Wheelchairs, Perjury and the London Marathon

by Tim Marshall

  Back to the marathon. The direct approach obviously was going nowhere, and there seemed no point in expecting anything to come from any future approach to B&D; other directions would have to be found. Before re-starting the crusade, however, there was work to be done in the form of more marathons in more places.

  I was attracted by the Piccadilly Marathon in June, not least because of its unusual timing. Most races started on Sunday mornings, usually 11 o’clock, though variations on this time were quite common. One consequence of this was that, except for the advent of gales such as had occurred in Norfolk (and were to recur later that year on the Humber Bridge race), air temperatures rose gradually during the race, just as you, the runner, wanted them to fall because you were getting warm. But the Piccadilly started at 4 o’clock on the Saturday afternoon, so the air temperature was cooling down as you were warming up.

  There was no headstart, so I insinuated myself somewhere near the front of the thousands of runners, taking care not to chop any ankles while the runners became strung out during the early part of the race. I knew nothing of the course beforehand (as was usually the case), but it seemed pretty flat – good for wheelchairs – until about 8 miles in when there was a short, steep climb of maybe half a mile. Lots of runners came past as I slowly pushed up the hill, but the pay-off came immediately after, as the height gained was gradually lost over 3 or 4 miles – an ideal arrangement for wheelchairs, as by now the runners were well-separated and the wheelchair could zip past at 15 mph or even faster.

  The rest of the course was pretty flat, memorable mainly for the passage through Moss Side. This area had a dreadful reputation for crime, especially drugs and guns, but pushing through it almost every doorstep had people outside clapping and screaming like mad as we came past their house. And then, less than a mile from the finish, who should catch me up but Gerry Kinsella. He must have started further back in the pack than me, but being faster had slowly caught me up. And now here he was, and though I tried to stay with him for the last few hundred yards, he gradually eased ahead to finish in 1 second over 3½ hours, with me 29 seconds behind. This, obviously, was slower than his time on the Humber Bridge the year before, but later this year he lowered his own personal best, and the British record, to 3h 1m on the Mersey Marathon. The 3-hour barrier was getting very close.

  I wrote to the organisers afterwards, congratulating them on a brilliant course, and asking them about the possibility of a headstart in future. They replied, thanking me for the comment on the course, but saying that the AAA insisted that where there were wheelchairs in a race, they must start at the back. I never did discover which bit of the organisation had promulgated this advice – rule, even – because it was clearly contrary to what had become routine practice in North America, and to what our limited experience in Britain had already shown was best practice. And I wondered whether the AAA had turned a blind eye to the Great North Run, at whose second running in June Alan Robinson won the wheelchair event for the second time, in 1 hour 32 minutes; or whether they simply didn’t know what was going on up there.

  The following year, in the pre-race publicity, Alan’s achievement occasioned a half-page feature article in the supplement produced by the local newspaper, headed “He’s King of the Road”. And, as part of the inclusion of wheelchair racing to which such publicity contributed, the official entry form for 1983, in addition to all the usual questions, had a final question which read: “Do you intend to take part in a self-propelled wheelchair?” That’s all that it took to effect a complete normalisation of the wheelchair section, with the main race administration embracing all the elements needed to run a successful event. (Later, it became obvious that other elements were needed: if you wanted to make the race an international event, there would be the question of arranging accommodation for overseas visitors; and for point-to-point courses, arranging to transport everyday wheelchairs from start to finish; but these were a long way in the future for us.)

  Back to business. Mike O’Flynn must have been well in post by now, because he embarked on some correspondence with the AAA over the “ruling” that had emerged over wheelchairs starting behind the runners. Mary Glen Haig, the BSAD president, who had fenced for the UK as far back as the 1948 Olympics, and who subsequently became a Dame and a full member of the IOC, suggested writing to Arthur Gold, of the European Athletic Association, seeking to enlist his support in changing the ruling. Mike adduced times recorded in both the USA and in Britain.

  Arthur Gold (later Sir Arthur) replied, pointing out (correctly) that neither the AAA or the IAAF had any jurisdiction over the running of wheelchair marathons. He agreed that wheelchairs trying to negotiate their way through a crowd of runners in front was not a good idea, but supposed that, with the times reported from the USA, the wheelchairs must surely be geared, “like ten-speed bicycles”, and suggesting a direct approach to Squire Yarrow, president of the AAA. Mike replied, disabusing him of the notion of geared wheelchairs, and wrote to the AAA. Squire Yarrow replied stating that the AAA had not laid down any specific rules about the conduct of races in which there was a wheelchair section. We never discovered how the contradiction arose, nor whether there was ever any formal guidance issued by the AAA as to the future conduct of races; but the idea of a headstart seemed gradually to be adopted by race organisers all over the country.

