Twin Ambitions - My Autobiography

by Mo Farah

  I still had unfinished business with España.

  I breezed home first in the second qualifying heat, finishing ahead of España and another Spanish runner, Sergio Sánchez. Earlier Chris Thompson had also made the cut for the final, coming fourth in the first heat behind Alemayehu Bezabeh and Hayle Ibrahimov of Azerbaijan. I went back to the hotel, rested up some more, and returned to the Olympic Stadium for the 5000 metres on Saturday 31 July. This was the one I wanted the most. Four years had passed since I lost to España in Gothenburg. Four years I had to wait for this opportunity. Revenge was on.

  I had everything riding on this race. España was the favourite because he was racing on home turf and had the backing of 50,000 Spanish fans crammed inside the stadium. I was determined to avenge my defeat in Gothenburg. I told myself, ‘You’ve got nothing to fear.’ In 2009 I’d beaten España in the 3000 metres at the European Indoors in Turin, and finished ahead of him in the 5000 metres at the World Championships in Berlin. But this was the first time we had been direct rivals in a big race since that day in Sweden.

  Bezabeh, one of three Spanish runners competing in the race and the Ethiopian-born athlete who had run insanely fast at the cross country race in Dublin the previous winter, when I’d collapsed at the finish line, took an early lead. Soon España was nudging out in front and Bezabeh slotted in behind him. At that point I was back in fourth. España was going at a decent pace – not too quick. He wanted a fast race, thinking that I was still recovering from running the 10,000 metres. But I didn’t feel tired. I wound it up. Then I wound it up some more. Slowly, I started to rein in España. With four laps to go, Bezabeh still led and I was in second place, with Ibrahimov in third and España down in fourth. Three laps to go, I glanced up at the screen, saw España trailing behind. His head was rocking from side to side with the strain as he dug deep and pushed really hard. Now I kicked on. I’d gone a little earlier than I intended, but suddenly I was striding ahead of Bezabeh, stretching the field. Bezabeh faded. I had to keep digging, keep the pressure on. Now Ibrahimov was breathing down my neck, with España just behind him. I was hurting a lot but I was riding the pain, telling myself over and over, ‘No way. You can’t let him sprint past you. Not this time.’ I dug very deep and put in a 59-second lap as I came to the bell. Suddenly, I was stretching down the back straight, giving it everything, constantly checking to see how big the gap was between España and me. Ibrahimov pulled closer. España was gone. He was spent. I kicked again from the front.

  I started pulling away from Ibrahimov and the small gap between us quickly opened into a big one. As I came sprinting around the home straight, I was far clear of the other runners. Ten metres of beautiful blue track between España and me. I swept across the finish line and for a moment I couldn’t believe I had won. The first thought that flashed through my mind was, ‘It was worth it, then.’ Those six weeks I had spent away from Tania and Rhianna after Zanzibar, when I had to watch my wife go home by herself, the sacrifices I had made – it hadn’t been for nothing, in the end. It was totally worth it. I later found out that my last mile was sub-four minutes.

  Losing a race in athletics is not like losing a football or tennis match. There’s no second chance, no opportunity to make amends the following week. You have no choice but to wait, and then wait some more. Me, I’d been waiting four years to make up for Gothenburg. As soon as I won, a feeling of absolute joy washed over me. I sank to my knees, kissed the track, and whispered a prayer. I always drop to my knees and say a prayer after a race. I can’t remember what I said that day, I was so pumped up.

  Gothenburg was history. Jesús España came over to me as I finished praying. Ever the gentleman, he was the first runner to congratulate me. He gave me a hand and helped me to my feet.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You deserve it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said back.

  In Gothenburg the better man had won. This time, I deserved it. I’d trained hard and worked at my preparation and won the race. España raised my right arm in victory to the crowd. Everyone cheered. I was just ecstatic to have won the race. It was an incredible moment in my life, the pinnacle of everything I’d been striving to achieve up to that point. Only four other guys had done the European distance double, and they were all legends in their own right: Emil Zátopek, Zdzislaw Krzyszkowiak, Juha Vaatainen and Salvatore Antibo. I was the first to achieve the feat since 1990.

