An Innocent Abroad

 

During the mid to late eighties I competed in the Benidorm Marathon on an annual basis. It was a good event for me as it was fairly flat, late in the year and warm but not too hot and had an almost had an end of season party atmosphere about it.

I liked it and usually did quite well there. I always went with my local harriers and although they weren’t my 1st choice running club I had a lot of friends who did compete for them and I usually wore their colours in Benidorm. 

 

Our self appointed captain was ‘Stoddard,’ who arranged everything, from coaches and flights in the UK, coaches to and from Alicante to Benidorm, hotels, rooms, water stations. Nothing was left to chance, and all we had to do was turn up and run.

We always took 50 or 60 club athletes, and our party had a good mix of varying ages and abilities. Some people brought wives, husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends and children and treated it as  part of a mini holiday break. It was marathon runner’s heaven and 90% of all entries were British club runners. Almost every running club in the UK was represented but we were always the biggest and we stood out from the rest with our reversible red and blue running kit. It was a nice social event, with a bit of running tagged on.

They still put on the Benidorm marathon now  but despite winning a trophy in 1987 I have never been back there since, and only recently visited the Spanish mainland for the 1st time in almost 30 years.

 

After completing the 1987 marathon the harriers made our way collectively back to our hotel and rested for the rest of the day. After our evening meal Stoddard had arranged for all of us to visit the local 10 pin bowling alley. We really knew how to live it up! There had been many reports in the UK media that year of English football hooligans and lager louts causing mayhem in Spanish holiday resorts and this was the time of rave culture, but we were about as far away from any of those people as it was possible to get.

 

We bowled for a couple of hours, had a couple of non-alcoholic drinks and left about 10pm. Whilst we were there we’d been talking to a group of girls from Sweden, who were the winning contestants on the Swedish version of Blind Date. They had film cameramen and TV type people following them around all night, and we’d been showing them our marathon medals. One of the girls had pinned a badge on my marathon finishers shirt that said ‘English lager louts on tour, Spain ’87.’ We thought it was ironic and funny at the time. 

Most of our party had been gradually drifting back to the hotel  throughout the evening and eventually 8 of us remained. The Swedish Blind Date girls and camera crew were trying to get us to go to one of the night clubs with them, but I was too tired and wanted to go back to the hotel. I should have left with Stoddard, but I’d hung on, because the Swedish girls were really attractive, and they were fun too. Eventually they talked us into going along with them.  

 

As we walked towards the main entertainment area I felt so tired and could barely stand up. It’s worth mentioning that at this point we hadn’t had any alcohol since arriving in Benidorm, and my tiredness was simply down to the exertion of running the marathon a few hours earlier.

My friends were more interested in the girls than the beer but decided to go along with them anyway and we parted company about 400 meters from our hotel. It should have taken me 10 minutes to walk back. 

By now it was dark, and I was a few hundred yards away from the hotel when I became aware of a violent disturbance going on outside a British bar just yards in front of me. Bloody lager louts, I thought to myself!  

There were people rolling around on the floor fighting, bottles and glasses being smashed, tables being thrown into the middle of the road  and lots of shouting and screaming. It was very vicious and scary with people covered in blood. I did what I thought was the sensible thing to do and crossed the road in order to avoid it.

 

 I could hear sirens approaching from the distance and as I’d now passed the immediate scene of the trouble I momentarily paused by the kerbside to let the police cars go past before intending  to cross back over the road, and to the safety of my hotel. What happened next was surreal and like watching a film scene in slow motion.  Two police cars sped past me but the third one  bumped up on the kerb immediately in front of me, nearly knocking me over in the process. ‘Bloody idiots’, I cursed under my breath.

Before I had finished my curses two policemen jumped out, threw me across the bonnet of their car, handcuffed my hands behind my back and pushed me into the backseat of the car. They both got in either side of me and the younger one gave me a punch to the side of my head which bloodied my nose. I was driven at speed with the sirens blaring to the local police station.

 

My details were taken, someone was sent to the hotel for my passport and I was transferred to the national police station, near Alicante. When I arrived there were 20 or more blood splattered drunken Brummies still trying to fight it out with each other, and by now the front of my own t shirt was also covered in blood where I’d been hit.

I was fingerprinted, mugshot photographs were taken, jewellery removed and signed for I still had my marathon medal in my pocket which was also confiscated. One of the Spanish police officers noticed the English lager louts badge on my shirt and pulled it off and gave me another dig in the ribs, bizarrely making a comment about Boy George. I went right off Culture Club after that. I was given a dirty blanket that smelt strongly of urine, thrown into an underground cell, and the lights were turned off. I was in total darkness in more ways than one.

 

The next morning official statements were taken, the British consulate staff had apparently refused to see any of the English lager louts, and I was put in a line up in my blood stained t shirt. Unbelievably I picked out. WTF? I was charged with ‘Escandelo Publico’, and asked if I wanted a public defender? 

Of course I wanted a public defender, I hadn’t done anything, I was INNOCENT.

I was locked up again for what seemed like hours and at sometime in the afternoon the people in the cells were put into police vans and driven to court. These stupid idiots were still shouting and fighting on the way to court.

