Train Spotting…
… sometime in the early 1980s, late winter, just past lunchtime on a 16 mile tempo run…
I’m out Lympsham way moving at 6:40 pace in the chilly air. ‘Glurp!’ What the f…? ‘Glurble-glurp!’ That’s a funny noise for my shorts to be making. Over a railway bridge, and an acute cramp. It’s the shits! I scramble over a gate and in seconds I’m in the middle of a field, in just vest and racing flats, shorts around my knees, two feet and one arm holding an impossible horizontal position, with an acute attack of Moctezuma‘s Revenge. Oh God! At least it couldn’t get worse. The heavens open and hail the size of goose eggs tears at my exposed parts! I’m frozen and nearly blinded. At least it couldn’t get worse. I turn sideways. A delayed train is slowly passing! The train is full. The hail has brought everyone to the bloody windows. My gentleman’s area is chilled to a minuscule stalagmite, and I’ve lost all feeling on my feet, which have sunk into the sodden sod. The Burnham Harriers on my vest is clearly visible. What an advert! The only good thing is, the hail has shot-blasted me clean. What the hell can I do? I smile. The train accelerates away, little pink commuter heads swivelling, eyes fixed on the insanity of it all. I squelch to my feet, scramble over the gate and I finish the run.
I’m a runner. I’m also one on the earliest Burnham-on-Sea Harriers. Without this great club, I doubt if I would have continued running as I have. I thought it may be interesting to write a separate, historical blog for present day Harriers, to outline its roots, how running can continue into mature age, and how things have both changed, and remained the same. Of course, it will be from my own perspective and experiences, but after nearly 41,000 miles and 43 years of running, I may have stumbled over most issues that will befall a human – as the earlier story shows. The two key things that have kept me going are stubbornness and humour. Thus, without more ado, welcome to the Beginning.
In the Beginning…
My genesis as a runner has its roots at the 1970 Commonwealth Games in Edinburgh, on 25th July. I was 13 years old, still wore white Y-fronts and had just started figuring out that girls were very interesting. On our old black and white telly, I watched the thin figure of Ron Hill enter the Meadowbank Stadium at the end of the Marathon. He was dressed in white. He wore a string vest with number 108 pinned to the front. David Coleman was saying he’d been very close to Derek Clayton’s world record. Clayton could not keep up on this day and dropped out. Ron Hill averaged 4:55 pace and posted 2:09:28! This race stayed in my memory. How could anyone run that far? My young mind boggled.
I come from an impoverished background. Grinding poverty, they would call it now. My mother was a widow with four kids to bring up, and no income. She died aged 52 in 1974. I was just 17. Puberty arrived and I was full of rebellion. I’m not sure what against, but I rebelled anyway. My youth was chaotic, full of beer, motorbikes, crashing motorbikes, occasional fights, more beer and smoking. I was on a rapid, slippery slope to disaster, when love struck and I conformed. I got married at 18 and had twin boys by the time I was 20. As the 70s ended, I was working shifts at the Royal Ordnance Factory Bridgwater. I was becoming an old man before my time, doing culturally accepted stuff, and felt trapped. In 1980, I was still smoking, getting chubby and was thoroughly miserable with myself.
In 1981, my younger brother started running to get fit for an adventure in the USA. He invited me to run with him along the West Huntspill sea wall. It was awful. Running made it hard to light a cigarette. Yet, that latent seed had germinated. I was drawn to various ‘running boom’ tv images of the time. The first London Marathon took place. In February 1982 I watched something insane. At the end of the Hawaii Ironman Triathlon at Kona, Julie Moss collapsed 10 yards from the finish and was overtaken by Kathleen McCartney, to lose the race. These people could swim 2.4 miles, cycle 112 miles and then run a marathon! Ron Hill popped back into my mind. A switch clicked in my head and my life changed forever. I wanted to run that far. I wasn’t sure how, so I improvised.
I started riding a bike to work, 13 miles a day all together, and lost my pot belly. I gave up smoking on 6th May 1982 – oddly, it was the easiest thing I’ve done. I pronounced to my workmates I wanted to run a marathon, just to give myself no way out. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that my knees would explode, I’d be found at the side of the road horribly dead and it wasn’t natural to punish a body in such a way. That was all the encouragement I needed. That was the moment my lifelong desire to silence the naysayers blossomed.
