My Running Hell an everyman’s jogging memoir
My Running Hell was written
during Mick Jackson’s residency at
the Science Museum, 2011–2012.
The booklet was distributed for
free in July 2012, to coincide with
the season of sport in London.
My Running Hell
Mick Jackson
an everyman’s jogging memoir
Mick Jackson
My Running Hell
an everyman’s jogging memoir
Mick Jackson
With
illustrations by Jo Riddell
and
photography by Tim Hawkins
A Science Museum booklet
I’ve had a couple of bad colds lately.
As a result, I’ve missed more runs than I’d
care to admit. This is frustrating: getting out
on the Downs and stretching my legs is my
main means of recreation and pretty much my
only form of exercise. Having said that, I do
now find that when I get out of bed in the
morning I tend not to wince quite as much
when my feet make contact with the carpet.
Also, the shooting pain in my right knee
seems to have eased off a bit. On more than
one occasion I’ve caught myself thinking,
‘This lack of exercise is doing me the power
of good. If I give it up completely I might one
day feel like a human being again.’
*
To a non-runner, the idea of propelling
oneself forward at anything greater than
walking pace for anything longer than the
time it takes to, say, catch a bus is quite
incomprehensible. There’s a concern, not
entirely unfounded, that one is physically
incapable of it – that after five or ten minutes
one’s heart and lungs will simply explode.
To be fair, the first couple of jogs around
the local park won’t do much to confound
that expectation. Those initial tentative
outings will, most likely, be accompanied
by a deep-rooted conviction that the whole
enterprise is totally ludicrous and that the
only sensible option is to stop, tout de suite.
It’s bone-shakingly unpleasant while you’re
doing it and your muscles ache like mad the
following day.
For anyone attempting to get into the habit
of running the only useful advice I’ve heard
is ‘Try not to stop’, because in the first
instance stopping is all you want to do. Yet,
with a little perseverance, the not-stopping
will soon amount to distances and periods
of time that, just a few weeks earlier, would
have seemed fantastical.
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3
Running must be unique in its potential
for exponential improvement. It’s quite
conceivable, for instance, that by the fourth
time out you’ll be running twice your original
distance and at a much faster pace. Within
a month your body will feel significantly
different – your calves and thighs transformed
into solid blocks of meat. By the third month
you may even find yourself contemplating the
purchase of a pair of Lycra running tights
(truly the moment at which one crosses the
Rubicon). Who cares that you look like Max
Wall? These things will keep your legs warm
in practically any weather. Plus, the improved
aerodynamics might trim an extra few seconds
off your P.B.
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5
You will also begin to proselytise. Your
metabolic rate, you enthusiastically inform
your friends/co-workers/complete strangers,
is now markedly higher, which means you
have a greater appetite but burn what you
consume more efficiently. (You read this
online somewhere.) You sleep better. You feel
more alive!
It might be worth taking a moment to savour
this period, not least because it constitutes
a sort of runner’s honeymoon. Quite soon,
the improvements will diminish in their
magnitude; may become merely incremental
and come at a greater physical cost. Who
knows? The day may come when your times
actually falter and, worse, start to slip the
other way.
*
7
I began running in my late teens, in
part, I suspect, because my older brother
was already a runner. There must have been
other reasons but I can’t quite put my finger
on them. Rather unfairly, I imagine my
17-year-old self as being incapable of taking
up regular exercise for the same reasons that
I run today, which are essentially: (i) a general
sense of physical and mental wellbeing, and
(ii) some vague notion of calorific offset,
whereby, having run in the previous 48 hours,
I can drink beer, eat crisps, cake, etc. to my
heart’s content.
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9
My only recollection of me running as a
teenager is pulling on my Adidas trainers and
my tracksuit bottoms and heading off up the
hill past The Dog and Otter, at a time when
‘jogging’ was still considered decidedly cranky
and very much an American phenomenon.
I ran, on and off, right through my twenties
and early thirties, but only began running
regularly – i.e. three times a week – about
15 years ago. I’d got out of the habit, was
chubbing up and feeling crabby, stolid. My
girlfriend, Cath, had taken up jogging and
kept suggesting that I accompany her. When
I finally consented, male pride necessitated
that I run alongside her, despite this being a
major effort. (I feel obliged to point out that
she’s ten years younger than me.) I doubt if
the entire run lasted more than 40 minutes. By
the time we got back home I felt like I’d been
beaten up by a gang of youths with baseball
bats. I went straight up to the bathroom and
took a couple of paracetamol. I stared at my
contorted, beetroot-red face in the mirror
and thought, ‘Either I carry on and it’ll hurt
a little less the next time, or I quit now and
never bother running again.’ For some reason,
I went for Option A.
