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- Herausgeber: Vertebrate Publishing
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
'We're not at parkrun any more,' I mutter to myself, quietly longing for the presence of nice marshals in high-visibility vests. Failure is an Option is the story of an average runner who sets out to discover just how far he can go. With the support (and misgivings) of his family, and aware that his quickest years are behind him, Matt Whyman leaves the Saturday morning 5K to push towards 100-mile ultramarathons and beyond. By slowing things down to run a very long way, he joins a growing number of men and women from all walks of life striving to do something extraordinary. A newcomer to a world that can often seem off-limits, Matt finds his feet as an ultrarunner by learning the hard way. He battles monster hallucinations on endurance races spanning day and night, loses himself on tantalising trails across landscapes far from home, and forges bonds with fellow competitors in which small, kind gestures mean more than any medal. Determined to touch the boundaries of his running world before it starts to shrink, ultimately Matt sets his sights on a six-day mountain ultra that even hardened veterans consider to be the most formidable on earth: the Dragon's Back Race. Brimming with good humour, honesty and joy, Failure is an Option pits ambition against ability to uncover human truths that resonate with us all. A mid-pack competitor who could win prizes for enthusiasm – if nothing else – Matt takes us on a journey far beyond his comfort zone and with no guaranteed outcome of success. The results are entertaining from start to finish, often very funny and at times deeply moving.
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Praise for Failure is an Option
‘What an absolute JOY! – perfectly captures the folly and ambition of this silly and wonderful sport.’ – vassos alexander, sports presenter, ultrarunner and author
‘A funny and inspirational read. From parkrunner to ultramarathoner, Matt shows what it means to keep trying – both in running and in life.’ – elise downing, ultrarunner and author of coasting
‘Poignant, relatable and told with refreshing honesty.’ – damian hall, elite ultrarunner, coach and author of in it for the long run
About the Author
Matt Whyman © Phill Rodham (MyBibNumber).
Matt Whyman is a bestselling author of books including Walking With Sausage Dogs, The Unexpected Genius of Pigs and Our Planet – with a foreword by Sir David Attenborough. He has collaborated on many popular sporting and motivational books, such as Age isJust a Number by Charles Eugster – who took up sprinting aged ninety-five to become a world-record-breaking track athlete – and Anything is Possible by Gareth Southgate. As well as his passion for running, which he found as a boy seeking to spend time with his dad, Matt is a respected landscape artist whose paintings sell widely. He is married with four children and lives in West Sussex.
Copyright
MATT WHYMAN FAILURE IS AN OPTION
First published in 2022 by Vertebrate Publishing. This digital edition first published in 2022 by Vertebrate Publishing.
Vertebrate Publishing Omega Court, 352 Cemetery Road, Sheffield S11 8FT, United Kingdom.www.v-publishing.co.uk
Copyright © Matt Whyman 2022.
Cover illustration © Laurie King. www.laurieking.co.uk
Matt Whyman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as author of this work.
This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life of Matt Whyman. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such minor respects not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of the book are true.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781839811333 (Paperback) ISBN: 9781839811340 (Ebook) ISBN: 9781839811357 (Audiobook)
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic, or mechanised, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the written permission of the publisher.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
Design by Jane Beagley, Vertebrate Publishing. Production by Cameron Bonser, Vertebrate Publishing.www.v-publishing.co.uk
In memory of my mother, Rosemary,who started something to find a moment of peace.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Anyone who has crossed Crib Goch will be wiser for the experience. Some might also find themselves prematurely older than the years they have lived.
This vertiginous ridge is the most challenging means of summiting Snowdon (Yr Wyddfa), the highest peak in Wales. It’s a long knife-edge of a route, 923 metres above sea level at the highest point, with steep-sloping drops on each side. Whether you’re a rock hopper or a rank amateur, setting out to reach the far end touches you. I still have some way to go, but already I’ve learnt a valuable lesson: the toughest challenges are those we face when we’ve come too far to turn back.
