Short Fat Chick to Marathon Runner 10th Anniversary Edition

Contents

I’m still running

by Kerre Woodham

I’m still training

by Gaz Brown

Short Fat Chick to Marathon Runner

Dedication

1The midlife crisis and the marathon

2A pretty boy called Gaz

3Running with Rats

4Salmon, grapes and a Moro bar

5Pure indulgence

6The first final hurdle

7Releasing my inner packhorse

8More indulgence

9New York, New York

10Living, not just surviving

11Sharing the experience

Appendix 1:

A marathon training programme for beginners

Appendix 2:

Kerre’s marathon training programme

Appendix 3:

Well-known marathoners

Appendix 4:

Resources

Short Fat Chick in Paris

Dedication

OneFailings of a marathon runner

TwoLooking back

ThreeFighting the Piss Fairy

FourAllez, madame!

FiveBack to London

SixRich blessings

SevenCheating death

EightParis is ours

NineSome of life’s winners

Appendices

1Gaz’s small and practical guide to marathon training

2Gaz’s beginner’s programme and strengthening exercises

3Marathon times of some famous (and infamous) runners

4Useful websites

About the Authors

Copyright

I’m still running

by Kerre Woodham

Well, hello! If you’re re-reading this book, after first picking it up 10 years ago, welcome back. I hope the past 10 years have been kind to you. I’d love to know whether you ended up running a half- or a full marathon after first reading Short Fat Chick. I’ve had more than a thousand people over the years write to me or come up to me at functions or running events and share their stories with me, and it’s such a privilege to know that the book inspired them to do so many amazing things. Whoever would have thought? If you’re a newbie, a first-timer — ha! I bet you, you’ll end up running a half-marathon, at the very least. Bet you. This book has been the catalyst for so many people to lace up their running shoes and head out the door, taking the very first steps on the road to becoming a marathoner or a half-marathoner. I don’t really know why. I’m not a gold-medal-winning runner. I haven’t set world records, or even records for the fastest lap of the block in the People’s Republic of Grey Lynn. I’m a slow, lumbering runner, and a reluctant one at that. But I think that’s what inspires people. Girls who used to be on the athletics team at school, who went to the Zone sports and beyond, tend to think, ‘Well, for heaven’s sake! If that fat old booze-hag can run a marathon, I sure as hell can!’ And it turns out that most of them are right. They can. And it’s so very cool to be a part of their achievements.

So much has happened over the past 10 years, since Short Fat Chick first hit the bookshelves. My daughter got married, and then a few years later I married my Irishman. We’d been together 16 years, through thick and thin and good times and bad. And although I’d heard the stories of long-term relationships foundering once the ring was put on it, six years later we’re still going strong. I proposed to him, though, as he’d been married before and I didn’t want to be another one of his wives. Me asking him meant he would be my first husband, and that made a spooky kind of sense to me. It also happened to be a Leap Year, and apparently it’s Celtic tradition that women can ask men to marry them on a Leap Year. So I asked him, he said ‘yes’, and we had a gorgeous beachfront wedding in front of 40 of our closest friends and family.

When it comes to running, it’s fair to say that I have waxed and waned over the years. I have followed none of the advice I gave you in the books. I have not been moderate or temperate or resolute in my lifestyle. I have lurched madly from hard-drinking hedonism and gluttony to clean living, gym-going, runs-at-dawn sobriety. I’ve always said I’d love to embrace moderation, but in my fifties I’ve decided that I am who I am. I will never have smooth blonde hair that falls into place when I shake my head. I will never have length of bone and a racing whitebait’s metabolism. I have finally admitted to myself that I enjoy living life on a pendulum and that’s OK. But it took me a while to get to that acceptance. I would spend a year or two being self-indulgent and thoroughly enjoying gaining 10 kilos or more, then I would spend the next year or two training for a marathon and thoroughly enjoying being in bed before 10 and waking at 6, clear-eyed and dewy of skin. Which meant I managed to knock off a couple of marathons over the past 10 years.

