As I walked from the bus to the gymnasium at the Santa Monica College Stadium, I saw the white Olympic flag with its five coloured rings hanging limply in the hot sunshine. The temperature inside the gym was much lower than outside, but the cooler air was filled with simmering anxiety as 107 nervous men checked in for the Los Angeles Olympic Marathon.
I sat on the floor to pin number 396 to my British running vest, and I watched Boston marathon winner and American record holder, Alberto Salazar, stretching. Next to him former Olympic medallist Rod Dixon of New Zealand was chatting to my British team-mate Geoff Smith. Geoff had run the fastest time by a Briton for several years when he finished second to Rod in New York. Juma Ikanga and Gidamis Shahanga, silver and gold medallists from the Commonwealth Games, were jogging slowly around the room. Toshihiko Seko, who had been undefeated at the marathon for five years, listened intently to his coach, along with his Japanese teammates. Everyone else either stared at the floor or gazed at Carlos Lopes, the Portuguese double World Cross Country Champion, and Rob de Castella, the reigning World Marathon Champion.
The media experts had all proclaimed this to be the best marathon field ever assembled; but as they eagerly awaited the race, some of the runners were suffering torment during the final hour of waiting. They were filling up with awe for the occasion and the opposition, and with fear for the distance and heat they were about to endure. Some stared blankly into the distance, while others talked incessantly about their training, races and injuries. Some were motionless but others jogged and moved continually. The room was shaded and cool, but the air was charged as if a thunderstorm was about to erupt.
My anxiety level was increasing rapidly as the ultimate challenge of an Olympic marathon came closer and closer. My mind was racing and my stomach was churning. I was on the verge of losing control. I needed to get back in control, and quickly. I walked outside onto the track where the race would start. The heat from the August sunshine was intense, and it didn’t make sense to stay there long, but I had to compose myself, which is something I do best when I am alone. Nobody else was crazy enough to stand out in the sunshine, so I had the solitude I needed.
I took some deep breaths and started talking to myself. When I was inside the gym I was looking at all those great runners and thinking, ‘How am I going to beat him and him and him?’ But now that I was outside and alone I started to think differently, ‘I have prepared for this race as well as I can. Today is the day. This is the biggest race of my life and I believe I am ready to run the greatest race of my life. Nobody else can stop me from running my greatest race, and if I do it, I am going to beat a lot of them.’ I started to feel in control, and with that feeling came more confidence, and on top of that came some inspiration. ‘I know I am going to run better than ever, and because I have never done that before I don’t know how good it could be. All the best runners are here today, which means that with one brilliant performance I could beat all the greatest marathon runners in the world. I just need to do it once in my life to beat them all. All these guys being here isn’t a problem, it’s an opportunity. A fantastic, wonderful opportunity!’
By changing the situation from a problem to an opportunity, I changed my frame of mind from confused to focused and positive. When I walked back into the relative cool of the gymnasium I looked at Lopes, de Castella, Salazar, Seko and all the others, and I realised that this was indeed the precise moment for me to produce the performance of my life. I still felt extremely nervous, but I was no longer scared. I just wanted to get on with it.
When it was time to go back out into the sunshine and heat, I jogged a lap of the track with a very positive frame of mind. After a long drink of water, I ran a few gentle strides and tried to ignore my churning stomach. As we were called to the starting line I tipped two cups of water over my head to soak my hair and shoulders. With cold water dripping down my back I lined up in the third row beside John Treacy, who, like Lopes, had been the World Cross Country Champion twice.
The race started with two and three-quarter laps of the track, which was very crowded on the bends in the middle of a bunch of 107 runners. The running was a little more relaxed on the road outside the stadium, but the tension remained high as the crowds along both sides of the road bombarded us with noise. I have never known such excitement at a road race; the Angelinos were proud of hosting the Olympics and they were excited about the marathon.
The first few miles were a little uncomfortable as I tried to settle into a rhythm and adjust my bodily systems to running 26.2 miles in 85 to 90 degrees of heat. I was content to run in the midst of the group, and just get a few miles behind me. I started to feel better, as if things were in equilibrium, by about four miles, just as we turned onto San Vicente Boulevard. This was one of the most crowded sections of the course, and the noise was deafening. By chance, I found myself running beside the media’s pre-race favourite and World Champion, Rob de Castella. For some reason I decided to show him how relaxed I was, as if he cared, by having a chat with him.
