Everything Will Work Out In The Long Run

By Dave Urwin

What does a gang-related murder in the 14th century have to do with a missed job opportunity in the early 80s, or an intense panic attack by the side of the A303 in February 2003, or a spontaneous decision in the midst of a failing relationship? Well these are all occurrences that to some degree led to Dave Urwin li

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Printing UK
• Release date: Mar 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911113393

Book preview

Introduction

Imagine, if you will, these three scenes……

I have just run 26 miles. My quad muscles are on fire and are shooting torrents of pain with every step, and I am feeling nauseous and slightly dizzy. I still have 36 miles to go, and the clock is ticking. I am beginning to think this is going to be a very long day.

I drank an absurd amount of alcohol on a near empty stomach the previous night. I have spent much of the afternoon driving home, feeling more and more unwell the whole journey. Several miles from home I feel myself burning up from the inside, and am becoming short of breath. This is after months, or you could say a few years, of living an extremely unhealthy lifestyle and becoming more and more disillusioned with the way my life is turning out. I pull over and then get out of my car. My head is spinning and pins and needles are shooting down both arms. I am terrified, and am frantically trying to work out whether or not I need to call an ambulance.

I am desperately fighting to maintain a tenuous grip on reality, hiding in a tent that is baking in the midday sun because I can’t face going back outside, where I have spent the past eight or nine hours largely wishing I hadn’t stepped through the doors of perception. At least if I stay in the tent my world is confined into a space that is small enough to be just about manageable, but it is becoming claustrophobic. There has to be more than this. I look into a shaving mirror and see a version of myself I barely recognise, face twisted in terror.

These are three scenarios from my life so far that I believe are interconnected. In the following pages I will fill in the rest of the story. Not the entire story of course. In between the third and the first scenarios there were over 4,380 days, and a fair few more than that beforehand that equally shaped what followed. If I was to describe each of those days in minute detail it would take longer than it took to live them, due to the discrepancy between the time it takes to think and the time it takes to type. It would take nearly as long to read them. Besides, I couldn’t remember it all anyway. It is down to me to pick and choose some of the key points, which if you think about it is what life often is. When you ask someone How are you?, or when they ask you the same, you’re not expecting them to tell a story as long as the one you are about to read. Most of the time it’s not even a genuine question, it’s just a pleasantry.

I could say it was by not asking myself that question enough, and not answering genuinely when I did, that I ended up in the second and third scenarios described. Part of the problem was also that I wouldn’t have known what to do next even if I had answered the question genuinely. Maybe that was the whole problem.

Before we start let me make two things absolutely clear. Firstly, I am not going to tell you what you should do if you are not Ok, I am merely going to tell the story of what I did. Maybe you will find it helpful, maybe you won’t, maybe you are Ok; this is what I hope. Secondly, I am not an elite athlete. I will never claim to be, and am pretty sure I know I never will be, because even if somewhere hidden within me is the talent I simply don’t have the time, or to be honest the inclination, to train as hard as one has to in order to reach the very peak. This is not a book that chronicles any athletic achievements the vast majority of people couldn’t reach if they really wanted to. Maybe you already have achieved similar and more impressive feats. That isn’t what it’s primarily about for me anyway, as you will learn if you choose to continue reading. You’ve bought the book so you may as well, hey?

Born to Run?

I don’t remember the first step I ran, although I do remember one or two things that wouldn’t have happened long after it. I have clear memories of being pushed around the village of Acle in a pushchair by my mum, with my brother Joe walking beside us. There was a dog that would always bark at us and another that would just lie there and let us pat it. We called them ‘Wooey’ and ‘Friendly.’ The day we moved down to Somerset when I was two is also permanently etched on my memory, mostly because the moment we pulled into the driveway of our new home Joe projectile vomited all over me. You’ve been sick on David’s back! said my mum, and I still have a very clear image of it, as well as of our two cats at the time fighting in a travel box in the front of the car. Joe was also responsible for both hospitalisations of mine during the 80s; the first was when he pushed me off the sofa and I landed awkwardly on my oustretched arm, snapping one of the bones. The second was when there was a broom standing up on its end in our living room and he jumped over it, challenging me to do the same. I tried, but instead it stuck into my groin and I required about six stitches. Luckily though, this was the last hospitalisation I suffered at my brother’s hands. We get on great these days.