10
Around this time I started seeing a personal
trainer – an arrangement which now seems
impossibly extravagant – and was, albeit
briefly, a member of a gym. Having sessions
with the former and classes at the latter was,
I suppose, a way of establishing a routine in
which I could attempt to regain some basic
level of fitness. But when I felt confident
enough with my running to drop the other
two I discovered that extracting myself (and
my bank details) from the gym was a little like
trying to sever ties with the Mafia. So much
so that I now consider gym membership to
be a modern-day racket of the first order,
relying as it does on the complicity of a good
proportion of its members, who sign up full of
New Year resolution and barely see the inside
of the place again – people who fail to cancel
their direct debits through guilt at their nonattendance, allied with some vague hope that
they’ll get back into it at some unspecified
future date.
11
The only essential bit of kit required by a
fledgling runner is a decent pair of running
shoes (roughly equivalent to six weeks’ gym
membership). Everything else is pretty much
free. True, you may occasionally require a
little willpower. There are times when the
prospect of stepping out into the teeth of a
hailstorm is a little daunting. What helps
motivate me is the fact that, as has been the
case for the last eight or so years, I’ll be en
route to meeting up with my running partner,
Mark. The amount of grief I’d have to endure
for a no-show would be too much to bear.
13
Once in a while, if Mark is ill or injured, I’ll
run on my own and each time I am amazed at
the amount of thinking I can do during a sixor eight-mile run. It’s so eerily quiet! I return
to the car brimming with ideas. Some runners
wax lyrical about the meditative qualities
of their exercise – of finding themselves
immersed in a Zen-like zone. The only zone
Mark and I occupy is practically militarised
– a minefield of sarcasm and ridicule.
We wind each other up something rotten. We
laugh heartily at each other’s expense. It’s not
exactly relaxing, but it does take our minds
off the run.
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For as long as I can remember we’ve done a
post-work run on Tuesdays and Fridays and
a longer run first thing on Sunday morning.
Over the years we’ve accumulated a roster
of a dozen or so different circuits, of various
lengths and proximities to our respective
houses, some particularly feared or favoured
for the changes in altitudes, some more prone
than others to muddiness after rain, and so on.
18
A couple of runs are endlessly adaptable, so
that a decision regarding actual duration can
be postponed until the last possible minute,
mid-run. And it does seem that in recent
years when we’ve reached those forks and
crossroads we’ve become far more likely to
choose abbreviation over extension. To put
this in context, there was a time, not that
long ago, when I wore a stopwatch and we
would endeavour, to some degree at least,
to improve on our previous best. For two
whole winters we did our evening runs out on
the Downs by torchlight. We’d enter races –
10ks, 10-milers and even the occasional halfmarathon. There’s a race, renowned locally
as a bit of a lung-buster, which though short
manages to incorporate two separate ascents
of the scarp (the steep side) of the Downs.
I can feel my heart beginning to race at the
very thought of it. Halfway up the second of
those devastating inclines I have been gripped
by the same dark thoughts as the jogger out
for his/her first time. That this is too much.
That this isn’t natural. That very soon there
will be profound physical consequences.
19
Not any more. We seem to be done with
pushing the envelope. The last race Mark and
I ran together was probably three years ago.
These days we’re happy if we can complete a
run without pulling a muscle. We’ve become
plodders – ‘joggers’, as opposed to ‘runners’
– stopping at every gate and stile to stretch
our hamstrings, and forever fretting about
whatever niggles and twinges currently
threaten to cramp our style.
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21
The arrival, in recent years, of my son and
daughter has been an unparalleled joy and,
I like to think, the making of me as a man,
but there’s no denying it has rather buggered
up my running. Some mornings I feel like
I’ve done a marathon before I drag back the
curtains and, logistically, there’s no getting
round the fact that 5pm – our weekday
rendezvous – coincides with feeding time at
the monkey enclosure and the beginning of
the gradual herding of children up to bed. You
may guess at how accommodating Mark has
been in this regard.
