401
Page 5
Day nine, and the Newton Abbot Marathon is like having a full recharge. The Teignbridge Trotters are out in force and Richard (17 miles) and Suzie (13 miles) run further than they’ve ever done. I’ve also met a guy called Smokes, a sub three-hour marathon man who puffed his way through 10 cigarettes during the course of the run. You really shouldn’t be able to do that. He told me he quit for a while and his times got worse, so he started again and his times improved. Today, things are really starting to take shape, with people plugging into the project, feeling inspired and doing things they’ve never done before. And it works both ways, because I’m inspired and energised by them. I’ve still got a swollen knee, but I’ve realised that if the mind isn’t right, and there is doubt and negativity, it’s like wading through treacle. You really do have the ability to change the way you are by changing the way you think.
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Suzie Mills, Teignbridge Trotters: When I first heard about Ben, I thought he had to be nuts for doing what he was doing. People were voicing all sorts of doubts: ‘He’s obviously going to get injured at some point. How’s he going to cope with the winter weather? There’s just no way he’s going to do this.’ I was intrigued nonetheless, so a couple of days before he was due to be passing through, I thought: ‘You know what? I’d really like to join him.’ A very understanding boss gave me the day off and I joined Ben at about mile six or seven. I was petrified, because I didn’t want to slow Ben, and everybody else, down. But I needn’t have worried, he was just so inclusive and supportive. And after speaking to him and finding out why he was doing what he was doing, how passionate he was, feeling his determination and seeing the support he was getting, I thought: ‘You know what? If he can get this kind of support all the way round, he might just pull this off.’
He did seem a little bit crazy, which you have to be to take on a challenge of that magnitude. But he was also very humble, and not afraid to be open and honest about why he was doing it – about his mental health issues, the bullying and the struggles with his sexuality. I think people responded to that openness and honesty. I know I did. I’m always quite guarded when I meet new people, but he was very disarming, and he got me to open up and be honest, with him and myself. He has a natural gift, without a doubt – it just seemed so easy to talk to him without fear of being judged. I think that’s why the project ended up being so successful, and I think it was possibly a revelation to him that he had this special gift. After that first day, it already felt like we were really good friends. My plan was to do six or seven miles to show my support, but I ended up running 13. I was shocked, and it took a long time for it to sink in. A couple of weeks later, I ran with him again, from Feock to Portreath and back again, and he got me to open up a little bit more.
I suffered with depression, probably from when I was in my teens. I went to an all-girls school and spent my whole time there trying to work out where I fitted in. I wouldn’t say I was bullied in the classic sense, I just never felt like I belonged. I wasn’t sporty or academic or arty or musical, so I kind of drifted. I turned to food for comfort, so struggled with my weight, and that snowballed at university, where I still couldn’t work out who I was. I didn’t really do anything about my depression until I was in my 30s, when I arrived at a really bad place. It took me a long time to find out where I belonged, and it’s not until the last six or seven years that I’ve really become happy in myself. Running definitely accelerated that process.
It was a drunken conversation with some friends, who were members of the Teignbridge Trotters, that led me to do my first run on 5 January 2015. Not that you could really call it running – I covered three miles in an hour. It was cold, dark and miserable. But I loved it. Growing up, I was the fat kid, picked last for everything, so I was worried about trailing behind at the back and holding everyone else up. But everyone was so supportive. It didn’t matter that I was slow, others were happy to run at my pace, and I felt included in something for the first time in ages.
I took antidepressants, on and off, for about four years, and they kind of numb you. Taking tablets does stop the real lows, but it also stops you enjoying life, because you’re just existing. Running allowed me to control my mental state. It has just brought everything together, made me a much happier person. I was well on my way before I met Ben, but he pushed me to really believe in myself, which I’d never really had before. To hear that from a stranger – ‘Yeah, you can do it’ – actually meant more than close friends saying it. He didn’t know me, but he wanted me to succeed and do amazing things.
Ben was broken once, but managed to find the strength, confidence and determination to go out and change his life. More than that, he wanted to do something for other people. That inspired me immensely. He showed people that it is possible to be down and almost out before turning things around. Because he was so open and honest about what he’d been through, he gave people the strength to push and fight and really find out who they were. He fed off seeing people gain strength from him, so everyone was feeding off each other. He was like some kind of eccentric travelling therapist, doling out great dollops of hope wherever he went.
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DAY 10: Down through Torquay – where I almost get flattened by a rogue wave – Paignton, Brixham and the breathtaking Berry Head, where Torbay Athletics Club does its bit and Vicky Burr pops up again to run the last two miles with me. I’m sure I’ll see some incredible scenery on my way round Britain, but it will have to go some way to beat South Devon. I’m fed for free by the Riviera Centre, before going back to Katie, Guy and their puppy Milo’s house for some therapy.