I do remember showing the capacity to run a smart race at an early age. One lunch time when maybe nine or ten I ran round the school playground 58 times. I was just jogging round slowly, and people kept shouting Come on Dave, faster! but I would reply No, I’m doing a lot of laps. The school playground wasn’t big, and I’m not sure my equivalent pace of then would have enabled me to beat the strict cut-offs of a race like Spartathlon now, but I showed that I at least had the mental discipline to run slower and longer. This carried on into my early teens, when I showed a little bit of talent for the 1,500 metres. Of course if I was to run 1,500 metres now I would run it flat out, it being less than a mile, but when I first ran it 1,500 metres seemed like a seriously long way. Therein lies one of my main points. 1,500 metres is a long way to run if you’ve never run it before. Running 5k is an awesome achievement if you’re running it for the first time, so is 10k, and every distance beyond. Even those who run well over 100 miles round a track within 24 hours started somewhere.

Anyway, the first time I ran 1,500 metres round a track, in a school PE lesson, I saw a couple of lads who could outsprint me on any given day shoot off from the start line and I thought they would keep storming ahead, probably overtaking me again once or twice as they went round. However, by setting off at a pace I felt I could maintain I was soon reeling them in, and I overtook one and then the other within a couple of laps, the brutal pace of their start catching up with them. I couldn’t quite believe it when I kept putting distance on them as we went round, and I seemed to feel better and better as I went on. Running 1,500 metres then seemed to take as long as maybe jogging 10k would feel now; new experiences tend to slow down time. By the time I was near the finish line I had kind of zoned out and almost forgotten that there were even other people running. As I neared the finish my PE teacher Keith Henman, cousin of tennis player Tim, shouted that somebody was sprinting behind me. He’s catching you! yelled Keith. Full speed ahead! shouted my friend Darren, and so I sprinted for the line and crossed it in about 7 minutes and 10 seconds. Nowadays I would consider that a pretty shoddy time for the 1,500 metres, but then I don’t really know what a good time for me would be now because I never run that short a distance on purpose. I don’t really feel like I’ve had a run unless I’ve done at least 10k. If I was to run 1,500 metres flat out I guess I’d feel like I’d had a run, although maybe I’d do a few repeats. The truth is though I don’t particularly enjoy running fast. It hurts, and I’m not much of a masochist. The way I ran round that school playground was much more to my liking, although of course I’d prefer to run in the countryside given the choice.

It turned out I wasn’t quite as good at 1,500 metres in the grand scheme of things as I thought I might be. At sports day that year I ran against some kids who were actually good at running and I finished last. I remember thinking the pace they set off at from the start was insane, and I was never going to keep up with them, so I thought I’d ease off a bit and see what happened. What happened was that they got further and further ahead of me as the race went on, but I kept going and finished anyway, and that actually got me some respect. I suppose in a way it was like hitting a bully back, even if I lost the fight. At least I put up some kind of resistance. Exactly the same thing happened on the next year’s sports day, and then the third year I didn’t finish last, I faded into mid-pack obscurity, and although I finished before some people that time it didn’t feel quite as impressive and no-one really said much afterwards. I guess that’s the way it is; outsiders only really notice those who finish at the top of the field and those who finish last. The elites at the front have mostly sacrificed a lot to train hard enough to be in a position to finish that high up the field, and those at the back of the field are those for whom the assumption might be that they shouldn’t be there, but they don’t care what people think and have as much right to run the race as anyone else. I guess when you’re at the front or at the back everyone’s watching, but if you’re somewhere in between it’s easy to be forgotten, unless you give people a reason to remember you, which is why during my early races I would put on a theatrical performance for the spectators and would wear a colourful scarf over my running kit. I wanted to be noticed, to be appreciated. I wanted some kind of validation, because at that stage my validation never came from within.

After that sports day in the third year of Secondary School I don’t remember doing much in the way of running for quite some time. I guess I figured that I wasn’t going to be great at running and so why bother. I don’t think I especially enjoyed it around that time either. I remember my dad running along on one of our days out and me wanting to stop and walk after a short time. Come on, you should be able to run like this for ages! he said. I don’t think those words planted any kind of seed, but remembering this now I can only think how the tables have turned. I don’t think my dad would mind me saying that I think he’d rather eat celery than run any kind of distance nowadays. He really doesn’t like celery by the way. A few months back he asked what was in a juice I’d just made and as soon as I mentioned the ‘c’ word he wanted me to get it as far away from him as possible. Because I don’t really know how to end this chapter I’ve chosen to share another memory that has just appeared. One day during the 80s when we were all sat down to watch Blind Date on a Saturday evening, as many families did at the time, there was a contestant called Tyrone. I said he was a word that rhymes with cat, not having a clue what it meant, having heard someone say it at school and imagined it was just a variation on the far less derogatory ‘twit.’ I was probably about seven, and I can still see the look on my dad’s face now. By the way Tyrone, if you’re reading this I fully admit that my seven-year-old brain I don’t believe could formulate a considered enough analysis of your character to use such a harsh word to describe you. Maybe you were a twit, but if you were many years have passed now and you may well be a changed man. I just wanted you to know that. No hard feelings?