22
Also, I don’t remember anyone warning me
how a child who starts attending nursery will
bring home all manner of bugs and viruses
(which is odd, since there’s nothing one
parent enjoys more than telling parents of
younger children about the misery awaiting
them). You’d imagine a ‘nursery bug’ as a
teeny thing, easily squished underfoot by
a man approaching, or possibly in the process
of passing, his prime. But these things are
vicious, omnipotent critters, capable of laying
a man low for weeks, even months, at a time.
This too is almost bound to have a bearing
on one’s fitness regime.
But perhaps it’s wrong to have my children
bear full responsibility for my dip in form
on their young shoulders. Because if I think
back, a certain conservatism had begun to
creep into my running at least a year before
they arrived on the scene.
In fact, I can trace it back to a particular
incident when, one Sunday morning, having
run a mile or so west along the Downs from
Devil’s Dyke, I made a heroically reckless
descent down a 1-in-2 slope, reaching the
sort of speed where you get a little giddy and
ever so slightly out of control. Either I tripped
over a root or my foot landed in a hollow.
The resulting ‘crack’ could be heard echoing
across the Weald as far as Gatwick Airport.
I was travelling with such momentum that
I had to hop for about 30 metres before
coming to a halt. To say that I’d gone over
on my ankle feels mightily inadequate. When
I finally stopped I couldn’t quite believe that
my foot was still attached to my leg.
With Mark’s help I hobbled to the bottom of
the path. Then, perhaps out of sheer relief at
there being no apparent fracture, I proposed
that we carry on running, to give it a bit of a
stretch. What peculiar behaviour. Perhaps my
head was swimming with adrenaline. Either
way, within a minute I began to appreciate
the folly of this decision. I stopped and took
my sock and shoe off. My ankle looked like a
full hot water bottle – seemed to be swelling
before my very eyes. In fact, within seconds it
had swollen to such gargantuan proportions
that I couldn’t get my shoe back on.
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When it comes to pulls and strains, runners
are particularly fond of the acronym RICE
(rest, ice, compression, elevation) as the
most effective treatment, but you can RICE
some injuries all you like, you’ll still have a
foot with what looks like a goitre stuck to the
side of it. The swelling didn’t go down for six
weeks and it was at least a month before my
physio, Nik, could lay a finger on it without
me squealing like a little girl. (No disrespect
to little girls.) When I did finally return to
my running, my ankle rattled, despite being
strapped up like a joint of brisket and I lived
in mortal fear of repeating the injury. It’s
amazing quite how many roots and hollows
there are out there when you start looking.
Even now, all these years later, if my foot
comes down on uneven ground and threatens
to go over I have flashbacks and am reduced
to a quivering wreck.
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Every twist and sprain comes with its own
price tag, roughly calculable by the number of
visits required to one’s personal practitioner,
at around £45 a pop. On top of that, for the
last six years I have been seeing a lady footdoctor about the pronation on my left foot.
The insoles she cooks up for me in what looks
suspiciously like a microwave are by no means
cheap, but they do appear to have stopped my
left calf seizing up whenever I attempt to run
for more than an hour at a time.
To be fair, I’ve been seeing an osteopath
since way back in the 1980s, but these days
he seems to be dealing more with runningrelated problems than anything to do with my
appalling posture (unless my poor posture is
the result of the fact that I now run with a
bit of a limp). It’s all money well spent, of
course. It’s just that I’d much rather spend
the money on other things, such as food or
drink, or paying off the mortgage. Or toys for
the little ones.
*
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A couple of months ago I was rooting about
in the attic and found an old scrapbook. On
the cover are the words ‘OLYMPICS’ and
‘1972’, written in the bubble letters that were
de rigueur on every schoolchild’s jotter and
pencil case at the time. I vaguely remember
sitting at the kitchen table and creating the
five Olympic rings by tracing round egg cups,
then colouring them in with felt-tip pens.
The whole venture, I imagine, was probably
instigated by my parents, but I’d like to think
that it was in response to some enthusiasm I’d
expressed for the Games.
