Don't Stop Me Now

by Vassos Alexander

  All-time favourite UK runs, bronze medal: Thames towpath, Barnes Green, Putney Heath, Wimbledon Common and Richmond Park

  My home long run loop.

  Depending on which precise route I choose, it’s around 18 to 24 miles and to my mind the perfect combination of park, common and riverside. I know almost every puddle and pebble along the way, and love every one of them. Some days I’ll enjoy the river most, racing the rowers from Barnes to Ham at the start of the run, or from Putney back to Barnes at the end, or throwing sticks into the water for my dog to flamboyantly splash in and fetch.

  But if I’m not feeling the towpath, there are always the undulations of Richmond Park to keep me interested. How many times do I fancy climbing the grassy hill to Pembroke Lodge? Shall I stick to the outer path, just over seven miles of it, and try to break my PB? Shall I opt for the bridleway and enjoy the cushioning effect it has on my feet, like landing on a fluffy duvet? Shall I try to lose myself in the centre of the park? And however many times I run there and see the deer, I still get a thrill when I witness two stags rutting. You hear them before you see them, the roars and the grunts, almost human, but prehistoric-sounding, like a caveman on the charge, then you spy the antlers clashing in a colossal scrap for supremacy. Stunning. But I do tend to give them an extremely wide berth.

  Wimbledon Common begins literally across the A3 from Richmond Park, and much of it is pleasantly emptier than the park and the towpath, and a little solitude can feel very welcome on a long run. But if I fancy seeing others, there’s a windmill, a farm, even a golf course where the public have right of way and the players wear distinctive red tops.

  Putney Heath and Barnes Green are small but close to home, ideal for adding extra little loops before heading back onto the towpath to finish.

  Living in smelly old London as I do, I feel profoundly fortunate to have all of that on my doorstep.

  All-time favourite UK runs, silver medal: Isle of Wight

  The extended family was spending half term in a delightful cluster of cottages in the southwest corner of the island (which is the particularly pretty bit). At the time I was reaching the peak of my Ironman training and one day, as my wife, kids and a dozen or so in-laws all trooped off happily to the pub for lunch, I grudgingly headed in the opposite direction, towards the downs, to embark on a scheduled long run. I didn’t much feel like it, and it didn’t start well. My legs were still suffering the effects of a long Brick session (bike ride followed immediately by run) the previous afternoon. But after cutting across some beautiful coastal moorland and continuing upwards, towards the top of another hill, my legs – suddenly and inexplicably – began to feel as light as air. Running became genuinely effortless. It was the first of what I like to call my (all too infrequent, sadly) ‘bionic legs’ moments. I was fast, I was strong and I was free as I flew upwards past a man in tweeds out walking his dog near the Tennyson Monument. ‘Ah yes, well done young man!’ he called after me, ‘I used to be like you once, skipping up and down here for fun.’

  Nobody had ever complimented me while I was running before. I thanked him with a huge grin splitting my face. With my 40th birthday on the horizon, I was especially grateful for the ‘young man’ comment. But the whole exchange just seemed an emphatic endorsement of my decision to get fit and become a runner. There was a renewed spring in my step as I crested the top of the down and continued on.

  There were pristine cliffs on one side of me, rolling hills falling away sharply towards the sea on the other, while up ahead the island itself seemed to reach some kind of epiphany as it narrowed and pointed towards its famous Needles, the huge white bits of rock rearing majestically out of the water one after another. Not much will have changed here for hundreds of years, I remember thinking. Back in the day, it wouldn’t just have been a younger version of my friend the dog walker who was out running here, but also his parents, grandparents, generations stretching back centuries.... Running seemed to be simultaneously connecting me to my surroundings, and to the past – to those people who’d been out doing exactly what I was doing, running over the same grassy hills, enjoying the same scenery, almost tripping, for all I knew, over the exact same rocks, many years earlier.

  That, and the fact that my legs continued to feel invincible for the whole four hours, puts this run very firmly on the podium. In fact it would have won gold if it weren’t for...

