21

Ergs Don’t Float

IN some ways it was an unsettling journey. Freedom, I figured, is a bit like strong booze. If you haven’t had any for years, even small amounts can make you dizzy.

The officers were friendly but I didn’t know how to interact with them. They were talking to me as an equal, although that really wasn’t the case, even calling me ‘mate’. They told me that at Sudbury I would have the key to my own room and stressed that they referred to it as a room, not a cell, but they all carried master keys.

‘It’s based on trust,’ the guy next to me said. ‘There’s no fence, there’s no wall. If you want to, you can just walk out. Plenty do.’

‘But do us a favour,’ the driver chimed in, ‘if you’re gonna run off, please leave your keys behind. It’s a real pain in the arse when keys go missing.’

The prison was located down a country road, the wrong side of Derby, and had originally been built as an Air Force hospital in World War Two. After checking me in at reception one of the officers walked me to my wing, except at Sudbury they didn’t call it a wing. It was a ‘billet’.

‘The only rule is that from 8pm to 6am you have to be on the billet,’ he said, as we walked along the path. ‘Other than that, you can move around as you please.’

When we reached the door, he handed me my room key and said, ‘You’re in there.’

‘All right,’ I replied.

He turned around and walked off.

For a moment I lingered, watching him go, phased by the situation. What was I supposed to do now? I had a quick look from side to side. There was no one else in sight.

I put my stuff in my room, locked it and decided to go for a walk. What a strange sensation, to be able to decide to go for a walk! All the options made my head spin.

The gravel path around the billet crunched underfoot and I followed it to the rear of the building, where it brought me to something miraculous. My breath caught in my throat. Could it be true?

Having not seen grass, up close, for seven years, the small field behind the billet was a thing of indescribable beauty to my eyes, alive and green and natural, like a picture of paradise. I must have looked like a nutcase, but found myself laughing like a child, falling to my knees, running my hands through it, tearing clumps up then watching the blades scatter back down to earth. I rubbed it between my fingers and sniffed it. My eyes were damp.

When I felt able to continue walking, I discovered flowers, trees and insects. I blew a dandelion and saw the spores fly away. At one point a squirrel scurried across the path at my feet.

Intoxicated, I stumbled from one marvel to the next as if I was on some exquisite drug. For a man only two years out of high security, the Sudbury prison grounds were like Wonderland.

As I roamed around, exhilarated by it all, I bumped into a familiar face from Lowdham, a guy called Gerry who had been transferred a couple of months before me.

‘What do you do here mate?’ I asked, eyes wide. ‘How does it all work? I don’t even know where to get food or anything.’

‘Dinner’s at 5.30pm,’ he said, pointing at the canteen. ‘You queue over there. Have you got any utensils?’

‘Eh?’

‘Cutlery? Plates?’

‘Mate, I’ve just got here.’

‘Come to my cell,’ he said. ‘I’ll lend you some of mine.’

I followed him to his room and he gave me a white porcelain plate and a stainless steel knife and fork. I was only used to plastic. I turned them over and over in my hands, feeling the weight of them. It was like being an actual person again.

Some daylight remained after dinner and I went for another stroll around the perimeter of the prison boundary, about three miles altogether. Birds sang in the trees and a smell of smoke hung in the air, as if someone in the village nearby was having a bonfire. I slept like a lamb that night, exhausted by sensory overload.

Knowing my background, the Sudbury staff gave me a job as an orderly in the prison gym and I began to take courses in personal training. A plan to become a pro athlete on release had half-formed in my mind, but I didn’t know how to go about it or whether it was really feasible. PT work would give me a way to make a living while I sorted myself out.

The gym officers had been briefed and were well aware of who I was and what I had done. One of them in particular, a short, muscular ex-marine called Mark Sherriff took a keen interest. Mark could run a marathon in two hours 40 minutes, and his passionate explanations of training methods and diet piqued my interest. We developed an instant rapport as he told me stories of his time in the forces and sporting achievements.

Mark was very performance-focused. He did not just want to accomplish things and inspire me, he wanted to optimise execution at all times and spoke a lot about the ways to push your body to its absolute limits.

It was during one of these conversations that I first floated the idea of attempting the record for the longest continuous row. I already held the other two ultra-endurance indoor rowing world records and had the certificates to prove it, but if I picked that one up as well would hold all three simultaneously, a feat never achieved by a lightweight (under 72.5kg) rower before. Mark instantly liked the idea and made the necessary arrangements.

