Don't Stop Me Now

by Vassos Alexander

  The blisters began within the first mile of course, and grew steadily worse with every passing minute. After 11 and a half hours of off-road running in shoes almost as old as those ancient stones, my feet, once I’d managed to peel off my socks, looked like they’d been battered with a hammer. Still, totally deserved – what sort of fool forgets to bring running shoes to any race, let alone a first ultra? – and hopefully I’ve now learned my lesson.

  Actually, make that lessons. The other one being – don’t race a triathlon the day after your first ultra. Which is what I ended up doing on the Sunday in Derby, having promised Jenson Button I’d enter his excellent sprint tri, which raises money for Cancer Research UK. The swim was fine, really enjoyable in fact, and nice to be exercising at high intensity after a long day of slow jogging. The bike leg was also OK, if a little feeble. But the run wasn’t half sore. In the middle of the previous night, I’d woken up starving and chosen to stay awake in bed knowing sleep was impossible without food, rather than suffer the pain of descending two flights of stairs to the kitchen on legs that were merrily seizing up. And hours later, with my legs only getting worse, I found myself trying to sprint round a triathlon course. Great event, lovely atmosphere... terrible planning on my part.

  Also in Derby, less than 24 hours after being absolutely convinced I would never take on anything longer than the Race to the Stones, and even as the post-race pain was at its peak, Tim and I began tentatively texting each other about that 100-mile belt buckle. I suddenly found myself determined to earn one. I mean 100 miles, it’s the gold standard...

  Speaking of which, the best analogy about ultra running arrived during that text exchange, courtesy of something Tim had just read on a forum.

  ‘Ultra-marathons are like kids’ parties. There’s chocolate, cake, crisps, squash – and lots of silly running around.’

  Scott Forbes

  Winner of the Race to the Stones. A former professional triathlete, he’s now a long-haul pilot for British Airways as well as a competitive athlete.

  I remember being at prep school when I was about nine, being sent on punishment runs but actually loving it. This was when cross country was a punishment – and there was me enjoying it. I’d be sent on a run and I’d be thinking, ‘This is great. I’m getting outside, I’m free’, and I think the enjoyment side means you try a bit harder. I started competing when I was about 10, doing county stuff, and it just went on from there.

  I got into triathlon when I was about 15, then went to Loughborough University, turned professional and spent about three or four years racing on the pro circuit trying to get into the 2000 Olympic Games at Sydney. Unfortunately, just before the Games I got injured and dropped out of the squad.

  I needed a different direction, so went off and trained to be a pilot. Then when I was flying I didn’t have enough time to do the three disciplines, so I focused on the cycling. I did quite well at that, winning national mountain bike titles and bits and pieces, but broke my neck in a bike accident and almost lost my life.

  Too much metal work in my neck means I can’t really cycle now, because if I have an accident then it’s all over. So I’ve had to find a sport that would challenge me without being quite so dangerous and running was the obvious answer. I’ve always liked it, and I thought, ‘Well, ultra-marathons seem to be the new mid-life crisis, so I’ll give it a go’. And it turned out to be a good fit.

  I’m loving it – loving the challenge, loving the diversity. No race is ever the same. If you do a 10k you start comparing yourself to your previous time and you’re worrying about seconds and half seconds. There’s no way you can compare an ultra-marathon with any course you’ve ever done before, or even the same course in a different year. Things are so different, so every time you compete, it’s a new event, which is brilliant. You never get bored.

  You go in with an intention of performing well but you have no idea how you’re going to do until literally the last 10 minutes when you can really think to yourself, ‘Right, this is how I’ve done’, because anything could happen in these races. You can blow up half-way through, or get half an hour’s lead before some guy comes through with five miles to go. It’s so variable, you never know what’s going to happen and I love that. You can’t predict anything. You enter the race, take on the course, and you see how you feel at the end.

  But being a pilot, and a new father, I find I have to be really quite ingenious to find time to train. For instance, I run every day, but I try and do it in the evenings, either on the treadmill or outside with a head torch. Sometimes I’ll go out for lunch with my wife and afterwards she’ll drop me 10 miles from home and I’ll run back. Or if I’m getting my car serviced in town I’ll drop it at the garage and I’ll do a long run home then run back and pick it up later. I do a lot of my running when I’m abroad. I’ll get changed at the airport, give my bags to another crew member to take on the bus and run to the hotel and meet them there. You work it into your life; you find out where you can fit training around what you would normally be doing. It’s about being economical and clever.

  When I won the Race for the Stones, I’d been getting time checks at the aid stations, and each time I got to a new checkpoint they’d say, ‘You’ve got a 10-minute lead’, and then, ‘half-an-hour lead’, and then with seven miles to go one lady told me, ‘You’ve got an hour lead.’ So I eased up a little and thought I wouldn’t blow myself apart, I’d come in nice and easy. And as I was running down that final hill, coming off the ridge, turning right towards the farm, I looked over my shoulder and there was the second placed guy right on my heel, literally 50 yards behind me. And he was absolutely pacing it.

