Don't Stop Me Now

by Vassos Alexander

  The gun goes, fired by Ant or Dec or both, and we set off with a surge of adrenaline and excitement. Very soon, however, I am to learn another important race lesson (which again, I will blithely ignore in the future) – namely, that it’s hard not to set off too quickly if you’re fortunate enough to be invited to start at the front of the field. You spend the first few miles with all the genuinely fast runners surging past you, which makes you feel ridiculously slow. This in turn makes you speed up, and that’s something you end up regretting when the going begins to get tough.

  As it happens, the first few miles of the GNR are all pleasantly downhill – past the imposing St James’ Park football stadium and out of the city across the iconic Tyne Bridge. The red arrows fly overhead, red white and blue smoke arching dramatically through the sky, and any pre-race anxiety over speed, injury and endurance simply evaporates like the coloured smoke overhead. Not even Paul’s wise advice that we’re running too quickly, that we’re on for sub-80 minutes at this rate, can dampen my spirits. This is brilliant! This is easy!

  Out of Newcastle now, and on towards Gateshead. The route is lined by thousands of loud, smiling, well-wishing supporters. There’s a carnival atmosphere, families are out enjoying what must be quite a spectacle – a long, seemingly endless line of running, jogging, shuffling, determined humanity, much of it in fancy dress, all intent on the same distant finishing line. Kids hold out hands, hoping to be high-fived by the passing hordes. Generous locals have brought oranges, bananas or, best of all, Jelly Babies to give the runners a much-needed sugar boost. Everybody’s smiling.

  And in amongst all this positivity and joviality, that’s when I start to labour. Paul is brilliant, keeping up an almost constant dialogue, first to keep me focused but very soon just to keep me moving forwards. I’m comprehensively struggling as the six-mile marker comes and goes, truly paying the price for my insane speed at the start. How can I be this tired, and my knee suddenly this painful, and still not have reached half way?

  Paul comes through for me. He talks and talks and talks... and talks. I’ve since learned that this is actually his default position, talking a lot and running a lot, frequently at the same time. But with Paul yapping away beside me, pointing out people he knows, stopping for the odd photo with friends or members of his family, and regaling me with stories about his passion for running, I find I don’t have to do much thinking as the miles slowly tick by.

  I discover that Paul is a fanatical runner. On New Year’s Day 2007, he decided to go for a run. He did the same on January 2nd. And January 3rd. And then again on the 4th, 5th, 6th... Before long, he realised it had been ages since he hadn’t run on any given day, so he decided to try to fill the whole of 2007 with 365 runs, and not let a calendar day tick by without adding at least one run to his diary. So he did. He simply ran every day. Every single day, through rain, wind, sun, snow, illness and injury. He established a labyrinthine set of rules for himself, but basically (1) every run had to be outside, and (2) every run had to last at least 15 minutes. He’s now become famous in north-east England running circles as Lord of the Streak, he’s raised thousands of pounds for charity and can often be seen volunteering at local running events.

  ‘I wasn’t particularly keen on running at school. I played football, cricket, but running, take it or leave it. Then at work, some people used to run and one day I just joined in. There was a sports centre nearby, which was handy for the changing and showering, so I just started going out for runs at lunchtime. That hasn’t changed now in fact, I’ll still slot in my runs at lunchtime, or I’ll run to work, or back home – it’s amazing how you can fit your running into your working day. A lot of people use lack of time as an excuse but there’s 24 hours in a day, you can always get a run in.

  ‘But running has been particularly intense for me since 2007 when I started my streak. I’m strongly influenced by Dr Ron Hill. He’s a three times Olympian turned clothing maker and is the doctor of run streak. So I just copied him kept going, every day, kept running, until... well I recently celebrated my 3,000th consecutive day by running 30 miles around a football pitch centre circle (848 laps) dressed as Bobby Moore to raise money for two charities.

  ‘I’ve got a big spreadsheet with all my runs on it and I religiously keep that up to date. Because it’s all about the numbers. People’s birthdays. Quirky numbers. In 2012, Olympic year, I ran exactly 2,012 miles. And on 20th December that year, at 12 minutes past eight in the evening – twenty twelve on twenty twelve, Twenty Twelve – I went out and I ran 20.12 miles. It was a filthy night too, rain, wind, roads flooded, but still.’

