Marathon Man

by Rob Young

  In the end, I realised I wasn’t happy and decided it was time for a change. Happily, a chance came up for me to cycle semi-professionally in Italy. I had no ties and it seemed like an exciting opportunity, so I left the Army and moved out to Italy. In the early days, I was riding for the team but not getting paid a bean. I was based near Milan, cycling every day and living off my savings. I was loving it, though, in a new country with a new challenge. The fact that my savings were disappearing fast didn’t worry me too much, either.

  Then I got a break and was asked to join a professional team as a domestique. That meant I cycled for the team, helping the main riders to do well. It was decent money and the life was good for a while. I was cycling a lot and then coming back to the UK every other weekend to see my girlfriend – not a bad old life for a young man. Not long into my riding career, my girlfriend fell pregnant, which meant I had a choice: either stay in Italy and not be much of a father, or quit riding and come back to make a go of it as a family man. It was never a difficult choice.

  I returned to the UK in the summer of 2008. My partner and I moved in together near Watford, I got the job at the car parts company with Ken, and soon enough Olivia, our darling daughter, arrived. For a while everything went well. We got engaged, but things changed quickly. Various things happened, which I don’t need to go into here, but the upshot was that before Olivia was even three years old, her mum and dad were no longer together.

  I was devastated.

  That was the beginning of a very difficult time for me. I took the break-up badly and I sort of unravelled. I ended up living in a shed in one of Ken’s lock-ups for a while. It was winter time and there was ice on the inside of the windows. Every morning I’d wash outside in the yard with a hose pipe. It wasn’t pretty. Soon enough, though, I turned a corner and got myself together and rented a flat. I got on with my life and saw Olivia at weekends. I was doing what I could to be the best dad possible under the circumstances, though I now realise it wasn’t nearly enough.

  Six months later I met Joanna via a dating website called plentyoffish.com – it was pretty much love at first type! She was, she says, attracted to me by the pictures of my bike. Strange, because I wouldn’t say that’s my best feature. On our first date, I brought her a piece of fresh cod from the fishmonger, wrapped up in lovely pink paper with a bow on it. It was a plentyoffish reference, in case you’re wondering. Chocolates or flowers might have been a better idea, though, but she seemed to like the joke.

  We had a whirlwind romance that first year; we fitted perfectly and I was devoted to her. Of course, she won’t let me forget it now. It’s the yardstick by which I am (constantly) measured. If I’d only known what a rod I was making for my own back. I used to leave a trail of rose petals from the front door to the bath when she got home – and not occasionally, but all the time. I don’t do much of that kind of thing anymore, though. I think she knows how to find her way to the bathroom by now.

  Alexander was born a few years later and there wasn’t so much time for that sort of romantic gesture. And it was then that my relationship with Olivia’s mum got worse, and we had a big falling out; as a result I haven’t seen Olivia since 2013. Allowing things to get that bad is my greatest regret. I’m doing what I can to be back in Olivia’s life again and I hope we will eventually come to some arrangement, but these things can take time, and there are always sensitive matters to resolve.

  But for now, my focus was on keeping going with my challenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Fight with Mr Negative

  11 August–3 September 2014

  In the week that followed the 100-miler, I got plenty of attention. I think my achievement astonished a lot of people, and forced them to take me more seriously. My story was certainly more interesting because of it. However, I wasn’t going to repeat that kind of distance anytime soon. My focus now was to get to the end of the year in one piece. I continued with a pretty set routine of hot tubs and massages to help me recover, marathons to keep me ticking along, selling car parts during the day, and spending my evenings with the family.

