Sport's Defining Moments 2: Marathon Runner
This entry will be a bit of a cheat - I'll touch on various levels of sport, from the most personal to the most distant, from the disastrous to the triumphant and back again. It'll be about 2003 but also a little about 1984 and 1988, 2002 and 2004.
The performance I'm starting with is what is widely considered by statisticians as the greatest single performance in the history of women's track and field, Paula Radcliffe's astonishing world record of 2 hrs 15 minutes 25 seconds at the London Marathon, a mark which, to this day, no one else has got within a couple of minutes of.
I didn't see it. I have watched the London Marathon every other year of my life since 1984 but that one, I didn't see. I was elsewhere. In Barbados, to be precise. So don't feel sorry for me!
I've seen Paula Radcliffe run other marathons, her astonishing debut in 2002, where she first pushed back the boundaries of what it was possible for a woman to achieve at the distance, her doing the same in Chicago later that year, her horror story at the 2004 Athens Olympics, comeback at New York later that year, her poo-gate performance in London in 2005, World Championship win in 2005, I watched every minute of all of them. I love the marathon, it takes you on an almost unrivalled emotional journey with the athletes, the sight of people at the edge of their ability gradually breaking till their is just one left. I've been brought to tears watching a marathon on more than one occasion.
But 2003 I didn't see. Getting decent internet in a hotel in Barbados in 2003 was surprisingly tricky, so I found out about the marathon afterwards by phoning my mother and heard about Paula Radcliffe's astonishing time and could barely believe it. To be honest, it wasn't just for news of Paula that I made that long distance call. That would be a bit weird. My brother was doing the marathon that year too. His news was all the more astonishing.
Now, he'd already done a couple of fast marathons, he wasn't an unknown entity, but still, when my mother said "He came 28th, 2 hours 23 minutes 49 seconds", I almost dropped the phone. 28th ... out of 35,000 ... well, strictly speaking 34th out 35,000, as he was the 28th male. Paula, and a few other female athletes, had beaten him, but to put it in context, he finished two minutes ahead of Derartu Tulu, an Ethiopian considered one of the greatest female distance runners of all time.
So, I remember 2003's marathon as the year of Radcliffe and McGaughey J., even though I didn't actually watch their finest two hours and a bit. I was, not that I want to rub it in, in Barbados. Playing cricket. Playing a bit of cricket in Barbados. You know.
I was on tour with my old school team, Old Paulines, a team my brother James had also played for, so I remember vividly my pride at breakfast on that Sunday morning as I told them James had come 28th in the London Marathon. 28th? 28th in his club? 28th for Londoners? How 28th? Actually 28th, 28th man. The gap between amateurism and elite sport had been closed, just like that. He'd never had any funding, specialist coaching, he hadn't really been a runner when he was younger (I was, far more so). He'd just taken up running, joined a club, and kept going till he was really rather good.
That cricket tour saw the gap between elite sport and amateurism closed in another way too. It was organised by a former Sri Lankan international called Tony, and his main point of contact was Desmond Haynes. Actual Desmond Haynes, one half of perhaps the finest opening pair in the history of cricket. Cricket legend, Barbadian senator, and, when we arrived at the first ground we were playing at, man cheerfully watering the pitch.
And a member of the opposition team in that first game. That first game which was rather a surreal distillation of my sporting life.
I'd suffered an arm injury a couple of years earlier which meant that I would never quite be the same again as a bowler, but I remember, in Barbados, in the nets and on that first match, the ball was coming out great. Whether it was the hot weather, my arm was fine and I was bowling really well.
Well enough for Desmond Haynes, anyway. Their Number 4 bat, the great Desmond Haynes, scorer of 7000 + test runs. Albeit Desmond Haynes aged 47 in a game he could not have given two shits about. But still, I was all over him. Spin, flight, drift, Haynes, let me tell you, was bamboozled.
Twice I deceived him in the flight, twice, I caught his leading edge and he looped relatively simple chances up in the air to cover and mid-off. Twice the chances were put down. Twice, my chance to claim the scalp of one of the finest batsmen of the last 30 years was gone. Still, I thought to myself as I walked to my fielding position at deep midwicket, I'll get him next over. I'm nailing this.
