(And what | learned from it.)

marathon, and you hope that joyous scenes of jubilation from that special

day fill your mind! The marathon milestone chalked off, you entered the hallowed ranks of those who go above and beyond relatively safe distances. This is the true story of how the author trained and subsequently attempted initiation into the marathon, no ordinary experience given he was only 13 years old!

In the spring of 1981, I watched the first London Marathon on my family’s newly acquired color television. My dad was running, and it was his modeling that influenced me to get infected with the running bug. I put on my battered table tennis shoes and trotted around the block for a couple of easy miles. There was no need to walk as the few enforced runs at school had prepared me well. Dad got me registered with Barnet Athletic Club (of North London), and four days later, I was running in an under-15s one and a half mile road-relay race. I ran at a pace of 6 minutes, 40 seconds per mile and ended up with jelly legs, finding the experience somewhat stressful. A few days later training resumed, and within a few weeks, I was running up to six miles in one go. Dad realised I was serious about running, and in May he bought me a size two (size three US) pair of red Nike Wally Waffles.

My dad encouraged me to run and oversaw my training. Like father, like son. Without a second thought, I followed him into long-distance running. There was no peer pressure to perform—in fact, my mum was none too happy because my running meant I had less time for judo and ballet. I simply wanted to express what came naturally, and that was running. The problem with judo and ballet is that they did not engage my type of enduring energy. By June I was running about two to three times a week on my own. That included one long run of eight to

Bist an ENGLAND, September 20, 1981—Talk about your first

nine miles. My pace was about nine minutes per mile and felt nice and relaxed. I loved a gentle jog at a civilized pace, exploring the countryside while enjoying the scenery on trails and roads. This meant my running was easy, enjoyable, and above all sensible.

My style of running was very different from the short, sharp shock that the race for Barnet AC had served up. I was not interested in running fast and preferred to run long, steady distances. However, there were no long-distance races specifically for boys. Racing for young lads meant cold winter interschool cross-country mud baths or running-club road/track meets. Young athletes could climb the ladder from being the best in their school year to top dog in the district, county, and region, all the way to the nationals. The short races were definitely not my bag. I considered them tantamount to physical abuse, medical experiments to see how high your heart rate can go and how out of breath you can get. My philosophy was, why go mad flogging your guts out when the option of enjoying every step running the natural rhythm your body can comfortably sustain was available? So instinctively I chose distance and not speed.

Minimarathon for a minnow

The governing body of British Athletics—the Amateur Athletic Association— had rules for maximum distances permissible for youngsters to race. For my age group, the under-15s, AAA rules stated that boys could run up to 3K on the track, no more than 5K cross-country, and a maximum of 6K (3.7 miles) on the road. In practice the longest races for my age group were a couple of miles cross-country. In July there was a local minimarathon at Borehamwood in Hertfordshire (11.6 miles). Dad would be running and asked if I wanted to do it. “What a fantastic opportunity,” I thought, and he got me a number after I had proved my ability by running 10 miles in training. The Hertfordshire minimarathon was one of the very few road races not affiliated with the AAA. This meant that age restrictions for youngsters need not apply, unless the organizers set their own, which they did not. So I could officially run with a number, no questions asked.

The day of the minimarathon was boiling. Undaunted, I set off at 8 minutes, 30 seconds per mile pace. The race was going well, and after halfway, I felt confident so I speeded up. We ran down a dead straight old Roman road called the Watling

It would be obvious that | was under age. My race number arrived and was too big so | cut the sponsor’s name off and trimmed the sides so that it fitted on my front.

Way. In the sweltering heat, runners were dropping like flies, but I was still full of beans. I passed one guy who said to another, “It makes you sick, don’t it?” as if to say, “That little boy makes running look so easy.”

I felt great and piled on the pace, leaving runners in my wake. The course was very hilly, but that was not a problem for me, being light and slight. I seared through the last few miles and rammed home a devastatingly fast finish to collect my first long-distance finisher’s medal. I had run for over an hour and a half and averaged 8 minutes, 14 seconds per mile.

