One non-runner’s quest to make it onto the British 800m rankings in a year – The Telegraph
One non-runner’s quest to make it onto the British 800m rankings in a year The Telegraph
The question asked was so simple that millions of people in Britain would have answered without hesitation:
The question asked was so simple that millions of people in Britain would have answered without hesitation: “How fast can you run five kilometres?”
Someone only need do one Saturday morning parkrun to know the answer. I had never and so I had none.
It was a cold evening last October when I turned up at my local athletics club, , for the first time and, naturally, they wanted to know which group to put me in. The difficulty was that aside from some cross country at school, I had never run properly before. I do not even go out jogging.
The obvious question at this stage would be to wonder what I was doing there. The short answer is: I wanted to see what their life is really like. As Telegraph athletics correspondent for the past five years, I spend my time watching the fastest, strongest and springiest sportspeople in the world. Their feats are always impressive, often intriguing and sometimes (… rarely) look like they might even be fun. There was only one way to find out.
Plus, I like to set myself challenges. I completed an Olympic distance triathlon with five weeks’ training and I stepped into the ring to see what it was like to have a boxing fight. So here was my next mission: to see how fast I could run 800 metres.
That first clueless moment negotiated – “Erm, maybe just stick me in the middle group” – I was on my way. The advice I had been given was to aim for five training sessions per week, with a mix of intervals, recovery stuff and longer runs.
I committed to three, citing work, life and wanting to continue playing other sports for doing no more. Only when moaning to Laura Muir – a woman who won global 1500m medals while studying full-time to be a vet – about struggling to fit everything in did I realise the futility of such an argument.
The winter passed by in a painful haze of hill sprints and endurance sessions. As an aspiring middle-distance runner this was my time to build strength – a fact that seemed at odds with how I felt when dragging my legs up stairs and unable to eat after training sessions.
By February I was in need of something to break the monotony of navigating icy pavements in the evening gloom and signed up for my first competitive race, which was to take place indoors.
The is well known to anyone runner or athletics fan. A database charting every British athletics result from international competitions down to the lowest amateur ranks, its comprehensive lists are essentially national rankings. To make it onto the British rankings for 800m, a man must run under two minutes and four seconds. That became my wildly ambitious goal.
It did not start brilliantly, easily outsprinted by a precocious 15-year-old – come to think of it, that would become a regular feature of my races – and finishing almost 10 seconds outside my target goal. By my first outdoor race in April I was still six seconds off. A major jump was required.
Having done no speed work whatsoever during a gruelling winter of strength building, spring brought a relative joy of shorter interval sprints: flog yourself to breaking point, recover for a few seconds and repeat. The improvements in training were swift and suddenly I had my target time in sight.
On July 3, the moment arrived. For the only time in my brief athletics career, I was taking part in a race with a pacemaker, ensuring I knew exactly how quickly we would cover the first 400m or so. This was my chance.
Knowing the pace set was likely to be too strong for me, I plonked myself in last place, clung onto the pack and found myself picking people off as the race developed. Finishing position counted for nothing in this particular race, but it was surely a good sign.
As I entered the home straight, my body was screaming to stop but I refused to listen and mustered every ounce of energy to propel myself over the line (who says you do not need to dip in an 800m race?). I had honestly never felt worse in my life. I could not stand or speak and my head was pounding, making any semblance of rational thought difficult.
Then I received the time: 2min 3.22sec. I had made it onto what are effectively the national rankings and am officially the 1,113th fastest male 800m runner in Britain this year. The elation, and relief, were huge.
And so my running career is over. I am formally retired and the chances are my track spikes will likely never be worn again. Any thoughts of attempting a sub-2min time – and putting in the extra work and dedication required – in the future are absent.
Because being a runner is seriously hard. The commitment levels required, the focus and the abstinence are surely second to none across all sports – and at the end it all comes down to the tiniest margins and a lot of pain.
But as I slumped over in the shadow of Wormwood Scrubs prison, elated and unable to function after running a time I never thought possible, it all felt worth it. It was time to treat myself in celebration: I ordered a taxi.