The year after I ran the Paris Marathon, I ran Paris again because I loved it so much. I’m pretty sure Paris is my absolute favourite marathon. But New York is right up there. And that’s why I was part of Gaz’s group to New York back in 2012, even though I was hugely overweight — the fattest I have ever been, including pregnancy — and I could only walk the bloody thing. However, that was the year Hurricane Sandy swept up the Carribean and the East Coast of the United States. Sandy hit New York just a few days before the marathon was due to start. The mayor at the time, Michael Bloomberg, insisted the marathon would go ahead despite 40 New Yorkers being killed, the subway being flooded and the road system being compromised. The economic benefits of hosting the New York Marathon were too important for the city to cancel it, he was reported as saying. So thousands of runners and supporters descended onto the Big Apple with grave reservations. The marathon route would take us past places that had been destroyed by Sandy, and some bodies were still unaccounted for.

It seemed obscene to run through those streets — a bit like holding a marathon in Christchurch just a few days after the quake. The hotels were short-staffed as workers couldn’t get across the city, and rooms were impossible to find and in some cases double-booked, as New Yorkers who’d lost their homes sought shelter. It was absolutely the wrong decision to go ahead with the marathon — and in the end it didn’t. A photo on the front page of the New York Post, showing the generators that would provide the power for overseas media to report on the marathon, became the flashpoint for growing anger in the city. How could the marathon organisers justify using those generators when they could be used to power 400 homes in ravaged suburbs like Staten Island and the Rockaways? When people were unable to use the bathrooms in their homes and were collecting water from outside hydrants, it seemed indecent for organisers to be setting out 2500 portable toilets along the marathon route instead of the areas they were needed. So just hours after Bloomberg insisted that the marathon would go on, and that it would give devastated New Yorkers a reason to cheer, he realised he had missed the mark completely, and organisers cancelled the race.

For runners, especially the international runners, many of whom had spent years saving and fundraising to travel to New York, it was a devastating decision, but our team understood it was absolutely the right decision to make. It just seemed deeply cynical. Wait until the last minute to cancel the race — 5pm on Friday afternoon, less than 48 hours before the race — and the vast majority of runners are in New York. They’ll still spend their money — they still have to eat and drink, and they’ll still visit the galleries and the shops — and the city reaps the economic benefits. None of us could claim on travel insurance, as the insurers pointed out that the trip to New York had taken place and despite some people arguing that the sole reason for going to New York — the marathon — hadn’t taken place, the insurers weren’t to be swayed. It was disappointing all round.

A social media initiative suggested runners meet at Central Park and run 42.2 kilometres around the park as a consolation prize, and some members of our team decided they’d do that. I had brought across a Goodnight Kiwi suit from a dress-up store, to wear in the highly unlikely event that I decided not to walk/shuffle the marathon. I couldn’t have come all that way without contributing something to the occasion, and I decided that if I didn’t participate I would make sure I was the best supporter our team could have. So to that end, I’d packed the costume (the kiwi head came in a special bag and went in the overhead locker), Crunchie bars and Moro bars, and a soundtrack of New Zealand classics that would welcome the Kiwi runners at the 32-kilometre mark. I decided that I would put all that excess luggage to good use. After a huge night, I woke early in the morning, dressed in the Goodnight Kiwi costume and made my way to Central Park. It was an amazing experience. I’d never dressed up before in a complete costume: one that covered your face and head. It allows you to be a completely different person. I was the Goodnight Kiwi — kind and loving and cuddly. I spent five hours at Central Park, dancing to the Kiwi beats: ‘For Today’, ‘Slice of Heaven’, ‘Bliss’ — they were all there. I shuffled in my yellow claw feet that were taped to my sneakers, and I nodded my beak to the beats, and I wrapped anyone who asked for a hug in a feathery wing. It was surreal and odd and wonderful, all at the same time. The Kiwi even made The New York Times in a report on the aftermath of the marathon-that-wasn’t.

