Category: Sport

A former Royal Marine shows how to make it through an obstacle course

I’m waist-deep in thick, malodorous sludge. But right now the pong is the very least of my worries: a 6ft 4in former Royal Marine is bellowing at me from the riverbank.

“Spread out your body so there’s more surface area,” Brian Adcock orders, “then I can haul you in when you’re within range.” This sluggish, squelchy wading towards safety is the result of a failed, and deeply inelegant, attempt at a suspended commando crawl on an obstacle rather menacingly named The Chasm.

After losing balance, I had flipped off a horizontal rope two metres above the swamp-like waters. Following what seems an age, I manage to heave my body — heavier due to the now-sodden combat uniform I’ve been issued with — back on terra firma.

“Well done, good effort,” says Adcock, clapping my back with his spade-like hand. “You can take a chuck up for that.” Seeing my confused expression — even between the streaks of camouflage paint daubed on my face — the 45-year-old explains: “In Royal Marine parlance, that means give yourself a round of applause.”

Even though I am soaked through and stinky, the 6km obstacle course, studded with 15 challenges, is proving fun. Adcock explains that to master the commando crawl, my vertically pointed left leg should be more relaxed, “acting as a keel” while I shuffle along the rope with my hooked right leg pumping, piston-like, in unison with my arms.

Our lesson is taking place in the grounds of Hever Castle in Kent, where Adcock is holding an obstacle course event called Commando Series. It is a picturesque setting — the estate was the childhood home of Anne Boleyn — but with the dreaded Sheep Dip and a 12ft wall still to overcome, this is no time to lose my head.

Obstacle course racing (OCR) is a fast-growing sport. While there are no official figures for the UK, there were 1,370 events in the US last year, with about five million participants — up from 354 events in 2012. The second annual world championships took place in Ohio last month, encompassing eight miles of hellish competition for the most hardy.

Adcock, who is used to organising mass participation events after being event director for the Millennium Youth Games and establishing the popular Castle Triathlon Series in 2009, says the UK can add something unique to the sport. “It may sound a bit arrogant but Royal Marines generally do it better than most. After all, assault courses were — and still are — used to prepare elite soldiers for battle.”

The obstacles are based on those that the original British commandos used at Spean Bridge, a godforsaken place in the Highlands near Fort William, during the second world war. Winston Churchill had seen Boer commandos using guerrilla warfare against British troops when he was a young war correspondent. After Dunkirk, he copied those tactics and mobilised an elite group of soldiers to boost morale by creating little pockets of chaos in occupied Europe.

“Ultimately, from a commando perspective, obstacle courses make sure that your bloke is in good shape when it comes to pulling the trigger, so he can best take aim and kill somebody,” explains Adcock. “That’s the root of OCR. Of course, we are not going around with a weapon and a 30kg pack on our backs but it’s fun and brings out the kid in a lot of people.”

Adcock himself endured 14 months of gruelling training at the Royal Marines’ commando training centre in Lympstone, Devon, in what he calls a “seminal” period of his life. He then served in the marines for seven years, latterly as a helicopter pilot, though he isn’t allowed to divulge any details. For two years he held the record for the notorious Tarzan assault course at Lympstone. (It starts with a death slide, concludes with a rope climb up a 30ft near-vertical wall, and should be completed in “full fighting order” — ie, all the kit.)

As we approach the monkey bars, I eye the horizontal ladder above our heads with trepidation. Adcock barks instructions as I clumsily swing across the bars with more sludge below. “Keep your lower body as still as possible,” he suggests. I obey, and find it quicker to power from pole to pole.

I’m relieved at getting this far, having prevailed over another commando favourite, the Smarty Tubes, by pulling myself along with my thrusting elbows. I’ve survived the Catacombs of Doom, and conquered Peter’s Pool — a 30m-wide clay pit — neck deep in chilly, murky water.

I have slid, slipped and sloshed my way round the course. Occasionally we have come “under fire”, with smoke bombs, explosions and replica gun shots. Ultimately, obstacle courses make sure your bloke is in good shape when it comes to pulling the trigger Nonetheless, I still feel daunted as I face the last two obstacles.