  Gold medal winner and all-time favourite UK run: London Marathon

  Having been offered and gratefully accepted a media place the previous October, I proceeded to completely forget all about it. This might seem like a ludicrous thing to do (and it is) but mitigating circumstances are as follows. I’d tried and failed to get in through the ballot, and accepting a media place involved nothing more taxing than replying yes please to an email and filling in a brief form with my name, date of birth and next of kin. I was also looking forward to several cross-country races during the winter, and on the morning in question, casually decided I wouldn’t start training properly for London until late January/early February. Well, as my wife will tell you (whilst sighing, no doubt, and rolling her eyes) I can’t remember what I’m meant to be doing from one morning to the next, let alone from one season to another.

  So it came as a bit of a shock when the organisers got back in touch a fortnight before the race to ask whether I’d like to interview Mo Farah, who’d be making his debut over the distance. And by the way, they asked, how’s training going?

  Training! I’d done absolutely nothing!

  Well, absolutely nothing, relatively speaking. I’d still been out running almost every day. But the speed work I’d envisioned the previous October in a bid to finally break three hours on the streets of my home town? That simply hadn’t happened. Neither had the increased mileage you’d usually associate with the month or two leading up to a marathon. I’d been busy with radio in the morning and TV in the evening and the longest run I’d managed since the start of the year had been just over an hour and a half.

  That same day, I ran home from central London via most of the capital’s northern and western suburbs. Three hours 19 minutes, and that was pretty much all the bespoke training I managed. After that, I felt I ought to start to taper (though as my family enjoyed pointing out several times during marathon week, I’d been successfully tapering for months).

  I was never tempted to pull out though, and didn’t seriously doubt I could complete the course. But I was a little concerned that I’d end up being slightly embarrassed by my finishing time. A media place in the London Marathon is quite a public arena when you’ve not properly prepared.

  Sunday morning dawned almost perfect for marathon running, and the sunshine persuaded even more spectators than usual out onto the streets. In fact they were lining the course four or five deep most of the way round the 26.2 miles. Over a million people in total, all of them awesome.

  I can’t express it better than Michael Owen, former England striker and World Cup hero, who, like Mo, was running his first-ever marathon. As a professional footballer turned racehorse trainer and pundit, you may be surprised to learn that he receives an awful lot of abuse. Much love too, but lots and lots of abuse, mainly on social media, and frequently in person. From angry fans of any of his previous clubs’ rivals, from angry fans of any team he mildly criticises on TV or radio, from jealous people, from ignorant people... It can be difficult to continually shrug it off. But the London Marathon, he told me, restored his faith in human nature. What a lovely way to put it.

  And he’s right. If you want to see humanity at its best, just head for the Mall on London Marathon Sunday morning. Because both on the road and all about, it’s only good. The runners themselves are full of determination, grit, fitness, a cheerful refusal to give up in the face of adversity, and a sincere dedication to a quest which more often than not is charitable as well as personal.

  And around them are tidal waves of warm wishes. People don’t tend to set out to watch a big city marathon filled
with cynicism. Or to any marathon, come to that, or indeed any running race, from a junior parkrun upwards. People go to clap and cheer and support, and nowhere do they do it more loudly and in greater numbers than in London. When you’re running, it’s deeply humbling.

  That’s why I have such fond memories of the London Marathon. I’d been apprehensive at the start, but as it turned out my lack of training was a blessing. It meant I could jog round without any time pressure and simply soak up the atmosphere. It meant I could meet people and have quick chats on the way round: where are you from, why are you running, what time are you hoping for? And when I crossed the line in 3:13, around ten minutes slower than I’d been hoping for but easily fast enough not to feel embarrassed, I vowed I’d return the following year – not as a runner, but as a spectator. I wanted to make sure I was the one offering cheers, love and Jelly Babies when the runners needed it most. It seemed only fair.