Haynes was batting with a young fellow, name of Barry Marshall (no relation), I think he was only 18, and he was phenomenal. On that day he made 120 off about 70 balls and it was the finest, cleanest hitting I'd ever seen. Chatting to him later he said he wanted to be a professional musician rather than a cricketer, so he's never really given cricket a proper go. He was excited about going over that summer to London as his band had a regular gig in Stratford.
Anyway, Barry was walloping us all over the place, six after six, astonishing. Last ball of the over, he smashes one way up in the air right down the throat of me at deep midwicket. I've never seen a ball so high, but I've no doubt I'm going to catch it. Boundary catches, I've had a mixed relationship with boundary catches. There've beem the miserable spills and ensuing opprobrium but, right then, with the ball in the air, I remember the Ealing Colts Festival 1988, me nine years old, stuck out on the square leg boundary in front of the grand old pavilion.
The Ealing Colts Festival was a yearly event where a man of the club would captain a team made up of boys of all ages, from the Under 11s to the Under 17s. It was a real event, and it would be no exaggeration to say that, as I stood there, 9 years old, in front of the pavilion, several hundred pairs of eyes were at my back.
Suddenly, one of the Under 15s drills a sweep shot in the air down to me on the boundary. I doubt there was a single person on the ground who'd have put money on me. But, somehow or other, it landed in my hands and stuck. I'll never forget the roar from behind me. I felt like a rock star.
Amazingly, a few minutes later, with one of the Under 17s batting, the exact same thing happened. The same place, the same catch, maybe a little bit harder. Again I clung on. The roar was even louder. At the end of the day, at the presentation, I was given a special £10 voucher and Mr Mansell, the old Head of the Colts said it was "very fine, very fine". I also remember my sister explaining on the way home, probably to my other sister, that I'd got the voucher because of the catches but also because my batting was good and my bowling was good. But they hadn't been. They'd been rubbish. And even then, it was important to me to point out that no, it was just because of the catches.
Anyway, enough of the ekphrasis. I genuinely remember thoughts of that day in my head as the ball off Barry Marshall's bat spiralled towards me. Despite the plethora of drops in front of numerous other distant pavilions in the years between, this one was going straight in, no doubt. Here goes. Into position. Hands up....
CRACK ...
Shit, where's the ball? What's the red? Why am I walking funny?
So, I think what happened is, such was the velocity of the ball, it went straight through my hands. Also, because of the sunglasses I was wearing and the bright sun, I just didn't judge the speed of the ball correctly.
CRACK ...
Through the plastic shades (I suppose I had a lucky escape that they didn't shatter into my eye) to just above my eye.
Blood, plenty of blood. I was compos mentis, but there was no question of playing on. I'd thankfully got some insurance before going, so hospital was not too costly. Here I was, then, just after what could have been my finest cricketing hour, being driven to hospital by a kind, though laughing and mocking, Desmond Haynes.
Yeah, all right, Haynes, you wouldn't be so full of yourself if those catches hadn't gone down.
So, anyway, stitched up, massive shiner, I wasn't allowed to go in water for a few days, which is, frankly, a bit of a downer when you're in Barbados.
Somehow the tour wasn't quite the same for me after that. West Indies cricket meant so much to me, and that first glimpse of Desmond Haynes and actually bowling at him felt like a dream coming true. I'm not sure the rest lived up to it. There was another wonderful moment at the end of that game, when the late, great Malcolm Marshall's young son came on to bowl at one of our senior players and got him out LBW and our whole team cheered as if we'd just won the World Cup.
The food was fantastic, the hotel was great, but back then I just wasn't able to enjoy things for what they were, I was constantly seeing the negative. Even though they were beating us, I felt the signs of the decline of the once-great West Indian cricket were everywhere. I didn't bowl so well again. The sun was too bright, I had to stay out of the sea ... moan moan moan, I spent too long in the local sports bar, watching the Premier League, of all the things to do when you're in Barbados. Weak (though I do remember watching a classic 2-2 between Arsenal and Man Utd there, so you know, great sporting moments are everywhere!).
Now, I can just look back on the surreal wonder of it all. Desmond Haynes! Paula Radcliffe! My brother! What a hoot it all was.
Paula Radcliffe and my brother and also, I suppose, my increasing ill fitness and indolence, drove me to attempt the marathon myself a bit later, but it's not for me, not in the same way.