  As he’s telling me this, I think about my knee and feel a little embarrassed to have made such a big deal about it at the start line. ‘Don’t you ever get injured?’ I ask. Paul brushes off the question, a hand gesture suggesting he’d rather we change the subject. I didn’t understand that gesture at the time, but I do now. We obsessive runners are always slightly injured, and we prefer not to dwell on the fact. Because yes, if we stop to think about it, it is a worry what we’re doing, in the long term, to our feet, ankles, knees and hips. And we do notice those occasional newspaper articles suggesting that we could be doing ourselves more harm than good. If we really paused to consider it all too closely, we might think twice before heading out on that next run.

  ‘I do get injured to be honest. But you just carry on. And people ask me if I’m ever going to stop. But why should I? It’s what I do, I run every day. I’m called Lord of the Streak, not Lord of the Non-Streak. Some people read. Some people knit. Some people smoke and drink every day. Running is what I do. Stopping would do my head in.

  ‘It’s more than just ploughing out the miles. I keep it fresh. And with Facebook and Twitter (@lordsmythe), I get messages from people. And it’s nice if I’m inspiring people by what I’m doing, or putting a smile on their faces with some of the costumes I’ve created. Sometimes I feel a little humbled by it.’

  The first glimpse of the sea on Prince Edward Road in South Shields is not especially remarkable in itself, but it’s brought joy to the hearts of a great many people. Because every year since 1981, Great North Runners young and old, experienced and inept, well over a million of them in total, have been greeted by that sight, and have known as they see it that months of training are almost certainly going to pay off, that there’s just a mile left to go. It’s where the crowds get even louder, where the finishing line first seems like a reality, and it’s where, after five or so miles of mild but steady climbing, the road veers steeply downhill to give numerous, extremely tired legs a welcome respite.

  ‘Just let your legs go, relax the muscles, you’ll be amazed how fast you go with minimal effort,’ says Paul at the top of the hill. I do as I’m told, and he’s right. To this day I remember those words whenever I’m out on a run at the top of a sharp downhill stretch. For the first time all day, I find myself overtaking people, and find I quite like the sensation. A left turn, and the finishing line comes into view. I’m finally feeling pretty good about life, until Paul points out a grey-haired man in a bright yellow vest a little way ahead of us. Apparently he’s a well-known local runner who’s still going strong in his seventies.

  ‘See if you can beat him!’

  I grit my teeth. Damn right I’m going to beat some bloke more than double my age, I think, local legend or not. I force my legs to go quicker. The ‘800m To Go’ sign is meant, I think, to give runners encouragement. But suddenly 800m seems like an awfully long way, especially with an infuriatingly speedy septuagenarian to overtake. With 400m to go, straining every sinew, I manage to inch past him and realise he’s completely oblivious to the fact that anyone’s even competing with him. He’s simply smiling, waving, soaking up the atmosphere, enjoying what for him is the annual tradition of completing the Great North Run.

  Well, sod him. One last burst of energy, using up the final dregs of fuel in the tank, and I know I’ve got him beat. Paul steers me over to the left of the finish are
a where we cross the line, blessed relief, and suddenly I’m on camera being asked how it was.

  ‘Bloody brilliant!’ I answer truthfully.

  Because even though I was slower than I’d have liked (around 1:45), even though my brother-in-law beat me by miles, even though my knee hurt throughout and for most of the race I wondered how I could possibly carry on as far as the finish, the truth is – I was hooked. What a magical way to spend a Sunday morning.

  Nicky Campbell

  Radio and TV presenter, and a keen runner. We ran together in the hills above Rustenburg during the 2010 World Cup. He’s quite quick, and looks like Forest Gump.

