National champion at 10,000m I might have been, but a fast finisher I would never be. The Olympic Games in Los Angeles were only eleven months away, and I had to make a major decision. I had a slim chance of making the team at 10,000m but even if I did, I just wasn’t quick enough to stand much chance of getting through the heats. I always thought the marathon would suit me, and now was the perfect time to find out, especially as I had fulfilled all three of the targets Lindsay and I had worked on.
The Dublin Marathon was in October, and I decided to run it. The standard was always decent without being world class. I didn’t want to run against the very best people in my first one. I just wanted to test the distance and then make a decision afterwards about my plans for Olympic year. I knew that I had to commit myself to one event or the other. Running London as my first marathon, and hoping I could do well enough to get on the team, wasn’t the approach that would work for me. I knew that having the alternative of the 10,000m in the back of my mind, as I ran in London, would risk a poor performance. I always needed total commitment and focus to run my best.
Four weeks into my training for Dublin things were not going well. A week after winning the 10,000m I had developed a sore Achilles tendon which lasted for four weeks. The background training I lost through this latest injury was affecting me. I showed Lindsay my training diary, and he confirmed what I already knew: I didn’t have enough time to be ready for Dublin, and I would have to find another race to run. I still wanted to run a test marathon, and then make a commitment to either the London Marathon or the 10,000m trials, but time was running out. My first marathon would have to be in January at the latest, or I wouldn’t have enough time to recover from that one and prepare for London.
The Houston marathon was the only race in the world which fulfilled my criteria. It was held in mid January, and was won year after year in about 2 hours 12 minutes. I didn’t want my first one to be run at 2 hours 9 minutes pace, and 2:12 was a time I thought I could run. If I couldn’t run at that sort of pace, I had no future at the distance. I contacted the organisers and told them I was the AAA 10,000m champion, I had been 4th over the same distance in the Commonwealth Games and I was moving up to the marathon. Out of all the races in the world, their race was the one I would like to make my debut in, and could they add me to their list of invited runners. They listened to what I had to say and had no hesitation in saying no.
I tried again through an American agent, who often dealt with the race. He said it was hopeless because they had a rigid policy of paying for runners who had done 2 hours 16 minutes or quicker. With no previous marathon to my name, I didn’t qualify. This was the race I had to run, so I spoke to them one more time. Could I run the race if I got myself there? Absolutely. If I got myself to Houston they would meet me at the airport, pay for my hotel room, provide my meals and really look after me.
A return flight from Newcastle via London to Houston was £750 at the end of 1983. This was a big chunk out of my savings, but I bought the ticket and studied the prize money list. There was prize money for the first 15 men, and if I could finish 8th or higher, I would cover the cost of my travel. I believed I could do that.
I had twelve weeks to prepare, which seemed like plenty of time. My Achilles tendon continued to niggle but only occasionally forced me to miss any training. Other things cut into my training. I seemed to have two weeks of good training, then an illness. I’d have two more weeks and then sore calves, which forced me to stop for days. Training in the middle of winter was a lot harder than the middle of summer, and training to the limit always invites viruses and bacteria to take advantage of a stressed body.
When I was problem free, I was training well enough, but I was worried about a lack of consistency. At the beginning of December I ran a 10km road race in London, and finished 9th in 29 minutes 4 seconds. I had hoped to do better, and ran another race in Gateshead two weeks later. The Metro Road Race is about 10km, and as a previous winner and reigning AAA 10km champion, I was expected to do well. I ran the best I could, but the best I could manage was 23rd. People beat me who had never beaten me before. It was the worst road race result I had ever had.
Everyone was asking what was wrong with me. The press wanted to know if I would now scrap my plans to run in Houston. At first I was shocked by my run, but I began to realise it was a symptom of ‘marathon madness’. With only four weeks to go, my mind was fixed on my debut over 26 miles, and I had been unable to push myself, because sub-consciously I was holding something back. I told everybody else that I didn’t know what was wrong, but I told myself that this was an excellent sign, and it meant that my mind was saving everything for a huge effort in Houston.
During the following week I ran my first over-distance run of 28 miles on December 23rd; 11 miles on Christmas Eve; and two runs totalling 12 miles on Christmas Day. I couldn’t let Christmas get in the way of my preparation, but at least all those miles gave me a great appetite. New Year’s Eve was also a quiet time, because I ran the Morpeth to Newcastle 14 mile road race on New Year’s Day. I finished a well-beaten 6th, and everyone agreed that I was still running as badly as I had at the Metro race. I was unperturbed, and flew to Houston feeling confident that I had trained well. I knew the only race that mattered was this one.