The Sheep Dip is a liquid filled, trough-like structure similar to the ones used to remove sheep’s parasites and contains a two-metre long, submerged drainage pipe. As I tentatively enter the water, Adcock tells me to put my hands, thumbs up, at the top of tunnel I’m about to dive through. That, and not to kick when horizontal in the water so that the commando to my rear can shove me to the other side. I dive on the count of three, whizzing along the narrow pipe. At the other end an instructor yanks me to the surface and orientates me.

The final obstacle is a 12ft wall. “It’s actually 13½ft,” says Adcock looking ahead. “Use the vertical rope, and the netting, leaning your body close to the face.” A 20-second, temple‑bulging clamber later, I’m on top of the wall, and feeling on top of the world. Gleeful yet weary, I can’t help but exhale a loud cheer.

As a reward for completing the route, Adcock hands me a cap comforter, an item worn by those second world war commandos. Not quite a green beret, but still symbolic of my achievement. Grinning, he adds: “You can take a chuck up.”

This article was first published in the Financial Times Weekend in November 2015

NB This article was originally published in The Sabotage Times in September 2013

In mid-September Tahiti will host the Beach Soccer World Cup and, as one might expect, Brazil are the hot favourites. At the last count in 2007, the South American country had 2,097 beaches – easily more than any other nation – and it’s little surprise, then, that they have been crowned the best on the globe a staggering 13 times since they hosted the inaugural tournament in 1995.

Indeed, the first World Cup to be hosted outside Brazil – and away from its birthplace, Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janeiro – was in 2008 when the French hotspot for the sport Marseille enjoyed the responsibility; that was in part down to the charisma of Eric Cantona, in charge of Les Bleus then.

However, the defending champions for this edition in Tahiti – the economic, cultural and political centre of French Polynesia, famed for its black sand beaches – are not the boys in yellow and green, but Russia.

To the uninitiated, that the Eastern European powerhouse are champions of the five-a-side, 36-minute beach format, may be a shock. If you dig a little deeper in the sand, though, you’ll learn of the money the Russians have thrown at developing the sport. There are dozens of indoor beaches, their professional national league is in rude health, the Rubles on offer are astronomical, and that’s down to the status the sport is starting to command.

It’s the second-most popular form of football – behind the 11-a-side grass version, of course – and big business. The stats at the last World Cup, held at the marina in Ravenna, Italy, illustrate its attraction. In the 31 games played 269 goals (most of them outrageous flicks and bicycle kicks) were scored at an average of 8.41 per 36-minute match, and the average crowd was 3,730; for Russia’s 12-8 victory over Brazil there were 5,500 in attendance. With the game on the rise it’s easy to understand how the world’s best players can earn upwards of £200,000 a season.

Brazilian André, who netted Six goals in the final in Italy and won the golden boot with 14, is one of the most highly rated stars at the moment, and countryman Venícius Ribeiro Mariane Fambre, a defender better known as Buru, is another star.

The game’s fading genius is João Victor Saraiva, aka Madjer. The Angola-born Portuguese turned 36 in January, won the golden boot at the 2005, 2006 and 2008 World Cups and can name his price to take to the sand. He has almost the perfect physique for a beach soccer star – balletic, tall and streamlined with strong legs and feet that can run and turn in the sand with ease. (Wayne Rooney, I’m informed, would not make a good player on the beach.)

Then there’s Ramiro Figueiras Amarelle, a Spanish forward who plays for FC Barcelona – yes, Lionel Messi and friends have an affiliated beach soccer side – who regularly wins the most-valuable player gongs, while 23-year-old El Salvador attacker Frank Velasquez is the coming man.

“Those guys are like sand aliens,” says John Hawkins, who almost single-handedly established the England beach soccer side a dozen years ago. “They float across the beach. They don’t stop running for 36 minutes, they are so acrobatic and they can use both feet. You just look at them and it’s a goal. They have training camps, play all the year round across the globe, getting better and better … and we have postmen, painters and Black Cab drivers.”

