Abersoch 10k

Way way back when I was a budding young 800m runner (almost 20 years ago), I was at a track meet hosted by the British Milers Club. My coach, Frank Horwill, was the founder, and president, of the BMC, so he squeezed me into a fast heat. I ran terribly, falling out the back door, coming last. To make matters worse, the taxi firm that dropped me at the stadium, refused to pick me up. I was in the middle of nowhere, otherwise known as Wythenshaw, and couldn’t find a taxi that would take me back to Manchester. This was long before the days of smartphones and Uber. All my friends had already left (I was that slow). 

I went, hopelessly, to the guys at the desk, who were clearing up safety pins and forms. After a while, they found someone who was driving back to Manchester and agreed to give me a lift. 

I was sitting in the passenger seat, feeling very sorry for myself. I had just run awful, letting myself down, and now had a long journey back down south. Having already missed my train, I wasn’t sure if I could get home to London. The driver was an athlete. He drove too carefully, it was annoying. He insisted on talking. I remember him asking me lots of questions. I gave one word answers. I was 20yrs old, I was a dickhead. 

Out of some vague sense of politeness, I asked him if he was any good at running. He told me his time for 3000m was 8.33. Pah! I thought to myself, I could run that, if I did a bit of training. Seeing as this guy wasn’t even that good, I became more monosyllabic. Still, he insisted on dropping me right to the front of Manchester Piccadilly station.

I can’t remember exactly how this next bit went, but I uttered something grateful as I was closing the car door, and might have asked him when his next race was. He said something like, the next steeplechase was the GB Championships. He waved pleasantly and drove off. I was standing there thinking; hang on, what does he mean steeplechase? I had to wait a week till the results were published in Athletics Weekly, to find out that he was Stuart Stokes, and he ran 3000m STEEPLECHASE. 8.33 for steeplechase was a phenomenal time. The following year he would be GB Champion and come 4th in the Commonwealth Games. He went on to run in the London 2012 Olympics, while I was watching from the stands. 

I see Stuart again in 2013, back in Manchester. This time we are in a hotel lobby. He is the chaperone for the elite athletes, and although I am surrounded by world WORLD class athletes, like Haile Gebresalassie and Allyson Felix, Stuart still shows me the same kindness, patience and attention. I ask him if I can have a Powerade from the fridge. He gives me a crate load. In an ironic twist of fate, I do run 8.33 for 3000m that day, but unfortunately I am in a 10,000m race. This race is on the telly and I want to keep up with Gebre for as long as possible. I am still a dickhead.

Fast forward 6 years. I am in Abersoch for the 10k. I have won the race twice before, scanning through the startlist, it seems I am in line to win again. During my warmup, I see Stuart Stokes out the corner of my eye. He sticks out like a sore thumb. I keep on running. Was that him? What’s he doing here? He doesn’t look a day older. Gosh he’s good looking. Oh man, have I got a race on my hands now.

I get to the start line and shake a few hands. I don’t see him, but I don’t dare look around for him either. We get underway and I bolt off like a scared rabbit, I nearly overtake the lead car. I’m expecting him to come onto my shoulder any minute. Where is he? About 1km into the race, I’m still waiting for him to catch me, when I hear him cheering me from the side of the road, “Come on Buddy! Looking good!”

Phew. 

Now I know I am truly on my own, the race really begins. I forget every year how hard Abersoch 10k is. Relentlessly up and down hills. A stretch of trail, and a brutal uphill at the halfway point, then finishing with 1km along soft sand. After the poor showing at London Marathon, this is the first benchmark test. I have to be faster than last year. But chasing your own shadow is so hard, you are always breathing down your own neck. With 1km to go I am on track to break 33 minutes, which is my A goal. I can see the finish line, I just cannot get there. With my super long range eye sight, I know, if I look up, I will be able to read the finishing clock. I keep my head down. There’s nothing more I can do. I am already flat out. My family jump out 20m from the finish all trying to give me a high 5. I connect with Jim, but miss Nina and El. Cross the line in 33.06. Jim and El cross next, to complete the podium, and take my medal off me. 

Another impeccably well organised race by the guys at Abersoch Triple Crown. Buzzing atmosphere on the beach. At first I am disappointed with my result. But it’s still 22 seconds faster than last year. And I was in pretty good shape for this last year. We go into town to get the kids icecream and lunch, in that order. I am pretty tired, but it’s a lovely day. All the cafes and pubs are full of runners and supporters. Lot’s of people come up to say hi, it feels really nice. 

When I go back to the beach for the prize giving. Stuart is there with some friends and family, on holiday. I walk up to him, without having thought anything through. How do I tell this guy, how much it means to me that he is here? How do I explain how his kindness managed to shine through my thick, arrogant skull? How he showed me what real character is. 

I am still a bit frazzled, and I say something like;

“Aren’t you that super amazing athlete?”

Everyone around me laughs, and they tell me not to make his head any bigger. But his head is not big. He is the same guy. Humble, and modest, asking me questions about me, all the while looking every inch the Olympic athlete.

I like to think I am slightly less of a dickhead now, and have learnt a little in the 20 years since we first met. I keep it brief, I tell him he definitely doesn’t remember me, but I remember him, and it is an honour to shake his hand.  

I go lie down on my wife’s lap and, while the kids are making sand castles, and the live music drifts across the cloudy beach, I tell her the story of Stuart Stokes.

I honestly don’t think I hero worship much. But you meet a guy like that. I can’t think of another word. 

Non-Running Highlight Of The Week:

Go for Pizza Monday night with my sister Mags. 

Best Thing On The Internet This Week:

Bastille – Joy

Thing I’m Digging This Week:

Stuart Stokes briefly quit athletics in 2008, after he had achieved the qualifying time for the Beijing Olympics, but was not selected. By 2012, he was back making another campaign. This time, at 35 years old, with a family and full-time job, the odds are stacked against him. Waking up to train at 4.30am, he makes one final push, the last of his career, and makes it  to the London Olympics. 

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