  My next weekend had a novel twist to it, though. An old Army buddy of mine, Chris Dickson, had set me a crazy challenge that I was dumb enough to accept. The rules were these: on that weekend, I could take only a banana, a bed sheet, a single blanket and a pound in spending money with me (I could raise more money by busking, but I wasn’t allowed to ask friends for cash). I wasn’t to use any taxis or buses or even allowed to hitchhike. Oh, and I was forbidden from riding on animals at any point, too. So donkey rides were out. I had my Virgin Trains pass, so getting to marathons was feasible, and I could eat a fair amount of food at the events, but realistically I would need to eat more than that. Dinner, for example. I wasn’t sure about the busking either. If you’d heard me sing you’d understand.

  After an early start on Saturday morning, I got to the Lemmings Track marathon in Worthing within the rules of the challenge. I took a train to the outskirts of London where Emily Hannon, a fellow marathon runner, picked me up and gave me a lift the rest of the way. It was good to be arriving in comfort for once, rather than running to the event.

  My 137th marathon/ultra was a novelty: 106 laps of a 400m grass track on the south coast. You’d think the sheer repetition would make for a dull race, but it was actually a fun event. You got to see the faster runners and the slower runners again and again, and it gave the race a unified feeling. We were constantly cheering each other on and horsing around. It quickly became more like a casual jog with good friends than a race. It was a fantastic occasion and I met loads of great new people. You were never far from an aid station too, which was nice.

  After that, I had to travel 130 miles to the next day’s race in Somerset, the Cheddar Gorge marathon. A succession of trains got me to Wells by the late evening, but I was starving by then. I’d eaten my banana and spent my pound and I was in no mood to busk. I’d been jogging and walking for some time and was getting fed up with the bet, to be honest. It wasn’t as though I didn’t have enough to deal with already, so I cheated. I went to Tesco and bought myself dinner with some ‘emergency’ cash I’d brought with me. And I thumbed a lift from Wells into the outskirts of Cheddar, too. Sorry about that, Chris. Now I just had to find myself somewhere to sleep.

  As well as its cheese, Cheddar is famous for having the biggest gorge in Britain, and it is also the site of the Cheddar caves. In 1903, the oldest complete human skeleton in Britain was found here, who became known as Cheddar Man, and he died over 9,000 years ago. It appears to have been a violent death, with a blow to the skull in these very caves. If it was good enough for Cheddar Man, then it would do for Marathon Man. I decided to sleep in a cave that night. What better shelter would I find around here anyway? So I ended up following signs to the nearest cave.

  The town was alive with boy racers that evening. It was midnight but still garishly coloured cars with souped-up engines revved and raced around every corner. Was this what they did for fun in Somerset? I managed to cross the roads I needed to, dodged the cars and found my way to the cave. Once inside it was a little spooky. I didn’t go too far inside the entrance before laying out my sheet and getting my blanket over me. Then I was good for the night. I could still hear those V8 engines roaring around the town as I lay there, but it would have taken more than that to stop me getting to sleep.

  It’s strange to wake up in a cave, but the kind of strange that’s good in my book. It had been a little chilly in there, but I’d survived the night, which was more than Cheddar Man did.

  Just getting to the start of the race required some effort – we had to climb to the top of the gorge for that. Once the race was underway, there were lots of undulations as the course took us up and down the Mendip Hills. There were some super steep ascents and a good variety of terrain to keep things interesting, with lots of amazing views to take in as I got to run around another of Britain’s ‘Areas of Natural Beauty’. It was a real privilege.


  It was billed as a tough race and so it was. Not as tough as others I’d run, such as Bath or Scafell Pike, but challenging nonetheless. I’d recommend it to anyone who can handle the ups and downs and wants a breathtaking race. I finished in a little over five hours, then it was lifts and trains back home and a little catching up with the family before another week of Richmond Park marathons started again.

  The following weekend was a case of near and far. To begin with, I had my local course, the Thames Meander marathon, which almost went past my door in Isleworth. After that, I had to travel to the Guernsey marathon on the Sunday. It needed a bit of planning, which runs contrary to my nature. I did think about swimming there for a minute or two, believing it wasn’t far from the UK coast, but it turned out to be at least 50 miles away. Shame. Throwing a Channel swim in among the running would have got the social media channels abuzz. As I was pretty broke at the time, I booked a one-way flight to Guernsey in the end, and would have to worry about how to get back once the race was over.