I was met at the airport by John, my designated helper. I was taken to a good hotel and given money for food. John made sure I was comfortable and had whatever I needed. He also showed me some of the highlights of life in Houston, which, for John, included regular visits to a lap-dancing club. I hadn’t expected that to be part of my marathon preparation, but it certainly took my mind off the race for a while. However, as the event drew closer, even John’s efforts couldn’t distract me. I was feeling nervous because I was entering the unknown, but I also felt excited by a new opportunity.
Our start time was 8:30 in the morning. It was unbelievably cold, at a few degrees above freezing, although it was supposed to get warmer as the day went on. I knew I would generate plenty of heat as the race progressed, but to stay warm in the first few miles I had to wear an old pair of socks over my hands and forearms. We had run five miles before I was warm enough to throw them away.
The pre-race favourites were Benji Durden, an American who had won the race previously, and Massimo Magnani of Italy, who had been seventh in the Moscow Olympics. I ran with them, in a large leading group, as we ticked off the early miles in just over 5 minutes each. We passed through ten miles and then halfway without any significant action, and the further we ran, the better I felt. I had expected to run about 2 hours 12 minutes and we were on pace for that.
Magnani needed to win this race to secure his place on the Italian Olympic team for Los Angeles. After 16 miles, he’d had enough of running in this large bunch. He felt that he was the best runner, and he ought to show everyone else it was true. He made his move and accelerated away from the group. It was a fairly rapid change of pace, and only John Wellerding of Iowa went with him.
I wondered if I should be going with him too, but my purpose in this race was to finish in a good time with a solid performance. I was still on course for a time around 2 hours 12 minutes. I was feeling in control, and decided there was no point in risking too much with ten miles to run. I stayed where I was and everybody else in the group ignored the break and carried on as if it had never happened.
After a mile Magnani and Wellerding were out of sight. They had disappeared from view, and we all knew we were running for third place. I began to think of finishing third and how pleased I would be. That would be a great start to my marathon career and it would certainly take care of the airfare with plenty of change left over.
A few more miles ticked by and I felt as if the group was slowing down. I was feeling more and more comfortable. My confidence began to rise as I realised I was certainly going to be able to handle the distance. As we approached 20 miles, I began to plan my own break away.
We reached the 20 mile point and Mark Finucane, from Tennessee, picked up the pace. He and I surged almost simultaneously, and although he pushed very hard, I was with him all the way. After about half a mile we turned a corner. I glanced behind and saw a big gap to the others. He was still hammering along so I told him, it was ok, we were away. He looked at me with a little surprise. I don’t know if it was my English accent or the fact that I was talking to him while we were running the hardest mile of the race so far. He slackened off very slightly, and we settled into a good fast rhythm that would take us further away from the guys behind, without us blowing up.
We shared the pace between us and often ran side by side. The last six miles of a marathon is a long way to run hard, but I was thrilled to be going so well. I was thrilled to be secure in either third or fourth place. The road was wide and it meandered its way back to downtown Houston. After about four miles of running together we rounded a corner, and in the distance were the tiny figures of Magnani and Wellerding. We looked at each other in surprise. We hadn’t seen them for 45 minutes, and suddenly they were back in sight.
No words were spoken but the looks exchanged between us said, ‘Let’s get them.’ Working together we picked up the pace a little more. Accelerating in the last few miles of a marathon may sound a very difficult thing to do, but the motivation was enormous. Slowly but surely the gap between us was closing. We could see the pressmen on the lead bus, and they must have been able to see us. It was incredibly exciting to be edging closer to the leaders. We were sneaking up on them. In the same way we had forgotten about them when we couldn’t see them, they must have forgotten about us and assumed they were having a two-man race.
I kept expecting someone on the press bus to warn them we were getting closer, but they never did. Magnani and Wellerding never knew we were coming until they heard our footsteps ten yards behind them. They looked around in complete shock. We formed a leading group of four just beside the 25 mile mark, and with one mile left to run, it occurred to me that one of this group of four would be the winner. Perhaps it would be me? My thoughts had always been on running a good performance, on seeing if this event would suit me, and on finishing high enough to cover my expenses. Suddenly, with one mile to go, the prospect of winning the race entered my head for the first time.
When you catch people in a distance race, it is usually a good idea to go straight past them, because it doesn’t give them time to respond to your faster pace. I had worked so hard to catch the leaders I definitely needed to ease off a little, and gather myself for a big finish. The four of us ran side by side for the next three quarters of a mile. I was very tired but I concentrated on making my move close to the finish.