  Winning the double in Barcelona thrust me into the limelight for the first time. The races had been shown live back home in the UK and my achievements had made the headlines of the national newspapers. None of this was apparent to me at first. Me, Tania and Rhianna celebrated together as a family after the championships, enjoying a bit of down time together in the city. It was only when we flew back to London that it dawned on us, just how big a deal I now was. Loads of news crews and journalists and photographers were waiting for us at the airport. That was quite a shock. We hadn’t expected to get mobbed as soon as we stepped off the plane. Athletics is not the Premier League. We don’t have the round-the-clock coverage other sports enjoy. And for me, the attention on us was something I’d never experienced before in my career. I did the rounds on breakfast TV, as well as the national media circuit. The sudden attention on me took some getting used to. One evening me, Tania and Rhianna headed over to Nadia and Bob’s to eat pizza and watch some TV and generally relax. Imagine our surprise when we turned up to find a news van parked outside their house! No one knew we were going there. But the media didn’t know where I lived and had stationed a van there on the off-chance that I’d pop over to see the in-laws. This was my first real taste of national recognition. From spending years under the radar, I had the media all over me.

  In the midst of all this coverage, the secretary to Ivan Gazidis, the chief executive of Arsenal, contacted me with an invitation to attend the first home game of the season against Blackpool as an honorary guest. For a die-hard Arsenal fan, this was the greatest news ever. I brought Tania and Rhianna along to the match with me. We got to sit in the director’s box, which is invite-only. Everything was specially laid out for us and everyone at the club, from top to bottom, was as nice as you could imagine. Before the game Ivan presented me with an Arsenal shirt with ‘Farah’ on the back. Wenger also came up to the director’s box before the match and said hello to me and my family. Wenger being one of my heroes, meeting him blew my mind. He’s an extraordinarily humble and decent man. At half-time I was invited to walk out onto the pitch and display my two European gold medals to all the fans. Arsenal won 6-0. Walcott scored twice. Great result, and a great day all round – one of the best days of my life, and one I’ll never forget. I mean – how many Arsenal fans get to actually meet Wenger?

  With this new recognition came heightened expectations. In the wake of Barcelona people started to view me as a realistic medal prospect for the London 2012 Olympic Games. The press now asked me questions such as, ‘How do you feel about your chances in 2012?’ Stuff like that. Up to that point in my career, I hadn’t been viewed as someone who was remotely a threat for the Olympic Games. The European Championships changed all that. I got a taste of winning – a taste of success and what it brings. I wanted more.

  I had one target left to achieve before the season was over: the British record.

  Throughout the Europeans I’d been feeling my Achilles. The tendon was still inflamed, it wasn’t getting any better and the advice from Neil Black was that I shouldn’t push it and run in Zurich. Neil feared that if I attempted another race, I might do lasting damage to the tendon. Ricky shared his concerns. They were in agreement: running in Zurich was a bad idea. I listened to them, nodded, but I was adamant that I wanted to go there and compete. I understood that they had my best interests at heart. I’d won the European double, why not end the season on a high note rather than risk further injury? But I was determined to run. I thought, ‘I’m in good running shape. Only the Achilles is holding me back. One more race, then I’ll get the injury
sorted.’ I still had my eye on Dave Moorcroft’s British record. That had been my goal at the start of the year. I didn’t want the season to end without having achieved it.

  My last race of the 2010 season took place on 19 August at the Diamond League meeting in Zurich, the penultimate meet in the calendar. It’s usually hard for an athlete to produce their best form coming off the back of a major championship. Big races do take it out of you. You spend months in training with the aim of peaking at the big competition, and to carry that through to the next event and the one after that is difficult, mentally and physically. But I sort of knew that if I carried myself well leading into Zurich, I had a good chance of going close to the British record. I had no idea how far under 13 minutes I could go if I actually did it. But my first target was to run under that time. I arrived at the league meeting feeling strong, lean, fast and ready to give it my best shot.

