Marathon Man Page 9

  Taking trains and buses to arrive in Cheltenham took a while at that time of night, and I got to the race HQ at about 5am. I put my sheet down in a nearby park for a couple of hours’ sleep, then I was up to register and run again. It was a very warm weekend, which was great for most people in the country, but not so great for those doing multiple marathons. All things considered, I was feeling pretty good physically, though the lack of sleep and the unrelenting heat were proving a challenge.

  The race began in the morning and we ran a route that took in some of the Cotswolds, climbing at one point to the highest point in the area. It’s a beautiful part of the world, with pretty cottages in little villages and narrow winding lanes. The route went right past the Cheltenham race course at one point – home of the famous Cheltenham Festival each March. There were no thoroughbreds in action that day though – just one tired old pony covering the ground as best he could.

  I don’t know if it was the heat and humidity or the proximity of the racecourse, but I managed to attract a swarm of flies who were dead set on joining me for the run. Buzz, swirl, buzz – hundreds of them swirling around me. I was endlessly swatting them off as they circled my face and arms. They were a constant irritation, but I couldn’t find a way to shake them off. At one point I picked up a massive branch and shook it vigorously over my head, but even this didn’t discourage them. Eventually I gave up and accepted them as my company for the race.

  Towards the end of the marathon I started feeling a bit weird. My airways had narrowed and I couldn’t breathe very easily. I was hot and flushed too, unnaturally so. I knew something was wrong. I finished the race and just wanted to get back home, so I didn’t hang around at the finish line too long. I’d run 83 miles in the last 27 hours and had a fair few miles travelling, too.

  On the bus back, things got worse and my throat closed up even more. Eventually, just a mile or two from home, I had to get off and ask for help. It was becoming really difficult to breathe and I made a decision I needed an ambulance. I couldn’t speak at this point, so I signalled to a passer-by to call me an ambulance and I just sat down by the side of the road. I knew I had to stay calm. If I got into a panic then things would likely get worse, so I just focused on keeping calm and breathing what air I could.

  To their great credit, the ambulance arrived quickly and they assessed me and gave me an injection. They said it looked like I’d had an allergic reaction to something – anaphylaxis, they called it. They got me in the back of the ambulance and we sped off to the hospital. The injection did the trick right away and by the time we reached the hospital my breathing was easier. At the hospital, a doctor examined me and confirmed I’d had a severe allergic reaction, maybe to a fly bite on the course, but he couldn’t be sure. They gave me two more injections and finally my throat opened up again and I could breathe freely.

  It was a scary end to a tough weekend and I was very glad for those injections. That hospital visit was a bit of a wake-up call and I started taking some of my medical team’s advice more seriously after this, adding vitamins to my diet and trying to look after myself a bit better. Boring as I thought all that stuff was, it might just keep me alive.

  I got home to Joanna and Buddy, who were concerned about me, as were the rest of the MMUK team, especially Ali. But I was all right, it was just a bad reaction I’d had, not something anyone needed to worry about. I just wanted some food, a cuddle and a few good hours’ sleep and, lucky for me, I got all three. Well, until the alarm went off just a couple of hours later, then I was up and off to run another marathon.

  In the week that followed, I required some attention to my legs, which were very sore after the weekend’s marathon running. My left knee didn’t feel great at all and behind it felt a strange numb sensation. I saw Dominika who massaged it with ice and got me on the dreaded foam roller again (anything but that, please!). I needed to do whatever it took to keep me going as I had quite a weekend coming up, too – one even more extreme than the one I’d just barely survived.

  The weekend ahead would begin with the Giant’s Head marathon in Dorset, one of the toughest trail marathons in the calendar, with over 3000 feet of elevation. After that I’d have to get myself 150 miles away over to the Brecon Beacons in Wales, for the Brutal Midnight marathon (I think its name lets you know what kind of a run that one is) starting that evening. Then I could get some sleep before an early start and a car journey of another 150 miles to Rhyl in North Wales for the Runfest Wales marathon on the Sunday morning.

  But before all that, I had a week of daily marathons to do and a living to earn. The days were becoming a bit of a blur now and a constant challenge to get through. I think the lack of sleep was the most difficult thing. I’d be in conversations at work and just drift off in the middle of them, then I’d have to try to work out what on earth we were talking about.

  I had a boss, a wife and my manager (though Ali never liked that title, ‘I’m just a mate helping a mate,’ he always said). All three were constantly looking to engage me about something ‘really important’, but I wanted to hide. I found dealing with a lot of the non-running stuff really difficult, so they probably thought I was being awkward or uncommunicative.

  The simple truth was I was trying to get through the day. Most of the time, it was all I could do just to keep running, without all the other stuff that came with it. Give me fields and rocky hills and miles to run, in all weathers, over the meetings and conversations and faff of everyday life.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the Brutal Midnight . . .

  27–29 June 2014

  Getting away from my dad and into a safe house was a new beginning for us all. It was strange knowing he wasn’t going to be coming through the door at any moment, angry, throwing things, shouting my name and demanding I come down to receive a beating. It took some getting used to. That said, I remember he did find us at some point. Fortunately, we were tipped off that he was on his way and were able to get into a car, and be driven off to another safe house. I never saw him that day, but it was a reminder that our safety was never going to be guaranteed, as long as he was walking around a free man.

