Born 26th November, 1970
Died 25/26th April 2018, age 47
On Sunday 7th of January, Jonny and I went on our last run together. It was a frozen morning, and we met by a slushy puddle on Parkland Walk near Highgate Station, ran up through Highgate Wood, and did a loop of Ally Pally. On our way back towards Highgate Wood, we paused for a moment to take a photo of the London skyline. He stopped for a break. I was getting cold, so we said goodbye, I turned my back, and I trotted off home. This is the photo he took:
In the distance is Canary Wharf, an area which he loved to visit at weekends in the months leading up to his death in April 2018.
That said, running with Jonny wasn't always easy - mainly because I was frequently out of breath from laughing so much at his stupid jokes. Also, Jonny had issues with OCD, which meant he was constantly stopping to look in his bag. "Stop looking in your fucking bag" was a commonly heard phrase; his laughter at my frustration was equally as common.
Topics of conversation while on runs were no different to conversations anywhere else: we talked absolute rubbish. He would compare himself to roadkill, talk about what ridiculous changes he would make to existing laws so that the maximum number of people were inconvenienced, and we would play the "what if" game, where the "what if" scenarios were as ridiculous as the answers that we gave. The only thing guaranteed was a lot of laughs.
Over the years, we trained on roads, parks, trails, tracks, and raced 10ks and ultras together. I even remember a ridiculous phone call during which we were both on the treadmill - at different gyms - straining, unsuccessfully, to hear what the other person was saying. "I'M ONLY DOING TEN KAY" - "YOU'RE DOING WHAT?" - "DOING TEN KAY" - "YES I'M FINE THANKS, HOW ARE YOU?" - "NO - I SAID... I MEAN, YES I'M FINE" - "YOU'RE WHAT??"
Running roots
The beginning of my running hobby was also with Jonny, around the age of 18.
In around 2003, Jonny and I agreed to run a marathon together - before either of us had any idea what that entailed. We had done a few runs at the gym, and decided we should definitely enter The London Marathon (mainly because we had never heard of any other marathon).
To prepare for the race, we started training hard. We didn't have much idea what to do in terms of actual running - we were unaware of the concept of a training plan - and we forgot some of the smaller details involved, such as figuring out how to actually enter the race ballot by post.
Before we even realised we'd left it too late to enter, we were both well and truly injured.
We limped back to the drawing board.
I resumed my own running journey a couple of years later, and trained more sensibly, climbing up through the distances gradually - starting with a 10k, onto the half marathon, then a few years later trying my hand at a 50k.
Jonny's preferred approach was to thrash himself stupid on the treadmill - during every single workout. He did this for around ten years, and went from a 65 minute 10k runner to a 48 minute 10k runner. It was really satisfying to watch.
That said, when we decided to do a 30 mile ultramarathon together in 2013, it was redolent of our promise 10 years prior when we promised, but failed, to train (and enter) the London Marathon.
However, in 2013, we actually entered the race, and didn't even get too injured beforehand.
His unique approach
Jonny had a unique approach to running. He would run wearing clothing that was a) not made for running in, b) extremely old, and c) inappropriate for conditions.
So when we turned up to the Stort30 in October 2013, he showed up wearing worn out road shoes (it's a muddy trail race), tracksuit bottoms (not exactly ideal for wet conditions), a thick cotton hoodie (guaranteeing he'd be carrying a kilo of sweat around with him all day) and a broken string bag - with the cords held together over his chest with a piece of string.
He saw absolutely nothing wrong with this, and for him, it was simply the ideal equipment: it was available, cheap, and was what he was used to running in. I'm sure he must have got some funny looks at the start line, but it didn't bother him.
We ran the first 27 miles together. Jonny LOVED to stop for rests while running - especially when racing. It was the best bit for him. He'd get into the aid station, take off his shoes, get a few handfuls of food, lie down, and slowly eat it. Once he was good and ready, he'd get up again, shoes on, and we'd slowly crack on. We did that at all five aid stations.
With three miles to go, I pulled away and finished before him - while he was reduced to a hobble. After I finished, I hung around waiting for him. Half an hour passed, and he still wasn't appearing. As the minutes passed, I was worried about the rapidly approaching cut-off time of 7 hours. But sure enough, eight full minutes before the cut-off, Jonny limped into view.
He finished in 6 hours 51 minutes and 53 seconds. It was a glorious moment.
I remember running the final 500 metres with him - he was so proud, and when he got his medal from Lindley, he was grinning from ear to ear.
This was quickly followed by lying down on the clubhouse floor for around an hour as I plied him with coca-cola and sugary tea. To this day, I have never seen someone look so ill after a race. We laughed about that for years.
Jonny’s journey
Ever since Jonny took up running in his late 20s, his preferred method of training was the treadmill. That's the way it remained for the next 20 years.
He had two main workouts: "old system" and "new system". Try as he did to explain each one to me, I did not understand what he did in each, let alone the difference. It involved running at 10.1km/h, and then increasing it gradually in some way, and then pausing or reducing the speed... or something. I'm sure Jonny knew there was no training science behind each workout, he just liked to do the same thing each time and feel the metronomic pleasure of doing the same thing that feels good every time.
Jonny had quite the obsession with personal-best (PB) times for short distances. He loved hammering it on the treadmill until he was absolutely spent, and coming away with a new 'record time' for various set distances. He would always attempt PBs at the most unexpected moment, and it would always be on the treadmill. I lost count of the number of times that he left me voice messages saying "It's on!!" in an out-of-breath voice, referring to the fact that a new PB was, apparently, imminent.
He would always attempt PBs unexpectedly, usually after promising himself that he definitely would NOT be attempting a PB due to the fact that he was tired, and it was DEFINITELY only a relaxed, slow run.