Earlier this year, with the Tahiti World Cup approaching, I was keen to find out whether the English had a chance of qualifying – I was rather taken by the idea of covering the Three Lions on an exotic, volcanic island with a population of less than 200,000. And if Russia could win the sport’s greatest prize England had every chance, right?

The initial signs were not good. The national team’s website was very basic, and it took some scratching around to track down Hawkins, who was in charge from the early noughties and stepped away in December, after 12 years of dedicated service.

It quickly became apparent that England had no chance of advancing to the finals. As it transpired they were trounced at a qualifying tournament in Moscow in July last year and only four teams, the semi-finalists – Spain, Russia, Ukraine and the Netherlands – moved on. Disappointment that the Three Lions are currently way behind a raft of other nations in Europe, never mind on the global stage, quickly transformed to an odd pride, however, as I unearthed a much more heart-warming story; a Don Quixote of modern times, if you will.

Hawkins, now 42, returned to his beloved Isle of Wight in 2000 after he had endured a spell in London, and bought Small Hope Beach in Shanklin. The young entrepreneur, a keen footballer and decent cricketer in his youthful pomp, had a background in events and marketing and set about promoting his new acquisition. He soon organised a beach soccer tournament “as a bit of fun and a way of launching the beach”. It was an instant hit. That small-time competition kick-started the English beach soccer revolution.

“The uptake was incredible, it was really quite shocking,” remembers Hawkins. Sports marketing company Octagon, who at that time had the rights to the sport in England, soon approached him in the hope he would do the leg work for them. He agreed and soon took over all of the responsibility.

“It just steam rolled,” he smiles. “It went from me and a friend, Joe Redstone, building a set of wooden goals out of timber, painting them yellow – to make them look professional – and Superglueing them together, to being asked by Octagon, less than a year later, whether I wanted to take over the England team.”

His ebullient personality propelled the interest in beach soccer but, after taking charge and then becoming manager in 2005, he found it an increasingly pricey hobby. “For about four or five years we were the only people actively promoting beach soccer in England and we approached the Football Association and tried to make the sport credible,” he says. “They took a while to agree to us wearing the Three Lions badge and the FA logo but wouldn’t back us financially. It was a lot of fun, but it was becoming very expensive.”

The lack of funding was in part down to the FA’s promotion of Futsal, a technical, indoor five-a-side game which uses a smaller football and, most importantly perhaps, unaffected by inclement conditions. Reading between the lines there was also reluctance because the powers that be deemed beach soccer as FIFA’s play thing, and with relations icy at best with the game’s leading authority, the FA were always cool on the idea.

That the FA’s purse strings were drawn taut did not curb Hawkins’ enthusiasm initially, although last summer’s qualifying proved a fatal disappointment. In the first qualifying game England were narrowly defeated by Azerbaijan – and that contest served to highlight the main issues facing the England side.

“You tell people walking along the street that England were knocked out by Azerbaijan and they just mock you,” continues Hawkins. “What they don’t understand is that the Azerbaijan beach soccer team is basically the national football team. They are all fully professional players, and all they do is play beach soccer, they have everything funded. They were on a £10,000 win bonus each to beat us – that was more money than we had generated that year to fund our season – and we lost 4-3.

“Our players then were juggling playing beach football around their jobs and families and with next to no money. We would have to put together £8,000 or so to fly the team off to an event, and it has been really, really tough. We usually punch well above our weight, but as we normally don’t win then it’s not newsworthy, and it does not resonate.”

In spite of that England have produced a number of decent players in the last decade, including current manager Terry Bowes. Until his early 20s he was mates with Ashley Cole and a promising left-midfielder on Arsenal’s books. Now, aside from managing the national team, he is a London Black Cab driver.

Then there is GC Giancovich, a former spear fisherman and a chef, who became England’s first-ever professional player in 2008 when he signed for Serie A side Cervia. And Mitch Day, who plies his trade in the tough Swiss league for Grasshopper Club Zurich, is another star performer, while postman Jamie O’Rourke has to ask Royal Mail for special permission to play for England and Isle of Wight painter Matt Evans is the new great hope.