* * *

When it comes to athletic endeavours, it’s not the marathons I’m most proud of over the past 10 years, though. In 2013, I was invited by World Vision to take part in a trip to Tanzania to report on the charity’s micro-financing programme, and to climb Mount Kilimanjaro as part of that trip. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t first choice for the trip. Someone from World Vision rang Emily, the producer of my colleague Mike Hosking, and asked whether Mike would be willing to take part. The gorgeous Emily could barely contain her mirth, and suggested that I would be a better candidate than the neat-freak, fastidious, outrageously talented Hosking. This is a man who carries a dust-buster in his car; which may not seem so bizarre, until I tell you that he scrupulously cleans his car after every single trip he makes. He would never have survived a week on a dusty mountain, sharing a tent with a stranger.

I, however, leapt at the chance. To go to Africa? And to see with my own eyes whether these charities actually do what they say they’re doing with your money? And to climb Kili? You betcha I was in. However, after some googlng and research, I had some treipidation. While I was comfortable with the World Vision philosophy (they’re a hand-up, not a hand-out), I was less convinced about the wisdom of climbing Kili. Martina Navratilova had almost died climbing Kili: 4000 feet shy of the summit, she collapsed and was carried down the mountain in the dead of night. She came close to dying from high-altitude pulmonary oedema — fluid in the lungs caused by high altitude. Roman Abramovich, billionaire and owner of Chelsea Football Club, was legendary among the porters on Kili. He and his team of five hired more than 100 porters, and yet he collapsed at 15,000 feet. If these two, with their innate grit and many millions, had failed to summit, why on earth would I try?

However, more googling led me to stories of lads who were boozers and smokers and chancers, who had given Kili a bash and made it. There seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason why some people could summit and some people could not. Having read all I could about the mountain, I resolved to do my best. I loved the initiative — raising awareness for micro-financing to allow people to stand on their own two feet — and I loved the idea of a physical challenge. To be honest, my biggest fear was sharing a tent. I don’t even share a bedroom with my husband. I hate sharing sleeping space. But I would be paired with some one, and we would by lying cheek-by-jowl for a week in a pup tent. Compared to that challenge, Kili would surely be a breeze.

And as it turned out, it was a breeze. My tent-mate was the gorgeous musician, artist and jeweller Boh Runga, and I couldn’t have asked for a better roommate. Boh is warm, funny and generous, and we had many a laugh long into the night on our way up the ‘hill’, as Boh christened the mountain in an attempt to make it less scary. (She also rescued me from a putrid outhouse after I found myself locked in one dreadful night, and for that I shall always be in her debt.) We were an odd crew: Boh, me, and the amazing world-champion rower Mahe Drysdale, and his fiancée, now wife, Juliette, who herself was a world-class-medal-winning rower. And there was internationally acclaimed comedian Rhys Darby, as well as a lovely guy, Rob, from the Sunday Star Times, and the fabulous World Vision team of Chris, Laura and Lindsay. Jess and Tim were also part of the team to film a documentary about our journey.

The real stars of the show were our guides and porters, however. The porters lugged all of the gear we needed to live on the mountain on their backs or on their heads, and by the time we staggered into camp each day the tents were up and dinner was on, ready for us. (The reason I found myself locked in a putrid outhouse was that many of the camping groups hire a porter to carry a portaloo or two up the mountain, but we all decided we’d far rather brave the outhouse than have some poor man carry a toilet 5000 metres up a mountain. A toilet the porter would also have to clean out every morning before he set off. It didn’t bear thinking about. The outhouse it was.)

Climbing Kilimanjaro is relatively easy. There’s no actual mountaineering. It’s a walk up a track. What gets you is the altitude. It causes shortness of breath, and makes everything you do extra hard work. We took the long way up, giving ourselves time to acclimatise, but the altitiude still took its toll. To compound matters, Rhys had a cold that went to his chest, and one night the guides were in two minds as to whether he should continue. However, he was given the all-clear and somehow carried on.