When we arrived at the courthouse I had a meeting with my legal defender.  My marathon finisher’s t shirt was covered in my blood, and I smelt of stale urine, because it had been cold in the underground cell and I had eventually wrapped myself in it  to keep warm.

Even though I was terrified at the time and in obvious dire circumstances, I remember very clearly thinking that my female defender was extremely attractive. Maybe in her early 30’s, so slightly older than me, she was wearing leather trousers, high heel shoes  and a tight  low cut  white blouse, and smoking a cigarello. She looked like she was going out for the night with Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix.. Her appearance and looks really did lift my spirits. 

 

I was brought back down to earth very quickly though as word was coming back that the first few defendants in the dock had been sentenced to 6 weeks in jail. Apart from the punishment of being locked up I would have lost my job and  my cat was expecting me to pick him up in 5 days time.

 

Eventually I was taken up to the dock and an eye witness was brought into court. It was the English barmaid  from the pub where the trouble had occurred. She said that I wasn’t one of the people involved and that she hadn’t seen me in the pub at all. For the next few minutes there was an exchange in Spanish between Jim Morrison’s girlfriend and a court official, they asked me where I was born and where I current lived ( Channel Islands and Cheshire) , they checked my passport and then the case was dismissed.

I was given my passport, my jewellery and my marathon medal back and I was told that I could go. Just like that, with no mention about how the front of my shirt had become covered in my own blood. I was shown out of the court via a side door and noticed there was an English pub just across the road. I went and had a beer, the first one I’d had since arriving 3 days earlier. I sat on my own at the bar and shed a tear or two. It was out of joy and relief, of course?

 

I had been hoping that I might have seen my legal defendant coming out of court but we never saw each other again, and she probably took off on the Harley Davidson that was parked in front of the courthouse. She must be in her 60’s now.

 

When I got back to my hotel at I found the harriers sitting around the pool. They hadn’t missed me at all, and thought I’d got lucky with one of the Swedish Blind Date girls.  One of them shouted over, “What was she like, you dirty old dog”?  I almost laughed and was tempted to say she had  leather trousers and smoked a cigarello,  but instead I told them the truth. They didn’t believe me until I showed them the charge sheet. 

 

Later that evening I had to attend the marathon presentation awards, and even though I’d put on a smile I knew I would never go back to Benidorm.

After I’d received my and photographs had been taken  Stoddard  told me off for not wearing my  marathon finishers t shirt.

 

Eat, Sleep, Swim

Life shouldn’t be a journey to the grave in which you arrive in a well preserved body. Rather, you should skid there sideways, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming, ‘woo-hoo, what a ride’

In 2010 I'd had an idea that I would like to take on a swimming challenge. I’d previously completed triathlon and Ironman challenges, run across deserts and cycled across the UK. It was time to swim.

I'd considered swimming the channel, or separately around the Islands of Jersey and Manhattan but had dismissed them as it would take years of training, and I am nothing if not impatient. Eventually I settled on the idea of swimming from Alcatraz prison over to the San Francisco mainland. It is hard to fully gauge the exact distance as it is anywhere between 1.5 – 2.5 miles in total. The real danger in this particular challenge was not in the distance but rather in the size of the waves and the strength of the tide. Alcatraz would be challenging and slightly dangerous, but ultimately do-able. Not too many people had done it previously and it just seemed right. Alcatraz it was then.

Regular readers will know that I never take on challenges unprepared and over the next 13 months I'd recruited a support crew and trained in the pool every week swimming over 120,000 lengths, as well as swimming outdoors in the open waters of Cheshire, Manchester and London. This approach is very much 'me' and during the intervening period I'd represented GB in the triathlon, broken a world record, been made redundant after more than 30 years employment, found two jobs and have made new friends for life. But for the whole 13 months my mind had been preoccupied with one constant thought. Every single day I'd have either swum, read about swimming, watched films about swimming, or dreamed about swimming.I felt like a fish; I was hooked!

My challenge was registered with the San Francisco coastguard and I was given the prospective date of 27th August. Brilliant timing as it was just 4 days before my 50th birthday and what better way of celebrating. Research had confirmed that there really are sharks in that bay but any comparisons with Hemingway's, The Old Man and the Sea couldn't be further from my mind as once I entered the water I wasn't going to be hanging about for anyone, let alone a fish.

On Friday 26th August 2011 shortly after just arriving in San Francisco from Las Vegas I received devastating news. The coastguard informed me that the wind speed at 11 mph was too strong to enter the water and they will not allow the challenge to go ahead. My protestations led to nothing and I was advised that I'd be arrested if I tried to swim. The irony of the situation was not lost on me and I did think that if I was arrested they wouldn't have far to take me to prison. Maybe then I could escape and then swim back to the mainland! As I stood in front of pier 39 looking out towards Alcatraz I couldn't help but feel utter frustration at the situation. What a complete waste of time this has all been. Happy blooming birthday Chris!

Maybe someone was watching over me, or maybe I got my birthday wish a few days earlier than expected because at 0540 the following day I received a call telling me that the wind speed was down to 3mph and the swim was on. The only problem was that the wind was expected to increase throughout the day and if I was going to swim I had to go now. At that time of the morning it was pitch black, I am several miles away in downtown, "No problem", I say, "I’ll see you in 20 minutes"

Just over 20 minutes later and I am in the boat with Gary, my only support crew, and heading out to 'The Rock'. The sun is just about coming up over the Golden Gate Bridge, but at the same time I can still see the moon over the San Francisco skyscrapers, directly ahead of me. The water looks like black ink, it’s cold and visibility is not great.

