When Jeremy Corbyn boarded the 11 a.m. Virgin Trains East Coast service from London King’s Cross to Newcastle, he walked past empty, unreserved seats in coach H, before strolling through the rest of the train to the far end. Once there, he decided to sit on the floor. The cameraman who was traveling with him then started filming.
“This is a problem that many passengers face every day on the trains, commuters and long-distance travelers,” said Mr. Corbyn. “Today this train is completely ‘ram-packed.’”
Five days later, on 16 August, the video was uploaded online and soon received thousands of views on the Guardian. Watching the clip on my iPad on Necker, I thought the whole thing looked rather odd.
“Isn’t the term ‘jam-packed,” not ‘ram-packed’?” asked Joan.
“Either way, I’m not sure either applies in this case,” I said.
It was easy enough to check: Virgin Trains track how many empty seats are on each service, and estimated that 140 were free on this particular service. So why hadn’t Mr. Corbyn sat in one of them? It seems he had more on his mind than comfort when sitting on the floor. One of his key policy pledges is for the railways to be renationalized. By taking part in his one-man sit-down protest, he was trying to make a contrived point with all the finesse of a sledgehammer.
As the story, dubbed #traingate, spread like wildfire, the team painstakingly checked all the footage from the train’s on-board cameras, as well as staff reports from on board. Rather than spending the entire journey on the floor, we found Mr. Corbyn returned to coach H and took a seat after about forty-five minutes.
On 24 August, Virgin Trains released the footage. “We have to take issue with the idea that Mr. Corbyn wasn’t able to be seated on the service, as this clearly wasn’t the case,” our spokesperson stated. “We’d encourage Jeremy to book ahead next time he travels with us, both to reserve a seat and to ensure he gets our lowest fares, and we look forward to welcoming him on board again.” To his great credit, Mr. Corbyn was back on Virgin Trains just days later. He took the criticism he received in the press and online very well, and has traveled with Virgin Trains many times since while campaigning for the Labor Party across the UK.
All this fuss about a Virgin berth! After all this silliness had calmed down, I thought about the positive that had come out of it—the issue of much-needed railway reform in the UK being in the public eye. There is no question that some Virgin Trains services are very busy, and finding a seat can be tough unless you have booked in advance. This usually happens in particular circumstances, like the first off-peak train from London, or when major sporting events are being held. We have tried for two decades to discuss fare regulations with the government and are eager for ministers to sit down and talk with us, particularly regarding long-distance services. Simon Calder talked sense in the Independent when he said, “Some fares need to rise to manage demand; that antiquated working practices must be modernized and that fare regulations need to be changed to stop the scandalous waste of peak-time trains leaving with too few passengers.”
There is also no question that we need to introduce more trains on the route. We are introducing a fleet of sixty-five brand new Azuma trains, increasing seating capacity on the route Mr. Corbyn traveled by 28 percent at peak times. We’ve also converted a first-class carriage to standard on our twenty-one nine-carriage trains on the West Coast route, providing thousands more seats each day. But the fact that the trains are extremely popular only highlights further the success of privatized rail. Under nationalization, trains were a declining mode of transport in the UK, with terrible service, poor trains and unreliable timings. Now, rail travel is booming—passenger numbers have nearly tripled since we took over the network. Privatization has brought with it better quality products, a focus on customer service and high standards to be held to. British railways are now definitively the safest in Europe and probably the safest in the world. Trains are cleaner, more frequent and with better service than ever before. Private companies are adding capacity and growing services to cope with the surge in demand.
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As the Traingate story was unfolding, I was continuing to train harder than ever for the Virgin Strive Challenge, which was fast approaching. Two years on from Sam’s hair-raising rescue off the summit of the Matterhorn, we were planning another adventure. This time I would join Holly, Sam, my nephew Noah and hundreds of others to travel more than 2,000 kilometers from the base of the Matterhorn to the summit of Mount Etna in Sicily. We would hike across the Alps of northern Italy, cycle to the southern tip of Italy, swim to Sicily, mountain-bike to the foothills of Etna, complete a half-marathon run up the volcano, and then hike to the top—all within the space of a month.