Perpendicular – I bet you can’t remember that

Ok, so maybe I was a little presumptuous in saying that you’ve bought the book. Perhaps you borrowed it off a friend or relative. Perhaps you may be reading this in a bookshop. Perhaps it was a gift from somebody else. Maybe you even stole it. However you came to be reading this book it’s not for me to judge, so let’s get on with the story shall we?

Expanding on the three scenarios you read about before, I could pick out countless events from my childhood that they may have had their origins in. I liked to spend time on my own as a young boy. Sometimes I would wear a duffle coat in the middle of summer and wander round the school field pondering life while the other children played. It wasn’t that I didn’t like them, or that I didn’t ever want to join in, it’s just that even then I realised that a bit of time to yourself can be restorative. Also, I remember from a very young age I wanted to be nice to people. I didn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t. I would do anything for anyone as long as they let me have a bit of time to myself when I needed it. However, I couldn’t articulate this in a way the other children could understand, and so they thought I was a bit strange. Let’s forget the ‘what is strange’ argument for the purposes of keeping the story flowing. I was a bit strange. However, at first I didn’t see this as a bad thing. It was just who I was. Carl Rogers, the forefather of Person Centred Counselling, would say that this was my organismic self, and the fact that my self-belief was shaken over the years was due to conditions of worth imposed on me by others.

I guess Rogers may have had a point because some time in the late 90s, when I was about fifteen or sixteen, I grew so sick of not being accepted for who I was that I thought maybe I should just try being who I thought people wanted me to be. My teenage years had been characterised by a love of nature and heavy metal music, two things that were considered a little ‘different’ by my peers, and as is often the case my peers responded to something they didn’t understand with hostility. I put up with a lot of hostility but one day I just pretended not to like nature any more, and created a character for myself who was decadent and nihilistic. In order to make him believable I had to live up to his reputation, and so I experimented with various forms of intoxication. I was very thorough with my experiments, and considered all the variables, but what I ultimately learnt was that if you get wasted all the time then more than likely there will come a point where it catches up with you and bad things happen. I could have learnt this in school if I’d listened, but what I actually learnt in school was Perpendicular is another word for vertical; I bet you can’t remember that. Well, I did remember it. In your face, Mr Carney.

Anyway, the third scenario I described in the previous chapter was one of a number of scary moments I experienced through trying to live up to this persona I’d created for myself. I made him so convincing that even I believed I was him for a long time. I’m not going to lie, I did have some fun times as a result of running away from my true self, and I believe it was something I needed to do in order to one day learn that my true self was actually Ok as he was. However, the second scenario I described was what happened after too much decadence, too much denial of my true nature and getting to the point where I’d completely burnt myself out and didn’t even know who I was any more. That was a panic attack I was describing. It was the first of many, and I didn’t know what was happening to me at the time. It’s little wonder the burn out happened really, because I hadn’t been living a healthy life for a long time leading up to that moment. I wasn’t getting my five a day, in fact I’d be lucky if I got five a week, or month even. I wasn’t drinking a litre-and-a-half of water a day; most of my liquid sustenance was alcohol or coca-cola. Eight hours’ sleep a night? Many a night I would stay up until after the break of dawn and then grab a few hours in the morning, and whatever sleep I did get wasn’t particularly refreshing. Perhaps more importantly than any of that though, my life wasn’t about anything. I had no-one to love, nothing I thought it was worth staying sober for and nothing I truly believed in. I didn’t know who I was, what I stood for, what I genuinely enjoyed doing, and I had no space in which to find out because I’d backed myself into a corner putting everything into being someone I wasn’t. What’s more, I couldn’t stand him, and when you have no choice but to spend every day with someone you can’t stand there will come a point where you need a break.