  It’s conceivable that Tom Hanks based Forest Gump’s running style on me. Many years ago I was living in Hampstead in North London, and I was running at the top of Highgate Hill past some beautiful Georgian houses. I saw a guy in the entrance of a house and I thought, he looks like Tom Hanks, then I realised he is Tom Hanks. I ran past and looked back, and he’d come right out onto the pavement and was staring at me, staring at my style of running. I can’t quite work out the timings here, it was either just before or just after the film. When it was out, I’d be running in the park and kids would point at me, barrack me, basically, saying ‘That’s Forrest Gump!’ So either it was before the film and Tom Hanks did base Forest Gump on me – or he thought I was deliberately taking the mickey, that I’d noticed it was him and started running like Forest Gump!

  I first ran in the first year of school. Every year they had a big race, about four or five miles, round the parks and the roads near the school, and everyone had to go in for it. The first time, running with the whole first year and second year, I remember emerging towards the finishing line, off the road and into a field, and I was fourth out of everybody. And because I realised I was good at it, I started really enjoying running.

  I did my first marathon in 2000. It was 3:20, and I decided I wanted to try to beat three hours. So I was training, and training, and running sixty or seventy miles a week. And one day I was in Scotland, running down a hill, I pushed it too far and I knackered my knee. I had to have an arthroscopy and it’s never been the same since. When the physio told me there was no way I was going to make the marathon, it felt like I was missing out on the Champions League final. I was just gutted.

  But I love it. And I’m still doing it. I can still do six miles in 46 and a half, 47 minutes which is not bad at 54. I still try and run three or four times a week. It just makes me feel better. It opens my mind and I do a lot of creative stuff, writing, music, film editing… and if I’m stuck on a problem I go for a run, come back, and I’ve solved the problem. I’ve written loads of articles when I’ve been running. I’ve written them in my head and then rushed home and put them down. It’s also the best way to stop feeling tired, the best way to give yourself a bit of va-va-voom.

  I love running with my dog now, Maxwell. We run on a Saturday and Sunday afternoon, we do six miles together. And a bit of ball work (he chucks the ball, I run for it!), we come back, I have a cup of coffee, he lies beside me and you know… that’s among my happiest moments.

  And running in the Western Highlands with him, on beaches, and up mountain tracks. Every New Year I do a 12 and a half mile run on New Year’s Day. Spectacular run. It’s winter and you can see deer and otters and it’s fantastic. So I arrive back at our gate, have a shower and a couple of Nurofen, a cup of coffee and we go over to friends and have a massive haggis lunch. And do you know what, I’ve earned that lunch – and my beer, and my whiskey...

  6

  Pink Floyd, Run Like Hell

  ‘Outlaw’ Ironman Triathlon, Mile 6

  I’m bleeding copiously, but I still feel like I’m winning. The trauma of my meteoric compulsion for the loo is fresh in my mind (although ‘fresh’ is the wrong word here, obviously) and I’m still buoyed by the fact I found a makeshift toilet in time. That the thorn bush appears to have done more damage than I thought is neither here nor there. It is, they are, literally just flesh wounds. And to be completely straight with you, I’m quite glad of the blood. It’s a glaring, indisputable sign that I’m wounded, and a palpable focus for sympathy. I’m Bruce Willis in Die Hard. Only skinnier. And sweatier.

  It’s mile six, I’m still in pain and I’m now bleeding. But remarkably, I’m quite content as I stagger past the cricket ground at Trent Bridge. For the first time since beginning the run, the beguiling thought occurs: I might actually complete this.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll complete this,’ I say to my cousin.

  We’re on the start line of my first-ever marathon, and his fifth, in Barcelona. For me, training has been less than ideal, sprinkled with your typical novice injuries, and I’ve failed to complete any run longer than around 16 miles (though it’s a little hard to be accurate as I measure my runs by time, not distance; my longest attempt was – checks exhaustive list of runs – two hours and seven minutes a fortnight before the marathon, after which my ankle apparently hurt so much I could barely stand up).

  Following the Great North Run, in the glorious aftermath of all that positive energy on the start line, the good wishes of the crowds along the way, and the euphoria of having completed it, I was naturally keen to test myself over double the distance. The big one. An actual marathon.