We hoped to raise £1.5 million for Big Change to support innovative projects that arm young people with the necessary tools they need to thrive in life, not just the classroom. It’s a cause close to all of our family’s hearts. Physically, this was no small challenge, and I was training accordingly. I’d been doing punishing cycles up steep hills on Necker’s neighboring island Virgin Gorda, tough swims around Necker Island’s reefs, and increasing my tennis sessions to three hours per day. By the time I hopped on my bike on Virgin Gorda on 22 August, I was in the best shape I’d been in for over a decade—I had lost a stone within a couple of months.
“It’s five years since the Necker fire today,” Sam said as we looked up at the first incline on Virgin Gorda, ready for another day’s training.
“Well, time flies when you’re having fun—not that this hill is going to be fun!”
A couple of hours later, the sweat was pouring off me as we circled our second lap. We were really pushing ourselves, and the afternoon quickly disappeared. Before we knew it, night had fallen. I’d been so focused on the cycling that I’d barely noticed the darkness creeping in: as I was heading down a hill toward Leverick Bay with my sunglasses still on, I didn’t see the “sleeping policeman”—one of those wretched humps in the road—and hit it head on. The next thing I knew, I was being hurled over the handlebars toward the concrete road.
After dozens of near-death experiences (see the Appendix for a full list), for the first time my life flashed before my eyes. Perhaps it is because I am getting older, or because I have been reflecting more on my life through writing this book, but I saw a blur of images shutter across my brain from childhood to the present day, my family constant among them. I saw myself climbing trees with my sisters, kissing Joan, cradling Holly, holding Sam, hugging my parents. Strangely, a lot can happen in half a second. Everything was heightened. It is incredible what the brain is capable of. Not that I was thinking that at the time: as I went flying through the air headfirst, my overwhelming thought was that I was going to die. My face hit the concrete road as my bike hurtled forward, dropped off the cliff and disappeared.
As I lay on the concrete, it took me a few seconds to realize I wasn’t dead. Slowly I started to test out my movement in each limb. I could lift my neck. “OK, you’re not paralyzed, that’s good,” I thought to huge relief. My legs, too, seemed to be moving all right. I lifted my right arm; that also felt OK. But when I tried to move my left arm, I winced as stabbing pains shot through my shoulder. Then I put my fingers to my face and felt hot blood: as I looked at my hand, it glistened red. It turned out that my shoulder and cheek had borne the brunt of the impact: the fact that I was wearing a helmet saved my life.
The first person to arrive on the scene was Helen, who had just got back from holiday. She was wondering who it was lying prostrate on the road. I was so glad to be alive that my sense of humor was intact.
“Don’t worry, I’m alive,” I laughed and winced at the same time. “You’ve still got a job!”
As I was put on a stretcher and made it back to Necker, my bike was recovered from the bottom of the cliff, destroyed. I could have been down there with it, I thought, looking at the crumpled frame. I got patched up: as well
as my cheek being badly damaged, my knee, chin, shoulder and torso were all severely cut. The next day I flew to a hospital in Miami for scans and X-rays, which showed a cracked cheek and torn knee and shoulder ligaments. I’m usually quite a good patient, and don’t like moaning too much, but one thing was annoying me as I put my feet up back on Necker.
“I can’t believe I have to drink tea out of a straw!” I complained.
As I sat there trying to sip my cuppa, one of our guests had a six-year-old child, who looked aghast as he stared at my bloodied face.
“You look like the Elephant Man,” he said.
“Thanks.” I laughed. “That’s just what I needed.”
Over the next few days messages of support flooded in across my inbox and social media, which really did make a difference in keeping me positive. One came from David Tait, who used to run Virgin Atlantic in the US: “I read your life flashed before your eyes,” he said. “You must have been in the air for a very long time.” My sister Lindi sent her best wishes: “Oh no! Poor you, Ricky. Reminded me of when we went to the dentist in Guildford and Mum wouldn’t let us have any painkillers for our fillings.”