  At some point, I don’t remember why, we left that safe house one day and headed off towards my grandfather’s house in Hampshire. It was over 200 miles away, so I don’t know how my mum thought we would ever get there, as we started walking in that direction – I can only assume she must have hoped someone would give us a lift. The three of us ended up walking along a major road – it all seemed about as well thought-out as many of my runs. I remember my sister and I falling into lots of pot holes in the grass and thinking it was hysterical.

  Eventually it got dark and we were very tired from all the walking. As we had no money and nowhere to sleep, we just slept that night huddled up in a ditch together. It was freezing and the noise from the cars rushing by stopped any of us from getting much sleep. The next day we continued walking.

  My sister became really tired and kept stopping to rest. I ended up carrying her at times, as long as I could anyway.

  Finally, that afternoon a car pulled over and an elderly man got out. He approached us and, though he didn’t look threatening, we were all scared of what it might mean. I stood in front of my mother and sister to protect them, ready to fight, anything not to have to go back, so he retreated back into his car. Then an elderly woman got out, presumably his wife, and came to speak with us. She said they had noticed us walking along the road earlier in the day and they were now heading back home. They were surprised to see us again and wanted to know where we were going and whether they could offer us some help, food, shelter or whatever we needed.

  They were just good people who wanted to help, so my mum ended up letting them give us a lift the rest of the way to my granddad’s. On the way, we stopped at a café, probably a Little Chef or something similar, to get something to eat. After much persuading that it was OK to take their charity, I had a burger and chips. And I remember the taste of that burger to th
is day. I had never had good food at home, it had always been cheap stews – nothing that ever tasted great – so that burger was the most amazing thing I had ever eaten. It’s still the most delicious meal I’ve ever had to this day, or seems like that in my memory.

  You might think that was a happy moment, but it makes me sad to think of it now. It’s probably the only memory that can bring a tear to my eye. The kindness of those people and the relief I felt that day was like the world had stopped for a minute, just so I could have that moment all for myself. I feel sad for that boy who was blown away by the taste of a cheap burger. Why should anyone have to feel that grateful for a simple meal? More than all the beatings and abuse I went through, that memory reminds me how bad my upbringing was. My heart goes out to that boy and his sister by the roadside, and more importantly, to all the other little boys and girls just like them out there today.

  They’re the reason I run all these races.

  I never got chance to thank that couple properly, but I hope they knew what it meant to us, certainly to me, back then. Their help was the promise of a better life, a normal life, sometime in the near future.

  They drove us all the way to my granddad’s where we stayed for a little bit. I remember my dad contacted us there once and I spoke to him on the phone. For the first time in my life, I felt brave enough to tell him how much I hated him. I remember swearing at him, really letting him have it. It was probably worth a few years in therapy, getting that chance to express my feelings. And I didn’t waste it. After years of being terrified to show him any emotion, especially anger, I finally felt far enough away to let him know what I thought about him. I bet he was pissed off that day. He probably smashed up a chair or two and swore he’d find me and make me pay for talking to him like that, but he never did. I got the last word.

  After that, I remember we stayed in a succession of homes in the London area. I can’t remember why we couldn’t stay at my granddad’s house. It was then that I started acting up, being naughty and getting into fights with other boys, usually older than me. I obviously had a lot of anger and frustration in me and I needed to get it out. I remember enjoying hitting other boys, but I also relished getting hit by them, which is obviously a bit screwed up. Was I so used to daily beatings that I needed to be hit in order to feel normal? It’s a worrying thought. Could someone confuse a beating with the idea of being loved? It was some form of attention at least. I guess these experiences leave a shadow, which needs a little working through.

  I remember one time, still very young, going into someone’s garage on our estate with some other kids and starting a fire in there. The plan was just to bake some potatoes, but it got out of hand and we ended up setting the whole garage on fire. Another memory from those days was climbing up a big tree, all the way to the top, and not being able to get down again so I had to be rescued by a fire engine. That’s pretty embarrassing – I thought I was this tough kid, but I was too scared to climb down a tree!

  So it wasn’t a fairy tale, even though we were finally away from my dad. It was a difficult time, but at least we were safe. I started to go to school a little around then, which was something of a novelty for me. Soon, however, this new life came to an abrupt end. It turned out my mum was struggling.

  All those years under my dad’s thumb had taken a toll on her and she felt she couldn’t cope. I think she had a breakdown or something similar. Looking back, it must have been very hard for her.

  In the end, it was decided that my sister would go to live with an auntie and I was put into care. I remember going berserk when I heard the news, but that didn’t help. Aged almost eight, I was on my way to a children’s home, the first of many. So it was another new beginning for me, and one with a whole new set of challenges. I would never live with my mum or sister again.

  On Friday 27 June I completed my 80th marathon/ultra, through the wild bracken, grass and woods of Richmond Park. It was a regular four-and-a-half-hour marathon in the early morning, something I could almost do in my sleep by now (how I wished I could actually do that).