  So that’s exactly what I did 12 months later. Despite a late, boozy party the night before, I was up at 6:30am to complete a long training run – my next marathon was five weeks away – and by 10:30 I had the family on the tube heading towards the Embankment. We bought a dozen bumper packs of Jelly Babies, joined the crowds lining the route and spent the next two hours applauding, encouraging, cheering, and handing out sweets. And eating quite a few ourselves. But the experience of clapping and giving proved even better than the previous year when I was running and receiving.

  The London Marathon is simply us at our best. That’s why it’s number one.

  Jonny Brownlee

  World Triathlon Champion, World Sprint Triathlon Champion, Olympic medalist. When fully fit, he and brother Alistair, Olympic and World Champion, have simply dominated the sport. A strong believer in running on different surfaces to develop strength and balance.

  I can’t remember going out for my first ever run. My main early memory of running was when I entered the cross-country race for the whole of our primary school. I was only in Year Two, so I’d have been 6 or 7. The race was on a Thursday lunchtime and I just turned up for it. I felt like I was just running around, but I ended up coming second behind Alistair. That was a massive shock to me. That was my first proper race.

  In fact before that I used to swim so I hadn’t actually run all that much, just kind of running for fun. And I remember that school cross-country because in my mind it was enjoyable more than anything. Going out and running around the school grounds, around the playing field, up and down the hills, and that feeling of achievement when you finish.

  That still stays with me now, absolutely. It’s changed a little bit, it’s got a bit more serious, but that sense of achievement at the end of a run does stick with me. And it’s such a simple sport. That’s what I’ve always enjoyed about running. The fact that all you need is a t-shirt, some shoes and off you go. You can do it anywhere you like. And you can always fit a short run in, whether you want to run for 20 minutes or 60 minutes or 90 minutes. You can always fit it in.

  I do actually miss running for fun a little. Nowadays, my running is always training. Since I’ve started training properly, every single run I do has got to be for a reason, the recovery run, or a track session. I rarely get the opportunity to just go out and run for pleasure, which is a shame really.

  But the really slow runs, the recovery runs, you know, the ones that take about an hour – I still enjoy those, definitely. I like to explore new areas and just go where I want. And when I’m running, then I might be thinking about anything, really. The world, just normal things, absolutely anything. I don’t really think about technique or anything like that. Just random thoughts.

  And sometimes running can help to clear my head. I can start a run thinking about something, and I can end up thinking about something completely different. That’s the great freedom of running, how it can clear your head, definitely.

  My perfect run would be to start in a small forest and up a small hill to get me going (you always want to start up a hill to get the muscles going). And then I’d run on to the top of a beautiful moor so I’ve got great views of the valley. And it’s a nice soft surface, a grassy surface. There’s lots of beautiful views and river crossing or two, and a lot of change in the scenery – a bit of moorland and a bit of forest, but all very soft underfoot. No music for me, I’m just taking in the birds and the environment and just thinking my own thoughts. No music, and no Tarmac, all completely off road. And then it finishes down a little hill. That’s my perfect run. And your dinner always tastes a thousand times better after a run like that.

  16

  OneRepublic, Love Runs Out

  ‘Outlaw’ Ironman Triathlon, Mile 16

  I wish I’d thought to bring a cap. In my mind, I don’t need one. In my mind, I am a swarthy Greek who doesn’t burn and who certainly doesn’t need to wear protection from the sun in the northern English Midlands. But I’m wrong on all counts. Almost all counts; I’m right about being Greek. But swarthy, not so much. I was born in London and despite spending almost every day of every childhood summer in Greece, the British winters won and robbed me of any claims to swarthy. I even burn on holiday faster than my blue-eyed, fair-skinned English wife. So yes, I wish I’d thought to bring a cap. Absolutely everybody else is wearing one. And it’s not just the burning issue I’m fretting about on this baking hot day, the athletic exertions are proving much more tiring in the full glare of the sun.