There was far less red tape than at Lowdham and clearance was given relatively easily. The prison even arranged for new rowing machines to be delivered as the ones already there were old and worn. I was given a day pass by the governor to accompany Mark in a van, to go and pick up two brand new Concept 2 machines from their warehouse in Nottingham. The company gave them to us for free, in recognition of what I had already achieved, a lovely gesture which was much appreciated.

Meeting the staff at Concept 2 was my first time freely interacting with people outside of jail since the start of my sentence. I enjoyed myself and was surprisingly comfortable, chatting and joking. The guys were eager to meet me and treated me as a minor celebrity because of my achievements, while Mark was impressed with the way I slipped back into social mode so easily. Perhaps it was a skill held over from my previous life. I had always been able to get on with anyone.

We brought the machines back and set up a special area in the prison sports hall. By then I had experience behind me and knew that this challenge would come down to sheer willpower. I would not need to row particularly fast, or with a great deal of intensity, I would just need to keep going and going and going. Breaking the record would require at least a day and a half of solid rowing.

I was allowed one fellow inmate to sit with me during the attempt and chose a guy called Neil Dunbridge. I enjoyed chatting to Neil, he was in for mortgage fraud and wasn’t a hardcore criminal by any means, just a decent guy you could have a conversation with. I started in early morning and slipped into a rhythm straight away. Legs, then arms, legs then arms; soon I was in my rowing trance.

The officers arranged themselves in shifts with sleeping bags, to stay with me for as long as it took. Sixteen or 17 hours in, at about two in the morning, Mark arrived with a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Having eaten nothing but prison food for so long, those chips and greasy meat tasted like a dish from a Michelin-starred restaurant. In reality it is shockingly unhealthy stuff, of course, but in those circumstances you can get away with it. The protein, salt and fat gave me added strength to make it through the night, while the prison kitchen provided me with lots of high energy fruit like dates and bananas too. We knew that the energy requirements on my body would be extreme and after the problems caused by poor nutrition last time I wanted to ensure I was as prepared as possible.

I made it through the first 24 hours without a problem. Memory is a great help when doing something for the second time and I knew I could do it. Predictably, around 30 hours in, things began to get really tough. It was something more than exhaustion, like the beginning of a breakdown. My back was agony, all my joints hurt, I had a pounding headache, but the stubbornness and singularity of purpose I had felt before returned. There was no way I would stop rowing before breaking the record. I would pass out first. If my body could not do it, they would have to carry me out of there or phone an ambulance.

By 7pm on the second day I had rowed for 36 hours and the record was mine. ‘Don’t think about it anymore,’ Mark said, passing me a flapjack. ‘Forget about that number. If you dwell on it, you’ll want to stop.’

Somehow, I ploughed on for another ten hours, finishing at 5am the next day. Mark and Neil couldn’t believe what they had seen. Once again, I had not just beaten the record, I had smashed it and in doing so made a little mark in history. To hold all three of those records at once made a big statement.

Probably due to the sheer length of the row, the recovery period from that one was far longer. My body took nearly a week to return to its normal patterns, but as I ate and slept and ate and slept, my self-confidence exploded. I knew I could do all of it. I had proved it. From short to long, I had strength and endurance. I could cope with physical and mental extremes. This was my thing. Darren was right. I had a gift.

Within four months of arriving at Sudbury I had gained all my gym qualifications and the staff were very pleased with my progress. New possibilities began to materialise. In theory it would only be six to seven months before I was considered for release, so they began the process of reintroducing me to society. Sudbury had a partnership with a Fitness First gym, based in Burton, about ten miles away, and requested a prisoner work placement for me there.

In the first instance I was sent for an interview with Jess, the manager, who explained that I would not be allowed to conduct one-on-one personal training but they would expect me to induct new customers. I had no issues with that and within a few days was notified that I passed the interview.

My work licence entitled me to be off prison premises until 8pm, so provided I reported back every evening, there would be no problem. I was also informed that occasionally officers would perform random checks, arriving at the gym to ensure that I was actually there. Unlike many inmates I had no intention to abscond and accepted all of this gladly.

For those who were still looking to escape, this sort of opportunity was a godsend. You could leave prison in the morning and not be missed until night-time. By then you could be halfway across the Channel, or even on a plane. It is for that reason that escapes from cat D prisons are so common.

At one time in 2007, 40 inmates ran away from Sudbury in seven months, a grim statistic for the governors, particularly when facing an inspection report. These sorts of figures often lead the media and members of the public to question the open prison system, but for someone like me, the rehabilitative qualities were crucial. If I had left somewhere like Belmarsh or Full Sutton and returned straight to society I would have found it tough to cope. Most in that situation do. You cannot put a man in a box for several years, control everything he does, then let him out and expect him to function in the world the same way as everybody else. It’s not realistic.