There are signs of improvement in the infrastructure, too. Regions have now been chalked up and footballers across the land have access to beach soccer, at least in theory. Hawkins has moved on, but did so with a final, selfless flourish: he won the right to design and build five of the six Olympic legacy beaches for London 2012, and had the sport he has devoted so much time, effort and money to in mind, naturally.

His successor, David Jones, has been involved in the England set up since 2007 and he is determined to develop the game. “It’s a great small-sided version of football that should be being played by far more people in England,” he says. “I want to help to change that.

“John had a massive hill to climb when he first took over. He’s achieved an awful lot in his time and most people won’t appreciate just how difficult it has been. I plan to move the sport forward, especially into urban areas. We need more players, more teams and move activated regions.”

Another goal for Jones is promotion to Europe’s Group A, which comprises of the top eight nations. England, currently one rung below, will host an annual National Championship event, says Jones, in the hope of increasing the talent pool.

He even believes that the FA can be won round, and their cheque books opened – “I’m sure their interest in the sport will increase once more people are playing the game” – and has targeted a second World Cup final appearance (after the third-placed finish in the eight-nation inaugural tournament, before the professional era).

“It is much harder for a European nation to qualify as we only have four places and Russia, Portugal, Spain, Italy and Switzerland will always be strong contenders,” Jones adds. “Ukraine and Belarus are emerging fast and then you have Poland and Romania. However, if Holland can qualify, as they have done for Tahiti, then with some improvement there is no reason why England can’t.”

While I’ll not be in Tahiti when the World Cup kicks off in September, to watch Russia defend their World Cup or the Brazilian sand aliens, with a favourable wind England, with a bit of luck and a lot of investment, may soon be at beach soccer’s top table once more.

This article was originally published in The Sabotage Times in September 2013

After a brief lesson in how to unfold a Brompton bicycle, Oliver Pickup negotiates the crashes and carnage of the 2015 Brompton World Championships alongside pro racers such as David Millar

Wearing a tartan bow tie, a ruffled tuxedo shirt, a charcoal suit jacket, Superman socks and knee-length rusty shorts, I’m poised for action on The Mall with a clear road to Buckingham Palace.

My competition stands alongside me in similarly natty attire. There is a ninja, Napoleon, a wig-wearing high-court judge, and hundreds of other folk in mirth-inducing costumes, including a couple of brides (one female, the other a rather alarmingly craggy-faced, hairy-legged male). Harris Tweed is everywhere – which is not ideal, considering the fire-up-the-barbecue conditions.I see a rider hit the road with a thump, remaining motionless as others take emergency evasive action.Oliver Pickup

Oh, and in addition, way ahead of me in ‘Wave A’ (I’m in ‘D’), there is a raft of athletes with serious peddle power, such as Tour de France stalwart David Millar, who only retired last year. They are also bedecked, cap-à-pie, in fancy dress (after all, there is a no-Lycra rule and celebrity stylist William Gilchrist has been asked to select and reward the most sartorially impressive).

We 500 or so, pricked with nervous tension, are ready to take part in the Brompton World Championship. It’s a big one: the tenth, fittingly held in the 40th year since Andrew Ritchie, a Cambridge University-educated engineer, invented the prototype of the iconic folding bicycle.

And in this edition, for the first time, the wacky race makes up part of Prudential RideLondon, with elite women riders charging along the same route, a 2.15km circuit which loops around St James’s Park, shortly after the conclusion of our event.

Indeed, this is the quintessence of Britain at its incongruous, batty and bonkers best. That fact, in turn, seems to attract others; I spoke with Germans, Australians, Spaniards and Japanese who had come over in hordes especially to indulge in this Brompton bizarreness – and that was only within my helmet-swinging distance.

The start of the 17.2km race is marked by the dropped Union flag. We dash, elbows out, to our folded bikes; a start-line scene reminiscent of historic Le Mans races. After scuttling across to our vehicles, we have to unfold the contraptions, which is not easy, especially if you have not afforded yourself much time to practice. Ahem.