  It’s a funny thing as it’s absolutely dead in the park in the very early morning – you almost never see a soul. Then at about 6.30am everyone just drops in like they were being parachuted in. One minute you have it all to yourself, the next there are a hundred runners, dog walkers and cyclists chasing each other around the Tamsin trail and the road inside the park. It happens like a switch has been flicked, not gradually as you might expect.

  There was one old guy, though, in his seventies, who was just about the only other person I’d see there in the wee hours, before 5am. We spoke a little after seeing each other a few times, though your natural inclination is not to strike up conversations at that hour. I don’t remember the man’s name, but he was an interesting chap. He never said why he went running in the middle of the night, wearing just shorts and trainers, his chest bare as though it were a hot summer’s day. It was just normal for him apparently, not something he needed to explain.

  One day I saw him and he told me he was going in to have an operation the next day, to have a pacemaker put in. I wished him luck and didn’t expect to see him for a while after that, but just two weeks later he was back, shuffling along on his runs, as though nothing had happened. I don’t know much about heart surgery, but I’m sure his doctor would have recommended a bit more recovery time than that. I found it funny and reassuring to see another eccentric doing it his own way and ignoring medical advice. At least there were two of us.

  That evening after work, I was picked up by Dustin and William and we headed off for the weekend’s running – the Giants Head marathon, followed by the Brutal Midnight Mountain marathon on the Saturday and the Runfest Wales marathon on the Sunday.

  After a three-and-a-half-hour drive, we parked up in a Dorset field in Sydling St Nicholas, along with rows of other runners’ cars and their tents, just a stone’s throw from the Giants Head marathon race HQ. We set up our tents before getting down to the HQ hut and helping ourselves to some chicken, potato and beans in the pre-race dinner that had been put on for the runners. It was quite a spread, put on by the local Women’s Institute, who’d gone to every effort to make sure we’d all turn up to the start of the race with plenty of fuel in the tank.

  That night I got to chat with a bunch of runners I’d seen at previous events, as well as meeting a few new people. There were quite a few 100 marathon club members there, serial marathoners who couldn’t get enough of these things. I ended up taking some beers to the race organisers’ tent that night after William and Dustin had turned in for the night. We drank until the early hours before I got back to my tent to crash out for the night. I didn’t drink much of the beer by the way – I don’t usually drink alcohol, especially before and after races.

  The next morning I woke early and crawled out of my tent into the field. I got dressed and made my way up the path to the race HQ half a mile away. Breakfast was starting and I got myself a plate of sausage and beans and pulled up a bench. Another marathoner, Paul, who I had met at a previous event, joined me. He and I chatted about the day’s race and he assured me it was one of the toughest races in the UK calendar. I told him about my three marathons that weekend and he got very excited.

  ‘Someone tried to do that last year,’ he said. ‘Well, he didn’t run all three, but the Giants Head and the Brutal Midnight marathon. Yeah, I remember him. A short guy. Pretty quick too.’

  ‘How’d he get on?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, he ran here and made it to the start of the Brutal, but he didn’t finish,’ he said. ‘They pulled him off the hill at some point, suffering from exhaustion.’

  That’s encouraging, I thought. Then Dustin and Will turned up. Dustin had heard the same story, of the guy who tried to run these two races the year before. He looked a bit concerned but also amused at the preposterousness of it all.

  ‘Apparently he trained for just those two races for ages. And he still couldn’t do it. Makes you think, does
n’t it . . .’

  I was smiling. I admit I quite liked these moments when people doubt me and look at me as if to say, ‘You’ve bitten off a bit more than you can chew here.’ Of course I knew it was going to be tough going. I didn’t think it would be straightforward, but I was beginning to be confident in my body’s ability to get through this amount of miles. Two marathons in a day, I’d done that. Lots of elevation, scrambling up and down hills, I’d done that. There was no reason to think it would be more than I’d already taken on and managed.

  It was just a bit of running, after all.

  As more and more runners arrived and started to mill about at the start line, I could tell this was going to be a good marathon, and a tough one. A lot of the hardcore marathon set, the ones I’d see throughout the year, were here, as were plenty of guys in Iron Man vests. They had almost all run this race the previous year and they were back for more. That tells you something.

  There was one guy there, Brian Mills, who I’d see many times throughout the year. He must be in his fifties, is covered in tattoos and barely says a word to anyone. He’d done over a thousand marathons and is a well-known figure in the running world, but still seems to find it hard to communicate, even with other runners. He cuts a silent figure at the race start with everyone around him chatting and socialising, but I guess that’s just how he is.

  The race eventually got underway in unique style, with a lady in full country regalia shooting her rifle into the air. I was still pinning my number onto my shirt, and I think eating a piece of pizza at the time. After arriving there some 16 hours before the race started, somehow I still managed to be completely unprepared.

  It was OK, though, as almost 300 runners plodded and chatted their way along a path for about half a mile. It already seemed more like a gathering of friends, intent on catching up with each other, than an athletic competition. Soon we had turned sharply left and were making our way up the first, rather steep hill. There would be plenty more ups and downs to come in the race, with 3000 feet of elevation in total to face.