  The Thames Meander route was nice and flat, starting at Kingston and following the river path down to Putney bridge before turning back on itself. Later on in the year, in October, once the deer rutting season started, I’d end up running this course several times instead of the Richmond Park one. It was nice running locally and having my son and Joanna at the race, as well as plenty of other support. I even had time to run with Alexander on my shoulders for the last couple of miles and buy him an ice cream (which he dripped all over my head). Marathon 144 was a good one. But I couldn’t hang around, as I had to catch a train to central London, then another one to Southampton airport for my flight over to Guernsey.

  That evening I met up with the race directors. With no hotel booked, I was expecting to be sleeping rough for the night. I asked them if they knew of any cosy caves in the area, which they thought was funny, then they realised I wasn’t joking. ‘We’re not having you sleep outside before our race,’ they said, and they got on the phone to arrange a hotel room for me. I was really grateful as I wasn’t in the mood for a night in the cold.

  Once in the hotel room, I contemplated sleeping on the floor rather than the bed. I’d learned that I felt better if I kept my body in a state of readiness. When I allowed my body to get too comfortable, it became sleepy and sluggish. Then it needed a few miles running before it woke up. Sometimes, however, a soft bed with a heavy duvet is just too tempting to resist. Tonight would be such a night.

  I got a great night’s sleep and arrived early at the race start. There were some bananas there for the runners, so I had a couple to get me going and a cup of very, very sweet coffee. The race itself was a good one. There were a fair amount of roads that needed crossing, so you had to watch out for traffic at times. We had a good nose around the island and passed through towns as well as countryside. The course took us up to the highest point of the island and on past sandy inlets and bays in the second half of the race. However, it was never too challenging, and I thought it was a beautiful place to run and I can imagine it’s lovely for a holiday.

  I hadn’t eaten much in the previous 12 hours, so I was a bit greedy at the aid stations and hope I left enough for the other runners. At the end there was fresh, creamy Guernsey milk for every finisher, which was a novel touch. But in many ways, that was the easy part done: now I had to find a way off the island and get back home.

  I went down to the ferry port. I can’t remember how much a single ticket back to the UK was, but it was too much. I tried to negotiate a lower price, and was told the later ferry was cheaper, but it was still too expensive – it was the holiday season, after all. I even asked if I could work on the boat for free passage, but apparently that wasn’t an option. The best I could manage was a staff discount, so I took that.

  The boat shipped out at about 3pm and I was back on the mainland three hours later. I had almost no cash and no bank cards on me now, so the rest of the trip was a challenge. Fortunately, I got a lift to the train station, but it wasn’t a Virgin route, so I had to persuade the officials to let me on the train to London without a ticket. I was very grateful for their help – it was these sorts of gestures that enabled me to keep going. The return journey was a bit undignified, begging for price reductions and free passage, but I had arrived back home, safe and sound, on Sunday night with my mind, body and, most importantly, my world record attempt still intact.

  The following week was marked by an extraordinary face plant while running in Richmond Park. It was pitch black and I didn’t have my head torch on, so I only had a little moonlight, as well as my knowledge of the course, to guide me. I was running down the biggest hill on the course, or rather falling in a controlled way. I had learnt to come quickly down hills, using my raised arms to steer me. I feel that there’s no point in braking if you don’t have to, and you might as well let gravity help you out when you can (see page 76 for more on this). But that night a deer was standing on the path. You’d think he might have realised by now that this was my route. I’d run it often enough at that time of the morning. I mean, really! He has over 2,000 acres to graze in and he needs to stand there?

