401

by Ben Smith

  For Kyle

  And the thousands of people that made The 401 Challenge

  the success it was, you know who you are.

  Contents

  Foreword by Steve Cram and Paula Radcliffe

  Prologue – Nothing Special

  Chapter 1 Broken

  Chapter 2 My Normal

  Chapter 3 A Little Bit Unhinged

  Chapter 4 Rationalising Madness

  Chapter 5 A Beautiful Mind

  Chapter 6 Is That It?

  Chapter 7 The Perfect Partner

  Chapter 8 His Saving Grace

  Chapter 9 A State of Disbelief

  Chapter 10 Problems Staying Straight

  Chapter 11 Falling Apart

  Chapter 12 A Very Wonderful Adventure

  Chapter 13 Shall We Go Home?

  Chapter 14 Give Me a Break

  Chapter 15 Just The Beginning

  Chapter 16 When You Know, You Know

  Chapter 17 A Nice Place To Be

  Photos

  FOREWORD

  Over the years, I’ve met lots of people doing crazy, ambitious challenges. Many of them have remarkable, often heartbreaking, ­stories to tell. Most of them are genuine people, and I try to support them as much as I can, but I usually see them once and never again. Not Ben. From the moment I met him, I knew there was something special about him. It wasn’t just what he was doing – although completing 401 marathons in 401 days is obviously remarkable in itself – it was also how he was doing it. It was his incredible charisma. It was the smile that never seemed to leave his face. It was his extraordinary enthusiasm and energy. I loved that he stopped off for coffee and cake every day. I loved that he got people off their sofas and running. Most of all, I loved that he’d had the courage to change his life and step into the unknown.

  When I first heard about Ben and The 401 Challenge, I did think he was slightly mad. What he was trying to do was way out there, beyond anything I’d heard about. But I always thought he’d do it. On the first day I met him, I was lucky enough to watch him tell his story to a roomful of teenage kids, and it came straight from the heart. I like that about Ben: what you see is what you get. He spoke about how he was bullied at school, how he had tried to take his own life. But the main message I took away from that talk was to be yourself, do what you want to do, and not what others think you should do. It sounds like a simple message, but his story has so many layers to it, which is why Ben inspires so many people for so many different reasons. Doing 401 marathons in 401 days could be pretty boring, but Ben brought so much more to it.

  People tell me all the time: ‘I used to run against you, back in the day.’ I must have heard that line a thousand times. At some point, they stopped running and started doing other things. People so easily end up doing things in life they don’t want to do, and then, 10 or 20 years down the line, they think to themselves: ‘How on earth did I end up here? This isn’t what I wanted to do with my life.’ In Ben, I recognised somebody who saw that his life wasn’t going the way he wanted it to, and was brave enough and strong enough to alter its direction – ‘Hang on a minute, there are other things I want to do, and other things I need to do.’ That’s why we hit it off and remain such good friends. His is a great story, and one I like to share with as many people as possible.

  Steve Cram, former 1500m world champion and 1500m

  and mile world record holder

  I remember being told about The 401 Challenge and thinking: ‘This guy is a complete nutter.’ Then I got to know him and why he was doing it. He was such an unassuming, modest person, but I could feel his inner strength. Just running 401 marathons is really inspirational, but the fact that he was such a genuine and normal guy made his story that much stronger.

  I did have misgivings about him running 401 marathons in 401 days, but I think he did, too. The Challenge was obviously going to be physically tough. Elite athletes just couldn’t get their heads around doing seven marathons in a week, let alone what he was trying to do. My peak mileage was 151 miles in a week, and he was doing more than 180 miles in a week, for 57 weeks in a row. So I did think his body was going to fall apart. And, in fairness, it did. But I also thought the mental side would be tougher. Day 401 must seem a long, long way off when you’ve ‘only’ done 99 marathons, or 150, or 200. Or one! But because of his extraordinary mental strength and focus, he was able to shrug that off, get out there, day after day, and hold it all together.