I said, ‘Noisy, isn’t it?’ to which he replied, ‘What?’ which rather proved my point. And that, verbatim, is the entire extent of the conversations I had during the whole race.
The Dutchman and European Champion, Gerard Nijboer, had tried some early pace setting, but now abandoned it for an easier ride in the pack. I had slowly moved closer to the front and we were all running slightly downhill towards the Pacific Ocean in a large, tightly grouped bunch as we passed 10 kilometres in 31 minutes and 15 seconds, which is even paced schedule for a finishing time of 2 hours 11 minutes and 40 seconds. This was good steady running, but not spectacular, which was exactly what I was hoping for on such a hot day. I was concentrating on staying relaxed, running efficiently and finding whatever shade there was from the direct glare of the sun. My plan was to get as far into the race as possible for the least amount of energy expenditure, in the hope that I would have something left for the closing stages.
It was all going just the way I wanted until we turned on to Ocean Drive and Ahmed Ismail of Somalia forged ahead, running the seventh mile in 4 minutes 45 seconds. I decided to be smart, and just let him go. Running so fast so soon in this heat had to be crazy, and I was sure he couldn’t possibly keep it up. A group of other African runners, who all loved to run at the front, thought otherwise, and decided to follow him. Ikangaa was one of those runners, and as soon as de Castella realised that Ikangaa was pulling away, he neatly stepped out of the pack and gave chase.
The race was suddenly changing and I had to make a decision. Should I continue with my sensible even pace, or should I get up to the front? I really had no choice. An hour earlier I had told myself that if I ran the greatest race of my life, I could fulfil my wildest dreams. I couldn’t possibly let such a talented group get away. I had to abandon caution and seize my opportunity. I accelerated and worked my way back towards the leaders.
I was six seconds behind Ismail and Ikangaa at 15 km, with a time of 46:06. I had covered the previous 5 km in a dangerously fast 14 minutes 51 seconds, but I was on the back of the leading group, and everyone behind me was effectively out of the race from that point on. Geoff Smith and Alberto Salazar either didn’t or couldn’t go with that surge, and their Olympic dreams were already over. We had just turned onto Pacific Boulevard when we passed 10 miles in 49:35, and from here the course was either flat or uphill all the way to the Coliseum.
Somalia’s moment of Olympic glory came to an end as Ismail faded from the scene, and drifted back to finish 47th. The pace setting was taken up briefly by Nijboer, and then by Joseph Nzau of Kenya. I was content again to maintain my position and concentrate on picking the shortest route. Nobody seemed keen to commit himself, so the pace slackened slightly and a dozen of us formed a tightly knit group.
We passed 20 km in 61:26, having run 30:11 for the second 10 km. We reached half way in just under 65 minutes, with Ikangaa and Nzau in the lead, and I ran just behind them. I was feeling comfortable. (Comfortable is a relative term of course: I was comfortable compared to how I might have felt at this stage of a marathon, run in 85 degrees.) I knew I was running really well. I felt strong, and in control. I had beaten Ikangaa in the London Marathon and I felt I could do it again. Now that we had passed half way my confidence was growing, and I started to look around. Carlos Lopes was running beside me, but I had to look again to believe what I was seeing. We were travelling at about 12 miles per hour, with 14 miles behind us, but Lopes looked smooth and totally effortless. He even appeared to be running with his mouth closed, finding it sufficient to breathe through his nose. I felt comfortable, but Lopes appeared to be jogging.
In what I can only assume was an attempt to cause some excitement, Rod Dixon appeared at the front with an injection of pace. It was a futile attempt, which only lasted quarter of a mile, before he faded and drifted away from the leading pack. It was becoming apparent that the real race wouldn’t start for another five or six miles, and anyone with serious intentions was biding his time. Nobody wanted to sacrifice himself by leading for too long, in such hot conditions, with such a talented group on his heels.
From 15 to 18 miles we ran in a strange and unaccustomed silence because the route went up onto the Marina Freeway, which was an elevated motorway from which spectators were banned. It was an ugly expanse of hot concrete, normally crowded with cars and trucks, but which I shared with a small group of skinny men from the four corners of the world. There were three Japanese, Toshihiko Seko and the Soh twins, Takeshi and Shigeru; two Djiboutians, Jama Robleh and Ahmed Salah; an Irishman, John Treacy; an Australian, Rob de Castella; a Kenyan, Joe Nzau; a Tanzanian, Juma Ikangaa; and the man from Portugal, Carlos Lopes.