Underage

Dad was going to run the inaugural Birmingham Marathon in September and again offered to enter me. Without thinking I said, “Yes.”

The Birmingham Marathon, called the Brum (Brummy meaning a native of Birmingham) Run, was AAA affiliated, so Dad needed to lie about my age to get me an official entry. Most of the AAA’s distance-age rules were introduced in the late 1970s in part as a knee-jerk reaction to some very young Americans running marathons at that time. These children included Bucky Cox, aged 6, running close to four hours and Wesley Paul, aged 9, dipping under three hours—both are age bests that stand to this day. Athletic authorities told tales about teens suffering bone disorders, arguing that the stress on youngsters would damage them were they to run long. Even today such notions still exist, helping to prevent young long-distance talent in the West. The opposite is the case in Africa, where millions of children run miles to school and back every day. Suffice it to say that in Britain 18 years old became and still is the minimum age permitted to officially run a marathon. I was 13 and a half years young and rather underdeveloped at that. My prepubic boyish looks ensured that I could not possibly pass for 15, let alone 18. It would be obvious that I was underage. My race number arrived and was too big, so I cut the sponsor’s (Interplas) name off and trimmed the sides so that it fitted on my front.

The Birmingham Marathon was one of dozens of new marathons springing up in Britain. The marathon boom started during the 1970s in the United States of America. By the early 1980s, the wave swept across the big pond to Europe. Birmingham is in the Midlands (Central Britain) and with over | million people is Britain’s second most-populous city. The Brum Run was also Britain’s secondlargest marathon (at the time), having about 5,000 runners. I had been to Birmingham a few years before when visiting a factory belonging to my father. The city was enormous. In the late-18th century, Birmingham was considered the capital of the world, being at the forefront of the Industrial Revolution. By 1981 it had become a sprawling metropolis with complicated freeway (called motorway) intersections, the largest named Spaghetti Junction.

The author at age 13 and a half, running 51
minutes in the Hampstead Heath 10K crosscountry race (finishing 90th out of 450), one
week before the 1981 Birmingham Marathon.

Undertrained

Through summer I upped my weekly mileage from 8-15 to 14-20 by running more regularly. During that time, in training I did only four runs over 10 miles. The longest was a very slow half-marathon run in 2 hours, 10 minutes (10 minutes per mile pace) two weeks before the Brum Run. Dad and I knew that this was not enough to complete a full marathon in style. I was undertrained, so caution would need to be exercised. Our discussion about my race approach was that I would go as far as I wanted before dropping out. There was certainly no expectation (from my dad) that I would finish, and I never really thought about that, anyway. To be honest, Thad little idea of the demands a marathon insists. Given my lack of training, a disaster run was most likely to happen.

It is not the norm to complete a full marathon aged 13. The typical response to my intention was, “Really?” as if some sort of reiteration was required to confirm that, “Yes, I will be starting.”

Whether the whole 26 miles, 385 yards is finished or not, any resulting distance covered when running for three hours or more must surely be considered marathonesque, especially for a minor. An equivalent marathonlike challenge for aman in his prime would be more like 40 miles. In that respect, I, “the boy,” was about to effectively attempt a megamarathon.

Race day

My first indication that this would be a race unlike any I had ever experienced before was when I woke up. That was because the drive to Birmingham from London meant a very early start. The long journey fueled my enthusiasm for the event, and by the time we got there, I was eager, anticipating much fun. The whole complex was so big and busy that I was clueless as to where to go or what to do. I was entirely in my dad’s hands. There were many people, buildings, tents, cars,

Suddenly a giant Hootah sounded! We were finally off! Well not quite. | stood clutching Dad’s hand, without which | would be lost in a sea of restless arms and legs. Being a mere waif of a lad weighing only four and a half stone (63 pounds) and scaling four and half feet tall, | could not see ahead and felt very boxed in.

bags, toilet queues, tables, and so forth, but Dad knew what he was doing, so I was not worried. After a lot of hanging about, we stripped down. It was a crisp morning, and despite oil on my legs (Dad’s idea) and an old top to discard when (if) I warmed up, I still shivered. We joined the masses and soon became encased by runners on the road. This was good and all part of Dad’s plan to shield me from any lurking official who took umbrage at my participation.