We stop the boat 200m in front of Alcatraz and Gary advises me to swim over, mount the rock and then the challenge will begin. I foolishly tell Gary that I want him to steer me in the direction of the fastest crossing as opposed to the safest as I am feeling confident enough to try and beat the existing record. A little later I wonder if I'll survive long enough to regret my decision.

I gingerly slip out of the boat and into the water and within seconds I am struck by the strength and force of the waves and in particular the underlying current. Blimey, I haven't even started and it already feels hard. But I remind myself that I this is what I do and this is who I am. I am an Ironman... not a sit on the sofa with your feet up eating hobnobs, sort of man

A couple of minutes later I mount one of the rocks at the bottom of Alcatraz and motion to Gary that I am ready and that he should start the stopwatch.

I slip back into the water for a second time and start to slowly front crawl, swimming towards the moon. I remind myself that centuries ago mariners and sailors used the moon to navigate by.

For the first time I realise how cold the water feels but I don't worry unnecessarily as it is more of a nuisance rather than a hindrance. I have swum maybe a couple of hundred yards and feeling particularly under whelmed by it all when I get hit with my first wave. It comes at me from behind, I have no idea how big it is, but it hurts a bit and has enough force to momentarily push me under the water. This is not too worrying as I swim with my face in the water anyway and I am not particularly concerned at that point. When I come back up for air I look across at Gary and he gives me the thumbs up sign. I give him a wave, remember the record, and decide to push on with a faster pace. The sun is coming up and is now reflecting off the San Francisco skyscrapers now, directly in my sight line.

Another 10 minutes or so goes past and nothing too exciting is happening. I have learned to ride or bodysurf the incoming waves and then conserve as much energy as possible when the tide goes out again. It feels a bit like two steps forward and one step back but there is no problem other than progress seems to be slower than I would have liked. The sky scrapers don't appear to be getting any closer and although I can still see the outline of the moon, the sun over to my right is getting brighter and it is almost daylight now. I have forgotten about the cold but increasingly become aware that I am sharing the ocean with all sorts of marine life. As the sun comes up and I put my face into the water I can vaguely make out murky shapes all around me, literally within inches of me. I get a bit of whiplash from an eel that swims too close and there are huge fish in there as big as my leg, but fortunately no sharks or seals. The real danger are not the sharks as you might think, but are in fact the 400lb seals who find it fun to swim underneath you and then flip you up in the air as if you were a beach ball!

Gary shouts over that I have reached the half way stage and that I am outside of the record. He motions something with his arms that I interpret to mean that I need to speed up. I am feeling pretty good about myself, and feeling fit enough to push on harder and so my face goes back into the water and I increase my stroke rate to 50-55 strokes per minute and bi-laterally breathe every 5 - 7 strokes. My 'kick,' as usual is virtually non-existent, but then again I am a triathlete!

After another minute or so I feel that I am making good ground but I swim into a huge floating mass of seaweed which I become completely entangled in. I try to swim through it but realise that I can't and as I stop and tread water I get hit by a surprise wave that hits me like a short sharp slap in the face. I look over at Gary for help but notice that he appears to be fishing at the back of his boat and he is not aware of my predicament. I am about to give him a shout when I get hit with another bigger wave that crashes down on me. This time the force of it sends me completely under the ocean, and I am flailing about trying to catch my breath. I have swallowed some water by now and as I come up for oxygen I get hit with a second bigger wave that pushes me back under once again. The situation is now much more serious and I can't breathe or swim and I sense that I will probably drown unless I do something. Amazingly when I come up for air on the third occasion I get hit by yet another wave but rather than pushing me under it sweeps me out towards the open sea. This course of action does at least afford me to time to breath but when I regain my composure I can't see anything other than open water. I can't see Alcatraz, or the San Francisco skyline, or the moon, or most importantly I can't see Gary and the boat. I continue to breathe easily though which is at least something and I have the fight inside of me that tells me that I don't want to die today, and I have the hope and belief that I can get through this. I tell myself that I have got through much worse than this before, and a few seconds later Gary pulls alongside in his boat and gives me thumbs up, and then coolly tells me that I probably won't beat the record, at least not today anyway! He tells me that I am facing the wrong direction and when I correct my position in the water I can once again see the San Francisco shoreline and that big old moon which is still there, just waiting for me to finish.

And with the thought that I won’t beat the record I wearily put my face back into the water and begin to swim once again, this time in the right direction; swimming toward that beautiful august moon that is willing me on, pulling me slowly towards it

I stay much closer to the boat from now on and we have to do some zig - zagging in order to avoid the seals and walruses, and seaweed. I get hit by yet more waves, but I feel like an old hand at this by now and I know how to roll with the waves and then simply get on with things. I get closer and closer to the shore and I realise that I am going to make it and break the record after all.

In terms of an endurance event this has been the shortest that I have ever undertaken, but this is the only time that I have ever been in real danger and there is nothing but a sense of relief when I know that I will succeed.