  So many people end up on a path they don’t really want to be on, but they haven’t got the strength and courage to turn back and try another way instead. But he taught people that it’s never too late to completely change your life around and be the person you really want to be. And he’s motivated so many kids and adults who have been bullied to rebuild their self-confidence, and therefore their lives. Ben’s story has helped so many people, but he doesn’t think he is special, which is what is so special about him. I love that I got to meet him. I admire him so much.

  Paula Radcliffe, marathon world record holder

  PROLOGUE

  Nothing Special

  My footsteps are soft drumbeats on the sand, easing my body back into a rhythm. And every step I take, I discover another piece of myself. I know it sounds clichéd, but not as clichéd as the drudgery of my old existence: a job that was draining my soul, big bucks, big house, big car, pension plan, two holidays a year I was too stressed to enjoy. In other words, what success is supposed to look like and therefore how most people choose to live.

  Life is a series of choices, which is not what everybody wants to hear, because it reminds them they are ultimately responsible for their own contentment. They wake up every morning, commute to the office, come home, sit in front of the TV – because they are too mentally drained to think of an alternative and enjoy all the other things they have worked so hard to buy – and repeat, ad nauseam. And all the while they’re hoping for something more. I know, because this was my life – feeling trapped, groaning inside, conforming to what I thought society deemed to be success. But here I am, cresting a dune on a beach in Northumberland – Holy Island stretched out in front of me, Bamburgh Castle to my left, sun directly above me, not a soul in sight to share the view with. I take a seat and think: ‘Obviously this was meant to be – just me, on a deserted beach, taking everything in, exactly at this moment.’ Maybe, maybe not. I’d hate to think we live in a world where there’s no element of control. I don’t believe our lives are mapped out for us, but it’s our choices which ultimately put us on the paths we end up following. And it’s the paths we follow which dictate our landscapes. People sometimes say to me: ‘I can’t do what you did. It’s easier said than done, it’s not that simple.’ But it is that simple, which isn’t the same as saying it’s not hard. Running is just putting one foot in front of the other – that’s the simple bit – the hard part is choosing to go running in the first place. But once you make that choice, you can start putting distance between your old life and closing in on a new one.

  Running was the thing I found that made me truly happy, and it works nicely as a metaphor – freedom, taking steps, leaving things behind – but it can be anything. Everybody has something inside them that will make them happy, and in my opinion you just need to find out what that is. And when you find out, you’ll see that security isn’t the same as happiness. But because we’ve become so programmed to believe that happiness is quantified by the materialistic stuff we have – and because the head so often rules the heart – too many people think they’re happy when they’re not, so they don’t even bother looking for it. It’s like that old quote says: lots of people die with their song still inside them. Even choosing to look takes guts – it’s one thing discovering what makes you happy, another following it through, because that can lead to taking
risks. And risk-taking isn’t for everybody. Dare I say it, neither is happiness.

  I look at my wrist – exactly 5000 miles on the clock. That’s a long way from my old existence, but it all started with a single step. Time to go back to work, I’ve still got 5506 miles to go. But I’m not going to sit around and moan about it. One foot in front of the other, soft drumbeats on the sand, easing my body back into that rhythm again, thinking: ‘No possessions, no money, no idea where the next wage is coming from, all ties severed from my old life. But I’m not worried, I’ll find something, what will be, will be…’ Some people might call it drifting, but the smile on my face says it’s an exciting way to live.

  There’s something you should know from the outset: that job that was draining my soul, the big bucks, the big house, the big car, the pension plan, the two holidays a year – that was one of the best parts of my life before now, my world after I’d been ‘fixed’. I was 16 and a half stone, smoked 20–30 cigarettes a day, had a mini-stroke at 29. Oh, and I was married to a woman, even though I knew I was gay. And everything was supposed to be right with the world! Mad, isn’t it? The part before that was the actual bad part. It doesn’t even feel like my life anymore – I filed it away, often while running. But it’s important that I have a rummage around and show you just how broken I was; to show you that – you know what? – life can be pretty shit, but you can climb out of it. It takes blood, sweat and tears, but I no longer believe anything is impossible. You don’t have to run 401 marathons in a row, like I chose to do, but you do have to start by putting one foot in front of the other and take it from there. I’m a normal guy, nothing special. And that’s the point.

