappeared through the kitchen and out into the back yard. A minute later he came back with some planks of wood and some rope. He started hitting me with the planks. Boy, they hurt! One of them clipped my ear and I started bleeding.

  After a while doing that, he picked me up and dragged me up to the top of the stairs and ‘the Dangling’ got underway. He held me over the bannister and I stayed still and calm, giving him no cause to drop me, but he did it anyway. I managed to avoid falling head first onto the stairs and broke my fall with my hands, hurting my wrists.

  Then he started putting the rope around my neck. I looked at his face as he tied a knot in it; I could see he was lost in the moment. He lifted me onto the old metal coat hooks we had by the front door and left me hanging there by my neck, then he stepped back to look at me. I dangled helplessly, showing no emotion, for a few seconds before he stepped in and punched me in the stomach. That really knocked the wind out of me. My mum was going crazy by this stage and I could hear my sister crying upstairs, though I couldn’t see her. I lost my locked-in state and tried to regain it, but I couldn’t. I was becoming overwhelmed by the moment.

  Hanging there, I began to feel the pressure building up on my neck; as I started to run out of air, I panicked. I could see my mum’s anguished face over my dad’s shoulder.

  ‘Stop!’ she kept screaming hysterically. ‘Stop! I’ll do whatever you want. Just stop!’

  I remember my emotions getting the better of me and a tear falling from my eye. How I wished that hadn’t happened. Then, just as I thought my neck couldn’t take any more, my dad came in to hold my legs to stop me from struggling. I remember looking him straight in the face and smelling the alcohol on him. I thought of my dog and how I watched him struggle and then go limp. I knew I was going to die the same way, and I was happy about it, to be honest. I thought finally all this is going to end and I’ll have some peace. But still it was terrifying. Let’s just get it over with quickly, I thought.

  Then, as suddenly as it started, it was all over. My dad unhooked me and I dropped to the ground. I just lay there, shaking with fear and pain and spitting up phlegm. I wanted to be still for a while. Mum rushed to help me and I started to cry, silently. I could see she was feeling my pain, too. Eventually she carried me upstairs. On the way past my sister’s room, I turned my head to see her. She had tears in her eyes and knew I’d been beaten within an inch of my life that night.

  Mum cleaned my wounds and put me to bed. Then she left me there, staring blankly at the wall. I was hurting everywhere. All night I couldn’t find a position to lie in which didn’t cause me pain. I spent what seemed like two weeks up there in bed; all the time I was planning how to get away. When I was strong enough to get up, I decided I would do something about this once and for all.

  Then, one night I stayed awake until it was gone midnight and everyone was asleep and crept downstairs, carefully avoiding the creaky parts of the stairs. I went through the hallway and into the kitchen, took the keys off the hook, unlocked the back door and opened it slowly. Outside, it was cold and dark. I went out to the outhouse in the garden, opened the door and went inside. I looked around and saw the plank of wood which my dad had used so often to beat me with, but I didn’t want that. I kept looking and eventually found it: my dad’s axe that he used to chop wood. It was really heavy, but I managed to get it up and over my shoulder before heading back into the house.

  I left the back door open on purpose, so I could escape if my plan went wrong. I was really nervous. I’d rehearsed this in my mind a hundred times up in that bedroom, but I knew there’d be no going back after this. I’d have just one swing and if I missed I’d have to run for my life. I slowly climbed the stairs, but accidentally stood on a creaky step. It seemed to make a hell of a noise, and I hoped it wasn’t enough to wake anyone.

  I got to the top of the stairs in time to see my parents’ bedroom door opening. I froze in terror. Out of the shadows I came face to face with my mum. Thank goodness for that! She instantly knew what I was up to and tried to grab the axe from me, but I fought her to get it back.

  ‘I’m going to get him,’ I told her. ‘I’m going to hit him so he’ll never hurt any of us again.’

  ‘You mustn’t!’ she said. ‘You don’t have to do this because we’re going away.’

  ‘You always say that,�
� I said. ‘But it’s never true.’