“Don’t tell me there was an option for a painkiller?” I replied. “Mum always told me it wasn’t possible. Pure torture!”
Did my near-death experience make me think about the end more? A little. Nobody ever thinks they are going to die, but as more and more people I have known and loved have passed away, it does cross one’s mind a little more frequently. The accident also made me think about my legacy again, a word I’ve never really liked. Whenever somebody introduces me as “a legend in his own lifetime” I always think, “Fuck, if I’m a legend then I must be dead already!” In the end, I’ve realized that legacy is not that important except to your children and family and friends. When I am on my deathbed, I just want to feel as if I have loved and been loved, done some good in the world and made a difference here and there.
One thing I have noticed is slightly more forgetfulness than when I was younger, especially short-term memory loss. I was onstage in Las Vegas recently and asked the host “What’s the biggest sporting event in America?” He told me: “The Super Bowl.” The audience thought I was making a joke, but I had genuinely forgotten. That night, in bed, I desperately tried to think of the name again. In the end I got up, opened my iPad and Googled “biggest sporting event in America” to track it down. My dyslexia has always meant I’m bad with names and terms, but I do worry it is getting worse. I have been tested for dementia and, thankfully, I’m clear, but it is a frightening thing. I’ll be in a conversation sometimes and forget the third thing I was going to say.
It could be I have a very full brain with lots going on; it could be that I’m sixty-seven and these things happen. My mum, well into her nineties, is still incredibly active physically and mentally, and I’m hopeful I can be the same. If I thought too much about the idea that we are all walking to the edge of a cliff we will one day fall off, it would mess up my mind. We are protected by not giving it too much thought. The reality that it is a fact of life also makes me still think I must live life to the fullest. It actively gives me purpose to not waste a minute of the life I lead, to make a difference and have a blast in the process. If I leave early as a result, at least I will leave doing what I love. Sam had some fitting words for the situation, from Hunter S. Thompson: “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming ‘Wow! What a ride!’”
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A few days later, on 1 September, I was over in the Alps, undergoing a last series of health checks before the Strive Challenge. The doctor advised me that the best course of action for my recovery was to rest up, but for me that was not an option.
“Will I do permanent damage?” I asked her.
“It’s unlikely.”
“Great, I’m giving it a go then.”
As we began hiking from the foot of the Matterhorn with the team, my body was holding up surprisingly well. The weather did, too, and the views across the Alpine peaks were spectacular. When we came across a freezing lake, I decided to aide my recovery with the ultimate ice bath: Sam and I jumped out as quickly as we jumped in! The downhill trekking was harder on my knee, but easier on my lungs. I was getting through the miles, but going quite slowly, taking about thirteen hours each day and finishing last. Very sweetly, when I arrived at our hut, all the Strivers came out to clap me in. It was the first time in my life I’ve had a round of applause for being last—one of the advantages of being the oldest!
On the final leg of the like into northern Italy I decided to leave an hour before everyone else so I didn’t hold them up. My legs had recovered well, were no longer feeling like jelly, and I covered the ground quickly. Near the end, I thought: “I was last yesterday, I’ll try to be first today!” I soon realized Sam was not far behind. While he could see me I just ambled along, but when I turned a corner I put on a spurt and raced ahead! Sam caught me, but we graciously crossed the finishing line together (a well-brought-up son!). That night everyone gathered around talking about the journey, the humor, the hurt, the heart-warming tales, the strains, the stories and the smiles. Joan stood listening to it all and then said: “Small steps make big strives.” I think that makes a perfect slogan for what the Virgin Strive Challenge is all about.
