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So I arrange to meet with the new head and I say: ‘I’m happy to come and do a talk, but hopefully you’re fully aware of the problems I had here. So I need you to prove that you’ve got all the policies and procedures in place to combat bullying, and that they are being implemented.’ The new head, who turns out to be a lovely man, gives me a heartfelt apology for everything that happened to me while I was a pupil at the school. More importantly, everything the headmaster said they did, they did – it wasn’t just a pile of paperwork in the corner of an office, gathering dust, like it used to be. The school now has counsellors and student representatives from each year group and each house, making sure there is the necessary pastoral care. So while I’m nervous, standing in a chapel full of 400 kids, telling them about all the shit that happened to me while I was a pupil – the relentless bullying, the suicide attempt – it isn’t particularly difficult, because now I have the confidence and determination I didn’t have then, and I know the place has changed.
••••••••••
Pete Smith, Ben’s dad: The school was now focused on the children, rather than profit-driven, and little touches showed how much things had changed. For example, the old headmaster used to have his office in a separate house, but the new headmaster had moved his office into the school, so he could see what was happening every day and the kids could pop in and see him if they had a problem.
Ben will just stand in front of the audience, with no props or PowerPoint or any of those crutches that people use, and tell people his story. He had a good time that day; he pulled no punches, talked about his bullying and suicide attempt which can be quite harrowing for people to hear, and answered everybody’s questions absolutely honestly. He told the kids he’d stood where they were now, advised them to use the system that was in place if they needed to, the system he himself wasn’t lucky enough to have. I think he laid a lot of demons to rest that day.
Beverley Smith, Ben’s mum: One of Ben’s old teachers rang me and said: ‘I hear Ben is doing this wonderful Challenge, how fantastic! Would he consider coming to the school to talk to the pupils?’ I wasn’t sure about it, but I said we’d discuss it with Ben, and under no circumstances would he stay overnight. We all turned out to support him, although he wouldn’t let me hear him talk, and still won’t. He’s happy for Pete to go, but it’s too raw and he knows it will upset me.
A number of sixth formers ran with him, including one who ran the whole way. He was only going to run five or six miles, but that’s the type of person Ben is, he encourages people to do their best .
••••••••••
YORK CHILDREN JOIN CHARITY RUNNER ON HIS 254th MARATHON
YORK PRESS, 11 MAY 2016
‘…At Fishergate Primary School, in York, Ben told the children: “It’s really difficult to get up in the morning sometimes. But I think about the reasons I’m doing this and that motivates me to get out of bed…”’
••••••••••
DAYS 250–284: Back up the North East coast and into Newcastle for the second time, where I’m given tickets for United’s game against Spurs. Everyone seems in good spirits, despite the fact they’ve already been relegated, and I’m introduced on the pitch at half-time in front of about 50,000 football fans. I’m not sure anyone can hear me, but I get a nice round of applause regardless. The following day – day 259 – is my 34th birthday. I get involved in the launch of the Durham 5 and 10k, where we meet up with Steve Cram and Allison Curbishley again, and that night, I stay in a five-star spa hotel near Darlington, with Kyle, Mum and Dad and Tolu. Obviously, I don’t look too smart, rocking up in sweaty running gear, but they don’t seem to mind and let me park my van right out front. I don’t have time for the massage they offered me, so Kyle has it instead – he had it good at times!
MAY 2016 IN NUMBERS
Marathons: 31
Miles run: 824.5 (average per day: 26.6)
Running time: 172:58.20 hours (average per day: 5:34.47)
Number of people run with: 1118
Distance personal bests: 127
First marathons/ultra-marathons: 46
Pints of cider: 16
Flat whites: 31
On from Whitley Bay to Alnwick, where I develop an umbilical hernia and end up in Alnwick Infirmary, which suggests that my body is beginning to rattle. On to Wooler, Northumberland, and then into Scotland for the second time. On day 264, the Jedburgh Joggers, a great mass of women runners, are out in force, and it’s such a great day. But just before the Edinburgh Marathon on day 272, I start to get a niggle at the bottom of my back, like something I’ve never experienced before. At first, I explain it away as general wear and tear, because other parts of my body have hurt for three or four days before the pain has suddenly disappeared. That’s the only way a body can survive doing something like this – if there’s any form of negativity, you might as well give up and go home. Weirdly, I run a Challenge PB in Edinburgh, about three and a half hours, but feel terrible the next day.