  From somewhere I had picked up the hint of a view that some people still held that wheelchairs and runners were actually in direct competition, and whichever one of them finished in front had “beaten” the other. We needed to squash this notion fast, or it would severely damage the concept of integrated racing that had been developing. I wasn’t in a position, and nor was BSAD, to issue a “decree” to individual athletes or race organisers explaining the “correct” way of looking at things, but I used a back-door approach to try to clear up one angle. Another of my post-graduate students, Paul Gully, from the same cohort as Dee, who had shepherded me round Bassenthwaite, wanted to try a marathon for the first time. We suspected that any race which declared that runners and wheelchairs were in direct competition would automatically be de-recognised as far as the running times were concerned, so I got Paul to write to the IAAF:

  “Dear Sir

  I am considering taking part in a marathon which will be held under IAAF regulations, and as I understand that persons in wheelchairs will be taking part I am wondering whether my time for this event would be regarded as official.

  Yours sincerely …”

  “Dear Mr Gully

  Thank you for your letter concerning the forthcoming marathon in which you will be participating.

  There is nothing in IAAF rules to prevent your time being completely official. We wish you all the best in the competition.

  Yours sincerely …”

  Little by little. The international governing body hadn’t expressed any opposition to wheelchair participation, which, apart from the issue of direct or parallel competition, seemed to leave the matter in the hands of individual race organisers.

  I discussed how else to pursue the London business with Mike O’Flynn, at the same time as we had decided to go to the AAA and the IAAF. I think it was Liz Dendy who first suggested trying the Greater London Council, then the local authority governing London, and at that time under Labour control (but please keep her name out of it, as a senior officer in the Sports Council). The crucial point here was that the roads used for the race were public roads under the notional control of the Greater London Council, the GLC. If the GLC was known for anything it was for supporting minority or disadvantaged groups: women, ethnic minorities, people with disabilities, and so on. Surely they would at least listen to us?

  As with national government, there were two groups of people involved: the politicians and the civil servants; in this context, we’re talking about councillors and local government officers. As with all councils, there were different areas of responsibility: Education, Housing, Social Services , and so on. And in London, Arts a
nd Recreation, which included Sport. The chief officer for A&R was Lord Birkett, whilst the chair of the committee, at that time a GLC councillor but not yet an MP, was Tony Banks. And then we discovered that one of the governors of the race was Illtyd Harrington, who was chairman of the GLC and Ken Livingstone’s deputy. This all looked promising. The approach to the GLC began in June, and stretched right through to the 1983 race (April 17th) and beyond. Unrealised by us at the start, this contact became a hugely important part of the ultimate denouement, and it seems better to present this aspect of the story as an integrated whole, uninterrupted by other matters going on at the same time, but which were in essence isolated events without a contribution to the main story as it unfolded during the autumn and early new year.

  Humber Bridge

  I entered the Humber Bridge race with the explicit intent to break Gerry Kinsella’s time of 3h 15m set the year before. (At this point I don’t think I’d heard of his time in the Mersey Marathon.) The course looked quite good, starting at the western edge of the city, going west along the A63 to the bridge, then once over that turning south-east towards Grimsby. Alas, just as in the Norfolk marathon, the weather was foul, only even worse than Norfolk, with a wild southerly gale and slashing rain most of the way. I didn’t even break 4 hours, let alone the 3 I’d hoped for, and so retreated, somewhat chastened, back to the Midlands. It was the last race of the year for me.

  Ullswater

  But not quite the last event. Stephen had been working on the Ullswater problem. He ascertained that I had a canoe (the Caranoe, which I still had on loan from BSAD and which they didn’t call back until 1984). Sarah, who had seen me round Thirlmere back on New Year’s Day in 1981, was willing to act as part of a canoe escort, and she brought her boyfriend along to help. Stephen, who had wide contacts in the world of outdoor recreation, arranged for a couple of his canoeist friends to be part of the party, too. So the plan was for the canoeists to assemble at first light at Howtown, halfway down the east side of the lake, and to paddle across the south-east corner to the shingle beach at Glenridding. There, Stephen and Wendy would be waiting with the Hofmeister wheelchair, which I would hop into, and then we would proceed much as we had round Windermere: Wendy in the car and Stephen with me on the road, stopping every so often for refreshments.

  It was nearly a disaster before we started. Sarah lived in a village just north of Leeds, her place being the last stop before taking off for Stephen’s in Kendal (to drop the Hofmeister wheelchair). The Caranoe was tied on to my roof-rack with bungees, lots of them, with the open cockpit uppermost. It was a very gusty afternoon, with the van frequently being buffeted by side-winds. At the northern end of the Doncaster by-pass there was an extra-strong gust and I had a vision of something being blown across the motorway. Someone behind flashed their lights energetically, so I stopped, got out – and discovered there was no Caranoe on the roof. It had been blown off the roof-rack, across the north-bound carriageway, the central reservation, and the south-bound carriageway, onto the verge and down an embankment, all without touching any other vehicle travelling in either direction. It would have been at the perfect height for smashing into the side of a south-bound coach, had one been passing at the right time…

  At least two vehicles on the north-bound side had stopped, as had one on the other carriageway who had seen what had happened. Apart from the potential disaster which by some miracle I had escaped, I presumed that I’d have to continue to the end of the by-pass, go right round the roundabout and take the south-bound carriageway, stop by the embankment and, using the man who had stopped on that side, pick up the Caranoe, proceed southwards to the next exit, turn right round again and come back up north. Not a bit of it. The two men on the north-bound side ran across the motorway – both carriageways – to meet up with the man on the south-bound side, retrieve the Caranoe from the embankment down which it had been blown, carry it up to road level, then run across both carriageways with the Caranoe, before shoving it into the van and saying goodbye. I’d had to get into the van first, because I couldn’t get in once the Caranoe was in (and similarly, if I were in before the Caranoe was put in, I couldn’t get out). At Sarah’s, the Caranoe was tied much more firmly onto the roof-rack, and I left for Kendal (to drop the Hofmeister) while Sarah and boyfriend went directly to Howtown. They had already turned in when I arrived.