‘We’re not at parkrun any more,’ I mutter to myself, quietly longing for the presence of nice marshals in high-visibility vests. I am just over midway across the ridge, and frankly amazed that any member of the public can have a crack at this if they think they’ve got what it takes. Even without my glasses, which does little for my nerves, I am pretty sure I can see the curvature of the earth. Crib Goch is classified as a grade 1 scramble, which sounds quite fun until you’re here. Then the experience redefines itself for many as a code-brown crawl.
Far below me, inside this mountainous horseshoe with Snowdon at its apex, a lake glitters in the sunshine. A scenic path winds around the water’s edge in places. It’s smooth, flat, sheltered and would make a lovely stretch for a light jog. From there, I would perhaps pause to peer up at the scattered, ant-like procession of thrill-seekers on the ridge and shake my head disapprovingly. Instead, here I am in a crosswind, having sweated exclusively through my palms since I ascended the giant curtain of rock to reach the ridge, with questions about my own decision-making.
2In a bid to face my fears, I know this is the right thing to do. It’s part of my training for a race that expects competitors to take this section in their stride. As a reflection of what’s in store, however, it leaves me wondering what the hell I was thinking when I signed up.
In the world of endurance running, the Dragon’s Back Race is a monster. Across six days and 380 kilometres, this legendary, intimidating and punishing event traverses the knuckled spine of Wales. Runners begin in the grounds of Conwy Castle in the north, heading south across the wild and rugged landscape to the ramparts of Cardiff Castle. In crossing the entire country from coast to coast, they face 17,400 metres of elevation, which is almost twice the height of Everest. The terrain is largely trackless and challenging at every turn, from steep climbs to tumbling descents, soul-sapping bogs and rock-strewn fells. There are no course markings. The whole thing is self-navigated, with regular checkpoints and tight cut-off times. Then there’s the weather, which can be unpredictable and elemental, while competitors must keep one eye on the skies as if they’re vulnerable to being picked off by winged, fire-breathing beasts. This last bit might be a stretch, but could come as a blessing for some in a mountain race with a reputation as the toughest and most brutal in the world.
To level with you here, I am not naturally cut out for this calibre of racing. If you’re looking for a story about an elite runner pushing for the win, I can safely predict before the race has even started that this story won’t end with a massive trophy on my mantelpiece. My map-reading skills are basic and long-forgotten, like French at school. I hate heights, and if there’s one thing I loathe more than that, it’s camping. I’m from the south of England, which is all but made from cotton wool and a long way from fell-running country. My exposure to brooding, craggy mountains is mostly limited to stock photos on my computer screensaver, and yet here I am. Why? It all comes down to a love of putting one foot in front of the other, which lies at the heart of this race and then takes it to an extreme.
There is a reason why I have paused at this point on the ridge. It’s not because I’m frozen in fear, which does strike the unfortunate as they make this crossing. Behind me, I had come across one poor guy crouched tight against the rock face with his back to the wind. His companion stood over him, seemingly immune to danger, and sounded like he was trying out reassuring words in the hope that3something might lift this spell. He had exchanged a look with me as if to say everything was under control, which was a relief because I’d have been no help at all. I might look like I’m comfortable in all the gear I intend to wear for the race, but until I’ve broken myself into this environment it just feels like fancy dress. All I could do was offer him a smile as I manoeuvred around them, well aware that it wouldn’t take much for my own composure to slip and turn me into a statue. I just had to keep progressing, hand over hand, foot over foot, and even taking my anchor points to five with my backside where possible. Despite inching along like a dog with worms, I had even dared to think that I might nail this. Ahead, a tombstone of rock obscured what I had believed would be the home run to the other side. I had duly clambered to that point feeling like I was over the worst, only to stop in my tracks before a break in the ridge behind it shaped like the socket for a missing tooth.
‘Oh, come on,’ I said in exasperation, mostly to myself but also to Mother Nature.