I leave Edinburgh, run through Dunfermline, Kirkcaldy and up into St Andrews, where a gang of us recreate the famous slow-motion Chariots of Fire run on West Sands beach. But despite the smiles and larks on my Facebook video, my back is deteriorating. It’s fine when I’m running, it’s when I stop that’s the problem, especially when I’m driving the van. Past Perth, Dundee, on to Arbroath, Montrose and Stonehaven, whose half-marathon route is notoriously hilly. And while I wouldn’t say it’s Stonehaven that finishes me off, it’s certainly part of it. That night, my back completely seizes up.
I’m staying with friends, Carolyn and Geoff, in Inverurie, and they’re having to ferry me in and out of Aberdeen on days 282, 283 and 284, because driving has become so painful. My back is starting to contort, almost concertina, so that I’m all bent over when I stand up. I know I have a problem staying straight, but this is taking the piss. On top of that, there is sciatic pain surging all over my legs. But even now, all I can think of is getting to day 300 in John o’Groats. It’s fair to say I’m so focused on the Challenge that my perspective is completely shot. I dose up on codeine, stick my fingers in my ears and do my best to ignore the glaringly obvious, until Carolyn, the ex-nurse I’m staying with, gently insists I at least get my back looked at.
DAY 285: We ring the surgery and the doctor calls back and says: ‘Can I just check it’s 401 marathons you’re doing? In 401 days? Right, let’s try to see you in the morning…’ I arrive at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary at the crack of dawn on the morning of day 285, and the lovely doctor takes one look at me and says: ‘You need to stop.’ I completely lose it and start crying. I’m tired, because I haven’t been sleeping, and I don’t want to hear this. Nothing else matters apart from achieving my goal and now someone is telling me it’s over. I’m told that the problem is due to my umbilical hernia, which has caused my back to spasm, but they’re not entirely sure. I want to carry on, but my team overrules me. At least I think they do – it’s difficult to tell, because I’m off my face on painkillers. I don’t think I’m shocked, and I might even be a little relieved – if I’m going to fail, and I do view it as failing, then at least it’s for a medical reason and not because I quit.
After returning to Carolyn and Geoff’s house on the morning of day 285, I post a forlorn video on Facebook, saying I have to take a break and that I feel I’ve let people down. It sounds irrational, but that’s how I feel, because I’ve been so hell-bent on achieving this goal, and I’ve not raised £250,000 or run 401 marathons in 401 consecutive days, as I said I would. I tell my supporters and friends the plan is to be back on the road soon, but the truth is I don’t even really know what’s wrong with me. The video gets more than 300,000 views and people write some lovely messages, but I struggle to find the positives in any of them. I just want to go to bed, pull the sheets over my head and hibernate.
The decision is taken for me to get a train to Preston, where Kyle is now living, so I do. I’m just angry, because I
feel like my body has let me down, and I wonder if I’ve done something wrong for it to do that to me. Some of the papers report that The 401 Challenge has broken down, and I heard that the BBC and ITV want to come and film me. I don’t want to deal with any of this. Poor Dad and the media team (aka Kyle) are constantly battling, trying to control the flow of information. I’ve gone from concentrating on running to dealing with tiny little details, and my emotions are all over the place, ranging from despair to elation. I don’t know how Kyle and Tolu put up with me over the next few days!
••••••••••
MARATHON EFFORT ENDS
THE TIMES, 15 JUNE 2016
‘…Ben Smith, 34, had completed 284 marathons since last year, running 7,440 miles across England, Wales and Scotland. But after a trip to A&E in Aberdeen at the weekend, he was forced to pull out…’
••••••••••
I arrive at Preston train station having no clue how I got there, because of all the drugs, although it transpires I had to change twice. There’s a massage therapist there called Brian, who knows Steve and Allison and has treated me before, but he tells me he doesn’t know what’s wrong and doesn’t want to make it any worse. Luckily, he knows a man who might be able to get to the root of the problem.