My pre-race practice had not gone to schedule. After jumping at the opportunity to participate in my first (and possibly last) world championship of any kind, courtesy of RideLondon sponsors Prudential, I’d been furnished with kit by Brompton, Le Col and Hoy Vulpine. Feeling content with my ‘progress’, I’d then done almost precisely zero physical preparation, instead relying on the briefest of morning practices with my bike to see me through (I got my ‘unfold time’ down from 30 seconds to 15 – still some way off the unofficial world record of 5.2 secs).

So, before heading out on to the track, I decide to seek guidance and tips from veterans.

Michael Hutchinson, winner of the World Championship in 2011, 2012 and 2013 tells me his average time to unfold the bike is “seven or eight seconds” and acknowledges that in a race which only lasts around 25 minutes, those marginal gains are even more important.

He should know, having come second to three-time Vuelta a España winner Roberto Heras when he first attempted the race, back in 2010. On that occasion, despite going “50mph on a downhill bit – pretty interesting on a Brompton”, he missed out by half a second. Afterwards, he even took out the lining in his green jacket, which he has worn for every one of these races, so as to become quicker (and less sweaty).

Last year, Belfast-born Hutchinson missed the Brompton World Championship because he was competing in the Commonwealth Games – he finished 12th in the individual time trial in Glasgow; not bad for a 40-year-old.

I ask what attracted him to the Brompton World Championship in the first place. “It’s hilarious,” he grins. “Have you seen it? I don’t even approach it as a serious bike race. I’m lucky enough to be a decent rider so I can get towards the sharp end. But it is really just a laugh. They are great wee bikes and it is great fun to get out and race them. It’s really just for the hell of it.”

And tips? “They are pretty simple to ride, the Bromptons. You can get fairly low, and aerodynamic on them. Today it will be staying out of trouble because there will be a lot of people on the circuit. Keeping your wits about you, not crashing in to anyone else and trying to avoid anyone coming in to you will be quite a lot of the mission.”

How apposite Hutchinson’s words of warning prove to be.

Having clicked and screwed my bike in place and wheeled away along the straight towards Her Majesty’s palace, I weave through the packed field, taking a left down Spur Road before a second straight, Birdcage Walk. Another left takes me around Horse Guards Road and one more brings the finish line back on The Mall – where the cheering crowds are five-rows deep – in view.

One lap down, seven more to go – although that’s not quite correct, as it’s a criterium event which means when the winner wins the race is over for everyone else, after their lap, thankfully.

The second time I swing on to Birdcage Walk I hear a shout from behind, something about the leaders. And sure enough a swarm – a topical word, but appropriate in this sense, given the menacing whirr of peddles – of riders, with noses to their handlebars and bums above their shoulders (I realise at this point my seat is far too low, but don’t want to stop to alter it lest I add vital seconds to my time) boom past, like a thunder clap, with Hutchinson’s green jacket flashing by.

It’s awesome, and frightening, and belittling. And it spooks an Italian rider 100 metres in front of me. I see her look behind her right shoulder at the advancing group, and lose control of her bike. It jackknives and she hits the road with a thump, remaining motionless as the riders take emergency evasive action. Not all come through unscathed.

Fun it may be, but at Hutchinson’s “sharp end” it is certainly competitive. I watch the peloton fly away – they lap me once more, on my fourth time around – and marvel at their efforts, as I pick off more modest targets.

^{Photo:Prudential / Jonathan Ord}

After 30 minutes and 14 seconds, and six laps – two behind the winners – the chequered flag is waved for me, and it’s all over. My bum and thighs sting, my back is sweaty and my suit jacket sticky and damp. Later I discover my finishing position: 290th, out of 332, in the male category, and over a minute ahead of Brompton inventor Ritchie (aged 69). Let me write that again: I am the 290th best Brompton rider in the world, officially. Well, this year, at least.

I feel a great sense of pride and achievement, even buying a poster to commemorate the event. And it’s washed down by a complementary G&T. How bloody lovely.

Afterwards, I wander over to Hutchinson to see how he fared. “Out of the last corner I was where I wanted to be, I just didn’t have the legs for the sprint,” the Northern Irishman, who ended 12th in the standings, tells me, ruefully. “It was a big-bunch gallop, and I’ve never really been a sprinter.