As I swim into the bay I notice two people standing on the dock with a banner which reads "Congratulations" Later I find out that they are members of the Alcatraz swimming club, of which I am now a member. Onlookers and tourists gather momentarily by the side of the pier and give me the odd shout of encouragement and a rapturous round of applause. I complete my challenge and try to stand up with the intention of waving to the bystanders, but I am suffering from motion sickness and I stumble and fall back into the ocean. Job Done? Not even close.

A couple of day later I am in Los Angeles celebrating my birthday with a glass of orange juice. Somebody proposes a toast and I am asked to say a few words. My thoughts are slightly pretentious and I don't know where they came from but I said something like "live in the sunshine, swim the sea and drink the wild air"

The real truth is that I am just glad that my Alcatraz challenge is over and that I lived to tell the tale.

Later, when I arrived home, a friend asked me what I learnt from the experience?

I hadn't given it too much thought beforehand as I hadn't been searching for the meaning of life, but on later reflection I learnt that I'm getting older.

I need to accept that I'm fighting a war on so many fronts. My on-going foot injury of the last 7 months has never really healed, in addition to the calf muscle injury that I have been carrying since running with Steve Ovett in 1993. My spinal injury is none too good at the moment as I recently fell off the bike, but despite these setbacks I still have high hopes for the future. And well, you know when people have hopes, they leap for them; and the higher the hopes the higher they leap. The philosopher Nietzsche once said that hope is nothing more than futile wishful thinking, but I steadfastly and completely refuse to accept such a negative point of view. A life without hope is nothing, but a life filled with hope is absolutely everything, and it is the reason that hardships and suffering can be endured. You have to trust me when I say that there is a lot of suffering involved in running across deserts or cycling non-stop for 24 hours, or being battered with 12 foot waves. The real lesson that I have learnt over the last 3 years is that hope really does make a difference. Hope has power, hopelessness has none.

And with that thought I can promise that there are plenty of more exciting things to come. At the start of this adventure I knew that I wanted to give it everything, but I also knew that really would mean everything. Ultra-distance endurance sport is hard on the body and the mind, and whilst I wouldn't have it any other way it doesn't always make for an easy life. What I do need to do is recognise that I occasionally need take a rest in order to recharge my batteries.

Finally, I must say that I am amazed by just how many of you have emailed me recently to:

a. chastise me for not writing sooner

b. check that I'm alive.

I'm chastised.

And alive.

Until the next time, Toodle Pip

Pondering Whilst I Pronate - Tribe

Mondays and Wednesday we ran with the athletic club in our track spikes 
Tuesdays and Fridays we ran with the roadrunners, anywhere between 8 - 10 miles. The pace was a little easier.
Thursdays we ran with the striders,on the road again, sometimes cross country in the winter.
Saturdays I ran on my own, just the once as it was a rest day really, but I just loved running so much.
Sundays,if we weren't racing, we were on our own. There would be myself,  Brad, Kev, Carl, Neil, Carty, and Bill. Bill was always there and never missed. We'd run anywhere between 15 and 33 miles,depending upon the time of year, and the races we had lined up.We 'd meet every Sunday at 9am at the park gates. No one was ever late. 
70 mile weeks were pretty normal, and if you ran anything less, you were a wimp! 

For years we all ran and socialised together. Come rain or shine we all turned out every Sunday morning for the long run. It was a laugh really, we joked, took the mickey out of each other, we'd speed up and push the pace or slow down and run at the back of the pack.We were like a family, or a tribe, and our war paint was sweat and sometimes blood.
We'd enter road races and would finish amongst the front runners, sometimes taking the team prizes, usually making the pace. We raced at home and abroad and once, haven't blasted all the other teams out of the water at the Benidorm marathon I ended up getting arrested and locked up overnight.To this day I still don't know what I’d done to get arrested. 

Towards the end of the 80s Bill who had always been a keen cyclist was picked to represent GB in a duathlon and began to concerntrate more and more on perfecting his cycling technique. 
Later, Brad who was a marine engineer moved to Aberdeen to work on the oil pipelines. Instead of running with us every Sunday he would make it only 5 or 6 times a year. When he was home he would just turn up. There were no mobile phones and no need to ring anybody or make any arrangements,he knew where we'd be. Over the next year Neil stopped turning up altogether, he'd had three children by the time he was 21 and fatherhood and parent responsibilities eventually took priority over running. A few years later Brad moved out to Perth in Western Australia, although to his credit he did turn up once, about 18 months later.That was the last time I saw him. 

That still left myself, Kev, Carl and Carty and new people like Aussie Gary, Morph (I never knew his real name) came and went over the next few years or so. Despite our dwindling numbers good days were still in front of us and we ran faster than ever, most years we were setting personal bests and attracting the attention of the running media. Kev and me were now running for Reebok Racing Club and Carl (who bore a striking resemblance to Sgt Cryer in The Bill) had turned 40 and was very prolific in the UK veterans running scene. And still it was such fun, we just never took this stuff too seriously which would really annoy some of the athletic club coaches we'd worked with over the years. We would be out drinking and clubbing until 2am, but still run 20 miles the next morning.

