Remembering the Big Man, Maintaining Resolve, Marathon #32 Complete

Monday Make it a Good One

UK Ironman, Sherborne, 21st August 2005.

This week marks twenty years since my mate George and I stood on the start line of the UK’s first officially staged Ironman.

It was 2005 in Sherborne, down in the southwest of England and, as I recall from what turned out to be a very long day riding my bike, it was pretty hilly.

We spent time with George and his family on our UK road trip a few weeks ago, and reminisced about the Sherborne race.

George and I first met at Durham in September, 1993. He had rowed for Great Britain, a serious athlete with medals to prove it.

I, on the other hand, arrived at university with a only few school cross-country ribbons to my name and quickly found myself more committed to late nights, cheap beer, and the camaraderie of our university hockey “Thirds” than to the athletics track.

Photo evidence of an early half-marathon, while still at school, 1993, with Richie.

Those university hockey days were hardly preparation for endurance sport. Cake (my housemate and our goalie) and I would fuel up on fry-ups and Benson & Hedges before hurtling in my clapped out Ford Fiesta across town to play a match, still sweating out the previous night’s pints.

Sport, back then, was as much about turning up and surviving on the pitch as it was about skill.

After uni, like most of our peers, George and I drifted into the usual mix of short-lived London gym memberships and, in my case, a failed attempt at playing rugby again, that swiftly ended in a broken finger.

While we’d both run marathons in our twenties, nothing suggested “Ironman.”

Our motivations, though, were emotive rather than athletic. Very tragically, in August 2003, one of our good friends (and George’s closest) Simon Brooke, died in a car accident. It was in his name and honour, as well as to fundraise for two charities that “Brookie” himself had supported, that George and I took part.

George and Brookie had rowed together for ‘GB’ and at Durham. For those of us who knew him, Brookie was really like no one we’d met before. His personality was as inspiring as anyone you’ll ever meet. His compassion, his zest for life, his tenderness towards all people and in all situations was mesmerizing.

I think about him a lot, as I did throughout that day of the Ironman race.

In Cyprus with Brookie, Elin and George, circa 1999.

In many ways, committing to an Ironman was a testament to how devastating it felt to lose Brookie. His father used to refer to him as “The Big Man” and this couldn’t have been a more accurate description of his whole personality.

I remember being petrified at the prospect of completing this crazy race, only to calm myself when remembering why I was taking part.

Even today, if I hold Brookie in my mind - his verve, his joy, the energy he carried everywhere - then anything can feel possible.

With Brookie and Nuria in Cyprus.

Of course, George and I had no idea what we were doing as we “got fit” for the Ironman. There was one triathlon magazine in circulation at the time, a handful of training books, and the odd forum online.

We gave ourselves three months. I trained on a second-hand eBay bike, circling Richmond Park until I half-believed I’d be the last across the finish line. George carried a “dodgy knee.”

Neither of us looked the part.

With George at the start line of Ironman, 2005.

And yet, resolve has a way of showing up when you need it.

I’d felt it before, strangely enough, on a university athletics track a decade earlier. Back then, full of misplaced confidence, I entered a 5000m race at a Scottish championship in Edinburgh. Only one lap in, and I was clinging on for dear life.

By the end, I’d been lapped at least once, possibly twice. But I finished it, cheered on by my stocky German teammate, whose 100m PB barely cracked 15 seconds.

There’s probably a lesson in there somewhere. Something about taking risks, turning up, having a go, getting to the end by whatever means.

That particular experience in Edinburgh may have left its mark on me: an early seed of resolve, a stubborn refusal to quit. Somehow, humiliation that day, outrun by dozens of sinewy blokes who actually knew what they were doing, hardened into stubbornness as I got further into the race, and further behind the pack.

A similar thread carried me through Sherborne in 2005, when George and I finally crossed the line - he an hour before me, even with his knee.

13 hours later, at the finish line, 21st August 2005.

And it’s possibly the thread I’ve been clutching this year, running marathon after marathon, including last Saturday’s in 93% humidity, back in the hot cauldron of our local neighbourhood here in Saigon.

I imagine resolve sits within us all, and manifests uniquely. Sometimes it’s born from heartbreak, sometimes from embarrassment, sometimes from sheer grit. Either way, it helps move us forward.

Twenty years on, I’m grateful for that race in Sherborne, and for all the other moments that have helped weave this stubborn strand inside me.

What I know now is that resolve has never been mine alone. It’s been sparked by others - by Brookie, by taking part in the race with George, and by the friends who’ve run beside me or cheered me on from the sidelines ever since. Every finish line has only ever felt possible because of them.

See you next week!

The Big Man, in our college bar, Durham. Circa 1993.