  She told me that she really meant it this time. I didn’t believe her, but I gave her the axe anyway. If she hadn’t been there to stop me, who knows what I would have done? I’m sure I would have tried to kill my father. It doesn’t bear thinking about. I went back to bed and lay there all night, crying and awake. I wanted to die, to fade away. I was tired and weak and so sad. I wished I had died hanging on the railings downstairs. Why did he take me down?

  A couple of days later, Mum kept her word and took my sister and me to the local school and told them everything. They called up the social services and we were taken off to a ‘safe place’. It was the end of my father’s reign of terror and I have never seen him since.

  After falling at the Scafell Pike marathon, I had quite a few cuts to look after and make sure didn’t get infected. I had once heard of a quick way to deal with cuts to seal them up and avoid the risk of infection: using acid. I searched online and found what looked like the stuff and bought a sachet to try.

  The next time I got a cut, which was after a fall in Richmond Park a few days later, I scraped all the dirt out of the wound with the edge of a plastic cup and then poured a little of this acid onto it. It fizzed up immediately, forming a white foam, like a chemistry experiment in school. I dried it quickly and it seemed to have done the trick, sealing up the cut and saving it from the risk of infection. It turned out the scarring from this little trick was minimal, too. Now that was one less thing I had to worry about.

  But all throughout my year’s running there was always some part of my body that was troubling me. I don’t have perfect gait, with slightly flat feet and dropped arches, which I think causes some of my issues when I run. Finally getting a pair of Brooks Ravenna shoes helped me loads, especially with the pain in my arches, but still something was always hurting – and most of the time it was my knee.

  When I wasn’t running there were other plates to keep spinning, almost as challenging as the daily marathon. My boss Ken was not happy with what I was doing, and it was clear I didn’t have quite the bounce and energy he was used to seeing. I was getting my work done OK, but I was not pushing for improvement all the time and being quite as dynamic as I used to be. I could see he didn’t like sharing me with the running and I sensed that at some point we were heading for a showdown.

  Then there was the fundraising. I was really disappointed by the figure I’d raised so far, which was still just a few thousand pounds. Ali was helping, doing all he could, trying to spread awareness on Twitter and Facebook, but it didn’t seem to be working. We needed some national exposure – a piece in the paper or a TV slot might help, I thought. I chatted with Ali about this and he went to work trying to rustle up some media attention. I felt I could do with a big PR agency taking me on board, so he said he’d see what he could do.

  On the plus side, I seemed to be inspiring plenty of people around me to take up exercise. I think when people see someone doing something extreme it makes them think, well if he can do 26-plus miles a day then I can do at least a couple of miles. Most of the members of team MMUK started running more and signing up for marathons. Followers on Facebook got in touch to tell me they were encouraged to get off the couch and back into training. I was determined to get Ali around the marathon distance by the end of the year. He was a big man and in pretty good shape, thanks to his cycling and rugby, but a marathon would be a test for him.

  People would often ask me for advice on running, and what they should do to prepare. My simple answer is always to pull on some shoes and just run. I don’t stretch before running – the first few miles are always a bit tough, but I just fight through that and soon my legs wake up. I believe that the less you think about it and plan the better. What do Nike say? Just do it. That’s my philosophy in a nutshell.

  Once you start thinking too much, you’ll find reasons not to do something, so bypass that by being impulsive and just doing it. Experts will frown on this simplistic advice, I know, but that’s what works for me and what got me this far. Nothing will teach you more about running than running itself. Grab your shoes and go for a run. After a couple of miles, you’ll be glad you did.

  Things at home were pretty good at this stage. It was a given that I wasn’t seeing Alexander and Joanna as much as I used to, and she got exasperated sometimes, particularly at my reluctance to answer my mobile phone when I was out. I know I wasn’t very good at that, because I didn’t have the energy for a conversation half the time and my phone seemed to have a very short battery life. But maybe I just wanted my own space sometimes, I don’t know. Despite this, she was still behind me. So when I did get to spend time with Joanna, we had a lot of fun and it made up, somewhat at least, for all the time we had to spend apart.

  I had one of my mega weekends booked – three official marathons in a weekend, with a fair bit of travelling between each race – which meant I’d be on a very tight schedule. I could tell sleep would have to take a back seat (quite literally, as the only chance I’d get was in the back of someone’s car).