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The first third of the scrapbook seems to have
been filled quite without discrimination. So
for instance there is a half-page photograph
of the newly opened volleyball hall ... stories
of romance blooming between competitors
(‘WE’LL WED, SAY STARS’) ... alongside
articles about showjumping, judo and
yachting. As a result I’d pretty much filled the
book before the second week of athletics. The
extra cuttings are tucked inside the back cover
in a great wodge. By then it was probably
clear that Great Britain wasn’t about to top
the medals table (a bitter pill for any newly
patriotic youngster) and the thought of having
to buy another scrapbook and get out all the
egg cups and felt-tip pens again probably just
seemed too much of an effort.
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As one might expect, there are plenty of
clippings about Mark Spitz (‘SPITZFIRE’ ...
‘SUPER SPITZ’ ... ‘THE SPITZKRIEG’),
Kip Keino and Mary Peters, the Northern
Irish athlete who won a gold medal in the
pentathlon. But, in between, there are curious
bits and pieces I’ve no memory of collecting,
such as a tiny article concerning Jesse
Owens’s return to Germany, 36 years after
winning four gold medals in Berlin in front
of Adolf Hitler (where he rather confounded
the Nazis’ claims about the superiority of the
Aryan race). The whole thing, by definition, is
a bit of a hotchpotch and I doubt I managed
to read half of the articles before pasting them
in for posterity. But one athlete is ubiquitous
above all others – David Bedford, the 5000
and 10,000 metres runner, who was my first
real sporting hero, despite him having what
can only be described as a disastrous Games.
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It’s hard to convey now what an unlikely
figure Bedford cut in the early 1970s. With his
long hair, Zapata moustache and occasional
bandana, he looked more like a rock star
than a middle-distance runner. Pre-race, he’d
stroll around as if he’d just partaken of some
colossal bong, but his running style was far
from effortless. He pounded away at the track
with his elbows jutting out, and something
of the nodding-dog head movement more
recently associated with Paula Radcliffe. His
main strategy was to ramp up the pace from
early on, in order to establish a gap of such
proportions that those runners who actually
had a sprint finish wouldn’t be able to catch
him on the last lap or two.
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He was a bit of a scruff – a phrase I’d already
heard used to describe my own appearance –
but wasn’t exactly lacking in self-confidence.
He wore his (red) socks rolled right down to
the ankle and would chat to the other runners,
mid-race, sometimes to their profound
irritation. I didn’t appreciate it at the time
but he also stirred up a good deal of antipathy
off the track, not least in the press. In one
of my cuttings Bedford is compared, to his
detriment, with the much more ‘gentlemanly’
athlete David Hemery, who was also competing
in Munich and nearing the end of his career.
The implication was that Bedford, in attitude
as well as appearance, was a lout. Or to put it
more bluntly, he wasn’t sufficiently well bred.
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All that interested me was that he looked
cool and regularly whupped the competition,
so when my family and I sat down to watch
the 10,000 metres final, I fully expected him
to walk away with the gold. But from the
moment the runners filed out onto the track
it was clear that something was seriously
amiss. The first close-up of Bedford revealed
that his Frank Zappa locks had been shorn
into a sickeningly conformist short back
and sides. Had he burst a blood vessel in the
semis? Or, worse, had someone got to him
with a pair of clippers while he lay in his bed
at night? Either way, I had been betrayed,
along with all my fellow scruffs. The ‘Jesus
of Nazareth’ image had been discarded in
favour of someone who looked like he was on
his way to an interview at the Midland Bank.
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I wouldn’t read Milton’s Samson Agonistes
for at least another five years, but even a
12-year-old can read the writing on the wall.
Dave’s long hair was part of what made him
so exceptional. It somehow sucked up extra
oxygen and delivered it directly to his legs.
Now, all I could do was sit and watch Fate
follow its course. Four laps into the race,
Bedford attempted to push on but found his
resources wanting. There would, it seemed,
be no slow annihilation of the other runners.
Worse, in what I remember (wrongly, as it
turns out) as the penultimate lap, Lasse Virén,
a Finn, and Emiel Puttemans, a Belgian, left
Bedford and everyone else standing, as if the
two of them had just joined the race from the
sidelines and were having their own 800-metre
sprint to the line.