I think I've dealt my legs a few too many blows, I think my blood doesn't run quite right, I think water leaves my body too quickly. Half-marathons? Yes, no problem. The full distance, though I've completed it twice, does not figure in my great sporting moments. On the same Chicago course where Paula Radcliffe had set the world record six years earlier, I found myself running in 25-30 degree heat, getting cramp (which just wouldn't go) after 14 miles and hobbling round the next 12 miles knowing that if I stopped for one second I wouldn't rediscover the will to carry on.
I remember at 12 miles going past the Sears Tower which was an incredible moment, and I was exultant in one way, but I knew I was in trouble. Running at a pace I was used to cruising at for much greater distances, I felt finished, like now was the natural finish time, not the whole thing over again.
So I think J. McGaughey will remain the family record holder for the Marathon. It might be close, though. There's a bit of history, I think. Apparently my Great-Grandad was known as "Pat the Champ" and was Ireland's best miler, and I've also been semi-reliably informed that my 4th or 5th cousin is Sonia O'Sullivan, an old rival of Paula Radcliffe and probably Ireland's greatest ever long-distance runner. Her marathon best is only 2.29.01, though, so, you know, close but no cigar, O'Sullivan.
Who's going to run another marathon? Not my brother, I'm pretty certain. After 2003, he recognised that that was as good as he was going to get, and didn't run again for a few years. He started up again in 2008 as we decided we were both going to run the 2009 Edinburgh Marathon. My broken leg, received shortly after Chicago from some oaf in West London, put paid to that, but James went ahead and still finished under 3 hours. Clearly disappointed, despite the fact that most of us dream of being able to run a marathon that quickly.
Me? I hope so. I just want to run one right, slow myself down and actually enjoy it, rather than endure a nightmare. I want the weather to be cool, to aim for just under four hours and stick to the plan. Part of me still thinks I can be as good as my brother, despite all evidence to the contrary, so if I'm to run another marathon, I need to recognise my limitations.
Will Paula Radcliffe run another marathon? She wants to. Despite all the injuries and traumas she's had, despite the fact it turned out she'd been running with a broken bone in her foot for years, despite the fact that she was literally unable to run at all for a long time, she wants to run one more, on her own terms, to cap it all off.
She's taken a fair bit of mockery, for her running style, for her tears, for her sequence of near-misses in major events, for her roadside stop in 2005, of course, but that 2003 performance, that 2hr 15 min 25, that will go down in the history of sport, that puts all the other ups and downs of her career in the shade.
The performance I'm starting with is what is widely considered by statisticians as the greatest single performance in the history of women's track and field, Paula Radcliffe's astonishing world record of 2 hrs 15 minutes 25 seconds at the London Marathon, a mark which, to this day, no one else has got within a couple of minutes of.
I didn't see it. I have watched the London Marathon every other year of my life since 1984 but that one, I didn't see. I was elsewhere. In Barbados, to be precise. So don't feel sorry for me!
I've seen Paula Radcliffe run other marathons, her astonishing debut in 2002, where she first pushed back the boundaries of what it was possible for a woman to achieve at the distance, her doing the same in Chicago later that year, her horror story at the 2004 Athens Olympics, comeback at New York later that year, her poo-gate performance in London in 2005, World Championship win in 2005, I watched every minute of all of them. I love the marathon, it takes you on an almost unrivalled emotional journey with the athletes, the sight of people at the edge of their ability gradually breaking till their is just one left. I've been brought to tears watching a marathon on more than one occasion.
But 2003 I didn't see. Getting decent internet in a hotel in Barbados in 2003 was surprisingly tricky, so I found out about the marathon afterwards by phoning my mother and heard about Paula Radcliffe's astonishing time and could barely believe it. To be honest, it wasn't just for news of Paula that I made that long distance call. That would be a bit weird. My brother was doing the marathon that year too. His news was all the more astonishing.
Now, he'd already done a couple of fast marathons, he wasn't an unknown entity, but still, when my mother said "He came 28th, 2 hours 23 minutes 49 seconds", I almost dropped the phone. 28th ... out of 35,000 ... well, strictly speaking 34th out 35,000, as he was the 28th male. Paula, and a few other female athletes, had beaten him, but to put it in context, he finished two minutes ahead of Derartu Tulu, an Ethiopian considered one of the greatest female distance runners of all time.
So, I remember 2003's marathon as the year of Radcliffe and McGaughey J., even though I didn't actually watch their finest two hours and a bit. I was, not that I want to rub it in, in Barbados. Playing cricket. Playing a bit of cricket in Barbados. You know.