If you need a break from someone you can make excuses. Even if it’s someone you live with you can grab a little respite by saying you need to wash your hair, or pop to the shops for a bit, or you need a lie down because you’re feeling under the weather. However, what do you do if you feel you need a break from yourself? Well, one of the most obvious ways is to drink. When I drank I became someone else for a while, and most dangerously for me I became someone who I found it easier to be than my usual self, and somebody it seemed was more popular. When I drank the past and the future faded into the background and all that mattered was right here, right now. What’s more, my inhibitions sunk down beneath the surface and my life had a focus. Something I could occupy my time with, and something that would stop me from thinking about things I didn’t want to. This was escapism.

Beyond the marathon

Anyone who knew me between the ages of around 16 and 21 especially would almost definitely have not expected me to get into running in any way, shape or form. I do remember during the absolute peak of my adventures into intoxication I wanted to believe I would one day grow tired of it all and get into landscape gardening, so I think it was in the back of my mind even then that I wasn’t living in the way that would make me most happy. My mate Bob commented at the time At the end of the day it’s only an effing garden. I’m sure if I’d said to him back then about one of his favourite albums At the end of the day it’s only effing music he’d have verbally torn me to shreds, but the point he made was one I still hold with me to this day. I’m not sure it’s the way he meant it at the time but his assessment acts as a reminder to remain humble. For instance, I celebrate all of my running achievements, but have always believed that anyone who is physically able to run could match or surpass any of them if they really wanted to and had the time to make it happen. Running ultra distances is as far beyond the comprehension of many as it used to be for me, but literally thousands upon thousands of people have achieved far more impressive things within running than I have. I’m really not that great at it. American ultra runner Karl Meltzer has a saying 100 miles is not that far, and although I would beg to differ as it is a very long way to travel on foot in one go, I agree with the sentiment.

One thing that strikes me as odd is how guys in my running club who can run sub 3 hour marathons call me a nutter for running ultras, and think that they couldn’t do it. Really the only difference is that they don’t want to. Like many I used to believe that if you ran more than 26.2 miles in one go your bones would start to snap, your blood would boil, your intestines would slowly unravel and your brain would disintegrate. What??? Why??!! Why would I think this when I already knew of the existence of Ironman triathlons, during which people run a marathon after swimming a couple of miles and then cycling over 100 miles, barely having paused for breath in between? I guess it’s because the marathon is advertised as the ultimate test of human endurance, and is the furthest distance anyone runs at the Olympics. It’s just not that widely known that anything beyond the marathon exists. I think I may have heard of ultra running once or twice before February 2011 but I guess before then I only thought of it as a theoretical concept rather than a tangible thing. As with many people who have taken to ultra running in recent years, it all began for me when I read a book called ‘Born to Run.’

Saying ‘Born to Run’ is a book about running is like saying life is about eating. Although it may be true it only paints a fraction of the picture. However, if I was to tell you everything it’s about then the title of this book would have to change. ‘Born to Run’ focuses largely on the Tarahumara, a Mexican tribe for whom running is very much a way of life. It’s pretty much the only form of transport they have to get around the dense network of canyons they inhabit. The members of the tribe can cover vast distances on foot regularly, because they have to. The moral of the story is that we could too, the reason we don’t is because we have cars and buses and supermarkets and online shopping. Our modern lifestyle has taken away the necessity for running. Also featured heavily in the book is the late Micah True, aka Caballo Blanco, an American man who went to live with the Tarahumara and learn their ways after pacing one of their best runners during the second half of the Leadville 100 ultramarathon in Colorado. Also some of the most successful American ultra runners of the era the book was written, including Scott Jurek and Ann Trason. It was because of their stories that I really sat up and took notice. I was blown away by the romantic notion of a tribe of super-athletes living in a remote area largely untouched by the encroachment of globalisation, but it was when I found out that regular folk did it too that the story became personal. Therein is illustrated the fact that despite my best efforts I do have prejudices. There is no such thing as regular folk; only in relation to others. If you ask any person in the world the question ‘Are you a foreigner’ then the answer in itself is never ‘yes.’ The concept of being a foreigner only exists due to divisions put in place by mankind. If we are all created equal then why should I only believe that I could run 100 miles when I discover that people with a similar culture to me can?

So many things that seem impossible are only so because we do not believe they can be done. For evidence of this look no further than the four minute mile. Roger Bannister was the first man recorded to have run a mile in under four minutes, in 1954, but once he did it was soon done by a number of others. Therefore, a number of people who were physically capable of running a sub 4 minute mile had not done so seemingly because they didn’t know it was possible. Some kind of mental block stood in their way. This, for me, poses the question of how much potential, in so many ways, is limited