In 1991 I took a holiday to the US with my girlfriend and on the spur of the moment entered a 10k race that was advertised at the beach we were visiting. A quick dash to a local sports shop and I bought a pair of Nike Air Zoom racing shoes. I only  entered the race as a bit of fun and to show off to my girlfriend. I didn't take it too seriously and was wearing beach shorts,  until we hit the 9k mark when I thought of the boys back home and I went to the front of the group and pushed it as hard as I could. I took the title of Southern Californian 10k road race champion. It was a real fluke but I ended up with my picture of the front cover of the US version of Runners World. At the time the magazine wasn't published in the UK and my short lived fame went almost unnoticed in the UK.

Carl succumbed to arthritis and Carty’s wife became ill and we were reduced to the magnificent two, just me and Kev. We still put in the big miles and sometimes Bill would turn out but those occasions were few and far between. One year me and Kev were featured a lot during the TV coverage of the London marathon which boosted our Sunday numbers again and we found ourselves with another tribe, another band of runners. But once again people came in and out and still it remained just the two of us. We'd still turn up and run with the athletic club and the road runners and the striders, but even their members changed and numbers dwindled. The running boom had been and gone,  famed running guru Jim Fixx had died, Coe & Ovett were long since past and apart from the London Marathon there was very little coverage on any athletics on the television. One year Reebok didn't renew our sponsorship.
For us, nothing really changed. We'd still meet on Sunday mornings although we were more likely to run 15 miles rather than 30. We still had a laugh and we always raced as hard as we could but over time things seemed different and some of the enthusiasm was missing. That was the beginning of the end and something inside us had changed and we both started to miss the odd Sunday here and there to begin with, and then we might miss a few more and within a couple of months we'd stopped completely. For more than 10 years we'd given it everything we had and now it was time to get on with the rest of our lives.

Almost 25 years on and I am back, running on the same roads, occasionally I make it down to the park gates at 9am on a Sunday morning. I tend to linger for a few minutes or so, just incase anyone else turns up. I guess I have always been the eternal optimist. They don't turn up of course, but it doesn't matter really. As I am warming up I can still hear the laughter that our friendship once generated and I can still see "Sgt Cryer" doing his stretches and groaning. I sometimes wonder whether Brad has ever turned up there once or twice over the years. 
One day in the future I am absolutely positive that Kev will turn up, and things will pretty much be as they have always been. 
In the meantime I'll continue to run for all of us,because you see, that is what I do. My name is Chris and I'm a runner.

Pondering Whilst I Pronate - A Life

We ran through snow blizzards, thunderstorms, hailstorms, gypsy campsites, car parks, cemeteries, and one time along the hard shoulder of the M62.
We were chased by goats, geese, bulls, drug addicts, every kind of dog, and even a motor cycle gang called  ‘The Sons of Hell’
We ran at midnight in 2 feet of snow with temperatures below zero degrees, at also at times above 80 degrees. We ran in the streets, roads, parks, country lanes, dirt tracks, golf courses, up and down mountains, and along railway lines and canals.
During July and August we’d run without shirts or socks, and in the winter we’d run with two tracksuits on just to keep our muscles warm enough to move.

I was always faster going downhill whereas Brad was faster on the uphill bits. We met at a race hundreds of miles away from our homes and discovered that we only lived a mile or so away from each other. We became training partners, best friends, and competitors. We ran thousands of miles together and completed more than 50 marathons. But mostly we would run alone. Individually we would run seven days a week, twelve months of the year, year after year, after year.

We gave directions to lost drivers, pushed cars that wouldn’t start, returned lost wallets, and once called the police when a herd of cows were heading onto the motorway.
We ran in the London marathon before it turned into a fun run. Sports drinks, gels, heart rate monitors, fitbits and gore tex suits weren’t yet invented. Running watches and Nike were still in their infancy.

We seemed to eat and drink alcohol in copious amounts constantly but we never ever put on weight. I’d think nothing of drinking numerous pints of snakebite on a Saturday night and then run 20 miles on the following morning. And yet people said we looked thin. People thought we were ill. We measured our lives in miles rather than days, weeks or months.

Some people would smile and wave, some would wolf whistle. Once or twice girls from passing cars would shout that we had nice legs. Young boys in customised cars with wide wheels would yell obscenities and ‘moon’ out of the back window.

We saw shooting stars, a family of foxes, a farmers barn on fire, and we once accidentally stumbled upon a couple having sex in the back of a car down a country lane. We begged for water from petrol stations, garden hoses and once laid down in front of a lawn sprinkler when we were desperate. We carried toilet paper, change for the public telephone and sometimes a dog biscuit.
We were offered rides from bikers, old ladies, farmers, drunken drivers and once, a lap dancer. We never accepted a single lift although sometimes we were almost on our knees. We argued about the lap dancer.

We won trophies, medals, t-shirts, money, and once a bag of oranges. Often we didn’t win anything, although we didn’t look at it that way. Brad was always a strong started and ran from the front, I preferred a slower start and would finish strongly. When I passed other runners I pretenders not to look tired, and I would never ever look back.

I was always asked, did I get runners high?  does it get boring? what did I think about when I was running? Why did I look so serious when I was running?
Sometimes. Sometimes. Running. I didn’t know that I did.

We had dogs that followed us all the way home, and dogs that attacked and bit us. I’ve been bitten by Rottweiler’s, poodles, geese and once I was chased by a Sparrowhawk.
We found pliers and purses, CD’s, magazines, a pair of handcuffs (no key) and a black bra (36C). I once found a wallet with more than five hundred pound in it and returned it to the owner on the same day. I got no thanks and no reward.