I was absolutely determined to get to the top, not just to Gilman’s Point, which is the edge of the crater. Before I’d left for Tanzania, I’d had a phone call from the father of a young Kiwi woman who’d been murdered in Rwanda 20 years ago. She was part of a group of 30 that had been kidnapped while sightseeing in Rwanda, and, of the group, 20 had been murdered, including his daughter and her friend, another Kiwi girl. He’d heard that one of the surviving members of her group had climbed Kilimanjaro, and had fashioned a cross out of iron in remembrance of the girls. If I made it to the top, would I check that it was there? I couldn’t possibly let him down, and it gave me even more motiviation to make it.

By crikey it was tough, though. We attempted the ascent at midnight, with the aim of summiting at dawn. It was bitterly cold — at some points it was minus-20 degrees — and the track was tricky and steep. At one point, Boh said to me, ‘I can’t do this for six hours!’, and that was where the marathon training kicked in. ‘We’re not doing this for six hours,’ I said. ‘We’re doing it for half an hour, and then we stop and we have a drink and something to eat. Then we do it for another half an hour , and then we stop again … And before you know it, we’ll be there.’

And we made it. Just as the sun rose in the sky, we reached Gilman’s Point. We had a moment of celebration, then those who could decided to push on to Uhuru Peak, the highest point on Kilimanjaro. It was only another 200 metres, but at 5895 metres, it took us an hour and a half to shuffle the distance. Juliette started with us, but when she felt chest pains the guides insisted she descend. That left Mahe, Rob, Chris the CEO, Jess, Tim and me. It was well worth the extra effort. The views are indescribably beautiful. The ice glaciers and the crystal-blue sky were in stark contrast, and you really did feel like you were standing on the roof of Africa. We had an obligatory photo taken at Uhuru, and then I pressed on to visit the memorial to the Kiwi girls. Our guides knew about the cross and so I walked over to the edge of the mountain to pay my respects. The cross is simple: it really is just twisted iron, but it stands on the edge of the mountain, and gets the first rays of the morning sun. I spent a few moments there, and then it was back to the team and time to descend.

Going down was a damn sight easier than going up! We skied down the scree, and arrived back at camp to a guard of honour from our porters and a well-earned breakfast. It was truly one of the most amazing experiences of my life. I am so grateful to have had the opportunity, and it has begun a life-long love of Tanzania that will stay with me forever. I’ve been back once, and I have every intention of visiting again.

* * *

The greatest joy of looking back over 10 years is that I’m still here and so is everybody I love. Well, apart from my nana, but she was 99 when she died, and she’d always said she’d never wanted a telegram from the Queen, so we were sad to see her go and happy she got to do it on her own terms. Cherry had always thought the Queen was a terrible mother, and blamed her for the all the ills that befell the House of Windsor, which I thought was a little harsh, but once Cherry had made her mind up, that was it. (You should have heard her views on the All Blacks’ rotation policy! Had she been coaching the team, we’d have won back the Rugby World Cup a lot sooner than 2011.) So apart from my wonderfully feisty nana, my family and my closest friends are still with me. And I’m very, very grateful.

The other great joy is that in 2017 I became a grandmother for the very first time. My daughter Kate, who was married before she had graduated from law school, gave birth to a beautiful baby boy called Bart, in March. The only sadness is that she and her husband, Ranko, live in London, where Ranko has an excellent job that should set the little family up for the future, so I refuse to dwell on any negatives. I was able to spend five weeks with them just after Bart was born, and in the latter part of the year, problems with Bart’s visa application meant that Kate and Bart spent two months here in New Zealand, instead of the two and a half weeks they were planning to stay. So even though we live thousands of kilometres away, we’ve been fortunate to have had so much time together, and Bart got to experience being a real Kiwi kid, with sand between his toes and a bare bum at the beach and hanging out at the local parks. Kate was able to share the load that comes with being a new mama, and the Irishman and I got to have our fill of cuddles. Well, I think I could probably live to a hundred and never get enough of those gummy kisses and cuddling that perfect little body, but I certainly had my share.