44
Bedford limped in sixth. I was devastated –
by the lack of medals, but also the betrayal
regarding the hair. In one cutting in my
scrapbook, Ian Wooldridge of the Daily Mail
seemed positively delighted, as if it was a
comeuppance, long overdue. Dave’s sin,
apparently, had been not just to fail, but to
do so after so much un-British bragging. To
cap it all, following the race Bedford left the
track at the soonest opportunity, pushing
away the film cameras intent on capturing
his distress. It’s still not clear to me whether
Wooldridge’s objection was to the fact that
Bedford displayed such distress in the first
place or that he wasn’t inclined to share it
with the rest of the world.
*
45
My only other real sporting hero – the only
other man with whom I felt some unshakable
connection – was Steve Ovett, who ran in the
800 metres and 1500 metres at the Moscow
Olympics, eight years later. If Bedford looked
like he’d just completed a session on The Old
Grey Whistle Test, Ovett had, to me at least,
something of the Alf Tupper to him (the
working-class runner from the Victor comic,
renowned for eating fish and chips on his way
to the track). Of course, I was doing both Ovett
and Bedford a huge disservice by imagining
that they didn’t have to train as hard as other
athletes, but it fitted my romantic ideal of
them as innately and self-assuredly brilliant.
Ovett’s rival at the time, Sebastian Coe, put
me in mind of the boy at my school who not
only captained the football team, but also the
first XI cricket team. Steve Ovett reminded
me of, well, me.
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Strangely, my memories of Ovett winning the
800 metres final and losing to Coe in the 1500
metres in 1980 are far less vivid than Bedford’s
efforts in Munich – strange because they’re
more recent, but also because Ovett actually
won a gold. In full flight, Steve Ovett could
look utterly manic. His eyes bulged out of
their sockets; his skull seemed to press at his
flesh. Seb Coe was often criticised for being
a tad too slick and good-looking. But next to
Ovett, Coe couldn’t help but look drop-dead
gorgeous. Pretty much any athlete would have
done the same. Curiously, watching footage of
those races now, Coe seems a little hard done
by. When he raced he was the model of grim
determination, running so hard that his chest
sometimes seemed in danger of leaving his
head bobbing in its wake.
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It’s only now, decades later, that I understand
that what appealed to me about both Ovett and
Bedford was the idea of them as ‘outsiders’:
men who against all odds had forced their way
onto my TV screen. The fact that the press
didn’t particularly warm to them did nothing
but confirm my reasons for idolising them.
*
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I didn’t appreciate that Ovett was born and
raised in Brighton until I moved there in
the mid-1990s where, much to my delight,
I found that a statue had been unveiled in
the great man’s honour near the entrance to
Preston Park. Even more gaunt – practically
Giacomettian – than in the flesh, Statue Steve
appeared to be haring out of the bushes,
having failed to pay for an Eccles cake in the
nearby Rotunda Café.
The park is a five-minute jog from my front
door and long before Mark and I became
running partners I would regularly pad
around the park’s perimeter with all the
other puffers and panters. When I passed
Steve’s statue I would give him a little nod,
and even after Mark had joined me, I would
find myself offering the statue a silent, inward
genuflection. Statue Steve took on near-holy
status, with one hand raised in benediction
upon all who jogged in his midst.
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Then, about four or five years ago, I was
running round the park and went straight
past the spot where Steve should have been,
without spotting him. I assumed I hadn’t
been paying attention, so the next time round
I had a proper look. Statue Steve, it seemed,
had done a runner. I stopped and stepped
right up to the rosebeds. Just above the soil
stood a solitary Ovett foot – the one Steve
was taking off from. Like an animal caught in
a trap, Statue Steve had chewed off his own
foot, rather than spend another year locked
to the plinth in mid-sprint. Either that or
someone had come along at dead of night with
an angle-grinder and cut straight through his
ankle and bundled him into the back of a
van – someone who knew the current price of
scrap bronze.
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The theft generated quite a bit of publicity,
but since there was no CCTV footage of the
incident there were no leads to follow up.
A year or two ago I noticed a tiny piece,
no more than 12 lines long, in a national
newspaper which described in rather gory
detail how some of Steve’s ‘body parts’ had
been recovered at a Brighton address, but as
far as I know Steve’s torso has never been
recovered and no-one was ever charged with
his theft.
Thankfully, the Real Steve is still soaking
up the sun in Australia, having emigrated
there in the 1990s. Whenever he pops up
on the television to do a little commentary
(something I sincerely hope that he’ll be
doing this summer), or to be quizzed, yet
again, about his great rivalry with Sebastian
Coe, he looks more relaxed than he ever did in
the ’80s. Perhaps it’s because he’s now on the
outside looking in, and that suits him better.