We ran further and faster than most of our friends. We’d sprint up Red Lane hill 50 times in one evening and our heart rates would exceed 220. People said that was impossible. We’d run 400 metres reps twenty times in one session. We’d get light headed, our hands and arms tingled and sometimes blood vessel’s in our eyes ruptured from the sheer effort.
We lost toe nails, pulled muscles, suffered from frostbite, hypothermia, heat exhaustion, sunburn, blisters, dehydration and tendonitis. Sometimes after a long run or a high intensity session, or after a marathon, my legs would be so sore and my Achilles so inflamed that I could barely walk. Some mornings I’d have to come down the stairs on my backside, one stair at a time.

We treated muscle pains with bags of frozen peas or heat pads and covered our legs in wintergreen. We tried medical doctors, surgeons, chiropractor’s, acupuncturists, podiatrists, sports physiotherapists, trainers, coaches and quacks. We were given cortisone injections, told to take ibuprofen or aspirin. We were warned that we were ruining our knees, our hips and damaging our feet.

But sometimes it was just like we were floating along, like sitting on top of a pair of legs that you didn’t think would ever get tired or slow down. It felt like the legs weren’t yours. It was like being part of an animal, a running, flying, floating animal. When we ran around corners we were like fighter pilots sweeping down in formation.

We had a resting pulse in the low forties, and body fat of seven percent. I was five foot ten, raced at ten and a half stone and went through a pair of shoes every six weeks.
Once I experienced chest pains, a sharp stabbing pain beneath the ribs. It was a Sunday morning, a twenty two mile run. We had seven steep hills still to conquer. We raced up the first hill to find out if it was my heart or not and when I didn’t drop we raced up the second and third hill. After six miles the pain eased off and Brad said it must have been a heart attack. It must have been a mild one because three weeks later I ran under 2 hours and 40 minutes for the marathon,

Although we ran faster and further we never quite ran fast enough but this didn’t stop us from driving  from one side of the country to the other to get to races. Over two weeks we ran a race in Aberdeen and the following weekend in Penzance. We were pleased with ourselves for that one. And I once ran three marathons over three consecutive weekends. Turned out not to be such a good idea as I ended up in hospital immediately after the third event. That seems funny now though.

Eventually we began to slow down. We started looking over our shoulders and thinking about the races we had run instead of thinking about our next race. Our bodies would complain and it took longer to recover from a hard run. Sometimes when the weather was bad we took a day off. Sometimes we would just miss a day because we were sore or tired. We gained five, seven, ten pounds. More.

We now measure our lives exactly the same as normal people do. I moved house a couple of years ago and recently found out that Brad had moved, once again within running distance. He has grown up children now but we still keep in touch and reminisce about the old days. We still argue about whose fault it was when we got lost and ended up running on the motorway, or which one of us the lap dancer really wanted to give a lift to.

We complain that we’re running slower than we once did and make jokes about timing ourselves with calendars and sundials. Sometimes we fantasise about one more marathon, the fantasy seldom lasts for more than a day. Marathons and twenty two mile runs are things of the past.

And what did we learn from running more than fifty thousand miles and hundreds of races, sometimes not even crossing the finish line at all, those runs on the icy roads or begging petrol station attendants to spare a glass of water?

We learned that we were alive and it felt good. No.... it felt absolutely fantastic. Life is a gift that we often take for granted and if I had the chance to do it all over again I wouldn’t change a thing.

The Last Post

I’ve been an athlete for most of my life. Moving to a new town at 7 years of age my parents thought it was a good idea for me to join the local athletic club as I was always running around everywhere and had bags of energy. It was a good move and I soon made lots of friends.

At 17, a few years before the first running boom of the mid 80s I was running up to 40 miles a week and a couple of years later the London Marathon came along. I was perhaps a little young to be running marathons but I did them anyway and I ended up completing all of the big city world marathons including London, New York and Paris.

In 2008 I finally learnt to swim, almost by accident, I had a shoulder injury and my physio nagged me to do some swimming. I’d never learned due to fear but I took lessons at the fabulous pool in Penketh near Warrington, and I was soon having the time of my life. I took to it like a duck to water.

A year later I’d developed enough confidence to consider participating in an open water based triathlon and after previously completing 10 London marathons my immediate choice was the London Triathlon, of course. Even though it was 10 years ago I can still remember the absolute terror of getting into the water at London Docklands. I was shaking uncontrollably with fear, but once I was in and swimming I loved every second of it. I swam breast stroke for most of the swim discipline and ended up finishing somewhere near the back, but I was hooked!

I completed in other triathlons, and I also worked on my swimming technique and eventually swam from Alcatraz Prison to San Francisco bay.
In 2014 I was awarded the Sports Personality award by Warrington Borough Council and a few months later I was also given a Warrington Inspiration Award by the Warrington Guardian newspaper.

In the meantime I continually went back to the London Triathlon every year and gradually I was working my way up the field and into the top 10 finishers in my age group, and then a couple of weeks after the 2015 event I was completely surprised when I received a bronze 3rd place finisher’s medal and certificate in the post. With 15,000 triathletes competing over two days I’d had no that I had finished so high up the field as  we’d left shortly after I had completed the course.
In 2016 I went one better and received the 2nd place silver medal.

