what.
Alan likes to say that I never won a big race the first time I competed in it. He’s got a point. Competing in the borough races was very different from running against twenty-odd kids in my class at Feltham. Not all junior athletics coaches shared Alex McGee’s philosophy of putting long-term development over short-term gain. There were some big kids in the same age category as me and at first I found it hard to win races.
Losing a race was hard to stomach. I hated losing more than anything. In my first year at Feltham I took part in the school relay, running the last leg of the race. I started in lane six. With three legs of the relay done, the race was on a knife-edge. The kid handed me the baton. I snatched it and sprinted away to win the race by a huge margin. Graham and Alan had been watching from the side of the track. I noticed them swapping a look after the race. Alan approached me, shaking his head.
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to disqualify you,’ he said.
I frowned. ‘What for?’
Alan pointed at my feet. I looked down and realized my mistake. I wasn’t in lane six any more. Somewhere along my mad dash to the finish line I’d accidentally moved out of my lane.
‘You’re in the wrong lane, Mo,’ Alan went on. ‘Sorry, but it’s the rules.’
In the heat of the moment I flipped and launched the baton through the air with this huge throw, furious with myself for making such a simple mistake. The baton landed somewhere on the other side of the track. Losing my temper that day was a mistake. I rarely lose my cool these days, but I hated that feeling of being beaten. When I crossed the finish line in a counties race in second or third place, I might not show it, but I’d be hurting inside for a few days. I’d go away and mull over my defeat, asking myself why I’d lost the race, what I could have done differently, how I could improve. By the time the next race would come around, I’d be even more determined to beat the kids who’d finished ahead of me. You’d find me at Feltham Arena in the evenings doing extra training sessions. Pushing myself harder. Wanting to win.
The second time I ran a race, I usually won.
After a few months I began competing in the county championships for Middlesex Schools. My first race at that level, I got revenge over the kid who’d beaten me near the finish line in the borough race, easily placing ahead of him. I only finished fourth, though. At the start of the race everyone took off in a flurry of colour and excitement, when I felt this blow land on the small of my back, like someone had struck at me with a hammer. The force of the blow knocked me off my feet. In the rush to take the lead, one of the other kids had pushed me over. Whether it was deliberate or not was impossible to tell. Accidents happen in races; there are lots of you running in close proximity and sometimes an arm or a leg catches someone. It was a foul day. The ground was thick with mud, the wind biting and fierce, and I was wearing flat trainers because I didn’t own a pair of spikes. Under the circumstances, I could have been forgiven for throwing in the towel, but I was determined to win that race. I scraped myself off the ground and immediately set about chasing down the lead pack, running through the course as fast as I could. I came close, but not close enough. At the end of the race Alan threw an arm around me.
‘That was a remarkable achievement,’ he told me. ‘To claw your way back to fourth like that. Well done, Mo.’
I smiled. But all I could think was, ‘I didn’t win …’
Alan was a constant source of encouragement. He never gave up on me. He drove me to training. He took time off from his weekends whenever his teaching commitments allowed him to come and watch me compete, travelling up and down the country, cheering me on from the sidelines in the borough and county championships. He’d make sure I stuck to the training programme Alex McGee set for me
Alan likes to say that I never won a big race the first time I competed in it. He’s got a point. Competing in the borough races was very different from running against twenty-odd kids in my class at Feltham. Not all junior athletics coaches shared Alex McGee’s philosophy of putting long-term development over short-term gain. There were some big kids in the same age category as me and at first I found it hard to win races.
Losing a race was hard to stomach. I hated losing more than anything. In my first year at Feltham I took part in the school relay, running the last leg of the race. I started in lane six. With three legs of the relay done, the race was on a knife-edge. The kid handed me the baton. I snatched it and sprinted away to win the race by a huge margin. Graham and Alan had been watching from the side of the track. I noticed them swapping a look after the race. Alan approached me, shaking his head.
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to disqualify you,’ he said.
I frowned. ‘What for?’
Alan pointed at my feet. I looked down and realized my mistake. I wasn’t in lane six any more. Somewhere along my mad dash to the finish line I’d accidentally moved out of my lane.
‘You’re in the wrong lane, Mo,’ Alan went on. ‘Sorry, but it’s the rules.’
In the heat of the moment I flipped and launched the baton through the air with this huge throw, furious with myself for making such a simple mistake. The baton landed somewhere on the other side of the track. Losing my temper that day was a mistake. I rarely lose my cool these days, but I hated that feeling of being beaten. When I crossed the finish line in a counties race in second or third place, I might not show it, but I’d be hurting inside for a few days. I’d go away and mull over my defeat, asking myself why I’d lost the race, what I could have done differently, how I could improve. By the time the next race would come around, I’d be even more determined to beat the kids who’d finished ahead of me. You’d find me at Feltham Arena in the evenings doing extra training sessions. Pushing myself harder. Wanting to win.
The second time I ran a race, I usually won.
After a few months I began competing in the county championships for Middlesex Schools. My first race at that level, I got revenge over the kid who’d beaten me near the finish line in the borough race, easily placing ahead of him. I only finished fourth, though. At the start of the race everyone took off in a flurry of colour and excitement, when I felt this blow land on the small of my back, like someone had struck at me with a hammer. The force of the blow knocked me off my feet. In the rush to take the lead, one of the other kids had pushed me over. Whether it was deliberate or not was impossible to tell. Accidents happen in races; there are lots of you running in close proximity and sometimes an arm or a leg catches someone. It was a foul day. The ground was thick with mud, the wind biting and fierce, and I was wearing flat trainers because I didn’t own a pair of spikes. Under the circumstances, I could have been forgiven for throwing in the towel, but I was determined to win that race. I scraped myself off the ground and immediately set about chasing down the lead pack, running through the course as fast as I could. I came close, but not close enough. At the end of the race Alan threw an arm around me.
‘That was a remarkable achievement,’ he told me. ‘To claw your way back to fourth like that. Well done, Mo.’
I smiled. But all I could think was, ‘I didn’t win …’
Alan was a constant source of encouragement. He never gave up on me. He drove me to training. He took time off from his weekends whenever his teaching commitments allowed him to come and watch me compete, travelling up and down the country, cheering me on from the sidelines in the borough and county championships. He’d make sure I stuck to the training programme Alex McGee set for me
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