I started running on May 16th 1982. I was 25. I was a bit self conscious, so cycled from my Highbridge home to West Huntspill and ran about 5 miles up and down the Puriton Road. I ran flat out and, for a moment, thought I may end up horribly dead. But then, I found a balance and was surprised I could sustain a quick pace. I learnt about oxygen debt in this first run. Yet, I had covered the distance well under 7-minute per mile. From here, I was unsure of how to plan anything and got lots wrong. I ran flat out until my heart and lungs were in danger of bursting, then completed a run nursing that familiar oxygen debt. My flat, cheap training shoes gave me blisters, so, I plastered my feet in Vaseline. My white squash shorts were restrictive, so I bought some Nike running shorts. I became a newly converted obsessive. I started buying running magazines and absorbed every word. I ran with nothing in mind, but to run. I never craved a cigarette and couldn’t afford to drink, so I ran and ran and ran.
Then, I found I had a local running club – our Burnham-on-Sea Harriers. Colin, a pal who lived close by, invited me along. I turned up gingerly on the night of 26th May 1982, wondering if I was really good enough to be there. I was welcomed with open arms. That first run was close to 10 miles over dunes and beach (some members were marathon training) and I finished tired, but happy. The Harriers had been formed the year before by an old school chum, Graham Slocombe, and his friend Brian Beale. It became a closely bonded club of runners of all abilities. I embraced the culture, wore the yellow club vest with pride and turned up on as many Wednesday evening training nights as my shift work permitted. I found blisters could be avoided! I needed proper running shoes, so with a windfall by selling a vacuum cleaner, I spent the £19 on a pair of blue and yellow Nike Internationalists. The difference was amazing.
On 23rd June 1982 I entered the Honiton Marathon to be held on 17th October. From non-runner to a marathon in 5 months. Madness? Yes, but I was enchanted by the change in my body and mind. I’d rebelled against the accepted norms of life and was determined to see where my limits were. I’d finally accepted that this is what has always driven me – being my own experiment. I could only accept what couldn’t be done, by seeing if it could be, by me. For once I had something that was mine alone – me time. Running freed me from modern life.
Berni Mundy, a visiting Wells City Harrier and friend of Brian’s, got chatting to me one club night. He was full of enthusiasm and agreed to post me a schedule to survive that first marathon. I naïvely proclaimed I wanted to run under 3 hours 30 minutes, and he raised his eyebrows – he knew I was new to running. Then, grinned and said, “Why not!” Within a week the schedule dropped through the door and I stuck to it rigidly, including the paces set for various types of runs.
The Club…
Running as a pastime in the early 1980s was very different. It was rather like the 60s and music, where every avenue of artistic expression was to be explored, underpinning all modern music. People were just waking up to the realisation that smoking was deadly and the counter culture of fitness started gathering momentum. But, there was a naïvety in most runners and few sophisticated training techniques, with new methods bubbling under the surface, yet to emerge. So, generally, people either jogged, or trained the same as international athletes. I was of the latter mindset. They trained very hard. That naïvety led to high standards in races. The initial jogging for fun approach remained intact, but now ‘normal’ runners could set the bar far higher.
The Harriers had this accepted profile. The club was very inclusive, with the smiling easy pace joggers, and the slightly serious hard trainers. We could be very competitive on club nights and a lot of badinage occurred between the latter group. Our kit was simple enough, with yellow vests and black shorts. We’d get ‘Burnham Harriers’ ironed on at the local sports shop in the High Street, or Jester Prints down in Love Lane. Half-mesh vests became a thing. Full mesh vests were available from Ron Hill Sports – I had a Golden Marathon Vest, which I treasured.
Wednesday was our club night at the Burnham Sports Centre, King Alfred’s School. We would stretch, then set out on our planned run. Along the beach, out to the Huntspill sea wall, time trialing along the Esplanade or, in winter, running on the pavements with our reflective vests. I’m not sure how many of those original members are still known to the club, but Carol Geach is the only one I know of. So, in the races I’ve got notes on, I will throw in the odd first name as I’ve not got direct permission to do anything else. I’d be grateful, too, for any photographs from those early days.