“It was always going to come down to a sprint on this circuit. I attacked a couple of times but I am always going to be a marked rider in this race, so they chased me down.”

Millar, it seems, failed to burst out of the blocks quick enough; he ended 62nd. The winner was 2014 champion Mark Emsley, from Team ASL360, who successfully defended his title by a wheel-length, ahead of Yavor Mitev, of Brompton’s own Factory Racing Team, and Eduardo Gomes. The top 17 finished within four seconds of the victor.

Next year, with actual practice, cutting out the lining of my jacket and a sub-10 unfold, I reckon I can crack the top 150. Or perhaps I should just be happy with my tremendously fun experience; for certain, the Brompton World Championship is a one-off.

This article first appeared in The Telegraph in August 2015

Scott Fardy is remembered for his heroics for Australia at the 2015 Rugby World Cup, but less well known is the unstinting care he showed for the devastated population of Kamaishi in the wake of the horrific 2011 earthquake in Japan

At 2.46pm on March 11, 2011, Scott Fardy was participating in pre-season training for his Japanese club Kamaishi Seawaves when the world’s fourth most powerful earthquake, since records began in 1900, struck the nearby coast. Lasting six minutes, it measured 9.0-9.1 on the moment magnitude scale and the impact triggered tsunami waves reaching over 40 metres to decimate larges swathes of civilisation in eastern Japan, in a trice.

The most recent official statistics confirmed that the Great East Japan Earthquake – as it has been named – caused 15,896 deaths across 20 prefectures. Kamaishi was one of the hardest-hit cities, with the tally of fatalities exceeding 1,250 – almost 5 per cent of the local population – and three schools were inundated.Rugby people don’t turn their back when things are tough

The Australian embassy contacted Fardy and offered him a flight back to his homeland, but there was no way he was flying away from the danger zone – it is not in his caring character. “‘We can’t just leave now,’ I remember saying,” he tells the Telegraph and Dove Men+Care. “It’s part of the ethos of rugby: it’s a team effort, and rugby people are like that; they don’t turn their back when things are tough.”

Fardy, the 6ft 6in Leinster forward, will be recalled fondly in sporting history as one of the brightest stars of the 2015 Rugby World Cup. He shone as a tirelessly heroic backrower, helping Australia power to the Twickenham final, where they were ultimately bettered 34-17 by New Zealand.

In the 61st minute the Sydney-born blindside flanker was replaced, with the game finely balanced at 21-10, having given his all to the cause. Such a tournament of selflessness and bravery would have been of no surprise to anyone who witnessed his reaction when faced with that very different challenge in Japan four years earlier.

Fardy – then 26 – and his team-mates, still wearing Seawaves training kit, sped to the frontline of the disaster area, where the dead and displaced were being accounted for and the infrastructure lay in ruins, and “tried to help out where we could”. Displaying great maturity for his age, he led from the front, unloading essential supplies from trucks, and earned the highest respect from his colleagues and the wider Kamaishi community.

Former New Zealand international Pita Alatini, a centre at the club, recalls Fardy’s outstanding contribution in the face of such colossal crisis. “His compassionate side was huge, in terms of how he was just able to make sure he provided for others rather than himself,” he says. “A really caring and soft side came out [of Fardy] at that time.”It will be incredibly special and something the locals will always remember

Understandably, the experience hit the Fardy hard. “It wasn’t about making a personal sacrifice,” he says. “At the time I had a decision to make – whether to help or not – and it was an easy one. I just got on with it. The disaster has taught me about the fragility of life, and how lucky I am. I saw people’s whole livelihoods gone in an instant, families were torn apart.”

Amazingly, despite the disaster and upheaval, the Seawaves played a full part in the Japanese league that season. “Trying to get back to normal as quick as people could was important, and the team playing maybe signified that,” says Fardy, who moved to the Brumbies in Australia the following season and earned his first Wallabies cap a year later. “The team became a symbol of recovery. It was emotional.”

Emotions will be running high for Fardy when, next autumn, at the 2019 Rugby World Cup, the rebuilt Kamaishi Recovery Memorial Stadium hosts two tournament games. It will be “incredibly special” and something the locals “will always remember”, the 34-year-old suggests.