As we left the freeway and were greeted again with tumultuous applause, I realised quite clearly that with this cosmopolitan group, I shared not only the road, but also the experience of a lifetime. I was struck with a sudden awareness of who I was and where I was: a 32 year old second son of a County Durham chemist, a runner with 16 years training and two failed attempts to make previous Olympic teams behind me. I had been a complete outsider to make this team before the trial, but was now leading the Olympic marathon at 18 miles, feeling good, and knowing that whatever the final outcome, I was racing with the best in the world, and on this most important day, I was one of them. I could not resist the opportunity to grin and wave back at the crowd. I felt absolutely wonderful.
In this almost euphoric state I passed 30 km in 1:33:02, and perhaps I was feeling comfortable because the pace had slowed to 31:36 for the last 10 km. My elation did not last much longer, as I realised that the moment of truth was soon to arrive. I began to prepare my mind for the inevitable lungbursting, gut-wrenching, eye-popping surge of pace that would carry someone to victory. I expected Rob de Castella to make just such a move close to the 20 miles point, but we passed that landmark without incident in 1:39:52.
After feeling so relaxed a little earlier, my mind was frantic now. I was continually talking to myself, ‘Come on; make your move. As soon as you come past I’m going with you. Let’s go. I’m ready.’ I glanced around and to my surprise realised that de Castella, the reigning Commonwealth and World Champion, was right at the back of the group, and quite clearly, he was not about to take this race by the scruff of the neck and sort it out.
I looked around at the rest of the leading group, and tried to pick the one most likely to take the initiative. With rising anxiety, I realised that apart from Ikangaa, who was already leading, every single one of them was probably quite happy to run in a bunch all the way to the stadium and take their chances in a sprint for the finish. Seko would be delighted with that situation, but it would be no use to me. I had ended up running marathons because I had never been able to out sprint anybody.
Everyday for weeks beforehand, I had spent hours mentally rehearsing this race. I planned my reactions to a host of possibilities, and I thought I had covered every conceivable situation. I had prepared myself physically and mentally for a long, hard effort over the last six miles, and I knew this was my best chance in a field with so many fast finishers. But I now realised that I was faced with a situation I had completely overlooked, because in all my planning it had never once occurred to me that I would get to 21 miles in the Olympic marathon and feel that the pace was too slow! I realised that I was going to have to take the initiative and break the group apart. All my preparation and rehearsal had convinced me that I would run beyond my previous best, but I was running so well I was faced with a situation I had never foreseen. For the second time in the race I had to make a crucial decision.
It took me half a mile or so to adjust my mind to the reality of what I knew I had to do, and while I was preparing myself for a surge that would have to last for nearly half an hour, we passed a drinks station. Everyone veered off to the right-hand side of the road, inevitably slowing down and bumping into each other, as they tried to grab their personalised water bottles. I did not feel the need for more liquid as strongly as my desire to shake up the race, so I ran straight on, and immediately found myself a few yards clear. I made the most of this by increasing the pace slightly, which meant the others had to work hard to catch me.
Ikangaa quickly resumed the role of leader, but we were travelling a little faster now, and I stayed very close to his shoulder to keep the pressure on. The group was slightly smaller, and a quick glance confirmed that de Castella was dropped. It may be the oldest trick in the book, but accelerating past a water station still works.
The World Champion had been dropped with a slight increase in pace, and his departure was a timely reminder that reputations count for nothing in the heat of competition. My focus, determination and concentration were now total. After sixteen years and thousands and thousands of miles of training, I had reached the defining moment of my whole career. I moved past Ikangaa and into the lead. I cranked up the pace until I was running as fast as I dared. I wanted my action to be decisive, but not suicidal. I knew I had to hold it for another five miles. Having committed myself, and everyone else, to a long, hard finish, there could be no thoughts of changing my mind.
I took the pace from 5 minutes per mile up to 4 minutes 47 seconds, and suddenly it was hurting. After so many miles of waiting for the attack to come, it was a magnificent feeling to be the one attacking. I didn’t need to look round to see what was happening because the sun was low in the sky and directly behind us. I couldn’t see the other runners but I could see their shadows on the road in front of me. I pushed on and on, and as each hard-earned quarter mile went by, another shadow disappeared.