After five days, seventy-six kilometers and 6,000 meters of ascent, it was time to get back on the bike. After my accident I felt a certain trepidation, but the only way to get over it was to start cycling again. We began making our way south toward Sicily. When I began, still weak from my injuries, I knew Strive wasn’t going be an easy journey through the Italian countryside, sipping lattes and admiring the view. However, I wasn’t prepared for it to be the most grueling physical and mental test of our lives. Every leg was harder than the last, with people collapsing over the finish lines, too exhausted to walk or even smile. There were times when I wanted to give up. But every night the smiles had surfaced, and so had the laughter, the high fives and the stories from the road.
Back on the bike, I felt shooting pains up my leg. “Have I got this in me?” I thought. “Can I really make it?” But each and every day, I pushed through. It’s amazing what you can achieve with the right mind-set; around me, people were visibly growing in confidence and strength and I tried to keep spirits high. Toward the end of the second leg, I left camp in darkness and pouring rain at 5 a.m. and laid down a challenge to my fellow Strivers: I would donate £1,000 to the fundraiser of the first person to catch me. The others left two hours behind me, and seven hours in I felt what it must be like to be a fox, as eight cyclists raced to overtake me. I was nearly wiped out by the lead cyclist, who just happened to be my son-in-law, Freddie!
The wet conditions, with heavy rain and landslides, were becoming a serious issue. In the space of a few fateful hours, one person crashed into a car and five people, including Sam, flew off their bikes, suffering nasty cuts. They hit oil on a blind bend in the road and were seconds away from going under an oncoming car.
On the toughest day of the whole challenge, I woke up in the pitch black to begin at 4:45 a.m.—and was surprised to find that my daughter, Holly, was up and ready to ride with me. She had sensed I was near breaking point, and she and Freddie put their own tiredness aside to help me along. I could have wept with gratitude. We rode for almost 200 kilometers that day, climbing steep mountains. After fourteen hours, darkness fell, and about half an hour from the end the organizers told us that we couldn’t carry on. On three separate occasions, they had set up roadblocks to stop us, but each time we broke through them, yelling that we wanted to continue and singing “We Shall Overcome” together. We felt like naughty schoolchildren! In the end, we made it together.
The next day we got back on the saddle for the final
stretch of the cycling leg: riding to the toe of Italy. It was a fascinating and picturesque journey, which, thankfully, wasn’t as physically grueling as the day before. However, having already hiked seventy kilometers and ridden nearly 2,000 kilometers, my body felt fit but completely worn out. With just two hours to go to the finish line, Sam overtook me. As he passed, something stirred inside me and I got a burst of energy. For the rest of the leg I rode flat-out as fast as I could whooping like a schoolboy. Developing mental toughness isn’t just about being resilient—it’s about accessing your reserve tank when you think you just can’t go any further. At that moment, so close to the end and challenged by my son, I felt my reserve kick in. It’s something that I’ve relied on a lot in life, and have had to access on many occasions in business. In the dark moments we all have the power to pull ourselves up to keep going.
After the cycling, it was time to get into the water. To celebrate World Oceans Day, I had challenged the actor Adrian Grenier to join me in raising awareness about ocean conservation by swimming 3.3 kilometers across the Strait of Messina. The weather conditions were relatively benign and the sun glistened off the waves as we dived in. But we went off too quickly, and I struggled with my breathing wearing a snorkel. Holly was worried I was having a heart attack. I assured her I was fine and switched to backstroke, while Holly positioned herself between me and Adrian to make sure we both survived the choppy water. After what seemed like an age, we made it to the other side.
Having completed a whole month of grueling days testing us to our limits, we should have been ready for the final day of our journey, climbing Mount Etna. We were so fit by this stage, I thought it would be quite easy. How wrong I was. The day began with a half-marathon trail run to the halfway point of Mount Etna. I’ve finished the London Marathon, but this was tough going, with a constant steep incline and huge boulders to navigate. After several hours, we reached the hiking stage, leaning on each other through rough lava fields. By now, I needed all the help I could get, mentally more than physically, to overcome the exhaustion. Having Holly and Sam beside me helped so much to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Finding My Virginity: The New Autobiography Page 42