Suddenly a giant Hootah sounded! My excitement rose. We were finally off! Well, not quite. I stood clutching Dad’s hand, without which I would be lost in a sea of restless arms and legs. Being a mere waif of a lad, weighing only four and a half stone (63 pounds) and scaling four and half feet tall, I could not see ahead and felt very boxed in. After a few minutes we slowly moved forward and the jostling began. Dad advised me to keep my elbows out. This start was completely different from the rampant school cross-country bolts to the first bottleneck I was used to. Several minutes later we walked past the starting banner. The race was on!

After a mile there was enough room to run without the risk of being run over, and my dad bid me farewell. Dad had run a few marathons earlier in the year close to three hours, so he was much faster than I. Off he went into the distance, and I wondered, “What on earth am I doing here?”

I was not accustomed to a race of this size and had not got used to running under the radar, avoiding officials. I remained hidden in the centre of the road surrounded by runners. This fostered a lack of focus because there were too many feet to avoid and no visible fixed point ahead. In my other races you could pick a suitable man and run with him. This technique did not apply here, and frankly, it was hard to get a rhythm.

Three miles in I discarded my throwaway top to reveal a white Interplas T-shirt with a massive number pinned to it. Despite my scissor trimming, the number still wrapped right around my tiny torso, keeping the wind off. I looked like all the other runners wearing that of the same, albeit I was in miniature. Feeling good, I did the first few miles at 8 minutes, 20 second pace. That was rather quick, but then what a great time I was having. Slowing down was easier said than done as the runners around me dictated. I did not want to get barged and it was not until at least five miles that the field had sufficiently thinned for me to run at 8 minutes,

45 seconds per mile pace. My usual rhythm established, I began to settle down and cruise through the miles.

Thirteen seconds of fame

The course was fairly flat and traffic free, and it entered the countryside. Sweeping freeways (also called dual carriageways) gave way to meandering country lanes. The sun began to burn away the clouds, and I had fully warmed up at last. My oily legs were drying out and I felt good. I took on some water and began to contemplate the magnitude of the distance ahead. I was beyond my tried and tested distance of 10 miles and experienced the psychological barrier of the unknown ahead. Uncertainty was replaced by the excitement of entering what felt like another planet—Birmingham City Centre. Skyscrapers created urban gorges, condensing the energy of the masses. I felt part of a giant organism, alive as a cell in a bloodstream going through the heart of the central business district. The huge cylinder of the Bull Ring Tower/Shopping Centre flanked by raised freeways (called flyovers) told me this was the epicentre. And there to greet me was Ron Pickering (certainly the most famous British sports commentator of the 1980s), who plucked me out of the swarm and live to the nation on radio asked me how old I was? After a few squeals of delight I shouted, “Fantastic!”

Ron asked again and this time I heard him so replied, “13,” by which time he could not keep up. It did not cross my mind that an official might intercept me as I was supposed to be at least 18. My 13 seconds of fame lived with me for the next mile, duly dispatched with clinical ease. In the euphoria I had speeded up and forged through halfway in about | hour, 54 minutes. I calculated this was about 8 minute, 50 second pace. I continued on operating like a well-oiled machine, efficiently notching up the miles without losing cadence.