  I thought ‘Holy crap!’ And just had to drop in my last two miles, down the hill to the farm, the loop round the stones, and then back up the way you’d come and into the finishing straight. I was doing six-and-a-half minute miles for those two miles. I had to really pull it out of the bag, so it actually turned into a sprint finish after nine hours. It was close, really close, and I loved that.

  It was a great race, but I didn’t know I had it won until I got onto that final straight towards the finishing arch. That was the only time in the entire race, the last 300 yards of a 62.2-mile race, that I could see him over my shoulder and thought, ‘I’ve got enough of a lead to keep this.’ For nine hours I hadn’t seen anybody at all. I’d gone from the gun trying to blow everybody else apart. I’d known I was going quite well but then came the massive shock of seeing him tearing down the hill just behind me. Terrific race.

  26

  The Beatles, Run for Your Life

  ‘Outlaw’ Ironman Triathlon, Mile 26

  It’s still surprisingly tough going, even though I can practically taste the finishing line. Actually, what I can practically taste is the posh burger I’ve promised myself as a reward. Big, rare and juicy in a fresh white bun with lots of ketchup and a nice cold lager. I’ve been contemplating this meal for months, have identified where in Nottingham I am going to get it, checked that they’re open on a Sunday evening, and have even given up burgers for the past few months, just so it will taste better when I finally bite into it.

  Then I see my children, Emily and Matthew, running towards me. Every time I’ve envisioned finishing over the past few hours, I was holding their hands as I crossed the line. They must have intuitively understood that for the final few yards I want them, no – more than that, I need them to be with me.

  Because, you know, in a funny sort of way, this has been as much about Emily and Matthew as it has been about me.

  Those long months of training, the thousands of lengths up and down the 20m pool in my local gym, the six-hour slogs on the bike to Box Hill through freezing wind and rain, the return home only to head straight back out for a run even though my legs felt like over-cooked spaghetti and my hands were too numb with cold to turn the key in the lock, let alone tie my laces – it was all building up to today, when I wanted to see if I could push myself to my very limits. And thanks
to the somewhat shambolic way I’ve gone about race day – I’ve succeeded, at least, in that. Which is all that matters really. Not my finishing time; not what position I come. Just to push myself to my extreme, to be on the point of exhaustion, to know that all the pain goes away just by stopping, but then choosing not to stop, choosing to carry on.

  Because the thing is, I felt I needed to do something like this to make the transition, in my own head, from boy to man. Even though I’m about to turn 40, until this day, until this moment, I’ve never felt like a proper grown-up. But I reckon it’s about time to start. A boy can be a dad, but a man can be a father. So kids, this one’s for you. And more than that, it’s for your mum too. Caroline and I have been together since I was a boy (and she was a girl) but it’s high time I grew up for her as well.

  So as I approach the finish line, I know I’m changing. Ever so slightly, and probably nobody will be able to tell the difference – but to me, this is crucial.

  I’d never swum in open water before today, never taken part in any swimming event come to that, never cycled with anyone else let alone as part of an organised race, and never, as a competitor, been anywhere near a triathlon.

  So on some level, I knew that if I could get to the start line, and then at some stage during the day reach my physical limit and keep going, then I could also break down my mental barrier to turning 40. And it’s worked.

  Suddenly I don’t much care if I’m not a young man anymore; in fact I prefer not to be, and I reckon I’m going to become a better husband and father, a better man, because of that.

  As that thought takes shape, it’s like I’ve downed a shot of strong contentment. Then, as always happens at the end of a race, even such a gruelling one, my legs get a second wind. Suddenly I feel like I can sprint to the finish. I try to do just that... and discover that I really can. I even have to slow down so the kids can keep up. This is what it’s all about.

  I really do love running. I think you’ve probably got that if you’ve read this far. It’s the first thing I want to do if I have any time to myself – and the more the merrier. I also hope more and more people give running a go. The trend is definitely encouraging. The latest figures released by Sport England in 2015 show the number of people running at least once a week is up 63,000 to 2.1 million. The graphs for the rest of the UK are equally promising.

  It’s a far cry from the 1970s and ’80s when I grew up and runners were viewed with mild pity. At primary school, I secretly used to enjoy the compulsory two-mile loop around the streets of suburban London during PE lessons. I would pretend not to. Everybody else was moaning on the way back to school, so I thought I’d better not admit that this running thing wasn’t all that bad. Because back then, certainly at my school, saying you enjoyed running was equivalent nowadays to admitting a predilection for reading texts in Latin – a bit impressive, but a lot weird.

  Then, by the time I got to secondary school all my energies were focused on avoiding sport and trying to be cool and rebel. What an idiot. I frequently wish I’d taken up running in my teens or at least in my twenties.

  But perhaps it’s for the best that I didn’t. If I’d always run, I would doubtless have been less impressed by the simple power it has of transforming a life. I’ve watched with increasing pride as my two older kids have benefited from starting to run, reluctantly at first, but now gladly and willingly (or, in Emily’s case, almost willingly). Their own stories come at the end of the final chapter, but I can honestly tell you it’s one of the best things I’ve ever done for them. I look at their flushed faces at the end of our Saturday morning run, especially when they’ve done something cool like complete a first 10k or break the family parkrun record, and it makes me want to burst with pleasure. Neither of them is going to become a seriously good athlete, but that’s totally not the point. They don’t need to, or want to. They do need – and want – to be the best that they can be.

