Keep on Running (9 page)

  Just as in London, it was great simply to get going; interesting too to see which route the marathon was going to take us on as we headed northwards out of the city before veering across towards the former Westhampnett airfield, which so famously became the Goodwood motor-racing circuit in the years after the war. We were on historic turf as we clipped the corner of the site before crossing the road to head towards Goodwood House itself, seat for centuries of the Dukes of Richmond. Running past the house, we headed up the celebrated Goodwood hill climb, now a central part of the annual Goodwood Festival of Speed. The Festival website bills it as a 'challenging white-knuckled 1.16-mile course', which 'starts as a tree-lined run through the southern corner of the Goodwood estate' and then 'turns to sweep past the front of Goodwood House before climbing a steep and narrow estate road bordered by flint walls and dense woodland groves towards Goodwood's equine racecourse on top of the magnificent South Downs'.

  Magnificent indeed, but on foot it wasn't quite so white-knuckled. Instead, it was a slog; long, slow and draining, but, coming just 40 minutes into the race, it was manageable enough, bringing us to the top of the first of the day's four climbs, emerging on the high ground next to Goodwood racecourse, elegantly positioned to enjoy stunning views across the Downs. Not that we paused to enjoy the views. Instead, we ran beyond the course and then darted down a country track to run sharply downhill on a tough, rutted, stony footpath through the woods northwards into the beautiful village of East Dean.

  Against the clear early-morning sky, it looked ravishing, full of archetypal Sussex appeal and, for me, full of happy Sussex memories. It was here that the poet and playwright Christopher Fry lived for many years, and one of the great pleasures of my job was occasionally going to see him, always a treat as I stepped back into another world full of charm and pleasantries long since lost to modern-day living.

  'Have you come here by motor car?' he would ask with a twinkle, and I would always wonder whether the archaism was deliberate, before concluding that it wasn't. Christopher really did live in a world where cars were motor cars. I smiled to myself as I ran through the village, just a few yards from where he was doubtless sipping tea from a bone china cup. 'No, I came here on foot this morning,' I chuckled to myself in tribute to quite the most endearing man I have ever met.

  But there was no time to pause for thought as the route took us on and out of the village, a flattish road taking us eastwards towards a left-hand turning which led steeply upwards through the woods to the top of the South Downs where we joined the South Downs Way. The ascent was a struggle, particularly as the risk of tripping seemed high, but it was more than worth it. There was something about the air at the top. You could almost feel it cleanse your lungs as you breathed it. Again it struck me: you couldn't possibly conceive a marathon more different to London.

  As so often happens after a long climb, I accelerated once I was finally on the flat. It's as if the ascent had somehow coiled up my legs, unleashing me to spring forward once the climb stopped, and it was certainly with renewed energy that I hared off eastwards on our section of the splendid walking route which runs 100 miles from Eastbourne to Winchester. We were on the South Downs Way for probably 3 or 4 miles, and I had an excellent half an hour to start with up there, largely by falling into the slipstream of someone running at more or less my pace. I'd like to think I helped him keep going, but I doubt it. When two hours were up, I remarked how quickly the time had flown since the start. His only answer was 'Yes!' Conversation clearly wasn't on his agenda. We separated soon afterwards. The London camaraderie wasn't much in evidence out on those lonely hills.

  Maybe that was why my high started to evaporate, and soon afterwards I endured a tough quarter of an hour, struggling for the lack of landmarks, struggling for the lack of company. I was lucky if I could see more than a couple of runners ahead of me, so thinned out were we by now, and my struggle was compounded by the fact that suddenly a solitary runner came running towards us the other way. I started to think we were going to turn around at some point and that he was miles ahead – a depressing thought. Even worse was the niggling worry that somehow I had gone wrong. I hadn't, as it turned out, so heaven knows what he was doing. He had a number on. He was part of the race. Unless I just dreamt him. Who knows?