Jamie Murphy has worked with Bolton Wanderers, Newcastle United, Manchester City and the New York Red Bulls and now has a practice called Jam Physio in Blackpool. He is an incredible man and not like any physio I’ve ever been to. In fact, I’d say his techniques are verging on wizardry. Jamie looks at me, gets me to do some exercises and stretches, and reckons he knows what’s wrong. He sends me to have an MRI scan at a private clinic in Wilmslow and I’m diagnosed with something called spondylolisthesis, which is when a bone slips out of position at the bottom of the back. They also find a fracture in one of my vertebrae, a bulging disc, and all of this weakness has started to lock everything up, which was the body’s way of telling me to stop. And because every little muscle in my body’s core has locked up, it’s got to the point where my spine has started to twist like a corkscrew and my nerves are being squeezed, which is responsible for the pain. Wonderful Jamie agrees to treat me for free and does so for almost 18 hours over the next 10 days. He describes the body as a padlock with a sequence so that when you get a pain somewhere, it’s not necessarily where the problem is, because everything is connected. Sometimes you can have a pain in your foot because you’ve got an issue with your opposite shoulder.
Jamie is nicknamed ‘The Butcher’ for a reason: the things he can do with his thumbs are insane. He also does a lot of dry needling, which is similar to acupuncture, but 10 times more painful. In dry needling, the needles are kind of slammed in, and at one point I have 30 of them hanging out of me. I swear at Jamie a lot, and I’m not ashamed to say that I cry more than once. I have to keep reminding myself that he’s just trying to find the sequence. Various other bones are put back where they should be, it’s almost as if he’s putting me back together. I’d done it with my mind before, so surely I could do it with my body? The BBC film me getting my therapy and, trust me, I didn’t fake the pain. ITV Real Stories also come to interview me, but it all seems so pointless, as I just can’t envisage getting back on the road, try as I might.
But seven days after breaking down, I’m able to run again. I have a conversation with Kyle and he seems supportive. The only other person who might be worried is Mum, but she knows what I’m like. Because of Jamie’s background as a professional footballer, and the fact that professional sportspeople are constantly playing with injuries, he knows it isn’t his job to tell me to throw the towel in. So he teaches me a new way of running instead, one that will better support my body. He works with me on exercises to activate my glutes – in layman’s terms, to use my arse muscles more! – so that my hips aren’t taking too much of the strain. It’s not as easy as it sounds, but it’s a more efficient way of running. And when you’re taking almost 42,000 strides a day, you really need to be running as efficiently as possible. New technique learnt, although not yet mastered, I make the decision to carry on with the Challenge. Jamie is the saviour of the 401 and we’ll always be indebted to him for that.
On Facebook, I announce that the revised plan is still to complete 401 marathons in 401 days, by tacking on a couple of extra miles every day. That way, we can still say I achieved what I set out to do. Nine days after I was told to stop, I pick up the van in Inverurie, drive to Inverness and book into a Premier Inn. I knock out three miles, to try out Jamie’s new running method, before recording an upbeat video for Facebook. But all I can think is: ‘Can I really do this?’ From being something that seemed achievable, it now seems like an impossible mission.
••••••••••
Jamie Murphy, wizard physio: When Brian phoned me up and asked me to have a look at a friend of his, I said: ‘Okay, no problem, but I’m fully booked for the next two weeks.’ Brian said: ‘You’ve got to see him quick. Please. He’s doing this amazing thing for charity. Go on the internet, look up The 401 Challenge and phone me back.’ I looked it up, phoned Brian back and said: ‘Tell him to come in on Monday morning and I’ll see him in between other patients, if he’s happy to sit and wait.’