His times were actually remarkable. Even as late as one month before he passed, he was still attempting, and achieving, impressive new PB times. His final PBs are as follows:
Jonny had a unique approach to running. He would run wearing clothing that was a) not made for running in, b) extremely old, and c) inappropriate for conditions.
So when we turned up to the Stort30 in October 2013, he showed up wearing worn out road shoes (it's a muddy trail race), tracksuit bottoms (not exactly ideal for wet conditions), a thick cotton hoodie (guaranteeing he'd be carrying a kilo of sweat around with him all day) and a broken string bag - with the cords held together over his chest with a piece of string.
 |
| Jonny's shoes - the right one was held together with an old sock. Seriously. |
He saw absolutely nothing wrong with this, and for him, it was simply the ideal equipment: it was available, cheap, and was what he was used to running in. I'm sure he must have got some funny looks at the start line, but it didn't bother him.
We ran the first 27 miles together. Jonny LOVED to stop for rests while running - especially when racing. It was the best bit for him. He'd get into the aid station, take off his shoes, get a few handfuls of food, lie down, and slowly eat it. Once he was good and ready, he'd get up again, shoes on, and we'd slowly crack on. We did that at all five aid stations.
With three miles to go, I pulled away and finished before him - while he was reduced to a hobble. After I finished, I hung around waiting for him. Half an hour passed, and he still wasn't appearing. As the minutes passed, I was worried about the rapidly approaching cut-off time of 7 hours. But sure enough, eight full minutes before the cut-off, Jonny limped into view.
He finished in 6 hours 51 minutes and 53 seconds. It was a glorious moment.
I remember running the final 500 metres with him - he was so proud, and when he got his medal from Lindley, he was grinning from ear to ear.
This was quickly followed by lying down on the clubhouse floor for around an hour as I plied him with coca-cola and sugary tea. To this day, I have never seen someone look so ill after a race. We laughed about that for years.
 |
| Jonny in his chosen running gear at Stort30 |
Jonny’s journey
Ever since Jonny took up running in his late 20s, his preferred method of training was the treadmill. That's the way it remained for the next 20 years.
He had two main workouts: "old system" and "new system". Try as he did to explain each one to me, I did not understand what he did in each, let alone the difference. It involved running at 10.1km/h, and then increasing it gradually in some way, and then pausing or reducing the speed... or something. I'm sure Jonny knew there was no training science behind each workout, he just liked to do the same thing each time and feel the metronomic pleasure of doing the same thing that feels good every time.
Jonny had quite the obsession with personal-best (PB) times for short distances. He loved hammering it on the treadmill until he was absolutely spent, and coming away with a new 'record time' for various set distances. He would always attempt PBs at the most unexpected moment, and it would always be on the treadmill. I lost count of the number of times that he left me voice messages saying "It's on!!" in an out-of-breath voice, referring to the fact that a new PB was, apparently, imminent.
He would always attempt PBs unexpectedly, usually after promising himself that he definitely would NOT be attempting a PB due to the fact that he was tired, and it was DEFINITELY only a relaxed, slow run.
His times were actually remarkable. Even as late as one month before he passed, he was still attempting, and achieving, impressive new PB times. His final PBs are as follows:
- 1 km: 3:42 (24 March 2018)
- 5 km: 22:09 (12 January 2018)
- 10 km: 47:27 (24 January 2018)
- 30 miles: 06:51:53 (27 October 2013)
The darker times
Jonny suffered on and off from depression and addiction for many years. Even when he was going through a tough time, he would always ask how my training was going and want to know about plans and my strategies, in detail, for upcoming races.
The last race I ran when Jonny was alive was the North Downs Way 100, my first successful 100-mile race. He made me feel like a superhero when he talked about my achievement. He asked endless questions about the strategy, the mindset, and why I chose to run the 100-mile distance.
In one of our final phone conversations, I compared my desire to run 100-mile races to his desire to get hit in the face (he was a former amateur boxer), which he finally understood. The strength it takes to run 100 miles is nothing compared to his ability to have faced his depression for so many years.
It was this that I had in mind when I ran the North Downs Way 50 in May of 2018. Things got unexpectedly tough at kilometre 30 of 80. I started to think to myself, "Oh, it wouldn't be that bad if I dropped out just this once..."
But then the thought of what Jonny went through for so many years, and the way he always got through it, instantly inspired me to carry on. My discomfort seemed to evaporate each time I compared it to the things that he endured.
What is left?
I still have several wonderful running friends: my brother Marc, Jonny T (different Jonny), and Ben. Plus former running buddies Tony and Adam.
Marc and Jonny T will both help pace me at South Downs Way 100 this week.
Jonny had been asking me a lot of questions before he died about my upcoming races - the next big one was the South Downs. Predicting the outcome, I impersonated a politician by telling him, "I think I'll probably finish it. Maybe."
I never promised Jonny I’d finish this race. I won't aim to finish it "for" him. I may not even finish at all. But Jonny showed me that running 100 miles is nothing compared to addiction and depression. So when the times get tough on the South Downs, I’ll draw what I can from his memory, and run a few miles with him.
It's hard trying to find meaning in death. In the end, his death was merely a tragic accident. It was only his life that gave meaning.
I still don't understand what it means now that Jonny is no longer around; but I think that running might help me to figure it out.
Thanks for the great runs, Jonny. As always, I'll let you know how I get on.
Many times I’ve walked alone here,
Carried with the breeze.
And many more have walked beside me;
Carried with the breeze
- Upton Heath, Big Big Train
 |
| Us, 2010 |
No comments:
Post a Comment