Or perhaps it’s the fact that he’s not having
to do all that running. As a fellow runner, I’m
only too aware how it can take its toll.
*
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A couple of Tuesdays ago I went along to
the Withdean Athletics Stadium in north
Brighton, to take part in a little ‘speed
training’. Sam Lambourne has been running
the sessions for years. You don’t have to be
especially speedy to take part – just a regular
runner. Men and women of all ages and
abilities turn up. The idea is that you sprint
for a prescribed distance – say, 200 metres –
then stroll for the next hundred to get your
breath back, before sprinting again.
The final session of the evening is a 1500
metres. The last time I’d run on the track
I’d achieved what I considered to be a quite
respectable time. As I pulled on my running
shoes I thought it just about possible that
I might achieve a similar finish. I keep meaning
to check the sort of time needed for Olympic
qualification. Who knows, perhaps if I lay off
the beer and crisps, and some younger athlete
twists his ankle or picks up a bug, I might get
a late call-up.
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It can take me a little while to warm up
these days – sometimes an entire run – so
I did a gentle circuit. Then another one,
just to be sure. We started the sessions and
I completed eight sets of 200 metres without
particularly pushing myself. It was, I felt,
important to keep a little something back
for the 1500 metres at the end. But at the
start of the 400-metre sessions I thought I’d
better start increasing my pace a tiny bit, if
only to avoid my entire system going into a
state of shock when I eventually made some
real demands on it.
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I stepped up to the line and leant forward, just
like Dave and Steve did all those years ago.
Sam clapped his hands to replicate the sound
of a starting pistol and we were off – all 15
of us. We raised our heads and saw the track
open up before us. For the briefest moment
we were running in slo-mo, like those blokes
in Chariots of Fire.
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I’d taken about five steps when I was
gripped by some painful, all-encompassing
impediment. My first thought was that one of
my fellow runners had clipped my ankle. My
second thought was that a sniper had taken
me out from the stands. I hobbled to a halt
as the other runners flew past me. I slumped
onto my backside and was still scanning the
empty seats for my would-be assassin when
I realised that the spasm in my calf was
basically a pulled muscle. The same one I’ve
pulled ten times before.
The only important thing, I felt, was to
drag myself out of sight before the runners
completed the circuit. Otherwise, I’d be
obliged to explain how I’d somehow managed
to pull a muscle whilst practically standing
still. I got to my feet and limped off towards
the nearest exit. Back in my car, I dug my
thumb into my leg and could feel a knot the
size of a golf ball buried deep in my calf.
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I waited a clear ten days before seeing Nik,
my physio, vainly hoping that it might get
better on its own. He gave it a bit of a rub and
told me that it’ll need at least another couple
of sessions to get it moving, and probably an
additional three or four weeks before I can
run again. In the meantime I’ve been given
a list of stretches and exercises to help it get
better. If I didn’t have a job (and children)
I might have a chance of completing them.
As it is, I go up on my toes while I’m waiting
for the kettle to boil at the office, and if
I have the energy I do a few stretches in the
evening lying on my back in the living room.
If I position myself quite carefully I can
watch the telly while I pull my knee up to
my chest. I should endeavour to make myself
comfortable. At this rate I may be watching
the Olympics from down there.
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The original bronze of Steve Ovett was made
by Pete Webster.
Pete has been commissioned to create
another statue of Steve Ovett, which will
be located on the seafront by the finish line
of the Brighton marathon. It is due to be
unveiled in late July 2012.
Illustrations by
Jo Riddell
Photography by
Tim Hawkins
Designed by
James Frankis and Lyn Modaberi
Commissioned by
Hannah Redler and Ruth Fenton,
Science Museum Arts Projects
Copy-edited by
Lawrence Ahlemeyer
Proofread by
Gordon R Hooper
Images of Max Wall and Steve Ovett
provided by Getty Images
Image of David Bedford
provided by the Press Association
Image of the Steve Ovett sculpture
provided by Pete Webster
© Mick Jackson 2012
Mick Jackson asserts his moral right to
be identified as the author of this book
Printed on FSC certified 100% recycled paper.
Printed with vegetable inks.
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