I was on tour with my old school team, Old Paulines, a team my brother James had also played for, so I remember vividly my pride at breakfast on that Sunday morning as I told them James had come 28th in the London Marathon. 28th? 28th in his club? 28th for Londoners? How 28th? Actually 28th, 28th man. The gap between amateurism and elite sport had been closed, just like that. He'd never had any funding, specialist coaching, he hadn't really been a runner when he was younger (I was, far more so). He'd just taken up running, joined a club, and kept going till he was really rather good.
That cricket tour saw the gap between elite sport and amateurism closed in another way too. It was organised by a former Sri Lankan international called Tony, and his main point of contact was Desmond Haynes. Actual Desmond Haynes, one half of perhaps the finest opening pair in the history of cricket. Cricket legend, Barbadian senator, and, when we arrived at the first ground we were playing at, man cheerfully watering the pitch.
And a member of the opposition team in that first game. That first game which was rather a surreal distillation of my sporting life.
I'd suffered an arm injury a couple of years earlier which meant that I would never quite be the same again as a bowler, but I remember, in Barbados, in the nets and on that first match, the ball was coming out great. Whether it was the hot weather, my arm was fine and I was bowling really well.
Well enough for Desmond Haynes, anyway. Their Number 4 bat, the great Desmond Haynes, scorer of 7000 + test runs. Albeit Desmond Haynes aged 47 in a game he could not have given two shits about. But still, I was all over him. Spin, flight, drift, Haynes, let me tell you, was bamboozled.
Twice I deceived him in the flight, twice, I caught his leading edge and he looped relatively simple chances up in the air to cover and mid-off. Twice the chances were put down. Twice, my chance to claim the scalp of one of the finest batsmen of the last 30 years was gone. Still, I thought to myself as I walked to my fielding position at deep midwicket, I'll get him next over. I'm nailing this.
Haynes was batting with a young fellow, name of Barry Marshall (no relation), I think he was only 18, and he was phenomenal. On that day he made 120 off about 70 balls and it was the finest, cleanest hitting I'd ever seen. Chatting to him later he said he wanted to be a professional musician rather than a cricketer, so he's never really given cricket a proper go. He was excited about going over that summer to London as his band had a regular gig in Stratford.
Anyway, Barry was walloping us all over the place, six after six, astonishing. Last ball of the over, he smashes one way up in the air right down the throat of me at deep midwicket. I've never seen a ball so high, but I've no doubt I'm going to catch it. Boundary catches, I've had a mixed relationship with boundary catches. There've beem the miserable spills and ensuing opprobrium but, right then, with the ball in the air, I remember the Ealing Colts Festival 1988, me nine years old, stuck out on the square leg boundary in front of the grand old pavilion.
The Ealing Colts Festival was a yearly event where a man of the club would captain a team made up of boys of all ages, from the Under 11s to the Under 17s. It was a real event, and it would be no exaggeration to say that, as I stood there, 9 years old, in front of the pavilion, several hundred pairs of eyes were at my back.
Suddenly, one of the Under 15s drills a sweep shot in the air down to me on the boundary. I doubt there was a single person on the ground who'd have put money on me. But, somehow or other, it landed in my hands and stuck. I'll never forget the roar from behind me. I felt like a rock star.
Amazingly, a few minutes later, with one of the Under 17s batting, the exact same thing happened. The same place, the same catch, maybe a little bit harder. Again I clung on. The roar was even louder. At the end of the day, at the presentation, I was given a special £10 voucher and Mr Mansell, the old Head of the Colts said it was "very fine, very fine". I also remember my sister explaining on the way home, probably to my other sister, that I'd got the voucher because of the catches but also because my batting was good and my bowling was good. But they hadn't been. They'd been rubbish. And even then, it was important to me to point out that no, it was just because of the catches.
Anyway, enough of the ekphrasis. I genuinely remember thoughts of that day in my head as the ball off Barry Marshall's bat spiralled towards me. Despite the plethora of drops in front of numerous other distant pavilions in the years between, this one was going straight in, no doubt. Here goes. Into position. Hands up....
CRACK ...
Shit, where's the ball? What's the red? Why am I walking funny?
So, I think what happened is, such was the velocity of the ball, it went straight through my hands. Also, because of the sunglasses I was wearing and the bright sun, I just didn't judge the speed of the ball correctly.