Suddenly the cheering crowds were gone, and all went quiet. I came back down. The field no longer seemed to be running in unison, and I sensed disconnection. There was space to feel oneself, analyze, and assess. The streets of suburbia (Saltley) were delightfully peaceful for those who were in touch with their soul. Anyone whose internal motivation was not sufficiently heard was found wanting. I wanted the cheers. Instead only the pitter-patter of training shoes filled the air.

Runners had stopped talking as the seriousness of the marathon situation began to dawn. I had slowed to nine minutes per mile yet was still going fairly well. A few runners were surprised to see me, and one chap asked me questions like how many miles a week did I run? How far will I be going? I replied, “About 20 per week” and had no idea on the latter question so said, “20,” again, to which he replied, “Well, that’s surely in the bag.”

Thad not thought about actually finishing and slowly that option crept from the back to the front of my mind. The mile markers passed by—15, 16, then 17,

Adull deadness had descended, which was most unnerving. Just after the 19-mile marker the temptation to walk became overwhelming. | did not want to give in but by now | felt pretty awful and thus the inevitable happened. My legs capitulated and my running became walking.

as if I was standing still and the scenery was moving around me (Yardley). The whole experience had become surreal. I mellowed out and felt confident that the marathon was well within my capability. In fact, I calculated I would easily get under four hours if I kept going at the same speed. My endurance solid, obviously I was going to finish, and I bet my dad would be really impressed.

The Wall

Iran for fun, not for my dad. He supported and advised me about my long-distance running. There was no pressure for me to go long in training let alone in a race, although by mile 18 I was feeling under pressure. I had been slowing down and found it hard to maintain even 9 minutes, 30 seconds per mile pace. I had always been able to judge what pace I was running, and I knew I was in trouble.

This was not supposed to occur. I had taken care to drink at every water station (as Dad had said) and kept a steady pace for all but the first miles, so logically I should still be fine. So what was happening to me? Mentally I felt I could keep going; however, my legs did not respond to what my brain decided they should. A dull deadness had descended, which was most unnerving. Just after the 19-mile marker, the temptation to walk became overwhelming. I did not want to give in, but by now I felt pretty awful, and thus the inevitable happened. My legs capitulated and my running became walking. Less than a hundred yards later, I felt better and I was off running again. I kept going and was determined to keep trotting or rather toddling. I held on until the 20-mile marker, passed in just over three hours, before walking again. My walk had no vigour as all power deserted me. Progress was painfully slow. Unlike running, walking prolonged the agony. I was too far from the finish to carry on regardless. There were simply too many miles to manage in the state I was in. I realised that finishing this beast was not going to be easy and wondered if I should continue. One fact was clear—I had hit The Wall.

I was not aware exactly of what The Wall was. I had heard of it but did not appreciate what it meant, so I could not account for my seemingly sudden lack of performance. My legs were not hurting and no muscles were stiff. I still had plenty of fighting spirit, but where was my energy? Twenty-one miles took ages to get to, and I knew that a finishing time under four hours was out of the question. I was

used to tough judo fights (county champion with a national medal and blue belt); however, the kind of hardship that I felt was far beyond what I had experienced before. Hitherto I had not met failure, but now that scenario had developed and was an inviting option. Was trying to go on in the midday sun suicide? The physical punishment was like being ground down into the road. The mental unease was like meeting a stranger who was slowly but most purposefully consuming you. The road loomed long and hard. There was no shade, and the temperature above the asphalt must have been in the 80s. I was sweating, the heat sapping my strength. Runners breezed passed me, my tiddly steps pathetic, and when I tried to run I could only just keep up with the plodders. If ever there was a time to call it a day, this was it.

Tempting as it was to throw in the towel, the problem occurred to me of how to drop out. This was not a possibility, as there did not appear to be a sign or an obvious exit. I had never failed to finish a race before, and the only course of action available was to follow everyone else. It did occur to me that if I stopped ere, fingers may be pointed at my dad. If I had gone only halfway then I could justify my actions, saying that was my goal. I thought it would look more than a bit iffy were I to drop out at about 21 and a half miles because clearly I was trying to do the whole thing. Therefore, I reasoned that finishing was in everybody’s interest. Anyway, I had begun to count down the miles, and with only 4.22 to go, I

looked at the distance as if the remainder was just a short training run. This was a brilliant approach, fooling my mind, which had become surprisingly too dumb to work out any math to estimate a finishing time. This was most perplexing given that I was usually very adept at mental arithmetic.