My new routine saw me leave prison after breakfast, at about 6.30am, get the bus to Burton and arrive at work around seven. Already 29 years old, this constituted my first taste of a normal life, the kind that the majority of British adults lead. Suddenly I had colleagues and a boss and customers to deal with. They even gave me a uniform. I was in the system.

The salary for someone in my position was £23,000 a year, although as a prison inmate, I worked for free. That really emphasised to me how different this existence was. You could do this job for ten years and still make less than a top-end robbery, all the while having to pay rent, bills, living and travel expenses. There were no crazy highs, no moments of intense peril, just a routine and the reassurance that the authorities approved of you. It took a bit of getting used to, but I soon began to enjoy it.

The management made it clear from the beginning that if asked by any of the customers, I should not tell them I was a prisoner. It would be bad for business. Of course, questions did come up, from both clients and other staff. My accent aroused curiosity.

‘So why is someone from London working in Burton-on-Trent?’

‘It’s just family reasons,’ I would say, before changing the subject as quickly as possible. Occasionally it made things awkward, but was just how it had to be. Sometimes when the gym was quiet, colleagues spoke of their plans for Saturday night and asked what I was up to, if I would like to join them for a drink or a meal.

‘I think I’ll just stay in, thanks,’ I would reply. They probably thought I was deeply anti-social.

After a few weeks of settling in, Jess threw me in at the deep end and asked me to take a short-notice ‘legs, bums and tums’ class on a Saturday morning, as the regular instructor was unavailable. I accepted, but was hesitant. Getting a qualification from the prison gym was one thing, but putting that into practice with members of the public was another altogether. I entered the room warily to find six podgy, middle-aged women wearing tights and leotards.

Despite all my sporting achievements, this was new territory. I was provided with a headset to wear so they could hear me over the bland, pumping pop music blaring from the speakers.

‘Err…’ I began. ‘Okay, err… I want you to err…do some… lunges?’

It took me two or three classes to get the hang of motivational gym instructor speak, but in the end it really started to work for me.

‘Feel the burn! Pump those knees, ladies! Better body, better life!’

Word spread and I was given the class on a regular basis. Within a month the room was full every week. Jess was thrilled with how well I did.

As the group grew in size I discovered something new. I had known for a while that I was self-motivated, but learnt that I also got a kick from motivating others. Seeing people enjoy my classes and derive benefit from them was an awesome feeling.

While all this went on, I continued my own training. As long as I did the required work, Jess was happy for me to use the gym equipment, so I maintained my rowing, doing at least an hour a day. I already had so much success with it and although I wasn’t sure where it could lead, it seemed foolish to give it up.

Three months into the job, I was midway through pulling my daily metres when a girl approached. I had seen her sometimes around the gym.

She was tall and broad-shouldered, very athletic looking, always in lycra and professional training gear. She peered over my shoulder at the monitor on the rower.

‘Excuse me,’ she said.

I paused my session and looked up.

‘Sorry to bother you, but have you ever rowed before? I mean, outside a gym.’

I shook my head with a smile and replied, ‘No.’

She laughed. ‘You’re lying, aren’t you?’

‘No, really, I haven’t.’

She stared at me quizzically.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, how much do you weigh?’

‘Seventy-two kilos.’

‘Wow, okay. That time you have just done is really, really fast for your size. You do realise that don’t you? What do you do then, if you don’t mind me asking? Do you use the rowing machine often?’

‘Yeah, I work here, so I get on when I can and I’ve done some indoor rowing before.’ I didn’t want to boast. ‘What do you do?’

‘Funny you should ask. I’m a rower,’ she said. ‘I’m based at Nottingham national high performance centre for women. I come here to do my land training and at weekends I’m up there on the water. I’m gunning for international competition soon.’

Laura Wheeler was still a hopeful when I met her, but would later become a Team GB rower and if not for injury she would have been an Olympian. Whenever I saw her in the gym from then on we chatted and I told her about my indoor achievements. She was suitably impressed and soon we began training together, rowing on adjacent machines.

‘Why have you never thought about rowing on the water?’ she asked one day. ‘It would be an obvious move to make.’

‘I’d love to,’ I replied, feeling uncomfortable. ‘I’d love to do something with it. I’ve just never had the chance.’

‘Well maybe I can help you with that. You’ve got great natural attributes, but if you want to row properly, you can’t row like this.’

Laura taught me about rate caps, like restricting myself to 18 strokes per minute over 3,500m. She said I had to pick up the slack with my legs, straighten my body and then lock my arms out. Legs, body, arms, legs, body, arms. ‘If you row any other way,’ she said, ‘you kill boat speed.’