  It was only when I was just a few yards away that I saw him: a great big elder, with a good set of antlers on his head. I changed direction in an instant and managed to miss him, but ended up face first in a path-side bush. Ouch! I cut my face and muddied myself up, though considering how fast I was going I got away lightly. It could have been a whole lot worse. I decided that if I ever faced a similar problem in the future, I’d jump over him as if he were a steeplechase hurdle. I’d plant one foot on his back before sailing over. You never know, it might come off.

  During that week, I passed another landmark when I ran my 150th marathon/ultra. I wasn’t feeling very good, though. I was pretty low in spirits for some reason, either through sheer exhaustion or perhaps out of disappointment at the amount of money I’d managed to raise. Either way I was in need of a boost.

  Fortunately, I got that one evening that week when I went to the Mo Farah Foundation dinner in Putney, a black-tie affair that I had been invited to through having met Mo’s agent. It’s not really my scene, in general, but I enjoyed it well enough. It was something different, and I met some top sportsmen that night including Chris Robshaw, Jermain Defoe and Mo himself, as well as the comedians Jack Whitehall and Jimmy Carr. All of them were great people, down to earth and genuinely interested in what I was trying to do.

  Despite that, when I woke up early the next morning, I was still in a slump. Joanna prodded me and said I should be getting on my way. That was a first: she was usually trying to get me to stay rather than leave. I was meant to be heading over to Milton Keynes for the Enigma Reverse marathon that morning. I’d had enough, though. Enough of running and getting up early, worrying about how I could afford to get here or there. What was I doing? And why was I doing it? People weren’t that interested, not enough to put their hands in their pockets at least. I was killing myself while the world turned. It wasn’t changing anything.

  Mr Negative had come to visit.

  About 20 minutes later and I was still in bed, my conscience wrestling with my exhaustion. My exhaustion was winning. Then I heard John Edmonds’ unmistakable voice at the door. Johnny was a New Zealander friend of Ali’s who I’d met playing rugby the previous year. He and his wife were part of Team MMUK and he’d given me countless lifts here and there; he’d been a real friend and supporter of what I was doing. Joanna let him in and I heard him walk up the stairs towards my bedroom. He stepped in.

  ‘What are you doing, buddy?’ he said. ‘Haven’t you got somewhere you need to be?’

  ‘I’m not going,’ I replied.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you sick? Are you injured? What is it?’

  ‘I’m tired, that’s all. I’m gonna sleep for a bit and then see about running later.’

  He’d never seen me like this before – no one had. Even Joanna was worried. I found out later she had contacted the MMUK te
am that morning to ask someone to come around and get me moving.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,’ Johnny said. ‘You’re going to get dressed and I’m going to drive you down to Milton Keynes for this race. When we get down there, if you still don’t want to run then I’ll just drive you back. How’s that sound?’

  ‘I’m going to stay here, Johnny,’ I said. ‘I need the sleep.’

  Then I felt his great, big, Kiwi rugby-playing arms slip under my armpits and lift me to a sitting position. ‘I’m going to take you, Rob. I’ll dress you myself if I have to, but we’d both rather you did that. Come on, you don’t want to let anyone down, do you?’

  That was it – it wasn’t all about me anymore. I was just the pinnacle of a team and under that was a whole body of support, willing me on. I knew I’d be letting a lot of people down if I quit now. I’d just given up my job for this challenge, and perhaps, deep down, I was worried about that, too. Who knows the reasons, but I was sure in a lousy frame of mind. I’m pretty stubborn, though, so this conversation with Johnny went on for a while. He wasn’t backing down though, and I was awake now, so in the end I agreed. Looking back, I think I came pretty close to quitting that weekend. It was only thanks to Joanna and Johnny that I was still on track.

  As promised, Johnny drove me up to Milton Keynes and I was 20 minutes late for the race start, but that wasn’t an issue. This was a repeat of the marathon I’d run in July. I was slower this time, completing it in 5 hours 43 minutes and, crossing the line with two other runners near the back of the field, I felt more tired than usual. I recognised I was going to need more than a couple of hours extra in bed to get back to top form.