  Tiredness was certainly taking hold. This was far further than I had run since London and on terrain I had never attempted before. Even during my 'London training' I had mostly kept to roads; this was now mile upon mile of track, often uneven, often stony and just occasionally slippy. It was much more forgiving on the knees than tarmac, but in my tiredness I started to feel that I couldn't trust it. Again, I started to worry about tripping.

  Fortunately help was at hand, and from an unlikely source. A checkpoint suddenly loomed, unheralded, just as we were about to leave the heights and head back down through the woods. High on the Downs, I was suddenly being offered water by a former Mayor of Chichester. I knew her reasonably well, and it felt more than a touch surreal to see her again in such circumstances. But a friendly face is always a boost, particularly when she offered me welcome confirmation that we were comfortably past the halfway mark. I knew it. We had to be. But it was great to hear someone say it.

  And that's where the mind took over. I enjoyed an excellent three-quarters of an hour after that. Feel good, and you'll run well. For those 45 minutes, I enjoyed the almost spiritual lift that running can give runners but so rarely gives me. I could feel the rhythm of my run and I could feel that the rhythm was good. I wasn't aware of speaking, but I could hear myself saying 'good running' every now and then, which made me run even better. Mind games, indeed, and the games got even better during a lovely stretch which took us back down off the Downs. It felt like the beginning of the end. Just to cap it all, there was a hint of spitting, refreshing rain and the temperature was perfect.

  The long downhill stretch took us right back into East Dean, just a few miles north of Chichester as the crow flies. There, at the checkpoint, a rather vague woman said that we had either 8 or 10 miles to go, she wasn't quite sure. I remember thinking that she might have thought it an idea to find out – a rather ungracious reaction given that she was kindly dishing out water.

  Soon afterwards, still in East Dean, we passed a table groaning with choccies and flavoured drinks for sale. I imagine it was intended for the walkers who would be coming along several hours later with pocketfuls of cash. But just the sight of it was enough to undo me. I was starting to get hungry – or rather I was starting to think I was. I saw a Bounty, and that was it. I wanted it. But I had no money. It had never occurred to me to bring any. When you run, you take as little with you as you can possibly get away with. A fine principle, but the damage was done. Hunger – or maybe just the thought of it – took hold. My problem was that I had no idea how to deal with it.

  Maybe eating would have been the wrong thing to do. Given a choice between running hungry and running full, give me running hungry every time. I've never experienced it but I've always assumed that a full stomach must be one of the worst discomforts on a racecourse. You need to be lean and a bit mean. Hunger keeps you going. A full tummy would stop you in your tracks – or so I've always assumed.

  But that day, it was hunger – or the illusion of it – that was nearly my undoing. I was tired, and there was nothing robust about my thinking. I was showing my inexperience and, with it, a lack of control. I should have nipped the thought in the bud. Instead I let it grow, and that was the big mistake. I made things difficult for myself.

  At least we were clearly heading towards Chichester now. Unfortunately there was one very sharp ascent to go. After East Dean, the course cut across a field which rose vertically before us as we headed back towards the plateau where the Goodwood racecourse stands, high above Chichester. It was the low point of the day. Tiredness was kicking in strongly, hunger was hammering, and I was reduced to a disjointed run-walk-shuffle with the summit still hundreds of yards above me.

  All I could do was cling on to the thought that what goes up must come down, and sure enough, eventually, we came out close to the racecourse – and the realisation that almost everything would be downhill from now on. More encouraging was the fact that we got our first glimpse of the walkers. They had set out on their trek several hours after us and were now 5 or so miles into their circuit. The runners – and we were very thinly dispersed by now – knew exactly what the walkers had in front of them. We also had the huge satisfaction of having put it behind us.

  From the racecourse road, the last little ascent was to the top of the Trundle, an Iron Age hill fort on Saint Roche's Hill just north of Chichester, for a fantastic if fairly blowy view towards the city. Beyond it was the sea, and beyond that was the Isle of Wight in the far distance. Just in front of us was the joy of the final checkpoint, this time manned by two former mayors. One of them asked me how I was. I told her I was starving, to which she offered moral rather than actual sustenance – welcome news that there were just 3 miles to go.