The new-look 16,187-capacity venue has been built on the grounds of a school that was flattened by the tsunami. “It has a story behind it,” adds Fardy, once again showing a caring side perhaps not normally associated with top international flankers. “Not many sporting grounds around the world have that. It creates a soul, and they will be emotional games … for so many people.”

This article was first published in The Telegraph in September 2018

David Buckler’s job to ensure that every participant gets to realise their dream — and lives to tell the tale

For those of an adventurous disposition, tackling the Everest Marathon is the ultimate challenge. And, as chief medical officer, it’s my job to ensure that every participant gets to realise their dream — and lives to tell the tale. 

The biennial race, which has raised more than £600,000 for Nepalese charities since it began in 1987, is recognised by Guinness World Records as the highest marathon in the world. The starting point is Gorak Shep, a frozen, sand-covered lake bed in Nepal, at an altitude of 17,010ft. At that height the views are sublime. However, the rarefied air provides just 50 per cent of the oxygen available at sea level. Those who fail to adapt properly will be in serious trouble, and could perish on the mountain if untreated. 

My five-strong medical team and I — all volunteers, though subsidised by the race organisers — have a duty to make sure the 80 or so runners are sufficiently acclimatised and in good health at the start line. The course undulates but it is mostly downhill. We end at the Sherpa capital of Namche Bazaar, at 11,300ft, so if you are feeling all right at Gorak Shep, you will probably reach the finish line. 

I’m proud to say no one has died on my watch, and in the past two events everyone who signed up — and paid the £3,000 entry fee — managed to finish. There have been a few scary moments, though, and in the past we have needed to airlift sick people down the mountain.

My preparation for the race starts about a year out. I gather together a medical team who are compatible with one another, and who can survive without creature comforts for four weeks. Together, we carry the medical supplies required for every eventuality, so that 100 people will be safe for a month away from civilisation. There is no budget for drugs, so we have to beg, borrow and steal to get them.

Three weeks before the race, the group flies to Kathmandu. Then we take a tiny plane to Lukla, one of the world’s most dangerous airports, and the site of many air tragedies. It is carved out of the mountain and has a landing strip of just a few hundred metres. Next follows a two-day trek to Namche Bazaar, the starting point for nearly every Everest expedition in the past 50 years. Gradually we increase altitude, and spend four or five days trekking up to 18,000ft — so as to be fully acclimatised — before dropping down to rest. We then hike to a different valley for the actual run.

Related article Rise of the runners Running in the clouds: a new ultra-marathon in the Alps It’s vital to “stress” bodies — that is, to introduce them to an environment where there is significantly less oxygen, so they naturally make the necessary changes. The body concentrates the blood, squeezing more of it from the bone marrow. This also makes you pee a lot.

The secret to acclimatising is to move up the mountain slowly enough that the body adapts. The two main potential problems are swelling of the brain (cerebral oedema) and fluid in the lungs (pulmonary oedema). The tell-tale signs of these include shortness of breath, an unwillingness to do anything and headaches. 

We employ a buddy system, so you can dob in your tent mate if they are looking peaky and might be too macho to flag up their discomfort. It takes 10 hours for altitude sickness to reach its maximum, and it’s not ideal to treat someone at 3am, when it’s pitch black and -10C.

As a rule of thumb, the Everest Marathon takes twice as long to complete as a road marathon. Because I sweep up the stragglers, I usually register a time of 10 hours or more, and complete the race in darkness, guided only by a head torch and instinct. I’m particularly looking forward to the race next November, because my wife Jennie is taking part for the first time. Completing the world’s highest marathon alongside her will make it an extra special experience; the pinnacle, you might say.

This article was first published in The Financial Times Weekend Magazine in December 2016

I was 26 years old and serving a life sentence for conspiracy to commit armed robbery, with a minimum of five years. It was my second stint in prison and initially I was totally remorseless — even open to breaking out.