  It was a wild night, with a lot of rain and gusting wind buffeting the side of the van, so I didn’t sleep very well. And in the morning, when we were expecting a couple of canoeist friends of Stephen to turn up – nothing, no one. The weather had calmed down a lot since overnight, and after waiting as long as we dared, the three of us set off, before it was fully light. The journey across wasn’t too bad – I remember having to raft up on a couple of occasions, but neither lasted very long – and as we approached the beach at Glenridding, there seemed to be quite a large reception party, certainly more than just Stephen and Wendy.

  And indeed, there were more, including the two canoeists whom we had expected to be paddling with us across the lake. Early in the morning they had together decided that no one would be daft enough to try to paddle across the lake in those conditions, especially not a disabled person, so they hadn’t set out. (I never thought to ask them what on earth was the point of coming to the beach if they didn’t think anyone would be paddling across.) They were extremely embarrassed, as well they might have been. Anyway, after a brief stop – I had switched from the Caranoe directly into the Hofmeister (my everyday chair was back in the van at Howtown), some refreshments and saying goodbye to Sarah and boyfriend – I set off with Stephen and Wendy.

  The road along the west side of Ullswater is quite narrow and twisty. From time to time there is a lay-by on the lake side of the road, where the road has been slightly straightened (rather as an ox-bow lake is formed). Stephen was quite busy slowing down/fending off cars coming from behind, where the road bent left round a bluff, obscuring sight of the road ahead – and me from behind. But there were straight sections, and at one point a few miles up the road, a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow in British Racing Green glided elegantly past – with a beautiful, polished, wooden full-sized Canadian canoe strapped to a roof-rack. Not a sight you would expect to see, anywhere.

  Round the next corner, there was a lake-side lay-by with the Rolls Royce parked in it, and in the middle of the road a stocky, bearded man gesturing frantically at us to go into the lay-by, so we did. The same question flashed both ways: “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” We thought we had an easy explanation, but he? He was called Jack van der Molen, owner and proprietor of a medical equipment and supplies company; to judge from the car, the company was evidently doing very well! His interest in canoeing? He had kayaked for many years, though getting older had meant switching from kayaks to the canoe; but at least it was still possible to get out on the water. And his son, Paul, was an expedition kayaker, and sometimes worked with disabled people facilitating their getting on the water. He had, for example, designed a special paddle for use by people with only one functioning arm. I don’t remember why we didn’t exchange contact details at the time, but we didn’t, and after an unusual refreshment stop, carried on to Pooley Bridge and down the side road to Howtown. The Caranoe had been taken round by Stephen’s friends and tied – securely – onto the roof-rack, with the paddle laid on the ground underneath the van. Fortunately, it was still there when we turned up, so I was ready to leave for home as soon as we reached Howtown. Thanks to Stephen and Wendy and … what next? From somewhere – the grapevine, as usual – I learned that Gerry Kinsella had been at it again, this time doing the Long Trip – Lands End–John o’ Groats – fund-raising for Greenbank, of course. As is often the case, though, the source didn’t reveal how long it had taken him.

  We Are The Champions

  Ron Pickering first came to public attention as the coach of Lynn Davies, who won the Olympic long jump title in 1964 in Tokyo. He slowly moved away from being a full-time athlet
ics coach to fronting BBC sports programmes on television, especially athletics. Then in 1973 the BBC established a programme called “We are the Champions” (long before the Queen hit song using the same words) in which there were competitions between schools based on a traditional British school sports day, but including water-based events as well. Ron was in overall charge, acting as a kind of compere for the occasion. The format ran until 1991 when Ron died, with his role subsequently being taken on by Gary Lineker for a few years, until the whole programme stopped in 1995. In one sense it was a bit like “It’s a Knockout”, only for school kids and a lot more serious.

  I don’t know quite how the disability side of things came to be involved, but someone somewhere suggested that there should be a competition between special schools for physically disabled children. BSAD became involved, and Ivor Mitchell, recently retired as head teacher of one of the special schools in Birmingham, and a BSAD vice-president, identified schools from the West Midlands who could compete against each other. One of the features of the programme was that, each time, a couple of well-known sportsmen or women provided a link between different events, announcing the scores achieved by different schools in the most recent event, introducing the next event, and so on. Mitch asked if I would be willing to take on this role, and put my name forward for one of the two positions. Though I was far from being well-known in the disability sports world, and certainly not for being excellent at anything, the BBC accepted the nomination. I thought it might just offer an opportunity to make a point to Ron, off camera, about wheelchairs and marathons. (In the end, it didn’t.)