Mustering a shuffled jog, I felt part of the river of athletes and forcedly flowed forward. When I walked I was out of the stream, and many runners passed me. When I rejoined them in endless chase, I felt accepted, nameless but numbered. We were all anonymous metronomes ticking along in robotic synchronicity. That was until the organised chaos of a lucky drinks station. I got handed an XL paper cup with a green gooey liquid inside. It tasted sugary, and tempting as it was to drink the whole cup, I thought better of it. After all, the goo was green, and I had never had anything like it before. I counted lampposts and slogged on, not stopping until at least five were done before I walked one. My drinks station zest wilted, the number of lampposts run fell to four, then three, and when only two were managed, the game was surely up. I could have dropped out at the drinks station and was now back in no man’s land. I was too far from the finish, with no chance of going back to the station because of the danger of getting hit by the waves of runners. I was hung out awaiting final crucifixion come collapse.

Traveling at a crawl, with about three miles to go, I was spent. I must have missed the 23-mile marker, which was very demoralising. I was counting on it to tell me, “Well done, lad.” Or was it waiting for me up ahead? Maybe there would be another drinks station. I was thirsty, although the purpose of the drinks station was to give me a psychological boost.

“There must be another lucky drinks station ahead, one more to help us all get home. Yes, and when I get there, I will cool down with some sponges.” The road remained plain, and there was no hiding from its lampposts. Their infinite number said, ““You’re finished, mate.”

I stopped trying to count them. An inner voice thought, Lonely are the brave for they must stand alone and be counted, too.

Clearly courage was not enough for this marathon game. I also needed hope. Mercifully this came in the form of a brief distant glimpse of the National Exhibition Centre of Birmingham, where the finish was. The centre was an enormous complex of multibuildings that rose like an ancient monolith above the treetops. The structure was so big that we could see it from miles away. It disappeared, then the trees parted and we were permitted another fleeting look at its white magnificence. I dug deep and rose again. This soldier was still in the battle.

Boy giant

That ruddy stadium stayed the same size for miles. We must have been running around it, then parallel to it, anything but directly at it. Twenty-four miles done

and I don’t know where or how I found the energy to keep up (probably the green goo kicking in), but that was happening. In fact, I had to run as the road had narrowed and everyone closed in on me. So many runners were with me on the home stretch that dawdling on the verge was unwise. Not wanting to get walloped from behind, I worked hard to push on. Somehow I had found a gear whereby I could sustain jogging motion. It was a low leg action on a low-quality energy supply. My legs were really tired, but I kept running through 25 miles to the last challenge—the stadium car park. It was massive. Help came from crowds that got bigger, and as if by magic the atmosphere gathered. Bizarrely I felt strong and began to overtake runners. I knew that I was gonna make it! Forget relief—my emotion was unbridled joy! Then it happened, a shift to a greater dimension! Entering the vast stadium was a whole new universe. Inside, the walls were jet black, illuminated by a galaxy of silver lights. The noise erupted as we spiralled around the thunder dome. The volume of reality had been set to tremendous, and I was totally tuned in. The bounce off the boards propelled me into a sprint. I was weightless, requiring no energy to fly. Turbocharged by my own taste of glory, I was streaking through the field. I had never experienced anything like this. could not stop surging because I had access to unexplainable limitless power. Where was all this energy coming from? By comparison everybody was standing still

whilst I was zooming. I was behaving like a mighty colossus, a boy giant dwarfing men, the ordinary man stunned as I scythed past. I flew into the finishing funnel at top speed and had to make an abrupt stop to avoid crashing into a barrier. Yet my energy kept going, and I found myself for one very long second a few feet in front of my body before snapping back in. Hmm, that was interesting, I thought. A shiny medal and a plastic card with holes in it (which I also kept) were thrust into my hand, and I stopped my watch, which recorded 4 hours, 34 minutes (four and half hours for the course because of the four minutes to get to the start line). Guess four and a half was my number equating to my height and weight.