Being a nana really is everything people said it was going to be, and my heart is filled to bursting every time I see him via FaceTime or Skype. Thank heavens for modern communication! Imagine going to the letterbox every day to see whether there’s an airmail letter from across the other side of the world containing precious Kodak photos! We long-distance grandparents should be so greatful for the technology that allows us to stay in touch with the people who matter the most.

* * *

However, having the little family camping with us for two months put paid to my plans to run the Queenstown Marathon in 2017. The English art critic Cyril Connolly famously stated that ‘There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.’ I don’t know about that, but I do know that babies in the house make it very tricky to exercise. How on earth do young parents — or old ones, for that matter — find the time and the energy to exercise?

When I first went over to London just after Bart was born, I think I managed two runs along the Thames in the five weeks that I was there. And when Bart and Kate moved in with us while the visa application was being processed, it was even worse! He was that much older and so much more entertaining, but still waking in the night once or twice. From the time I first heard him gurgling and cooing in his cot next to our bed, I was up and off with him, desperate to make the most of every second with him. When I got home from work, I wanted to give Kate a break as she’d been with him all day, and I loved having the privilege of feeding him and bathing him and getting him ready for bed. Why on earth would I go out to pound the pavements when I could be home with Kate and Bart? Besides, even if I’d wanted to, I didn’t have the energy. That little 10-kilo package of deliciousness had done what no other man who slept in my room has ever been able to do: worn me out completely and left me without a shred of strength. Any of you who manage to train while running families with babies and small children, take a bow. You’re amazing.

I had signed up to do the Auckland half-marathon in October, and the Queenstown full-marathon in November. I thought that having something to focus on and train for would alleviate the misery of saying goodbye to my little family. But as the weeks wore on, and there was still no sign of the visa, I realised that the full-marathon would be beyond me. I managed to run the Auckland half —slowly, but I really enjoyed that one for some reason. The best thing about that run was running down the finishers’ chute and seeing Kate and baby Bart on the sidelines. I was so thrilled to see them, but then Kate has always been such a tremendous supporter. She was at the finish line for my very first marathon in Auckland, she was there for me in London, and she worked the Métro like a pro to pop up all the way along the wonderful Paris marathon route. So I shouldn’t have been so surprised.

She loves watching people finish. Especially the back-of-the-packers like me. She gets tears in her eyes watching people achieve something they never thought was possible, and when their families join them, embracing and laughing, and when she sees the little kids proudly wearing the medals their mums or dads have earned, she loses it completely. However, that morning at the end of the Auckland half, I think we gave spectators their own magic moment. A photographer who was at the finish line must have seen me stop dead with only a few metres to go, and so he trained his camera on me. He captured the moment I saw my girl and her beautiful boy, and it’s a photo I shall always treasure, because it sums up the delight and joy I felt to see them there.

* * *

For all that I enjoyed Auckland, it was clear that I was too underdone training-wise to take on the Queenstown Marathon. I knew what I was in for, as I’d run Queenstown in my year of being 50. Gosh, that was a great year. Turning 50 was possibly the best year of my life. I saw Fleetwood Mac in Vegas with my daughter; I went on safari in Tanzania and Kenya with an incredible group of people; and the Irishman and I cruised around the Tahitian outer islands. And in between all that, I was training hard at the gym and putting in the kilometres I needed to run the Queenstown Marathon.

I’m very lucky in that Gaz lets me drift in and out of GetRunning. There are long periods of time when I don’t run, but then I decide to kick the Piss Fairy for touch, invite Good Kerre to sit in the driver’s seat for a while, and become a green-smoothie-drinking, teetotalling runner. The team at GetRunning is fluid. People come and go and come back again, and there are so many runners of different abilities, but the one thing they have in common is that they are great people and excellent company, whether on tour or just to run alongside, early on a Saturday morning. There’s no judgement if you’ve been away for a while. No thin lips and gimlet eyes raking over your wobbly bits. Just hugs and smiles and ‘Welcome back!’, and fun times over coffee catching up on each other’s news.