  Same with me. Same with everyone. I’d never have been anything better than quite good. But since that first run ended embarrassingly with me wheezing against a lamppost a few hundred yards from my house, I simply became someone who fell in love with running, and stuck at it.

  Running also enriches the lives of others around you. My kids are a case in point. So is my wife, who struggled for months for motivation to regain her fitness after the birth of our third child, but watched me and the kids go running together every week and thought, sod it, I want some of that. So she bought herself some new trainers and now looks fitter, leaner and even more gorgeous than she did in her twenties. There are also several people who work at Radio 2 who’ve been bitten by the running bug and look generally shinier and happier because of it. We’ve already heard from super-producer Graham.

  I’m hoping that some of the UK’s hardest to reach young people will be offered an introduction to this extraordinary sport as well. For several years now I’ve been an ambassador for a wonderful charity called SkillForce. They try to make a difference in the lives of young people most at risk of under-achievement or exclusion from school. Kids that for one reason or another look like they could be heading towards trouble. It’s mostly ex-servicemen and women, who themselves can feel rudderless after leaving a career in the armed forces, who help these young people. I’ve seen them in action and they’re inspirational.

  Prince William is the royal patron and lends his name to the SkillForce award. He puts it like this. ‘SkillForce does remarkable work with young people: the staff are predominantly ex-service men and women who use their extensive life experience and leadership skills to encourage pupils to stay engaged.’

  Well, just recently I was having a coffee with the charity’s chief executive Ben Slade and estimable director Liz Manning and we came up with the idea of the SkillForce Run in primary schools. Hopefully it will fast track some of that positivity around running into the people who need it most.

  Every time it does that, it’s a big win.

  Ryan

  I recently met Ryan whilst running over Hammersmith Bridge. He was coming the other way, round a buttress, and all of a sudden... crash! Skull onto skull, we were both knocked a little dizzy. We shot each other accusatory looks (his one to me was particularly menacing) but we seemed to realise simultaneously that this was nobody’s fault. However, we did need a moment to recover, so as we sat overlooking the water on a convenient wooden bench built into the bridge, which I’d never noticed before, Ryan told me how he’d chanced upon running. It’s a great tale, this. He agreed I could include it in the book as long as I didn’t use his last name. Which, it occurs to me now, he never told me anyway.

  I was in fights at school, lots of fights. Lots of other trouble. And then one day, just another fight, not even that bad, but this time they said, ‘That’s it, enough.’ And chucked me out. Looking back, the way I was heading, I was maybe heading inside. I was angry all the time, looking for reasons to kick off and I didn’t care about myself, or anything. Negative. Horrible. I live in the estate there and we’ve had problems with gangs. There was a stabbing a while back and at night you hear so much shouting.

  Then my mate’s uncle, he said I should try running with him. I didn’t want to, it looked tough. It was tough, first time. I didn’t have any proper gear so I just went in my normal clothes – my mate’s uncle said that was fine. I’m glad I said yes. Couple of days later I went for a run by myself. Not long – just 10 minutes or something – but when I got back I realised I was pleased with myself, and maybe that was the first time, properly. It’s like, when you’ve done something good, and feeling good not horrible, and after that you chase after the good feeling again. It made a big difference for me.

  I’m running now three times a week. Four, maybe. One week I ran every day. And I’m much calmer, like my attitude has improved. It’s like I respect myself, and if I feel respected then I’m OK. Also, it’s shown me I can push myself and improve. Get faster and go further.

  And now, I rarely ever even think about
doing the same things that I was doing back then. It’s like I’m running now, and I’m going the right way.

  26.2

  Queen, Don’t Stop Me Now

  ‘Outlaw’ Ironman Triathlon, final 385 yards

  Past the marker showing 385 yards to go, and I think the kids are slightly regretting their decision to come onto the course and join me so early. I can see Matthew’s mind working furiously as he tries to compute exactly how long a run he’s let himself in for.

  As both he and his sister Emily can tell, there’s absolutely no way I’m letting go of their hands. I’m about to have my big cathartic moment, and I need them with me. In fact, I fully expected to be crying right now. I’m not a big crier generally, but over the past 12 hours, whenever I’ve thought about crossing the finishing line, whenever I envisioned what it would be like, I started welling up.

  But now as it comes to it, with my beloved children alongside me, all I feel is deep contentment. This transcends happiness, transcends elation, transcends celebration. It literally does not get better than this. Except that it does. Because when it comes to it, the big cathartic moment I’ve been building up to simply isn’t necessary.

  We cross the line and I’m inspired to borrow the microphone from the tireless guy on the public address system. I find myself wanting to say a heartfelt thank you to the volunteers who’ve been magnificent all day: passing us water and gels, smiling, encouraging, applauding – all out of selfless altruism. I didn’t plan to do it, and didn’t really know what I was going to say when I grabbed the mic. But it’s the perfect way to end an experience that’s become too much about me. Thank you, everybody else. I couldn’t have done it without you.