I had carefully checked out the last half mile before the race began, and I knew there was one right angle turn to come. From the corner it was then 150 yards to the line. With about 400 yards to go Magnani pushed on. I tucked in behind him, and we were all in a line along the road, instead of across it. We were running hard without going flat out. I decided to sprint into and out of the corner, and I hoped this would steal a vital yard or two.
Magnani, of course, had exactly the same idea. I came out of the corner sprinting, but he was sprinting too, and he had stolen a couple of yards on me. The finish line was 150 yards away, and Magnani had a lead of two yards. I was sprinting; trying so hard to pump my weary arms, and lift my aching legs. With 100 yards to go he was one yard ahead of me. I focused on the finish line, and tried to dig deeper for more effort. There was a wall of noise as a loudspeaker bellowed out our names and the crowd cheered us home. With 50 yards to go I was half a yard behind him. The line was coming towards us faster than I could catch him. I needed more effort. I lunged towards the line. He raised his arms in victory. I was along side him. We were through the finish and I was ahead.
When did I pass him? Was it before or after the line? I didn’t know, and neither did anyone else. Everybody was asking who had won. Magnani was certain that he had won, but I wasn’t sure. Nobody seemed to know. I was tired and sore, so I walked slowly away and sat down with a drink. People kept asking if I had won, and when I said I didn’t know, they couldn’t understand why I wasn’t more desperate to find out.
Whether I had caught him before the line or not would be announced soon enough, and it was now too late to do anything about it. I didn’t show the level of emotion people expected because I was thinking about the answer to my question. Was the marathon going to suit me? Yes, it was. I knew with absolute certainty that I had found my event. The marathon suited me perfectly, and I had really enjoyed it. The result of our close finish was important to me, but not as important as the prospect of a whole new chapter in my running career. A chapter in which I believed I had more chance of success than at any other time. People didn’t seem to grasp that I was thrilled about my performance, whether I had won or not.
It was almost fifteen minutes after we had finished before they announced the result. Nobody had photo-finish equipment at the end of a marathon. The officials simply stood on the line and watched what happened. At Houston they had never expected nor experienced a finish so close, and decided to have a meeting before they announced the result. I was lying face down on a physiotherapist’s couch, having my legs massaged, when one of the officials found me and told me I had won. There had been no gap between us, but they had all agreed that my torso was in front of Magnani’s at the line. We were both given the same time of 2 hours 11 minutes 54 seconds. Finucane had finished third, just one second behind us.
I had spent my whole running career being out sprinted at the end of races. If only I had known earlier that my opponents needed 26 miles of running in their legs before they were reduced to my sprinting speed. I felt fantastic. My airfare to Houston was the best investment I had ever made, because first place prize money was $20,000, which was a huge amount of money for me at the time.
Massimo Magnani wasn’t quite so pleased about the result. He still felt that he had won, and my victory in the last yard cost him $8,000 in prize money, and an automatic place on the Italian Olympic team. Having the same time as the winner wasn’t good enough for the Italian Federation; he had to win the race to be picked. He travelled back to Italy knowing he would have to run again in London to impress the selectors.
John took me back to the airport, and persuaded the lady on the check in desk that, as the winner of the Houston Marathon, I ought to be upgraded to first class. As I flew home, sipping champagne, I knew that my run in Houston wasn’t quick enough to give me any chance of selection for Los Angeles, but it did give me a lot of confidence to prepare for the London Marathon with the clear aim of getting on the team. I didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, but it had also given me the experience I needed to make the very most of my marathon running career. I had chosen to run Houston because it had always had a field of runners with whom I thought I could compete. It proved an excellent decision, because I learnt the most important thing about marathon running, which many runners never give themselves the chance to learn; I learnt how to race the marathon rather than run it. I learnt how to judge my pace; how to make a long, sustained run for home; how to finish strongly; and how it is possible to win from a long way off the pace.
I am always amazed by how many good runners decide to move up to the marathon, and then choose London as their first one, when it is always run at world record pace. Why would anybody move up to a new distance, and guarantee themselves a good thrashing at their first attempt? It’s like an amateur boxer turning professional and fighting Joe Calzaghe in their first bout. All you get out of it is a very painful lesson in how you aren’t good enough. I don’t understand how that sort of experience will ever help a British runner to develop into the sort of runner who can race the marathon and, for example, win a medal in the European Championships.