So my year of being 50 involved lots of Saturday mornings spent in the company of Get Runners. I progressed through a couple of pace groups over the year, and ended up running Queenstown with Mike McRoberts, TV3’s prime-time news anchor. We had endured a few of the longer 25-kilometre-plus training runs together, and we knew we wouldn’t get on each other’s tits. Vitally important to have someone to run with, I find; but, just as vitally, you need the right person to run with. I couldn’t run with a spitter and hoiker, nor with someone who runs with flat feet or an annoying gait. Anyone whot runs with loose change or car keys in their pocket is out, too. And as for people running with the bloody talking watches … !

Some of the technology that has appeared on the market in the 10 years since Short Fat Chick was published has been helpful, I suppose. And eventually, after years of resisting, I caved in and bought a Garmin — one of those fancy, schmancy watches that lets you know how fast you’re running and how far you’ve run, as well as your heartbeat and other information. Although there was a false start … I was determined to program it myself, as everyone at GetRunning had said how easy it was to set up, and really it was a running watch designed for the technologically illiterate. So when I couldn’t change the screen-saver, I was damned if I was going to ask anyone for help. I read the instruction manual, over and over again. I tried every button in every sequence. I turned it off and fired it up again. But nothing. Still the same image on the face of the watch. Defeated, I went back to where I bought it and told the lovely man that there must be something wrong with the watch: I simply couldn’t get it to go. He glanced at the watch and then back down at me, a look of kindness tinged with pity on his face. ‘Kerre,’ he said, ‘you need to peel the sticker off.’ Right. Good to know. That wasn’t in the instructions. It’s worked perfectly ever since.

So I will concede that the Garman was useful in the lead-up to Queenstown. And Mike and I aquitted ourselves admirably, I think. We crossed the finish line in 4 hours 30, which for two middle-aged media types isn’t too bad. The party that night went on until the wee small hours, and was a brilliant and fitting end to my wonderful year. Mike has gone on to hone himself into a fine specimen of a man. He now runs sub-four-hour marathons with ease, and has gone from strength to strength. He is living proof of what you can achieve when you make running part of your life, not just something you madly go back to when your jeans don’t fit you anymore. He’s also living proof that if you follow Gaz’s advice and training programmes and actually listen to what he has to say, you’ll become a better runner. Who knew? So no, I didn’t run Queenstown, but I spent a wonderful weekend in the resort town toasting other people’s achievements and stifling my FOMO, and helping my colleague and fellow Get Runner Niva Retimanu celebrate her own 50th birthday in style.

* * *

Right now, I’m planning on running a few half-marathons in 2018, and I’m aiming to run Buenos Aires with Gaz and a group of Get Runners later in the year. Well, that’s the aim, but life has a way of happening and who knows whether it will eventuate. What I do know is that I will run as long as my hips and knees hold out — maybe not every day; maybe not for months — but I will keep running. It has brought too much into my life for me to give it up completely. The friends I’ve made, the people I’ve met, the cities around the world I’ve visited have all enriched my life immeasurably. At 52, this Short Fat Chick has never been happier nor more grateful.

I’m still training

by Gaz Brown

Ten years ago, I never imaged I would be sitting here writing another chapter in Short Fat Chick! The publication of the book had a profound effect, on my life and on my career. I didn’t think I would be running a business on running, and I never thought Kerre and I would have become life-long friends. Not a week goes by without contact, and our bond is like that of a big sister/little brother. Kerre always says that running and I came along at just the right time. But in hindsight I would say Kerre came along at just the right time for me. That fateful meeting at Les Mills catapulted me into business and a future I will always be grateful for.

Where do I start? I guess I could break it down into a few stages. Business longevity and survival, a new age of technology in running, and, of course, the people I’ve met and trained through my business, GetRunning.

Business longevity and survival without the book

I knew enough to know that I had a few golden years of people reading the book and thinking that this ‘Gaz’ chap (my mother still hates me being known as ‘Gaz’; she christened me ‘Gareth’, and that’s what she still calls me) had something worth signing up to. I think it’s pretty common knowledge now that I didn’t really know much when I first started. I was as amazed as everyone else when Kerre crossed the finish line of her first marathon, because, really, all I had was a passionate interest in sport, particularly running, and the ability to talk and listen to people. (I’m probably better at the talking part than the listening part!)