In my research, conducted from the comfort of my sofa back home, I had seen photographs of the rock formation I now faced. Relaxing with a biscuit in one hand and my phone in the other, I just hadn’t appreciated the sheer scale of what was known as Crib Goch’s Third Pinnacle. Behind me, the preceding two pinnacles had presented no surprises. They were about as challenging to traverse as speed bumps, which had hardly served to slow my ponderous crawl. Taking into account the fact that this one was preceded by quite a deep pocket in the ridge line, the towering slabs on the other side rose up like a scene from Lord of the Rings.
Up until a few minutes ago, when the tombstone had obscured my view, I’d been able to keep one eye on some people ahead. Two women had simply picked their way across the ridge as if they were out for a stroll, and clearly not from this world. Most others, like me, had considered every move they made as if it might be their last. I’d followed the line taken by the pair, constantly on the lookout for the ‘polish in the rock’, as one of them had suggested when they passed me on the clamber up. Despite feeling like one of those idiots who go up on to the roof in a storm to fix the TV aerial, I found that sticking to the well-worn lines across the top had provided me with some confidence.
Then the third pinnacle had revealed itself to me, and all that fell away.4I see no sign of the two women. I can only conclude that somehow they’ve negotiated this monolith in my way and are pushing for the point where the ridge joins the tourist footpath to the summit. There is an alternative reason for their disappearance, of course. I just don’t want to give it space in my mind. Through my untrained eyes, there appears to be just one way to progress. After gingerly clambering down to the platform in front of the pinnacle, and basically seeking any excuse that I can to postpone the inevitable, I decide to call my wife, Emma. We had last spoken before I started the climb. I’d left her at home for the weekend, promising to take good care of myself. Despite my assurances, I know she’ll be worrying. It’ll also be good for me to hear her voice, I think to myself, while summoning the favourites on my phone.
Without my glasses, which I use for screen work, I find the list of family members is just a blur. Having stabbed at what I believe to be my other half’s number, I catch my breath when our eldest daughter picks up. Grace has just qualified as a doctor, living and working away from home, though she mastered the requisite no-nonsense outlook on life before her fourth birthday.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I meant to call Mum.’
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks me after a moment. ‘You sound stressed.’
‘I’m not stressed,’ I protest, in an octave that suggests otherwise.
Just then, a gust of wind whistles through the gap in the rocks where I’m standing. The silence on the line tells me it didn’t go unnoticed.
‘Where are you?’ Grace has been purposely excluded from my plan to push my fifty-something body through hell later this year. I’m aware this race is something I should’ve done in my prime. Now it’s a question of taking it on before time runs out on me. Given my daughter’s medical insight, and the fact that I’m her dear old dad, I didn’t think it would be wise to put her in the picture. ‘Are you at home?’ she presses me. ‘You don’t sound like you’re at home.’
‘Just out getting some fresh air,’ I say and then attempt to steer her from the cliff edge of truth by asking about her week on the wards.
Fortunately, I’ve accidentally rung her at a busy time. I’ve no doubt she’ll call her mother in due course and extract what’s really going on. For now, I say goodbye as casually as I can for a man on a precipice with his heart in his mouth, and finish the call. Next, with the phone pressed to my nose so I can read the names, I successfully ring my wife. When Emma’s answerphone kicks in, I leave her the5kind of jaunty message I imagine I’d share from the other side, and then drop in that l love her just in case.
Before stowing my phone, I take one last precautionary measure. Clutching an outcrop of rock with my free hand, I take a selfie with Snowdon’s majestic east face behind me rising from the lake shore. It’s just the shot I want because after putting myself through all this I plan to absolutely milk it on Strava.
Then, mindful that I must keep moving in case the fear finds me here, I step across to the foot of the pinnacle. The only line I can see involves climbing upwards and then swinging out on to a ledge to the right. I’ve read enough to know that this is the bad side, with a plunging drop if it all goes wrong. From where I’m standing, it’s impossible for me to see what follows above and beyond the ledge. I just have to trust that following the shiny, worn stones will lead me safely over. There are plenty of handholds in the wall of the rock. I just can’t ignore the abyss on that flank.