  Achilles aside, I was in the shape of my life. Barcelona proved that. This was a big moment for me. A huge test. My last chance to run sub-13:00 before the curtain came down on my season. It had been a good year. The best so far. Getting married, winning at the Europeans. I wanted to smash that record and end the season on a high note.

  As soon as I began warming up for the race in the call room, my Achilles flared up. Neil had warned me about the dangers of running in Zurich. I hadn’t listened to him. Now this. Here I was, about to take my place on the start line of the 5000 metres race, and I was practically hobbling on one leg. I couldn’t pull out of the race. Not now. I did what I could to manage the discomfort, not wearing my spikes until the very last minute.

  The 5000 that day was a good field. It had all the big names. Tariku Bekele had a season’s best of 12:53. Fellow Ethiopian 12:53 runner Imane Merga was there, and Olympic medallists Eliud Kipchoge and Edwin Soi, plus two other good Kenyans – Vincent Chepkok and Moses Masai. Chepkok had run 12:51.45 in Doha in May. Masai, he’d won bronze in the 10,000 at the 2009 Worlds in Berlin. These guys were world-class runners. Chris Solinsky, the muscular American who was the first non-African to run sub-27:00 at the 10,000, was there, along with Galen Rupp, an up-and-coming American runner. My mate Chris Thompson was there too. It was a major race. A lot of unbelievable talent on that start line. All the Diamond League meets that year had been fast. Sixteen guys had run sub-13:00.

  The early pace was blistering. For the first few laps I lurked at the back of a huge pack as the pacemakers led the way. Early on in the race, I knew that my pace was good, and as I started working my way through the field, I was almost 3 seconds ahead of the time Dave Moorcroft had run in Oslo. The guys at the front began winding the pace up. I kept digging. After 4000 metres I’d moved 4 seconds clear of the British record. All I had to do now was keep going. Keep pushing. But the next 600 metres was brutal. The pace was unbelievable. I was struggling with my Achilles. I dug deep and pushed through. By the time the bell rang, I knew I was only a few strides up on the record and I’d have to push really, really hard on the last lap. I fought through the pain. That last 200 metres was agonizing. I pushed harder than I’d ever done before.

  I finished fifth.

  My time? 12:57.94.

  I’d shaved almost 3 seconds off the record.

  Breaking that record was a big, big deal for me. When Dave Moorcroft had run 13:00, twenty-seven years earlier, it had been a new world record. He was well clear of the pack and effectively ran a solo race. I came fifth behind Tariku Bekele, and my time was the 177th fastest ever, which shows just how much distance running had moved forward in the intervening years. I’d always had that inner belief in my ability to run sub-13:00, but results-wise I’d not always performed. Admittedly, Beijing and the months after it had been tough. Breaking the British record was, for me, part of the recovery process – of proving to myself that I had what it took to compete with the very best. And to do it late on in the season and coming off the back of Barcelona, which had been a physically and emotionally draining experience, was something special.

  It’s weird, but once I broke the record, running under 13:00 felt like nothing to me any more. It changed my feeling about who I am. It gave me the confidence to mix it in with the likes of the Bekele brothers and the Kenyans. It hadn’t happened overnight – there had been plenty of ups and downs and bumps to get to this point – but shattering a long-standing British record showed me that if I got the training right and applied myself properly, I could run with the best. Most importantly, I believed in myself.

  Now, I thought, anything is possible.

  Immediately after the race, I went to another meeting with Alberto Salazar. Ricky had arranged for the three of us to have dinner at a hotel in Zurich. A year had passed since I’d sat down and talked with Alberto in Birmingham. In that time, I’d tasted success. I had the utmost respect for Alan, but it was hard for him to coach me properly when he was in London and I was halfway around the world. I was doing some sessions with groups in Kenya, some sessions with groups in the UK, some sessions on my own in Font-Romeu. I needed one coach and one training group that would be with me 24/7, 365 days a year. I was having to process all this information, figure out what worked for me and what didn’t, at the same time as trying to concentrate on running well in each training session and getting a proper rest afterwards. I’d been carrying on like this the whole year and I was getting frustrated with not having my own coach at the track all year round. By the end of the season I’d had enough. I couldn’t face another year acting as my own coach, playing roulette with my career. I didn’t want to live in Kenya all year and there were no strong groups in the UK. I needed a single person to oversee my training. Someone who could set me sessions, watch my sessions, tell me when I needed to push harder or slow down, without me having to scratch my head and ask myself, ‘Is this right or wrong?’ Alan was doing his best, but things had changed between us and we both knew that I needed to move on.