Over the winter of 2016/17 and during the following spring I trained like a man possessed. I was swimming technically better than ever, cycling further and faster than at any other point in my life and on the day of the 2017 London Triathlon I was ready for it. This really was the first time that I was looking to race other people rather than just beating my own personal best. On the day I did the best that I could, and I won my age group category and was rewarded with the gold finisher’s medal.
I did think about hanging up my goggles for good at that time and retiring from triathlon. I had achieved everything that I couldn’t even have possibly imagined when I first started out in the sport but  then I was told that no one had ever won their age group category twice, and I also realised that I had completed 9 consecutive London Triathlon’s. I knew immediately that I needed to do the 10th one and I also wanted to have a crack and trying to win back to back titles.

I didn’t think I could train any harder than I had already but somehow I did and I was possibly in the best physical shape of my life. I was swimming, cycling, running and lifting weights virtually every day. As a vegetarian my nutritional needs were well balanced, and working as a Sports Therapist I had access to high level world class athletes. Physically and mentally I went into the 2018 London event convinced that I could win it. And I did, with a faster time than the previous year but it took so much out of me and after I had sprinted across the finish line I said to myself ‘never again’. That one hurt more than anything I had ever done before, but I had completed it over 10 consecutive years, won it twice and also finished 2nd and 3rd. Job done!

But something must have happened to my memory and for some strange reason that I can’t explain now I found myself entered into the 2019 event. I reckoned that if no one had ever won it twice consecutively then obviously no one had ever had a hat trick of wins. All through the autumn and winter of 2018 I was telling everyone that I was going to do it one more time and that was it.

Definitely. Absolutely. Never again.

So, I really really wanted to win the 2019 London Triathlon for the 3rd successive time and in the winter of 2018 I was training well. I’d recorded all of my training data for a number of years and my numbers were looking good. I trained on Christmas Day, Boxing Day, New Year’s Eve as well as New Year’s Day. I wanted it that badly!
During January and February 2019 I was running faster and further than I had done in the previous 25 years. My swimming times were comparable with 2018 and I had every reason to believe that I would be faster and stronger than ever. Everything was looking great and I was even looking at availability of London hotels back in January, 6 months before my event.

Then something happened….

In the middle of March I had an irritable cough, it was nothing really and more of a nuisance than anything else. I have never had a day’s illness in my whole life, but then very quickly the irritable cough got much worse and by early April I was diagnosed with pneumonia. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, I didn’t sleep for weeks and weeks, I would cough every 20 seconds for 24 hours a day, every day, every week, and during that time I rarely left the house or got dressed unless I was going to see a doctor or had a medical appointment. I saw 11 different doctors and was rushed into hospital on at least 3 occasions. I thought I was going to die. It felt like my blood was at boiling point and my lungs were on fire every single time I took a breath. Everything was so physically painful and I had some very dark thoughts. I didn’t want to go on living with that amount of pain and I thought on several occasions about ending it all. The alternative to being in so much pain was much more attractive and I thought about different ways of bringing it all to an end. I just needed some peace and relief.

 I virtually became a hermit, I saw no one, I didn’t talk to anyone or reply to any messages, and didn’t work for a long time. I had 4 courses of anti-biotics, beta blockers,IV infusions, diazepam, plus a box full of other medications. I was taking 16 tablets a day and nothing was working, and I even had a severe and potential life threatening reaction to the drug that they put into your veins during the CT scan.  I ended up being rushed onto the hospital wards and put on an IV infusion for several hours. At that point, nothing else in my life mattered, everything I had ever done and worked for was totally irrelevant, and there were some bad days, definitely the worst in my whole life.
I still didn’t leave the house much, but gradually after a few months my colleagues and friends convinced me to take on a few hours work teaching swimming or performing lifeguard duties at Penketh Pool. My own Sports Therapy business was suffering as it had been months since I’d worked.
 Working a couple of hours a week at the pool was not only part of my mental and physical rehabilitation, but it was also part of my salvation. The pool that taught me to swim was now saving my life! I mean that very truthfully.
On one particularly hot day I decided to get in the pool, just to cool down for a few minutes, but I swam 4 lengths and then had to stop because I was out of breath. A few days later I swam 400m.  A few weeks further on and I swam 800m, and a few days after that I swam the mile. It was the first time I had swam a mile in almost 5 months. Previously in the last 10 years I had swum more than 10,000 miles in Penketh pool. That day was a major milestone. Even though I still have breathing problems today as I write this and I am still taking a number of medications, I wanted to see if I could run. I lasted 4 minutes and thought my lungs were going to explode. But I went out again a few days later and ran for 12 minutes. In early July it took me 12 minutes to run a mile, but it meant much more to me than running 6 minute miles 7 months earlier.
A few weeks later I could run for 30 minutes without stopping, swimming 2-3 times a week and I even took the road bike out at 7am on a Sunday morning. I struggled for the first 20 minutes and wanted to turn around and go home, but once I got a few miles under my belt everything felt almost normal, apart from the fact that I couldn’t quite reach the speeds that I am used to. But I kept telling myself that a little progress each day adds up to a lot of progress after a few weeks.
 The truth is that we don’t really know how strong we are until being strong is the only choice we have, and it was Sigmund Freud who said, ‘out of our vulnerabilities will come our strength’. I do know that falling down, or contracting pneumonia was an accident, but staying down is a choice. When I was out on the bike I told myself that I had a choice, I could either give up, give in and turn around and go home  or I could give it everything I’ve got. Life doesn’t mean that we have to be the best, only that we try our best.