I ran like this for a mile and a half, with aching tiredness building in my legs, but with my mind focused deeply on the job of putting one foot in front of the other as smoothly, efficiently and quickly as I could. My concentration was intense; I could have run straight through the wildest Hollywood scenes and never have noticed. It was as if my 16 years of training were all distilled into this brief moment.
The spell was finally broken by mounting discomfort, and my desire to see who was still with me. A quick peep behind revealed that Lopes, Treacy and Nzau remained. It wasn’t just who was there, as how many, that worried me. They say that fourth is the worst place to finish in the Olympics, and I certainly didn’t want to lead these three to the medals and be left with nothing for myself. Having done my fair share of the work, I decided to drop in behind Lopes and Treacy. I hoped that by following for a while I could compose myself for another attack later on.
Lopes, however, had other ideas. Having just settled in behind him, we passed the 23 mile mark, and he took this as his cue to say goodbye. He simply changed gears and surged away. I instinctively went after him, trying to run in his slipstream with my eyes fixed on his back. Treacy was directly behind me, trying desperately to hang on, but this 36 year old Portuguese was in the process of running the next mile in a mere 4 minutes and 38 seconds. After 200 yards I felt I was on the verge of sprinting, and with 5 kilometres still to run, I had to give way. As I returned to my previous pace John Treacy came alongside me, but he could not get past. Lopes steadily pulled away and with him went any chance of the gold medal.
Just as I was accepting the inevitable departure of Lopes, I suddenly realised that Nzau was nowhere to be seen. ‘I am going to win a medal,’ flashed across my brain. My wildest dream, my lifelong ambition was about to come true, if of course, and only if, I could keep going for another three miles. John and I never spoke to each other during those weary miles on Exposition Drive, but we both knew that by running together we stood a better chance of keeping our positions. We each tried to pull away from the other on a couple of occasions, but our efforts were made to maintain our speed as much as to break away. We were running at 4 minutes 50 seconds per mile, and it was hurting. My whole body ached, and my legs were stinging. The crowds may still have been shouting, but it no longer felt like a great occasion – this was pain, and I wanted it to be over.
We pressed on along this endless road, and somewhere near 25 miles the shadow of a head suddenly appeared at our feet. In horror we both looked round, but there was no runner to be seen. The head belonged to the driver of a television motorbike, which had crept up behind us. Our relief was fleeting, because the continuous fear of being caught drove us on.
At last we reached the approach to the Coliseum, and I started to think in terms of the silver medal instead of just a medal. There was a right angle turn onto the Stadium approach road, and I attacked this bend and surged out of the other side, but Treacy was right beside me. I decided to try again at the sharp corner that led down to the tunnel and through the stands. I was busy thinking about my next move when Treacy made his, and he caught me out. 100 yards before the turn he surged away and quickly had eight yards on me. I had to catch him before we reached the track or it would be too late. I accelerated hard but was only holding him. I hurtled down the ramp but he still had eight yards. I had to close the gap, and hammered through the tunnel as hard as I could. As we emerged from the tunnel onto the running track I was right behind him, but my legs and lungs were exploding.
With a lap and a quarter of the track to run, I fixed my eyes on his green vest and tried to glue myself to him. We seemed to be running faster and faster, and with 350 yards to go, a gap started to open. Along the back straight he stretched his lead to eight yards again. Try as I did, my legs just wouldn’t go any faster. Around the final bend my body was screaming for rest, but as I hit the home straight I found one more effort, but all I could do was hold him.
Treacy crossed the line in 2:09:56, and I was there two seconds later. Lopes had won in a new Olympic record of 2:09:21, having run the stretch from 35 to 40 km in 14:33. Treacy and I had gone under 30 minutes for the last 10 km, and he had shaken me off with a final 400 meters in 67 seconds. The fourth man, Takeshi Soh, was a minute behind me, de Castella came fifth and Ikangaa finished sixth.
When I finally got my hands off my knees and my breathing back to normal, I took a drink of water and looked around at the Olympic Stadium. I was stunned and emotionless. I felt as if the race had used up all my determination, then my will power and then my emotions. I wandered around the infield in a daze; unable to react to everything that had happened. John Treacy was waving to his family in the stands. I walked over to him. We still didn’t speak, but we exchanged a look of respect, a grin and then a hug.