  I had the beating of the European field. Breaking the British record convinced me that I was on the edge. I was this close to fulfilling my potential. Now I needed someone who had the expertise and ability to squeeze that 1 or 2 per cent more out of my running. For me, there was only one person for the job: Alberto Salazar.

  I was keenly aware that Alberto had already turned me down once. Some of the stumbling blocks he’d mentioned in Birmingham still existed – the sponsorship issue, and the fact that his Oregon Project was purely focused on American distance runners. But at the same time, we were coming at this from a different angle now. I wanted Alberto to coach me on the track, not train me to run the marathon. Alberto had said that I had potential on the track; now I was starting to realize it, and I wanted Alberto to be the guy who got me over the line.

  That meeting in Zurich went really well. Alberto liked the idea of working with me. We had a long chat. He explained a few things to me about the Nike Oregon Project and the group he worked with, what would be expected of me if I joined the group. I had to fit in with what he was trying to achieve in Portland. That was key. And I had to be prepared to work incredibly hard. I was ready for that. I’d heard about the Oregon Project; I knew training under Alberto would be more gruelling than anything I’d ever done before. Of course I’d heard the stories about his scientific approach, using underwater treadmills and cryo-saunas, for example, but the fact remains that Alberto possesses an incredible work ethic – a disciplined and relentless desire to improve. If he thinks there’s an aspect of your running that needs to be corrected, he’ll leave no stone unturned in his search to find a solution.

  ‘And, of course,’ Alberto added, ‘you will need to move to Portland.’

  I nodded. I’d understood from the get-go that if I wanted to be coached by Alberto, I’d have to relocate to the USA with my family. London was our home, and Rhianna had just started school, but being coached by Alberto would give me the best possible chance of beating the Ethiopians and Kenyans in major competitions. When news of my move to Portland went public, there were a fair few c
omments in the media, asking why I was changing coach with less than two years to go until the Olympics. Others questioned the wisdom of leaving Alan Storey permanently when 2010 had been such a successful year. That’s not how I saw it. Sure, changing coaches is always a risk. But there’s a big difference between winning the Europeans and winning the Worlds or the Olympics. At the European Championships, I wasn’t competing against a huge pack of East African runners. If anything, the fact that I finished fifth in Zurich behind Tariku Bekele, Merga and Chepkok emphasized how much further I had to go in order to win on the world stage. The easier thing would have been to stay in England and keep the same set-up. But doing the easy thing isn’t what wins you medals. I knew that moving would be difficult, both for me and for my family. But it’s like I said. You have to make sacrifices in order to be successful. If I had to move away from my home to get better, then that’s what I would do.

  We reached an agreement that Alberto would become my new coach, subject to resolving the sponsorship issue. My contract with adidas still had a few months to run, which meant I had to stay put for a while before I could link up with Alberto in Portland. Adidas had matching rights on my next contract. We were very open and honest with them about the situation. There was no pressure from Alberto or Nike to make the switch to Portland. It was entirely our decision. In fact, by agreeing to join Alberto’s group at the Oregon Project, I was putting myself in a weak negotiating position, since Nike knew I had to sign up to them before I could work with Alberto. I had no choice but to accept whatever offer they put on the table.

  But the sacrifice was worth it. From now on, Alberto was the guy in charge. I wouldn’t have to be both an athlete and a coach any more. I could focus solely on running. Alberto would be the one calling the shots.

  2010 had been a good year. The next year was going to be even better.