Modern Athlete Magazine Issue 119, June 2019 | Page 21

ROAD RUNNING
MY
STORY
Questions, questions, questions... but all I had, and
have still, is the complete impossibility of answers,
especially not to the big ones: What would have
happened if pizza driver Steven had simply driven on
by? Do I owe my life to fluke or masterplan? I haven’t
got a clue.
Long-term Effects
Within a couple of weeks, out and about for the first
time, I had a horrid panic attack in a busy shopping
precinct. I don’t think anyone noticed, but for five
minutes, if anyone had touched me, spoken to me,
even come near me, I would have dissolved into tears.
I just wanted the ground to open up beneath me.
So what did I do? The next day I did what I have
always done. I ran. And it hurt like hell. Broken ribs.
Flesh barely healed. But something lifted. I have still
got PTSD, and frankly can’t see it shifting any time
soon, but running gave me strength. It makes me me
again, and it was running that started to put me back
together again. That is why I wanted to tell this story.
was really at Newlands. He looked at me as if I was
slightly bonkers. And then the cricket began, and the
atmosphere was electric. A big South African family
behind me thought it was hilarious when Root was out
for just a few, Morgan for even fewer and Buttler first
ball. England lost. But so what. I was there, and it was
fabulous.
But sadly, I left my brains in the ground when I walked
out the exit. I couldn’t see any taxis or buses back
into central Cape Town, so I thought I would prolong
the pleasure of the day by walking. You will all know,
I am sure, just what a dim decision that was. I was
stupid. I made bad decision after bad decision. I
carried on walking when I should have walked back,
and I walked straight into danger.
Nightmare Scenario
In a ghastly, grim, crime-ridden suburb, I was stabbed
twice in the leg by a mugger demanding my camera.
The weird thing is that the stabs felt like punches,
which is probably why I fought back. I pulled him to
the ground, where he started kicking me in the back,
which was the moment I looked down to see my
leg was awash with blood. No, those punches most
definitely weren’t punches. I let go of my camera, and
my attacker got to his feet and loomed over me. I
wasn’t getting up. To make doubly sure, he unleashed
a volley of kicks to my chest and stomach before
legging it through the rubble and undergrowth.
I approached publishers Bloomsbury in London. They
asked me to broaden the story, to interview runners
around the world who have shared experiences similar
to mine, and in that moment, Outrunning The Demons
was born. The book starts with my first marathon after
the stabbing, my 31 st marathon in all. It finishes with
that marathon’s finishing line, a moment when the
emotion was simply overwhelming. In between are
34 interviews with people from the UK, the US and
Australia who have also known extremis, and have
also discovered the comfort and strength that running
can bring.
Among these stories are:
• The New York firefighter’s widow who ran the
New York City Marathon in his memory after he
perished amid the horrors of 9/11.
• The dad who tried to drown himself in a moment
of despair and has since found purpose,
strength and happiness through running.
• The prison officer who connected with his
murdered daughter amid the ice floes of the
North Pole Marathon.
•
•
•
•
•
The US army captain’s widow who found an
outlet for her grief through running – and went
on to unite a nation in commemoration of the
fallen.
A New York mum to two severely autistic boys,
who knows that running has saved her family.
A naval officer who found himself in a plunging,
nose-diving jet, only to emerge with PTSD and a
horror of all forms of transport. Running was the
means by which he reclaimed his life.
An Australian PE teacher who was brutally
sexually assaulted on an early-morning run –
and found that running was the best way to
combat the horrors the attack left her with.
A British firefighter who found that running
helped him face the trauma of pulling the bodies
of friends and colleagues from a fatal fire.
Put them all together, and these are people I have
felt immensely privileged to speak to. The thing that
links them all (apart from speaking to me) is that they
have found space and time and connection through
Thank goodness, a passing pizza delivery driver
stopped within a couple of minutes. There was an
awful lot of blood. He bundled me into his car just as
I was thinking that my number was probably up. And
he whisked me to hospital. 15 stitches. Three broken
ribs. A bruised liver. And one very, very messed-up
head. And that was the problem.
I like to know things. That’s my nature. But suddenly
I was in a world where I knew nothing at all. What
did the knife look like? I hadn’t seen it. Where had
my attacker been all day? What did he get for my
camera? Did he stab anyone else that day? How
grubby was the knife? How many people did he stab
that day? How many people has he stabbed since?
Does he remember me? Is he even alive? Surely, you
can’t carry on doing what he was doing with impunity.
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