With my heart kicking, I shake my arms down to my hands and fingertips and then breathe out long and hard.
‘Unless you do this,’ I tell myself, ‘it’s all over.’6
PART 1
01
READY? GO …
Everybody runs for different reasons. There’s always a motivation, and this can be defined in one of two ways: either we’re running towards a goal or away from something as a means of escape.
For the most part, during his early years as a parent, my dad fell into the latter category. Within minutes of his return home from the daily grind at his London office, he would shed the suit for a polyester T-shirt tucked into shorts cut so high they showed the tan lines from a pair of Speedos.
It was a signature look for the seventies jogger. At a time when the sport wasn’t considered to be a way of life but a crank’s shortcut to knackered knees, runners like my father had limited choice when it came to kit. As a little boy, I’d watch him hurriedly lace up his tennis shoes by the front door. Then he’d set off into what I could only process as an unknown world.
One hour later, he’d return a different dad. This one had time for me, my younger brother and sister, and my mum. Puffed and perspiring, he’d sit with us at the kitchen table as we finished our tea and ask about our day. Somehow, that time on his feet, alone with his thoughts, had a transformative effect on him.
It was only as I became more tuned in to my surroundings, somewhere around six years old, that I realised Mum was less than happy with him about it.
‘I’ve been at home all day,’ she’d remind him on his way out. ‘I’ll save the washing up for you.’
10Looking back, Mum saw my dad’s desire to run after work as an excuse to duck the childcare equivalent of rush hour. I was too young to see it like that, of course, but once when I asked Dad if he could take me with him, she answered before he even drew breath.
‘What an excellent idea,’ she said gleefully. ‘I’ll get him ready.’
I wore my school shorts and gym shoes for that first run, which went no further than the junction to a cul-de-sac twenty metres up the road. I’d set out in great excitement and then quickly pulled up breathlessly with my heart throbbing. It didn’t occur to me that my dad liked to run a loop for a couple of miles around the country lanes that fringed this commuter-belt town where I grew up.
‘Can you manage a little more?’ he asked hopefully.
Dad didn’t seem too disappointed when I dug in my heels and we headed back home. He probably figured I’d had enough of running and would leave him alone from there on out.
The next day after work, he came home to find me ready to set out once more. Within a week, my younger brother and sister had joined us, leaving Mum to enjoy a well-deserved break. For my dad, running had gone from a means to get away from the family to compulsory time with his kids.
While my siblings were just a little too young to make it a daily event, I looked forward to our run. It meant I could be with my dad, and to be fair to him he encouraged me to keep pushing. As a small boy, a couple of minutes on the move felt like we’d covered a million miles. Eventually, in an era when an understanding of the Green Cross Code was enough for children to make their own way in the world, I reached an age and distance where I pulled up and Dad would continue. Then I’d stand by the side of the road and wait for him to come back, thinking somehow he was superhuman.
Running wasn’t central to my life in those formative years, but it was a feature. I grew up with it. When I first went out on my own, to the point where I usually stopped and my dad pressed on, it felt both scary and exciting. It gave me a little taste of independence and seemed like I was expanding the boundaries of my world, one step at a time. I didn’t think of running as a sport, however. I never considered myself sporty at all. That was something my friends embraced in the form of football. Most of them 11had older siblings or parents who supported a team. I had no such influence. Through my dad’s eyes, kicking a ball about for however long a game lasted just lacked any purpose. What’s more, it attracted fans who roared and chanted, and that just wasn’t on. If the theme tune to Match of the Day ever struck up on the TV, he would be on his feet to switch channels as if he had a duty to protect us from a pursuit better suited to the prison yard.