Monday morning came around, and when I went into reception, I saw this guy wearing a blue beanie, all hunched over with his head down. Luckily, I got a cancellation, so I went back out and said: ‘Oi, you must be the marathon man?’ I’ll never forget what happened next. He lifted his head up, and I saw he had this great big beard and these black, sunken eyes. I thought: ‘Surely this can’t be the guy?’ He struggled out of his seat like an 80-year-old man and shuffled across reception, all stooped over and bent to one side, limping like a dog with a thorn in his foot. I thought: ‘Wow. How has this guy done 284 marathons? He’s got major, major problems…’
Apparently, a specialist in Scotland had told Ben that it was just a soft tissue problem. Within about two minutes, I knew it was far worse than that. His body was an S shape, and he couldn’t move or sit up straight. It was quite evident that he had something protruding on the lumbar spine nerve, which was causing him to list to one side. I sat him down, asked him what he was on, and he replied: ‘Tramadol, diazepam, co-codamol, a strong anti-inflammatory, and I’m taking paracetamol every couple of hours…’
Ben said he was worried the Challenge was over. I thought, ‘Never mind the Challenge, you might never run again!’ But I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I said: ‘Let’s just see how you go.’ During the consultation he poured his heart out to me, told me why he was doing the Challenge and how much it meant to him. He had a lovely aura about him, was such a likeable character, so I was sold – I couldn’t let this guy down. I said: ‘Right, I’ll throw the kitchen sink at you and see what happens!’
He got two or three hours of treatment that first day, in between my regular patients, and I really put him through the mill. I pulled him and cracked him and stuck needles in places I can’t even tell you. I went all the way down to his feet, popped bones back in that were out of place, all to get his muscoskeletal system engaged again. When I sent him away, I said: ‘No more drugs!’ That night, he posted a video, telling everyone the Challenge was back on track. I watched it and thought: ‘Bloody hell, no pressure then…’ I hoped I could put him back together, but not that quickly.
The following morning, he walked into the clinic with bright eyes and this big smile on his face. He said: ‘I can’t believe it, I feel so much better!’ He was still bent over to one side, but there had been a massive improvement, which was down to his mental strength as much as anything I did. That week, I showed him how to work muscles that he’d never worked before, and he caught on very quickly. Soon, there was a part of me thinking: ‘This guy could actually finish the Challenge.’ I suggested we do a 5k in Lytham, to test things out, and you could see his confidence grow as he ran. We said our goodbyes, which was quite emotional, and two days later he did an ultra-mar
athon. For weeks afterwards, people were coming into my clinic and saying: ‘Is he still doing it?’ He was still doing it, but I was expecting a call at any time. It’s very nice of him to say I saved the project, but we were just there to help him. It just shows that you can be in terrible pain and your body can be ready to break, but with drive and spirit, you can do almost anything.
••••••••••
DAYS 286–296: I arrive at the sports centre in Inverness and BBC Scotland are waiting for me, and it’s actually a nice distraction to be interviewed while running. We do part of the Loch Ness Marathon route, running almost to the sea and back along the river, before chasing the ferry along the towpath. My back hurts a bit, and so does my arse, but I end up running 30 miles, which is the most I’ve ever run in one go. I’m completely and utterly shocked, because I went into today thinking I was going to die. I go to sleep that night with a feeling of accomplishment, before waking up the next morning feeling like shit. I can’t move and it’s not just my back that hurts, it’s everything. My confidence isn’t what I thought it was, and all I can think is: ‘Please don’t let this be like the first 50 days all over again.’ I manage to crawl out of bed and drag myself to Dingwall. Dingwall is beautiful and horrible at the same time. I whinge and moan and cry throughout the run, and even start thinking: ‘If I gave up now, would that really be a bad thing? Most people would have chucked it in by now. Most people wouldn’t have started. I’ve already done enough, surely?’
I have no massage therapy booked in, so Kyle, who has joined me in Scotland, spends the day traipsing around the town, trying to find a therapist who will give me a massage for free. He manages to find one, and as soon as I’m told someone is going to touch my legs, I think: ‘Everything is going to be OK again.’ By touching my legs, she touches my mind. Suddenly, something inside me is imploring me to forget all that nonsense about quitting, man up and just keep going.