As a piece of very optimistic forward planning, I had entered the London Marathon and arranged my accommodation before I ran in Houston. There are three types of entry for the London Marathon. Apart from the invited runners, who are proven world-class performers, and the huge throng of fun runners, there is a small group of good British runners who enter the AAA championship to compete for the National marathon title. Before the first London Marathon in 1981, this group of committed club runners and British internationals had run the annual AAA marathon for decades. It used to be held in comparative secrecy, in such exotic locations as Milton Keynes and Sandbach, where the route took runners down country lanes and where the largest crowd was a herd of cows.
I entered the London Marathon by completing my AAA championship entry form and attaching my £5 entry fee. At the same time, I booked a room in a small hotel on the edge of Blackheath Common, less than half a mile from the start line. Using the same approach as the AAA 10,000m the year before, I wanted to avoid all the other runners and immerse myself totally in preparation for my own performance. I needed isolation to focus and concentrate.
The London Marathon was on Sunday May 12th, and I took the train to Kings Cross on Friday. I didn’t want to travel the day before, just in case there were any problems, and also because I wanted a full day in London to focus fully on the task ahead. Saturday was a warm sunny day. I had decided not to run at all, believing that total rest was more beneficial. I would need every scrap of energy on Sunday, and could see no point in wasting any of it the day before. I spent most of the day in my room, watching sport on television. I sat in a chair I had placed directly in front of the set, because I didn’t want to watch from the bed in case it gave me a stiff neck.
I have no idea what I watched. It was impossible to be distracted from thoughts of the race. I had always dreamed of running in the Olympic Games, and tomorrow’s race was my best, and possibly last, chance to realise that dream. I knew this race would be a defining moment in my whole career. I was very nervous, but I was also very excited. I knew for certain I could run a good marathon, but I didn’t know if it would be good enough.
In fact, nobody really knew what was required. The selectors were going to meet the day after London, but they were going to consider all recent British performances. Both Hugh Jones and Geoff Smith had decided not to run in London because they each had a 2:09 marathon to their name, which everyone assumed would be good enough. The only way for me to be confident of making the team was to be the first British runner home.
The day before the race dragged by, but I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I needed to stay isolated and focused. Evening eventually came, and I walked to a local Italian restaurant, where I ate lasagne by myself, and overheard people complaining about the roads being closed the following day because of some daft running race.
Back in my room I pinned my race number, 17, to my white and red Gateshead Harriers running vest, and tried it on, along with my red shorts and Nike racing shoes. I was dressed exactly as I would be in the race, and at last I felt as if I was ready. I stood in front of the mirror, looked myself in the eye and said out loud, ‘I’ll show them.’ I went to bed feeling nervous and woke in the morning feeling nervous, but I slept well all night, which I didn’t really understand.
I had one slice of toast and a small glass of water for breakfast. My warm up was five minutes of easy jogging and a couple of quicker strides. The last few minutes before a race begins are crucial. It is easy to become overwhelmed by nerves and self-doubt, and a race can literally be lost just before it begins. I focused all my thoughts on myself, and repeatedly told myself I would run well.
The pre-race favourite was Juma Ikangaa of Tanzania, who had been second in the Commonwealth Games Marathon in Brisbane. He always ran quickly from the start and would be helped by his teammate, Zach Barie. As soon as the race began Ikangaa and Barie were at the front. I had hoped to run in the lead pack, as I had done in Houston, and let the miles roll by, but after only three miles the Africans were pushing the pace well below 5 minutes per mile.
I was confident I could run 2 hours 10 minutes, if I could produce my best. I didn’t know if that would be good enough but I was certain there would be very few in front of me if I did it. There was a big group at the front and Ikangaa and Barie didn’t like it. They pushed on faster and suddenly I didn’t like it. The pace felt too fast for me. I hadn’t expected to be making this sort of decision so early in the race, but I checked my watch as we passed the three-mile mark and I was inside 2 hours 10 minutes schedule. I decided to ignore the Africans and run to my watch.
Eighteen other runners thought differently and tried to stay with the leaders. Over the next half hour the race was split into three sections. There was a small leading group with Ikangaa and Barie dictating the pace; a second group, who had gone with them at three miles but couldn’t run that fast; and a third group, where I ran with my training partner and Gateshead teammate, Kevin Forster.
By ten miles both the groups ahead of us were out of sight. Kevin wanted a place in the Olympic team as much as I did, and he was concerned that so many British runners were so far ahead of us that we couldn’t see them. We passed 10 miles in 49:26, which is spot on for 2 hours 10 minutes. I felt great about them all being so far ahead. They had to be running at something like 2 hours 8 minute pace, and the faster they went the more certain I was that we would catch them later. I had learnt in Houston that you don’t have to keep them in sight to beat them.