In a bid to fit in with my friends at school, I traded football stickers with a passion. I just couldn’t find the same thing on the pitch. Everyone seemed to be more tuned in to the game than me. I was one of those kids who’d find himself last to be picked for a kickabout, and only then as part of some complex trade negotiation that meant I’d join the stronger side to hold them back a little. Running didn’t bring that kind of awkwardness or humiliation. It needed no particular skill set or teamwork. There was no pass or shot for me to fumble.
While my dad saw running as a solitary activity, Mum possessed a competitive streak. She played in goal for a local women’s lacrosse squad. All I remember about that is the game in which she stopped a ball with her teeth, the blood-drenched hurry to hospital that followed, and my sense that perhaps team sports weren’t for me.
My mum also loved to swim. She encouraged me to get in the water from a very early age, and that was supported at primary school. Together with the Green Cross Code and the Cycling Proficiency Test, the Holy Trinity of Survival Skills for Small Children in the Seventies was completed by the Five-Metre Shallow Water Certificate. For those kids who had been left traumatised by the short public information films warning of the dangers of climbing electricity pylons and locking themselves into old and airtight fridges, entering the water without any qualification held a special terror. With the certificate to our name, the Grim Reaper would no longer hang around in river shallows with hidden currents. We would be free to ride our bikes out to the banks unsupervised and have fun.
Gathered outside with my classmates on one side of the tatty school pool, one that basically wasn’t green with algae for two months during the summer, I faced what seemed like a yawning aquatic abyss. It was only a width, but the other side just seemed too far away for me to process. The only 12thing filling the space in between was a sense of overwhelming dread. I had absolutely zero confidence that I would complete the distance. With no way to back out, however, all I could do was go for it when my turn came around. The cold water shock swiftly brought me to my senses, and once I’d finished thrashing about, I began to paddle.
Three metres across, a transformation occurred. As I continued to splutter and splash, all the negative thoughts that had been weighing me down began to float away. I had got this far because frankly I didn’t want to sink, and yet I was making progress. What’s more, the end was in sight. I could do this, my little mind registered, and when I touched that pool wall I felt a rush of pure elation.
I still recall the episode clearly, from the cracked tiles to the chlorine in the air and the teacher with the clipboard who congratulated me, but most of all I remember the emotional journey. Today, whenever I line up for a race that feels beyond me, I’m always transported back to the moment when I faced the width of that pool.
In the water, just as I found when plodding along the pavement from our house, I liked the fact that I was alone. I had no idea whether I was any good as a swimmer, but that didn’t matter to me. I just enjoyed being active on my own terms. When I was old enough to compete in school galas, however, it became clear that I was quite average in the pool. I could swim well but lacked the dolphin-like speed and power of some kids my age. In the short sprints, I would finish to find the top three had already climbed out of the pool. It didn’t bother me as such, but then nor did it fire me up.
Then came an early incarnation of what would become the annual Swimathon. This was an endurance event hosted in pools across the country, raising money for charity and promising competitors a finishing photograph with an Olympic swimmer. Today, participants can choose from a range of distances from 400 metres to three 5K sessions. I have no idea how far I attempted to swim. I don’t suppose my mum would’ve let me take on more than twenty lengths. I just remember feeling out of my depth but determined not to give in. Completing the distance earned me a poolside photograph with the moustachioed swimming legend David Wilkie. 13I had a bowl haircut and puffy eyes from being in the water for so long, but that had to be my proudest moment. It wasn’t about time but distance. With no pressure on me, I realised I could make up for being a plodder by persevering.
I had just turned thirteen when the opportunity arose for me to run at school. I didn’t consider sports-day races to be my thing. Even though we’d left the eggs and spoons behind a few years earlier, I just wasn’t much of a sprinter. So, when a teacher set up an after-school cross-country running club, I jumped at the chance. There was no way I’d ever feature in the line-up for the school football team. Being slim-built, I found rugby frankly scary, while cricket came with rules I just failed to understand. So, rather than standing on the outside edge with no clue who was winning, I had a chance to do something where I felt I might fit in.