I felt special. I had taken almost one and half hours to complete the last 6.22 miles, yet despite the hardest miles ever, I felt fresh and showed no signs of exhaustion. I realised the race actually began at 20 miles, the real halfway point. I wondered where my dad was. I had not seen him on the course waiting for me and could not remember where the car was. I did not think to take note where it was parked because that was Dad’s job. I stood there in a shiny cape, thinking it was a nice gift (did not know it was to keep the body warm), and pondered what to do next. I trundled off to a desk where a lady was chatting on the telephone to the press about Ian Thompson (top-class British runner), who won the race in 2:13:50. I could have interrupted her to mention that I was only 13 and thought maybe the press would like to include me in their article, but I did not butt in as that would be impolite. When she finished she put out an announcement for my dad (who did 3 hours, 6 minutes) to come and collect me. Seconds later he materialised. He had gone back up the course but failed to spot me, then returned to the finish. For him I had simply vanished as opposed to having been consumed in the peak flow, finishing bang in the middle circa 2,500th/5,000. He was surprised to see me and very happy that I had completed my first marathon.

You never forget your first

I slept well that night and had only a slight stiffness in my hamstrings the next day. Iran an obligatory three-mile school cross-country training session the next day, and two days after that, I raced a mile and three quarters cross-country interschools league meeting at Moat Mount. I wrote in my running log (with spelling and grammar mistakes): “To short nothing worthwile cold muddy irrelevant” In the next five years I went on to run half a dozen marathons, a dozen halfmarathons, two 20-milers, a couple of 30K trail races, some freezing 25K races, many 10-milers, and on most weeks a training run longer than 10 miles. My best marathon time was and still is 2:51:48, set on a blustery cold day on a hilly course in Bedford. I was 17 and upon turning 18 did not need to lie about my age anymore. So it was ironic that my 1986 London Marathon entry was rejected even though I pointed out that I was one of the fastest for my age. My PB beats

The author’s Birmingham Marathon finisher’s medal.

virtually all 18- and 19-year-old British runners in the London Marathon (since Internet records began in 1998).

Incidentally, when I was old enough to enter a marathon officially, I became unwell. This was not due to running, which only promoted my health.

I was unable to run for the next 20 years. My open years (18-39) were denied. Soon after becoming a master, I began to recover and run again. I hope to make

a return to the marathon soon and am on course to beat my PB. I perceive my return will be a marathon second coming, a sort of revisited first. I left a piece of me in Birmingham’s thunder dome. I looked at that piece many times when I felt beaten during the decades I was unable to run. It helped give me peace. I know that special piece will always be there to get me through. In truth, I have been using it ever since I discovered it, age 13.

And What | Learned From It

1. I learned that marathons are what I wanted to do and realised that I was very suited to doing them.

2. This was my first marathon, and I learned a lot of basics. Wearing an old top before and for a few miles after the start was sensible. Starting in the correct position is important to avoid runners traveling at a different pace.

3. [learned what it was like to run out of energy and hit The Wall before discovering that gooey sugar drinks are supplied in the marathon.

4. I found that I could run farther and push myself for longer even when the going was tough. I felt I had discovered the keys to adversity. Immediately after the race, I decided I had enjoyed the challenge and wished for more.

5. I knew I needed to train more to complete the last quarter without walking.

6. Decades later I fully appreciate my father’s role in ensuring that I had a shot at the marathon at age 13. I also think that my first marathon will always be my most unforgettable one.