Perhaps nothing has changed, but over the years you naturally learn a whole lot about your craft and, in turn, learn how much you really do not know. The human body is a fascinating piece of machinery, and there is still so much to discover. You constantly learn from the body and how it responds in certain situations. Just when you think you have things right, it throws a curve ball. When it comes to our runners, my coaches and I have constantly sought help and advice from top professionals in the sports field, and have read thousands of articles and books to help us find the right way to train each and every runner. Of course, trial and error plays its part to on our way to some amazing results with more than 1000 runners.

Possibly the one thing we have strived to get on top of is a runner’s mind. You have to look at their home life, work hours, social life, and nutrition, and of course how and why they exercise. You very quickly figure out that without the balance of all these areas nothing will ever work, and training for a marathon falls apart. In a world that is busy, time poor and hungry for success, many people have found solace and peace of mind running.

Ten years of training people to complete marathons, to achieve something they didn’t know they’d be able to do, to transform bodies and lives, to take people around the world in teams, participating in some truly awesome marathons, means that we get a lot of word-of-mouth recommendations now. When people lose 10 kilos and have a sparkle in their eye, you bet their mates and colleagues want to know the secret. So the business may have started because of the book, but we’re still going after 10 years because we love running, and we love how running and being part of a team environment can change people’s lives.

And with that I can honestly say I sometimes wonder what I would be doing if the book had not come along; I don’t know life without it of course, but it’s been one hell of a roller-coaster ride — and I love roller-coaster rides. I think it was just meant to be.

A new age of technology

I often look back on the days when I would write up a program on a sheet of paper, jotting down distances and times, scribbling alongside comments about the emotional state of the runner. The problem I had was that you could never rely on a human to accurately tell you how their body was holding up to the training. We are inherently hardwired to ignore pain and believe we can do more. So you ask a runner: How was that run in the weekend? And how do you feel? Typically, their answer is ‘Great!’ They could be right — it might have been great —but how do you know? Every person’s perception of pain and training stress is different.

Wind forward 10 years and we are now in a fascinating time. Everyone wears running technology, and talks about their average heart rate, average minutes per kilometre, cadence and run elevation. To an outsider it just sounds like runners’ talk and very boring at that, but if you’re on the inside then it totally makes sense. It works. Never before have we been able to look at a run file and check out heart rate deterioration over distance, or the effect of a hill on the body’s pace, relative to heart rate. And then be able to check the heart rate the next day to see how the body has bounced back.

Technology is used to help monitor, contain and push people in running. But at the same time it can make us obsessed and lose sight of the reason we run in the first place — the release and the getting away from it all. I will always use technology and embrace new ideas and apps, and give everything a try. But we must always remember that running is about simplicity and enjoyment.

People, running, touring — and a car crash!

I could not talk about 10 years on if I didn’t mention my personal circumstances. I have the most amazing wife who has put up with me getting up at 5am most mornings for 10 years. (Remember I meet Lucia around the time that GetRunning started up. Lucia actually came up with the business name and has helped shape the brand.) She’s an incredible woman, with the kick-ass ability to bring up two young children (Romey, one year, and Otto, three and a half years) pretty much on her own. I mean, I do my bit when I can, but with early starts and late finishes, and weeks away on marathon tours, she’s been left holding the babies. I don’t think anybody can venture into running their own business without support from someone close, and she has truly been amazing. There have been two occasions where I have come very close to throwing in the towel, and she has been there to pick me up.

On 27 December 2010, a driver heading north to the music festival Rhythm and Vines, having just landed from an international flight, fell asleep at the wheel, crossed the centre-line and crashed into the car my father was driving, leaving us with the full force and impact of a head-on crash. That moment would change my whole family’s life forever. You could write a book about my experiences, but what’s more important and astounding is how friends rallied