Nowadays, we talk about hitting the trails. It sounds exciting, sexy and adventurous, conjuring images of hard-packed winding routes with splendid vistas at every turn. For those who ran before the term became mainstream, its predecessor cooks up an altogether different vibe.
When I think about cross-country running, mud is the first thing that comes to mind. At school, we would begin each session by lining up along the side of an absolutely massive ploughed field. The furrows ran deep, churning into soil with a heavy clay content, and we were expected to run across it. The club was only an option during the autumn term, which meant it was usually raining horizontally.
‘The faster you run, the quicker you’ll warm up,’ our teacher and coach would remark, wrapped up in a thick coat and scarf as we lined up along the field. ‘OK, go!’
Surging across the furrows, which stretched out like choppy ocean waves, our first footfalls sank in deep. Extracting ourselves required some force and brought up great sods on the soles of our shoes. Within seconds, we had all pretty much doubled in body weight. Maintaining any kind of form was impossible. We just began to look more like staggering zombies. By the time we reached the other side of the field, in fact, every single young runner was dead on their feet.
‘I hate this,’ mumbled my friend Moby, who had awarded himself this 14nickname to back up his boasts and then pushed it until most of us forgot what he was really called. ‘Let’s walk it.’
In the mid-pack of any ultramarathon, when competitors are battling with exhaustion, it doesn’t take much to trigger a downshift in gear. If someone ahead hits the slightest incline and stops running, or even eases up without reason, it can lead to a domino effect of mooching. We weren’t long-distance athletes by any means, but the ordeal of that ploughed field had taken our legs from under us.
As soon as Moby stopped running, the entire pack around him followed suit.
‘Pick up the pace!’ came the order from across the field. ‘If anyone walks, they’ll have to go round again!’
The course followed a ditch along the length of the orchard before leading us away from the view of our teacher. As soon as we were safely behind trees, my fellow clubmates and I pulled up smartly once again. Some rested their hands on their knees, coughing as they fought for breath. Others simply tipped their faces skywards as if hoping to find more oxygen there. Having completed less than half a mile, across terrain that would beach a tank, every one of us was completely broken. From there, once we’d figured out all the sightlines from the school grounds, the cross-country run became a ramble.
The route criss-crossed through a patchwork of ploughed fields and apple orchards. In October and November, stripped of leaves and life, even the trees looked miserable. Despite following the same course every week, which took us across ground with the consistency of wet cement, I turned up every time. Why? Because it was a shared experience that brought us together, and at that age the banter could be so sharp we’d spend more time laughing than anything else.
In many ways, I felt safe in that pack. A seam of bullying ran unchecked through the school, which wasn’t uncommon in the late seventies and early eighties. You could be targeted for the slightest weakness, and if you didn’t fight back or assert dominance, that made the target bigger on your back. I was first picked on for the crime of being too smiley, and that escalated because I just wasn’t the sort to wipe the grin from the faces of 15my tormentors. One of them was in the running club, but things were different between us from the moment we floundered across that first field. We were in this together, after all; united in our bid to outsmart our coach and his stopwatch.
‘I’m not seeing much improvement,’ he would grumble at the finish line each week, unaware that we could all shave at least five minutes off our times if we just stopped fooling around.
Back then, my running performance wasn’t as important to me as the sense that it offered me something. Not only did it level the playing field socially, briefly turning enemies into friends, I found the time out on my own helped me to recharge, as it did for my dad. If I’d been picked on at school, a plod to the end of the road and back would make me feel better. By then, I’d outgrown running with my father. I just followed his loop on my own terms. I didn’t push myself to go further or faster, and that was enough for me.
Then, towards the end of one autumn term, our teacher decided to enter the cross-country team into a competition. It was an inter-schools meeting, the first of its kind in the region, and for some unknown reason it generated a buzz of excitement that reached far beyond our niche little club. Suddenly, everyone in class was talking about it. For once, the focus shifted from the football team to the runners. Becoming legends in a lunch break took us all by surprise. It even spelled an amnesty on the bullying front. For the first time in ages, I didn’t dread the moment that the bell rang for break.