  I remembered when I had first decided to try to get in shape and my producer pal and I goaded each other during a crisp-fuelled break between sports bulletins, this was the holy grail we discussed, the iconic distance. The marathon was first run in Ancient Greece by a chap called Pheidippides. In about 500BC he legged it all the way from Marathon to Athens to deliver news of a military victory against the Persians. That’s why marathons are called marathons. Robert Browning gave a version of the story in his poem Pheidippides:

  So, when Persia was dust, all cried, ‘To Acropolis!

  Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due!

  “Athens is saved, thank Pan,” go shout!’ He flung down his shield

  Ran like fire once more: and the space ’twixt the fennel-field

  And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through,

  Till in he broke: ‘Rejoice, we conquer!’ Like wine through clay,

  Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died – the bliss!

  They say everybody has a marathon in them, and the fact that I’m Greek like Pheidippides definitely added to the allure. And since successfully completing 13.1 miles in South Shields, I’d been desperate to follow in the footsteps of a well-nigh national hero. But still – 26.2 miles. Such a dauntingly long way. And best not to dwell on what happened to poor old Pheidippides once he’d passed on his victorious news. Because as Browning alludes to, in quite cavalier fashion, in his poem, ‘conquer’ was actually the final word to pass Pheidippides’ (presumably parched) lips. Here was a professional messenger, used to running long distances, but this time the mileage simply did for him. This is the match report from the Roman poet Lucian:

  ‘Joy, we win!’ he said, and died upon his message, breathing his last in the word ‘Joy’.

  Well, I suppose you’ve got to hand it to Pheidippides: it’s a terrific tale, his final words were memorable and his legacy is right up there. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d swap all of the above for the simple pleasure of surviving my first marathon. Two and a half thousand years later, in the words of the London Marathon founder Chris Brasher, 26.2 miles has become ‘the great suburban Everest’.

  After the Great North Run, riding the crest of a wave of optimism and, as Pheidippides himself said, ‘joy’, I did have ambitions to replicate his exact route for my debut over the distance. So I blithely entered something called the Athens Classic Marathon. It follows precisely in those ancient footsteps from Marathon to the centre of Athens, and the plan was to make the race part of a pleasant weekend away with my cousin (also called Vassos). Visit family, have some beers, run 26 miles. What could be better?

  However, having paid the registration fee and
booked the flights and hotel, my knee essentially imploded and I was forced to withdraw. My cousin went anyway, ran anyway, and was somewhat shocked to discover that the course is uphill, constantly, all the way from mile 6 to 21. Extraordinary finish though, in the inspirational Panathenaic Stadium. It’s reconstructed from the remains of an ancient sporting arena, and it’s the only stadium in the world built entirely out of marble. One of the oldest too, and certainly one of the most beautiful. It hosted the first modern Olympics of 1896, and was again involved in the Games of 2004. It’s an absolute must-see on any trip to the Greek capital, probably second only to the Acropolis. I imagine a valedictory, victory lap of the Panathenaic Stadium at the end of a marathon, and you’ll forgive any amount of climbing to get you there.

  But apparently not. Cousin Vassos was furious about the damage the gradient had done to his finishing time, obliterating any hopes of a personal best, and he was keen to put it right as soon as possible. Having been bitten by the bug of foreign, big city marathons, he scanned the European schedule and chanced upon Barcelona. I absolutely promised to make the trip this time, though we were both busy on the Friday evening so our weekend had to be streamlined. The plan was to fly to Spain the afternoon before the race, have dinner, sleep, run, shower, and fly straight home.

  I chose the hotel, the same one I’d stayed in the previous summer whilst hosting live coverage of the European Athletics Championships. It was only when we arrived that I remembered how small and difficult to sleep in the beds were, and also that most of our athletics team in Barcelona, both radio and TV, had had their credit cards cloned. So my cousin and I were careful to take our valuables with us as we headed into the city centre to find somewhere for a simple, pre-race supper. The restaurant we wandered into was warm, welcoming, weird, wonderful – but anything but simple. Portions were huge, all of them strange Catalan concoctions involving oil, onions, pork and (on two separate occasions) snails.