  Chapter 1

  Broken

  There are only so many times you can fix yourself. You break, you patch yourself up. You break again, you patch yourself up again. But there comes a point when you’ve been broken so many times, there is nothing left to patch up. If a car keeps breaking, eventually you take it away to be scrapped. And that’s exactly how I felt – utterly worthless and ready for the scrap heap.

  It was a Sunday, the school was quiet, the half-boarders having gone home for the weekend, and a storm was brewing outside. I went down for dinner, took a knife from the cutlery drawer, put it in my pocket, walked down the long corridor of the school and back upstairs to my boarding house room. From that point on, I remember what I think I remember, but I honestly don’t know if it’s real, because it was as if I was in a trance. Sitting on my bed, I can see where I was in relation to my window, and where the desk was in relation to my door. But one thing I know for certain: I had every intention of taking my own life. This wasn’t a cry for help, it was desperation, a feeling of wanting to end it all. I had made the decision I was going to take back control. I’d got to a point where I couldn’t handle anything anymore and could no longer see a way out. I was sad, lonely, lost and isolated. I’d been broken so many times, I was almost psychotic. I got up, tidied my room, made my bed, lay on it and started to cry. But even though I was crying, I wasn’t really emotional, strange as that might sound, because all the emotion had been kicked out of me. Then I picked up the knife and started cutting at my wrists. I cut crosswise, so maybe, albeit subconsciously, I knew it wasn’t going to work.

  There was a knock at the door and I suddenly became worried that somebody might see me. I looked down at my wrists – there was blood, but not enough to end things or require an admission to hospital. So I got up, went to the door and unlocked it, peered out into the corridor but nobody was there. I thought to myself: ‘Now what do I do?’ I’d plucked up the courage to kill myself and it hadn’t worked, and now I wasn’t brave enough to give it another shot. I shut the door, slid down it, slumped to the floor and burst into tears. And now I was angry: I didn’t even have the balls to do the one thing that would have given me back control of my own life. And then even the crying stopped. There’s only so much crying you can do. I was left feeling empty, ashamed and sick to the core.

  ••••••••••

  I can’t remember the first time I was bullied, but I know it started just after I arrived at boarding school. I was 10 and suddenly transplanted from a loving and supportive family into this cold, frightening building in the middle of nowhere, crammed with kids who, in my opinion, had been dumped there by their parents. Mum and Dad didn’t want to send me to boarding school – that wasn’t how they worked because we were a very close family. To this day I don’t really know why I had to be sent to that place, but one thing I’ve learned is that choices need to be made. Sometimes they’re right and sometimes they’re not. Dad was in the Royal Air Force, meaning we moved around a lot. I was born in Wendover, Buckinghamshire, and spent a couple of years in Scotland, before the family moved to Visselhoevede, a village between Hannover and Hamburg in Germany, where my brother Dan was born. I loved my childhood. We were the only English family in the village, the locals welcomed us with open arms and it was an idyllic time. I was an outgoing kid, with a real sense of adventure, and because I moved around a lot and got to meet lots of different people, I found it easy to make friends. Back then, Dan and I got on like a house on fire. We were inseparable, even to the extent that if I was offered something, I’d always say: ‘Can my brother have one as well, please?’

  After Visselhoevede, we moved to Norwich for a couple of years before Dad was posted to the NATO base in Ramstein, back in Germany. But because there was no British school, my parents had no choice but to send me to boarding school back in England. I flew to England with Mum and Dad. Both of them and Grandma took me to look at a couple of schools. One was horrific – if you were unwell, you had to drag your mattress out of your bedroom and stick it in the sick room. I remember cowering behind Mum, shaking my head and saying, ‘I don’t want to go here!’ So we chose the lesser of two evils. Mum bought me a new pencil case, I sat in on some lessons and came away thinking: ‘I really enjoyed that, everyone was really nice to me.’