First races…
My first race was the Ashcott Roundmoor Road Race, on Sunday 27th June 1982. A 6-miler. It was a warm day and I was full of nerves. Milling around with so many others at the start made me wish I could hide. “Crack!” Off we went. I remember little of it. We hurtled downhill for 3 miles, I was eyeballs out, then rediscovered oxygen dept. Brian Beale passed me at 4 miles, asked me to tuck in and recover, so I did. Brian was always kind. The last couple of miles were uphill and between high hedges, so I got very hot. Brian had pulled away and I staggered to the finish. 36:56! “It’s short,” said Brian. He was right. It was about 300m short of a full 6 miles, but even so, I had covered the ground at about 6:20 pace.
I stuck to Berni’s schedule and slowly learned to run at the required easy, steady or fast paces. I was finding 8-minute mile pace easy on short runs, but just about my limit above 10 miles. Yet the new, to me, speed and tempo work paid off. My weight dropped from 12 stones to 11½ stones and my pace increased. I was starting to understand training, and understanding myself. I also assumed more was better and that I thought myself indestructible, such was the buzz I was getting. My diaries show this is a pretty accurate profile of me at the time.
I’m not built for distance running, in the accepted sense. I’m stocky, 5’ 8½”, long bodied, short legged and splay-footed. I run like a bag of spanners. I’m no Ferrari, more of a JCB-GT. Yet, we are all bipeds and have evolved from ancestors who relied on running to hunt. So, in all the varying physiques is a runner waiting to get out. In my case, I had no illusions. I was no Seb Coe. The one thing I could do was the best I could. Running starts with the self. It remains a solo effort, even if you run in a team. In my case, as I worked shifts, I ran most of my miles alone. I still do. Never be defeated by how you look. There is an established shop in London called Run and Become. Those three words say it all. I did, and did. You can too.
I ignored weight charts. At 11½ stones I was muscle and bone, but came out as overweight on the tables of the day. I started speed work on the Club’s measured mile on the Esplanade. I eventually managed a couple fast repeats at 5:45 pace and was astounded. Before the summer was out, I set a 5:25 personal best.
On Sunday 26th September 1982, just 4 days before my 26th birthday, and barely 17 weeks after I’d started running, I lined up for the Burnham-on-Sea Half Marathon. I was still sticking to Berni’s schedule, but was also getting things a bit skew whiff. I stuck to Berni’s total weekly mileage, so often just stuck a projected 6 with a 5, rarely jogging short distances to rest and recover. I was running 6 milers as easy runs, and 10s as standard. I was still learning. I had run the half marathon course in training 11 days before the race, with my pal Dave, and we’d managed it in 1:42:12. Two days later, just 8 days before the race, I ran it in the hot sunshine, solo, in 1:35:00! Two days later I ran 12 in 1:34:42. My training log shows how I’d embraced running, but also that I was training at a level where naïvety eclipsed reason. For the half I’d unilaterally decided I may just get below 1:30.
Race day arrived. The gun went and the big field zoomed off from outside King Alfred’s gates. I know it was a sunny day, but I have few notes on my race. I remember running hard and suffering, finding my maximum sustainable pace and finding the last two miles to the school field excruciating. I had never pushed my body so hard. I crossed the line in 1:25:45 and 112th position! (The quality in depth of fields then, was astounding compared to recent times.) I’d maintained a fast pace, averaging 6:32 minutes per mile. My head was spinning. I thought I may have done myself a bit of damage – could I ever recover from such an effort? It was a just a month to the Honiton Marathon…
Tips from an Ancient Harrier – No.1: Laundry
Never, ever use fabric conditioner on technical clothing. It sticks to the closed fibres and bacteria love it. That’s why, once you start sweating into it again, it reactivates the bacteria and it stinks. Wash with non-bio at 30°C. I’ve had kit for a decade that still remains odour-free.
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Paul Comerford 