Now the Facebook messages are starting to come in, which suggests word is getting out and people are starting to understand what we’re trying to achieve. People are sharing my story, letting each other know when I’m passing through their area, things are starting to grow, like a tree, with roots going deeper and branches firing off in different directions. More and more people are doing things they never thought they could do, and celebrating it on social media. The project is starting to get a reputation for being an inclusive thing, rather than a ‘look at me’ kind of thing. I’m already a bit sick of talking about myself, so that’s a bit of a relief. Keeping up with all the social media – the daily posts, the video diary entries, the comments, the likes – is tough, because I’m doing it all myself. But there are others pulling the strings from behind the scenes…
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Pete Smith, Ben’s dad: I ran major operations rooms for the Royal Air Force, and my last major operational job was running combat air over Afghanistan. That’s the world I’m from, dealing with problems, planning ahead. The joke was that I had a map of Britain laid out on the dining room table and was pushing Ben’s van around the country with one of those long, croupier-style pushing sticks. But it’s true, I became totally immersed in it – helping to organise the 401 was fun for me.
Ben hadn’t even thought about doing risk assessments, and I’m not talking about those half-arsed risk assessments businesses make you do. What happens if you get injured and you can’t run for a week, or a month, or ever again? How are you going to deal with it? Let’s think about it now, so that we’ve got an answer if it happens. What happens if your van breaks down or weather prevents you from getting to your scheduled destination? Maybe you can just run around a track for two or three days, until we get the van back? You don’t want to be dealing with those kinds of problems the second they occur because you’ll be doing the hair-on-fire routine. Any plan must have lots of options built into it.
We looked at the weather two or three days ahead, the roads he was taking, the topography of his courses. I’d be on Google Earth working out if he could get his van to people’s houses. Otherwise, people would say: ‘Yeah, of course he can park his van outside.’ And he’d turn up and the road would be too narrow. I’d look at all these things to make sure I could see any problems before they o
ccurred, so that Ben didn’t have to think and could just get on with his running. He’d ring up, tell me his problem and I’d say: ‘Fine, you get on with what you’re doing, I’ll sort it and text you the solution.’
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When we were planning the Challenge, we’d approach potential corporate sponsors and say:
‘This is what we’re going to do – 401 marathons in 401 days.’
They’d usually say: ‘What’s your experience?’
‘Well, I’ve done 30 marathons in two years, but I’ve never done anything like this before… Hello? Hello? Are you still there?’
Most of the time, that was the end of the conversation. I don’t know if they just thought it was foolhardy, ridiculous or both, because I didn’t get much feedback. But I understood it was a big risk for anyone to commit, because they had no idea if I’d be able to pull it off. Had I been them, I would have had grave doubts as well. I was 33 and had only been running for four years. It’s not as if I was Sir Ranulph Fiennes, with a long track record of doing all these mad, amazing things. So, in the absence of paid staff, my unpaid 401 team of volunteers were manning the fort while I was out on the road. Vicky Burr came on board as media manager, after seeing a plea from Tolu on the website Pimp My Cause, which connects people in the charity sector. The team was scattered all over the country: Mum (accommodation, physio and finances) and Dad (logistics) were in Lincoln; Tolu (project manager and branding) was in Brighton; Vicky (media) was in Weybridge; and Kyle (pretty much everything) was in Bristol. And because none of us had any experience of planning anything like it, we were having to learn on the hoof.
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Tolu Osinnowo, 401 project manager: I’d always told myself that there was something I was going to be a part of that would be huge and change a lot of people’s lives. Within the first month, it dawned on me that The 401 Challenge was that thing. We came up with all sorts of crazy ideas in those early days. Milk Tray were recruiting for a new Milk Tray Man, and I thought: ‘Oh my God, Ben would be an amazing Milk Tray Man – he could talk to kids in the morning, run a marathon in the afternoon and deliver chocolates in the evening.’ But he never got shortlisted, much to his relief! Not everything came off, because the team was so small, but Ben always believed in my abilities. He used to say on the phone: ‘You know what, Tolu? You are bloody amazing! I don’t know how you do what you do.’ The fact that Ben had trusted me with this massive project, where I could be as creative as possible, and believed in my abilities, meant so much to me.
••••••••••
We contacted about 200 running clubs before I set off, but some of them thought I’d never reach them. One of them said: ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you’d make it as far as us, so I haven’t really organised anything.’ That’s what happens when you attempt something for the first time, you come up against a lot of natural cynicism, scepticism and wariness. We had every intention of contacting every media outlet in every area, but we didn’t pull things together in time, so we started using running clubs to get the message out instead.
We were finding out what worked and what didn’t as we went along, and we got so much wrong. I was going to have a GoPro strapped to my chest, but that lasted about 30 seconds, because, frankly, I didn’t know how to work it and I couldn’t be bothered trying to find out. So I chucked it in the van and it never came out again. The first marathon taught me to keep it simple, never overcomplicate things, take it for what it is. The running itself simplified everything: ‘I don’t need this and that, I just need to go out and run 26.2 miles every day. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, if I get lost, if I can’t get Wi-Fi, if nobody turns up to support me, my job is to run and then move on’. It was about trying to rationalise madness, normalise things, view it as a job, but a job I wanted to do. But because I’d finally found what I wanted to do with my life and what made me happy, it gave me joy. So even though I viewed it as a job, it didn’t feel like one.