  The weekend began on 21 June with the South Downs Trail marathon. It was to be my 73rd marathon/ultra in 69 days of running. Held together by a combination of zinc tape and positive thinking, I arrived at the race HQ feeling tired but ready. One of the privileges of the year’s running was the amount of amazing scenery I got to take in. Travelling up and down the UK, and eventually across the United States, I saw the full variety of countryside, at all times of the day and in all weathers. And all I can say is: get out there. We’re wildlife too and at our best outdoors, in fair weather or foul, moving forward, stretching ourselves and breathing in fresh air and fresh sights.

  For some reason, I thought this race was going to be easy. I don’t know why because I never look at a course before I turn up to run, but nobody had warned me about it, or told me I needed to be on my game. Ali, who always tended to be the one to worry most, hadn’t suggested I was in any danger. So I thought it would be a leisurely one, with lovely views and no great elevation involved. How wrong could I be.

  A couple of miles into the race, I followed a signpost left up a steep hill. About 250 metres up, I heard calls to stop and turn back. I looked behind me and could see the rest of the runners at the bottom of the hill heading in a completely different direction. I realised we’d gone wrong and shouted up to the runners ahead of me to turn back. Fortunately, they heard me and started heading back down, cursing and asking what the heck was going on. We made our way down the hill and got on the right route again. It seemed some smart ass had turned the signpost the wrong way. That’s all I can think, anyway.

  I was pretty demoralised by the wrong turn, after having made what I thought was a decent start. Sometimes, if you’re not careful, something small like that can send your race into a tailspin. You have to make sure you don’t spiral down with the annoyance and frustration. When you’ve climbed up a hill for no good reason and you’re now at the back of a pack you were once leading, it’s easy to feel hard done by. Instead, you need to be philosophical and accepting. Things go that way sometimes. It’s just a few extra steps. Who was I racing against anyway, really?

  I struggled on for the next five miles. My heart wasn’t in it and I needed to get a grip. If you start looking for the finish line at that stage, then it’s going to be a long day. And from my experience it’s when you’re in that frame of mind that injuries happen, too. I got some food at the first-aid station and a few jelly babies. Another runner noticed I was a bit down and gave me a pep talk as we ran along. I don’t know his name, but I really appreciated it and I got my mojo back a bit. Running for me is all about such moments: everyone helping each other to get around. Sometimes you’re the one helping, sometimes you’re getting the help, but nobody runs a race entirely on their own.

  I got back into my rhythm and made decent work of the rest of the race. With incredible views, I’d rate the South Downs Trail marathon as right up there, a real challenge but worth it. It h
as just the right amount of hills to make it a handful, but it’s not impossible for the average marathoner. It’s well organised, and with very tasty snacks at the food stations, you can’t go wrong with this one (unless someone flips the race signs around!).

  I finished in 4 hours 56 minutes and spent some time at the finish with the other runners, chatting and clapping them in as they crossed the line. As usual I had a fair number of conversations about what I was doing and why, and came away feeling like the marathon community, while initially hesitant about me, was warming to me (I think it helped having Ricky Lightfoot tweeting positively about me the week earlier). Finally, I felt I was being treated like a legitimate figure in the world of UK marathoning.

  Then I was off to the Brutal Enduro 12-Hour race, which started in Bordon, Hampshire, later that evening. This was one of those races against the clock, where you run as far as possible in the time period. It was a 10km off-road lap and you had 12 hours to do as many loops as possible. I arrived at the event HQ at about 7.30pm under the impression it started at 8pm, and was disappointed find out it didn’t get underway till an hour later. I had to get up to Cheltenham for an early start the next morning so I was keen to get going.

  I registered and got chatting to a couple of guys, Darren and Mark, soldiers from the local Army base. We ended up starting running the course early that night, at about 8.30, which was a bit naughty, but I didn’t have a lot of time. The race was officially underway by the time we finished our first lap and I continued for a further four laps, which was over 29 miles in total. It was about midnight by then and I needed to get going to reach the next race, so I said my goodbyes and off I went.