‘There’s an old saying in rowing,’ she told me. ‘Ergs don’t float. You can have incredible physiology, you can do brilliant numbers [known as ergs] on a machine, but the water is a whole new ball game.’

Over time she introduced me to other elements of rowing training, like specific weights exercises to target key muscles. It reached the point that we trained together nearly every day and when we did our standardised half-hours on the rowers, I would beat her every time. Being not only the top woman at the Nottingham high performance centre, but also capable of beating some of the men, Laura was not used to losing.

To make it more competitive, we started doing handicap rows, where I would pull 8,600m in the 30 minutes and she had to do 8,200m. In this way, the relationship became mutually beneficial. I learnt technical aspects from her, while Laura’s times improved because she was competing with and being pushed by someone faster. When she went for race testing at Nottingham a few months later, her coach was amazed at the acceleration in her performance.

The bond we forged reached a point where I felt I had to break protocol and be open with her. She had invited me to her house, asking if I wanted to come and have dinner. I put her off several times and didn’t want her to think I was rude.

‘Look,’ I said, after a session one day. ‘I’m going to tell you something now. It’s not easy for me to say but please listen.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m in prison.’

She laughed her head off.

‘I’m being serious.’

‘What are you on about? I see you in here all the time.’

I explained to her about Sudbury and how it worked. She struggled to accept it, still unsure if I was joking and left in disbelief, but when I saw her the following day she looked pale and anxious.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘I looked you up on the internet. Your crimes are on Google. I even watched a video of you being arrested. I seriously cannot believe you are that person.’

I shrugged. ‘I’m afraid so.’

To Laura’s immense credit, her new understanding of my background did not affect her opinion of me and we continued training together. If anything, she became more committed. I truly appreciated that.

Before long the officers at Sudbury gave me a pass for Sundays, as well as my working week. It entitled me to go wherever I wanted within a 60-mile radius of the prison until 6pm. When I told Laura, she suggested I use the time to come with her to the local rowing club at Burton Leander, where she started as a child. I agreed and looked forward to the opportunity like a child waiting for Christmas. It could be the start of my future.

Having never been to a rowing club before I was hesitant at first, but was relieved to find it an unimposing place. The club was small but cheerful, with a little brick clubhouse next to the river Trent. It was full of kids, another strange experience for me, having not been around children for years. They were so noisy! Laura introduced me to everyone. None of them knew my past, of course. I found it liberating to meet people simply as John McAvoy, with no attached number or baggage.

‘I guess we’ll just chuck you in at the deep end,’ she said.

Laura got me in a fine single scull for my first session, a proper racing boat, in which the base of the hull was shaped like a razor blade. It meant I would be very close to the water, which is great for speed but not stability. Any body movement would tilt the whole thing. Learning to balance would be key.

Laura asked me to get in. ‘How hard can this be?’ I thought. ‘I’m a fucking world record holder.’

I seized the moment, stepped on to the narrow craft gingerly, sat down and capsized instantly. The river was glacial and I came up spluttering.

‘Come back to the shore,’ Laura shouted, laughing.

The water line only came just above my waist so I planted my feet on the bottom and dragged the boat back.

‘Now get in again,’ she said.

I followed her instructions and exactly the same thing happened. Ergs don’t float. It was my first appreciation of how different water rowing would be to smashing records on the Concept 2.

‘You just need to keep doing it,’ Laura encouraged. ‘Engage your core and find your balance. It’s like riding a bike. Once you’ve got it, you’ve got it.’

Altogether it took me four attempts just to be able to sit in the boat without ending up in the river. Laura found the whole thing hilarious, as did the kids who watched, but she remained patient and reassuring.

Over the following Sundays and with Laura’s unflappable guidance I gradually became more proficient. She began teaching me the basics of using the blades, how to turn around, to set myself, to push off. There is very little that is natural about water rowing. You either have to be taught it, or endure a lengthy process of trial and error.

Within weeks we had reached a point where I could row up the river and Laura would follow me on a bike on the bank, calling out tips and instructions. She asked her first childhood coach, a lovely guy called Ray, a local butcher, to help out too. Between them they improved me quickly.

A couple of months on from my first attempt, Laura and Ray entered me in a local 6km race. I was sceptical, not wanting to make a fool of myself, but ended up not only managing to stay in the boat all the way to the end, but coming third. I had beaten several guys who had rowed all their lives.

There would be a huge amount of work to do, but maybe, just maybe, I had a future as a competitive rower. Beginnings can come in many forms.