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DAYS 11–16: In Dartmouth on day 11, my knee stands up to the hilliest course I’ve run so far, I’m gobsmacked by the sight of Slapton Sands, Dartmouth AAC share the view with me and the Little Cotton Caravan Park lets me stay the night for free. The generosity of people is beginning to overwhelm me. People keep telling me I’m an inspiration, which I don’t know how to take.
On day 12, the Plymouth Harriers lead me up into Dartmoor, where I do two laps of a reservoir, and when I return to the van that night, I discover that Stephen Fry has tweeted his support. Because he’s got about a billion followers, Twitter is going ballistic, my phone won’t stop pinging and I can’t sleep. But credit to him, he was one of our first celebrity endorsers and took our message far beyond these shores.
A wonderful chiropractor called Michelle manipulates my body back into place on day 13 and then it’s on to Saltash for my first run in Cornwall, where Helen Roper of the Tamar Trotters – a nutcase just like me, but one of the nicest ones you’ll meet – knocks out a cool 26.2 miles. On day 15, I run in Liskeard, which is a weird experience, because that’s where I got married. But I decide it’s nice to be back, secure and happy. In Pensilva, I am greeted by a handful of kids in running gear. They run the first half a mile with me, but as I approach the school gates, I can hear more kids roaring my name. They unfurl a banner, and although it makes me feel embarrassed, it’s all so lovely at the same time.
Clive from the campsite dusts off his trainers and runs with me every step of the way. And all the time I’m running, wherever I am in the country, I’m hearing stories – heartbreaking stories, inspirational stories, stories people have never told anybody else before. When you’re in a suit or an office or any structured environment, you’re expected to think and behave in a certain way; there are barriers to being who you really are. But when you’re running, those barriers just melt away. Take that person out of their suit or the office or any structured environment, put them on a coastal path in Cornwall, and he or she will open up to anybody. Without meaning to sound pretentious, running takes you to a higher level of consciousness, so that you are able to see the bigger picture, and it’s also a democratising experience. So, a couple of weeks in, The 401 Challenge, as I’d hoped, is growing organically, with people mucking in and offering support, but also lapping up the energy, finding their voice, opening up and taking away from the experience whatever they need to.
Chapter 5
A Beautiful Mind
DAYS 17–27: More kindness at the Eden Project on day 17, where I’m given a free Snoozebox – which is basically a sleeping pod – for the night, and a deep sleep is essential because the following day’s marathon is a complete and utter bastard, albeit in a wonderful way. On top of a tor, I get a view of the north and south coasts, up as far as Newquay and down as far as Fowey; and on the streets of Truro, locals stop and shout: ‘You’re that guy running all those marathons! How do I donate?’ It’s beautiful words like that that keep me going. On a country lane, I come face-to-face with a herd of cows. One cow puts herself forward as leader. I stare at her, she stares at me, eventually I moo in her face, before a farmer appears and goes apeshit. Between Helston and Porthleven and Mullion takes me past 500 miles, and every message I read that night is like a power pill, the side effect being they make me teary: I don’t know most of these people, and they’re being so, so kind.
I’m full of cold after a soaking in Saltash, but just have to man up and plough through it. Heidi from Mounts Bay Harriers runs her first marathon, over part of the Classic Quarter course from Lizard to Land’s End, and what an achievement that is. At one point, I slip and almost topple over a cliff; at another, we’re literally scrabbling up a hill on all fours; and after I descend the steps from the Minack Theatre onto Porthcurno Beach, a death-defying feat in itself, I discover we’ve covered 11 miles in four and a half hours. But who’s really counting? With its golden sand and crystal blue waters
, we could have been on a Greek island. Three hours later, we’re at Land’s End, and I think to myself: ‘Right, I’m at one end of the country, and now the other end of the country seems so far away.’ Reaching Land’s End didn’t feel like the triumphant moment I thought it might, it just made the goal seem further away than ever.
I get lost again in Redruth on day 24, where I am on my own for the second time, but two laps of the beautiful Cornish village of Indian Queens the following day are the perfect pick-me-up. Three members of Newquay Road Runners knock out distance PBs, and it’s becoming increasingly apparent that people are feeding off my strength and confidence and pushing their own limits. Just as important, people online are finding their voice, sending me messages about the bullying they’ve been through, which is exactly the point. I don’t just want to shine a light on bullying, I want people to talk about it and not feel ashamed, like I felt for so long, before kicking on and accomplishing things they had never even dreamed of.
Day 27 in Launceston is pretty much the perfect day, and I’ll miss Cornwall and its immense generosity. Having put me up in the grounds of her house, the lovely Lucy cooks me a fry-up, before sending me on my way. Out on the course, 27 members of Launceston Road Runners plod along with me, together with members of clubs throughout Cornwall, and it’s the biggest turnout to date. At the 11-mile mark, Joss opens up her house and serves up pasties, tea and cake.