  From the heights, Chalkpit Lane sliced wonderfully straight through the chalk of the lower Downs in an invitingly direct line to the city below. At last, after all the hours of where-am-I uncertainty, the goal lay ahead, and so I trotted on with surprising vigour. Big Ben-like on the horizon, the spire of Chichester Cathedral seemed to grow with every step, a lovely sign of getting oh so close, until the road dipped and the cathedral disappeared from view.

  But then suddenly, with the cathedral gone and only fields in front of me, I ran again into that sapping sense of not having the foggiest idea where I was. We really could have been anywhere. I walked for five minutes or so, conscious that I was probably losing the chance of beating my London Marathon time, but I was tired. And maybe deep down I didn't want to beat my previous time for the simple reason that this was a run done without training. Subconsciously, perhaps, I wanted to believe that all that training first time round had actually counted for something.

  Eventually, we rejoined the road by which we had left Chichester. Knowing where I was, I broke into a strong run again for the last half-mile and felt quite choked as I crossed the finishing line. It was sad not to have anyone to meet me. But I felt good. I felt strong and loose-muscled. I glanced at my watch as I finished. I had completed the course in 4 hours 13 minutes 43 seconds, two minutes slower than my London debut three years before. And I was home in time for lunch, wondering more and more just what it was – if anything – I had accomplished.

  Any other day I'd have struggled to run 10 or 12 miles, and yet suddenly I had done a marathon. And I had done it on no training at all. My knees hurt and my ankles ached, but no more so than the last time. My only conclusion was that I was reasonably fit and unreasonably pig-headed. But I still couldn't work it out. Perhaps I had kept going because the run was for real in a way that training never can be. Perhaps I'd kept going because I already had a marathon to my credit and knew I could do it. Perhaps also I'd benefitted from the low-key nature of this particular marathon. There had been no pressure. Almost nobody had known I was doing it, in sharp contrast to the London Marathon, which I had repeatedly mentioned in the newspaper in order to bring in the sponsorship I had needed to justify my place. By contrast, here was an instance where the absence of a sense of occasion had actually been a help during the run – even if it was somewhat deflating afterwards.

  The terrain had been tough. There had been four steep climbs. And yet I had found it much, much easier than the flat London course with its endless streets and huge, cheering crowds. Maybe it was the fact of just deciding to get up and do it – a return to the kind of freedom that running really ought to be about. In all these ways, the pressure had been off.

  But the downsides were that suddenly I had done two marathons rather than one, and that the second had been completed with no build-up whatsoever, leaving a downbeat sense of 'Well, what was that all about then?' I wasn't remotely on a high. Instead, I felt disappointed. Ultimately, it was an anticlimactic experience, one which underlined the extent to which a marathon needs a build-up and just how much it needs an audience. You need to feel that you have earned it; you also need to feel that you have been urged on to finish.

  I returned to the Chichester Marathon in 2002 for an almost identical experience, completing the course in 4 hours 10 minutes. In July 2004, I went back again for what should have been my hat-trick of Chichester marathons. Except that was the year of the marathon that wasn't. Again, it was generally referred to as the Chichester Marathon. Without the M word, I wouldn't have shown up. Officially, it was still a '42 km All Terrain Run'. But I knew the score on that one. Once again, making up the missing 195 metres, I gave myself a three-minute run-up before the start.

  But within a couple of hours, I was mystified to find myself much further around the course than I ought to have been. At the end, I was given a certificate to confirm that I had completed the City Of Chichester International Challenge 42 km All Terrain Run, but nothing about it seemed right. I came in fifth with a time of 3 hours 19 minutes, and I knew that something was seriously up. How likely was it that I would knock nearly 50 minutes off my first London time on an up-and-down course such as this?

  As the poor chap wrote out my certificate, I grumpily told him: 'That was never a marathon, you know.' He confessed that 'some lads' had been caught changing the arrows up in the woods.