On 24th July, just 3 days before the 2019 London Triathlon I tentatively booked a hotel in London Docklands, even then I wasn’t so sure whether I was doing the right thing as the day before I had been ill and I wasn’t totally convinced that I would even make the journey down to London. The day before the event I wrote down on a piece of paper,  ‘I haven’t come this far, just to come this far’

Saturday 27th July 2019, Race Day!
I felt suspiciously quite well, no real problems, no breathlessness, no shivering, no lung pain, almost normal. I have to carry a medical supply kit around with me and my blood pressure was good, whereas the previous Saturday it had been sky high which required medical attention, my heart rate was good, and my oxygen utilisation figures were stable, even though they are still much lower than pre pneumonia days. I slowly and very deliberately prepared my kit, watching television and trying to settle my nerves. I had a game plan figured out in my mind for the last few days. Start at the back of the swim and stay out of trouble, take it easy. When I exit the water, calmly remove the wetsuit and WALK into transition, take my time, WALK out of transition with my bike and just pedal slowly. Stay out of trouble, keep away from the field, WALK back into transition, calmly remove my cycling shoes and helmet, put on my running shoes and gently jog out of transition, and jog around the course, high fiving spectators and volunteers. Jog over the finish line, get the finishers medal. Be happy.

That was the plan….

As my wave was led out onto the dock and we started to enter the water I was given a big reception from the MC at the event as I’d be recognised as a 2 time winner and the organisers also knew that this was my 11th successive year. I got a great reception and a big cheer from the crowd although I decided not to mention anything about the pneumonia. We are in the water, the start gun goes off and I stick to my plan. I’m officially the last one to swim across the start line and I’m at the back. The flaw in my plan is that I am actually a half decent swimmer whilst most of the competitors at the back of the field aren’t, so I start to overtake people quickly. I tell myself to slow down, which I do, but I am still overtaking people. I swim out wide to avoid a big congregation of swimmers, but I end up overtaking them all, mainly for safety reasons as they are drifting outwards towards me, which would have forced me to go much wider out. The swim was easy and I exit the water probably in the first half of the field, wetsuit off and I RUN into transition. I tell myself that I am meant to walk, but I can’t help it and I carry on running. Cycle shoes, helmet and sunglasses on and I RUN out with the bike. What am I doing, this is meant to be easy, this is meant to be fun and I’m not meant to be running?
I exit the bike transition cautiously as it’s raining heavily and the roads are slippery, but almost immediately someone overtakes me and not just gradually, he flies past me. At that point my plan went well and truly out of the window and I start to chase him. We are cycling along at 27mph and although we are both passing other competitors I just can’t pass him. But as we approach a short but very steep incline I sense my moment, and I take him. I smile to myself, the first time I have smiled in months, but it’s hard and it’s killing me, but as  I pass him and he drops back.
 I am not a particularly talented swimmer, cyclist or runner and my only real talent is that I just don’t quit. But this is seriously hurting me, I have the momentum and I have the heart and the legs but I just don’t have the lungs! But I just keep going and I am passing lots of people who have gone off too fast. One thing I have learnt over the last 10 years is about pacing myself on this course, and I know I still have the relatively flat and fast run to contend with.
My mind starts to think about what I am going to do when I get out on the run and I momentarily lose my focus and I hit the edge of a traffic bollard, and it almost sends me flying. I think to myself how lucky I am that it didn’t puncture my front tyre.
 I absolutely fly up the last very steep incline and back into transition and I run once again with the bike. By now I had totally forgotten about my game plan, and as for walking?

Running shoes and visor on and off I go again, for possibly the last time ever. I do jog out of transition and I do actually high five a couple of the event volunteers and I am happy running easily behind the person in front of me, but then someone comes past me and I latch onto their tail and we both overtake several runners.
By now the rain is torrential and people are slowing down or losing heart, but I am feeling good and gaining momentum. I wave away drinks and energy gels and start to pick off runners in front of me who have slowed for refreshments and although it is hurting me I say to myself, ‘I haven’t come this far, just to come this far’ My cadence increases and my run times get faster, but this year there is no sprint at the end. I cross the finish line slower than last year but I am relieved and happy. To be honest I am hardly breathing and I probably could have gone harder.

I finish 3rd, so I don’t get my hat trick of wins but I have learned far more this time around than at any other time in my life. The reality is that I still have some physical problems and I am definitely not out of the woods either. People may think that I am foolish for what I have just done, but the real truth is that your life is only as good as your mind set, and not too long ago I wasn’t bothered whether I lived or died.
Honestly.
 Our lives will never be totally perfect, but all we can do is try our best and make it work.

Was it easy? No   Was it worth it? Absolutely

But I am definitely not going back to compete in the London Triathlon in 2020. Definitely not!

Christopher Smith 29th July 2019