Tower Bridge is one of London’s best-known landmarks, and on it there was a huge and noisy crowd of spectators. As we crossed the river I felt happy with my running, excited by the crowd, and ready to push on. The pace in our group seemed to be slowing, as Kevin and I ran side by side along Cable Street to the half way point. We passed through in 65:05. We were pulling away from the third group, and we could now see a line of runners stretching in front of us. Our pace quickened slightly as we closed in on the first straggler. I confess – I felt smug as we swept past him, knowing he had gone too fast and we hadn’t. There was another tired runner twenty yards ahead to aim at, then another, and another. We were picking them off like cherries from a tree. It felt good.
After a couple of miles of overtaking people, the gaps became a little harder to close. These guys were running better than the first ones we had caught, but none of them could raise their pace to stay with us. At 16 miles we caught a familiar figure in a blue vest. The last time I had come alongside Massimo Magnani was a frantic blur, but this time we looked each other in the eye. I couldn’t resist saying, ‘Hi.’ He replied with what I presume is the Italian equivalent of ‘Ugh.’
A mile later we were edging closer to a group of four runners. Kevin and I realised simultaneously that it was the leaders; Ikangaa and Barie were in front with Oyvind Dahl of Norway and Britain’s Adrian Leek just behind them. We pressed on until we were in the group too. It felt wonderful to have caught them after letting them go 14 miles earlier. I knew we had run a sensible, even paced race and they had to be suffering from their early burst of speed.
I didn’t realise the significance of this until after the race, but even at this stage, I wasn’t thinking about winning. I was still focused and concentrating on running efficiently. My mind was locked into ‘run my best performance’ mode. When Ikangaa tried to surge away shortly after we caught him, I turned to Kevin and said, ‘Let him.’ We knew it would be short lived and he would come back to us. He tried several of these surges. We maintained our previous pace, while Ikangaa’s surges took care of Leek, Barie and finally Dahl. From 18 miles until nearly 20, it was Juma Ikangaa and two guys from Gateshead Harriers who led the London Marathon.
As we turned into Wapping, Kevin appeared to be weakening, and as Ikangaa drifted back to me after one of his little surges, I accelerated past him. As if a switch had been flicked in my brain, I changed from my passive, ‘run efficiently’ mentality to an aggressive, competitive ‘win the race’ attitude. I pushed the pace hard to make sure my move was decisive and, shortly after breaking away, I passed through 20 miles in 1 hour, 38 minutes, 35 seconds. Without looking round I knew I was clear, but I kept pushing on. I wanted to get to the finish line as soon as I could.
The lead vehicle, with the clock and race officials, was just in front of me. Alan Storey, the National Marathon coach, was leaning out of the back shouting at me to ‘spread your effort’. He obviously thought I was pushing too hard with six miles to go. I said, ‘Ok’, but kept running at the same pace.
I was tired and hurting, and the intensity of effort was much greater than before. I reverted to a state of deep concentration. I wasn’t thinking about winning, or the Olympic team. I was focused on putting one foot in front of the other as well as I could.
I didn’t look round, but Kevin Forster had also passed Ikangaa and was now secure in second place. Past the Tower of London and along the Embankment, I pushed on feeling strong. As I ran through Trafalgar Square I wobbled slightly. The Mall seemed to go on forever, and my tiredness was compounding. Why do they make the last mile of a marathon the longest?
I struggled to run up the slight incline onto Westminster Bridge, but now I could see the finish line, and I knew I had done it. I had set off to run 2 hours 10 minutes and I crossed the line, with my arms in the air, in 2 hours 9 minutes and 57 seconds. Kevin finished a minute and 44 seconds behind. I had won the London Marathon, and I was certain to be picked for the Olympic team. I was too tired to show any outward emotion, but I felt wonderful.
I didn’t know it at the time, but as I ran across the cobblestones at the Tower of London, a telephone was ringing in a house in Gateshead. Peter Parker had been Gateshead Harriers club captain for years, until his job took him to southern Ireland in 1983. Although he was away from Gateshead, he remained fanatically keen to follow the sport. He couldn’t get television or radio coverage of the marathon at home, and almost two hours into the race he could stand the suspense no longer. He phoned his friend, Archie Hughes, who he knew would be watching, and said,
‘Archie, it’s Pete. I can’t get the marathon here. What’s happening?’
‘It’s great,’ said Archie. ‘Charlie is in the lead, and Kevin is second.’
To which Pete had replied, ‘Stop messing about, Archie. Tell me what’s really happening.’