The race was staged on a Saturday. Rather than spend their time loitering in shiny new shopping malls, it seemed like everyone from school had turned up to support us. On a crisp and bright morning, we arrived at the host school to find every other team was equally mob-handed.
‘The course goes around the playing fields and then follows a footpath through the woods,’ we were informed by the organiser at the mass briefing. ‘It’s a lovely day. The ground is firm throughout. Just go out and enjoy yourselves!’
I glanced at Moby. There had been no mention of ploughed fields, flooded ditches or the risk of trench foot. In today’s terms, it sounded suspiciously like … trail.
16Moby nodded confidently, as did several of my teammates. Having slogged across the worst possible landscape in training, it felt like we had got this.
I had never taken part in a competitive, mass start. As we gathered at the line, I bounced on my toes with nervous energy. Ahead, the course followed the edge of well-tended grounds with not a furrow in sight.
‘On your marks … get set …’
I didn’t register the signal that marked the start of the stampede that followed. I’m not sure anyone did. In a heartbeat, every runner just went for it, and that included me.
With crowds of schoolkids and even parents screaming at us from each side, what followed was a fast-moving brawl as we all jostled for position. Elbows connected with chests and faces, and I took a blow to the ear. All I could do was find a space and then hold on to it as we thundered around the playing field. In any running race, it takes a while for things to settle down. You’ve gone from standing around to breathing hard and feeling uncomfortable, and then slowly everyone gets into a rhythm.
Sure enough, the pace began to settle. That’s when I discovered, much to my dismay, that it was far quicker than anything I could sustain.
‘Keep up,’ grunted Moby, who promptly eased away.
‘I’ll try,’ I called back, but in truth I knew it was hopeless.
The route was marked and marshalled at every turn. These were at least adults, who knew how to offer positive encouragement to the stragglers at the back. I wasn’t completely last, until we left the playing field for the woods. Then the final runner slipped by and I was on my own.
Following the path between the trees, pushing as hard as I could but effectively getting nowhere, I panicked. I had never been in a race before, let alone dead last, and the pressure was all too much for me. I couldn’t breathe properly, I discovered, and my legs felt like they might short-circuit at any moment. I wanted to stop. I also wished we could restart the race. It had never occurred to me that I might be worst in show, and in that moment I clung to the belief that it was pure bad luck.
As the minutes ticked by, if not the miles, I realised I had been seriously dropped by the pack. The path through the woods was illuminated by 17slanted bars of sunshine and fringed by golden bracken. I had never experienced cross-country running like it, and yet with every step this was beginning to feel like one of those nightmares where the branches start clawing towards you.
By the time I left the trees behind me, floundering across a heath that brought the school grounds back into my sights, the applause from the marshals was beginning to sound strained.
‘Well done,’ some called out, in a tone I had last heard from a reception class teacher after presenting her with a stickman picture of my family. ‘Don’t give up!’
I was still in shock as I reached the school gates. What brought me to my senses was the sight of all the spectators. They were gathered on the banks and behind the railings. When my appearance was met by more jeers than cheers, I decided to feign injury.
‘My foot,’ I cried, limping theatrically but with genuine tears. ‘I think I’ve broken it!’
It was then I laid eyes on one of my teammates. He stood at the gates with a medal round his neck and the kind of look he reserved for me outside of club time.
‘You’re dead,’ he growled. ‘What an embarrassment.’
It was a race I wanted to forget. I didn’t have the maturity to feel like I could learn from the experience. I just felt completely humiliated, a failure at a sport I had enjoyed and a little bit scared that I would pay a price in the school corridors. I couldn’t make sense of what had gone wrong. Looking back, I had let my adrenaline turn to anxiety. At the time, however, it seemed to me that I simply wasn’t very good at running compared to everyone else.