  I’ve been thinking about the cap situation on and off for 15 miles, ever since removing the bike helmet and starting the run, but now, remarkably, as I round a corner, I notice a discarded cricket-style hat, dirty-white and a little saggy-looking, just ahead of me in the scrub. For a brief moment, I consider that it may be a mirage; it’s just too perfect sitting there invitingly on a bed of nettles and offering me the chance to spend the next 10 miles under its shade. But it isn’t a mirage, and its presence feels like a minor miracle.

  Only slight issue: if I took it, would it technically constitute stealing? Possibly. It doesn’t look like someone will come back for it, but then again if one of my kids found, say, a football in similar circumstances and asked me if they could have it, I’d most certainly tell them no. I’m therefore on fairly shaky moral ground if I want to take the hat. I can’t pretend, even to myself, that I would merely be borrowing it, if for no other reason than after a few minutes on my blood-, sweat- and dirt-encrusted head, nobody in their right mind would want it back. Annoyingly, agonisingly, I conclude that the right thing to do is to leave the hat where it sits and continue without it. After all, I’ve got this far without one. Better to carry on with my head held high, even if that head is exposed to energy-sapping heat and relentless sunshine for another 10 miles.

  Yep, decision made then: don’t take the hat. It’s emphatically the wrong thing to do. Better to be true to yourself, follow your conscience, and leave the hat where it is.

  Obviously, I take the hat.

  One of my favourite things in the world is parkrun. For the uninitiated, a parkrun (one word, small p) is a free, timed 5k run held in a park near you every Saturday morning at 9am. In our family, we’re regulars.

  Imagine the London Marathon, scaled down to around 10% of the length and 1% of the general size – but every bit as good. This isn’t a big national event held annually and televised live on BBC1; this is lots and lots of equally laudable small events held simultaneously all over the country, whatever the weather, every single weekend of the year. Every run is completely free to take part in, and staffed entirely by unpaid volunteers. Again, running brings out the good stuff.

  Which is why Saturday morning round ours looks something like this. We all wake up whenever the first child does – usually the baby, and usually annoyingly early. All pile downstairs for a small breakfast, mess around for a while, maybe get started on some homework, and change into running kit by around 8:30. Then we grab the dog (because dogs, brilliantly, are welcome too) and head for one of the six parkruns within about a parkrun’s
distance of our front door.

  By we, I mean the two older kids, 11-year-old Emily and nine-year-old Matthew, and me. Occasionally Caroline joins us too with baby Mary in the buggy, which then gives me the chance to leave the kids with their mum and try for a rare 5k PB.

  But nine Saturdays out of ten it’s just the three of us, and our tacit agreement is that I’ll always run with whichever child is slower on the day. They’re about the same speed, my two, so on any given morning that could be either of them. It’s surprisingly difficult to predict which.

  We’ll all set off together and before long one of the kids will kick on and the other will start falling behind, so one disappears off ahead whilst I have a pleasant jog and chat with the other. It’s all smiles at the finish, then straight to the local baker for croissants and home for a big family breakfast. And by 10:30 on Saturday morning, while many families may still be dithering and lingering, we’ve taken the dog out, exercised together, eaten together (even the baby gets a croissant), and we’re ready for whatever the rest of the weekend has to throw at us feeling like we’ve already won. And if anyone gets a PB, we upgrade those croissants to doughnuts.

  But parkrun doesn’t stop at getting people active. It’s also about the atmosphere, the all-encompassing positivity. Very different to a junior football or rugby match, where there are increasingly large problems with pushy parents screaming on the touchlines, criticising referees, berating coaches and hollering at their offspring and others to Tackle! Shoot! Come ON! Even at the Friday evening five-a-side league my son plays in, I’m appalled by how much victory seems to matter to the parents. Not to the kids, mind you, but to the parents.

  But then the following morning, during our Saturday parkrun, the change in mood is all the more striking. There you’ll see mums and dads cheerfully encouraging other people’s children – even those overtaking their own. Because a run isn’t, and certainly shouldn’t be, all about winning. It’s about being the best you can be. And at parkrun, people seem to get that.