  Because I’d grown up having adventures, I was open to new experiences but I didn’t really grasp that I wouldn’t be going home to Mum and Dad once lessons were over. So, when Mum left me there for the first time, lying on my bunk bed in the dark with a room full of strange kids, I remember thinking: ‘This doesn’t feel like home at all.’ It was like I didn’t belong there – I felt lost and abandoned and really scared.

  The first time I was bullied my reaction was: ‘Oh, why did they say that?’ Before then my childhood might have been idyllic, but it was also very sheltered. Softly-spoken, sensitive and innocent, I was not your typical lad. I wasn’t keen on football or rugby, which marked me out as ‘different’. I was more interested in being nice to people and I didn’t fight back, and that, of course, made me a very easy target. And because people didn’t seem interested in being nice to me, I quickly became quite reclusive. On my 11th birthday, Mum and Dad sent me a load of toy cars. Soon I was obsessed with them – I took them out of their boxes, went behind the school and played with them on the path, I was just so happy. But it makes me sad thinking about it now as the other kids picked on me because of that. There was nobody to play with because the other kids were so much more mature than me and I was still so child-like. They were obviously better at adapting to the school environment, while I just wanted to be a kid.

  There were times I just wanted attention, for somebody to hug me, tell me everything was going to be alright, and act like my parents would have done had they been there. Some of the teachers told me it would get better and I’d get stronger. Without actually saying it, they were telling me to man up. It wasn’t within the school’s culture to be sympathetic, the general attitude was: ‘What are you complaining about, child?’ At night, the only person around to talk to was a really creepy teacher who lived at the end of the corridor. He was like a character from a Roald Dahl story, with a Hitler-style moustache and bits and pieces of food stuck between his teeth. When you had a nightmare, you were supposed to knock on his door and wake
him up. Because he terrified me so much, when I had nightmares I’d end up walking around the school in the dark. There was no comfort or compassion or empathy, it felt like prison to me.

  The night before I was due to go back to school after a holiday, I wouldn’t sleep. Mum would lie on my bed, stroke my hair and tell me everything was going to be alright. In the morning, I wouldn’t eat anything because I felt so sick; I was wound up and crying. When it was time to leave, Dad would literally have to drag me from the house and into the car. I’d be kicking and screaming, clinging to the railings. It wasn’t nice for me, I was so scared of going back, but it was also horrific for Mum to see her son like that. I can only imagine the pain and torture it caused her and Dad.

  Back at the school those few sensitive teachers with any idea about pastoral care or empathy continued to be barked down by the majority. The nurse was lovely, and I’d fake headaches so I could take a soluble aspirin, sit in the sick room and escape from everything. In my final year, I was craving attention so much, wanting somebody to be compassionate towards me, that I squirted shower gel all over my bed, ripped up a picture of Mum and Dad, went to a teacher and said: ‘Look what somebody has done!’ Another kid saw me do it and confronted me, but I fought long and hard and insisted it wasn’t me. Eventually, a teacher dragged me up in front of the whole school and said: ‘Whoever did this, we will find out and they will be punished.’ Obviously, they never did. I was so screwed-up! That same year, every pupil was named head of table for both dinner and lunch sittings, except me, which made me feel like an even bigger outcast. By the age of 12, any happiness had been squashed out of me and I was really fucked up.

  ••••••••••

  Beverley Smith, Ben’s mum: Ben wasn’t cut out for boarding school and we knew it wasn’t right for him. He was soft, gentle and caring. He was also outgoing when he felt safe, so he’d always been outgoing in the environment we brought him up in. He attracted all sorts of people and latched on to anyone that looked a little bit different. If there was a big girl, he’d pal up with her. If there was a black or Asian child, he’d make friends with them. He had Chinese friends, German, Portuguese, Russian, you name it. There were times when our back garden would be like the United Nations. He was so trusting and didn’t see any difference in anybody. But because he was so accepting of people, that characteristic attracted the bullies.