CRACK ...
Through the plastic shades (I suppose I had a lucky escape that they didn't shatter into my eye) to just above my eye.
Blood, plenty of blood. I was compos mentis, but there was no question of playing on. I'd thankfully got some insurance before going, so hospital was not too costly. Here I was, then, just after what could have been my finest cricketing hour, being driven to hospital by a kind, though laughing and mocking, Desmond Haynes.
Yeah, all right, Haynes, you wouldn't be so full of yourself if those catches hadn't gone down.
So, anyway, stitched up, massive shiner, I wasn't allowed to go in water for a few days, which is, frankly, a bit of a downer when you're in Barbados.
Somehow the tour wasn't quite the same for me after that. West Indies cricket meant so much to me, and that first glimpse of Desmond Haynes and actually bowling at him felt like a dream coming true. I'm not sure the rest lived up to it. There was another wonderful moment at the end of that game, when the late, great Malcolm Marshall's young son came on to bowl at one of our senior players and got him out LBW and our whole team cheered as if we'd just won the World Cup.
The food was fantastic, the hotel was great, but back then I just wasn't able to enjoy things for what they were, I was constantly seeing the negative. Even though they were beating us, I felt the signs of the decline of the once-great West Indian cricket were everywhere. I didn't bowl so well again. The sun was too bright, I had to stay out of the sea ... moan moan moan, I spent too long in the local sports bar, watching the Premier League, of all the things to do when you're in Barbados. Weak (though I do remember watching a classic 2-2 between Arsenal and Man Utd there, so you know, great sporting moments are everywhere!).
Now, I can just look back on the surreal wonder of it all. Desmond Haynes! Paula Radcliffe! My brother! What a hoot it all was.
Paula Radcliffe and my brother and also, I suppose, my increasing ill fitness and indolence, drove me to attempt the marathon myself a bit later, but it's not for me, not in the same way.
I think I've dealt my legs a few too many blows, I think my blood doesn't run quite right, I think water leaves my body too quickly. Half-marathons? Yes, no problem. The full distance, though I've completed it twice, does not figure in my great sporting moments. On the same Chicago course where Paula Radcliffe had set the world record six years earlier, I found myself running in 25-30 degree heat, getting cramp (which just wouldn't go) after 14 miles and hobbling round the next 12 miles knowing that if I stopped for one second I wouldn't rediscover the will to carry on.
I remember at 12 miles going past the Sears Tower which was an incredible moment, and I was exultant in one way, but I knew I was in trouble. Running at a pace I was used to cruising at for much greater distances, I felt finished, like now was the natural finish time, not the whole thing over again.
So I think J. McGaughey will remain the family record holder for the Marathon. It might be close, though. There's a bit of history, I think. Apparently my Great-Grandad was known as "Pat the Champ" and was Ireland's best miler, and I've also been semi-reliably informed that my 4th or 5th cousin is Sonia O'Sullivan, an old rival of Paula Radcliffe and probably Ireland's greatest ever long-distance runner. Her marathon best is only 2.29.01, though, so, you know, close but no cigar, O'Sullivan.
Who's going to run another marathon? Not my brother, I'm pretty certain. After 2003, he recognised that that was as good as he was going to get, and didn't run again for a few years. He started up again in 2008 as we decided we were both going to run the 2009 Edinburgh Marathon. My broken leg, received shortly after Chicago from some oaf in West London, put paid to that, but James went ahead and still finished under 3 hours. Clearly disappointed, despite the fact that most of us dream of being able to run a marathon that quickly.
Me? I hope so. I just want to run one right, slow myself down and actually enjoy it, rather than endure a nightmare. I want the weather to be cool, to aim for just under four hours and stick to the plan. Part of me still thinks I can be as good as my brother, despite all evidence to the contrary, so if I'm to run another marathon, I need to recognise my limitations.
Will Paula Radcliffe run another marathon? She wants to. Despite all the injuries and traumas she's had, despite the fact it turned out she'd been running with a broken bone in her foot for years, despite the fact that she was literally unable to run at all for a long time, she wants to run one more, on her own terms, to cap it all off.
She's taken a fair bit of mockery, for her running style, for her tears, for her sequence of near-misses in major events, for her roadside stop in 2005, of course, but that 2003 performance, that 2hr 15 min 25, that will go down in the history of sport, that puts all the other ups and downs of her career in the shade.
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