But that all changed when I learnt that my best mate from childhood had died in a high-speed police chase in Holland, where he’d been robbing banks. His death hit me like a ton of bricks. I recall looking up in my cell, realising I had spent my late teens and most of my twenties in jail. What had I ever achieved in my life, what did I have to show for it? Nothing. I’d only caused suffering and anguish for my mum. My outlook was completely altered from that precise moment. The problem was I had at least four years left to serve.

To spend less time rotting away in my cell, I used to go to the gym, and soon discovered that I had a gift for rowing. Perhaps because I was so focused on rebuilding my life, I found I was progressing much quicker than other inmates. My talent was spotted by Darren Davis, a PE instructor at the prison I was in — HMP Lowdham Grange in Nottinghamshire. Without my asking, he researched world records for indoor rowing, and I was confident that I could better them.

The training regime was very unstructured at the start. It was a case of simply sitting on the rowing machine and rowing lots of metres, and my body just adapted. Training got harder once I read some fitness books in the library. I hardly ate the prison food as it was like slop and tasted disgusting, so I lived off porridge, tuna and nuts, which I bought at the prison canteen.

In the end, I set three indoor world records (which have since been broken), and seven British records, from within the confines of that poky jail gym. My mum has all the various trophies on her mantelpiece. The first world best was a 24-hour rowing record that I set in 2009. I registered more than 163 miles on the rowing machine.

Darren was an incredible help and showed amazing faith in me. It was only down to him that I was afforded special dispensation to be out of my cell for so long for my 24-hour record attempt. Usually the guards would be reluctant to let you leave your cell at night even if you were dying, thinking you were up to something. But Darren agreed to come in and supervise me through the night on his day off. He ended up staying with me for the full 24 hours.

When I returned to my cell, physically shattered but a world-record holder, it was like something out of a movie. As I walked up I was applauded by most of the inmates. The respect I so craved as a criminal was being earned instead as a sportsman.

I was originally attracted to crime by those around me. My uncle Micky was involved in the infamous Brink’s-Mat heist in the 1980s.

I obtained my first firearm, a shotgun, at the age of 16. I had the links and I’d earned respect. But I was in HM Prison Belmarsh at 18 — in a special segregation unit because I was deemed too dangerous for a young offenders’ institution.

I’ve not seen or even spoken to my old friends and family with criminal ties since I chose to go straight. When I was finally released from prison two years ago, I moved to Putney to be near London Rowing Club. Serco, the company that runs HMP Lowdham Grange, still supports me with sponsorship. I regret not having had the opportunity to try out rowing, and lots of other things, when I was younger but I hope my experiences can influence others in a similar situation.

At over 30, I’m too old to develop into a world-class rower but I’ve now turned my attention to Ironman endurance racing, and am competing in the European championships next July, with the dream of ultimately becoming a professional sportsman.

This article was first published in The Financial Times Weekend Magazine in January 2016

The England wing explains that because the RNLI has braved the high seas to come to the rescue of generations of fishermen in his family, he feels compelled to give something back

Jack Nowell is lionised for his bravery and determination on the rugby field, yet his on-pitch courage pales in comparison to that shown by the many of his family members and childhood friends who put themselves in danger at sea on a daily basis.

The England winger, 25, was born and raised in Newlyn, a small seaside town in south-west Cornwall, and the Nowell family has been a central part of the caring, tight-knit fishing community for centuries. “We have always been fishermen, generation after generation, for as long as can be traced back,” he says. “I’m actually the first one to have not followed that career path.”The tiny Penlee Lifeboat Station has always been a big part of my life

Nowell recalls that when he was a child, his father Mike would be forced to spend week-long stints out on the water to earn his living and care for the family. “He and his brother – my uncle – would come back with lobster, monkfish, sole, crab, and other fish, and that would be our food for the next week,” he continues. “I probably overdid the fish eating when I was younger. Now I tend to choose a burger over lobster if I’m at a fancy restaurant.”

A video, taken on Mike’s phone, made a big impression on Jack as a youngster. “Waves were coming over the front of his boat and the whole vessel was being swallowed up,” he says. “It was scary but Dad had to do that. He showed great mental toughness to go out in all conditions to provide for us. I could never compare that to what I do on the rugby field.

Jack’s admiration for his father’s job is as deep as the gratitude he has for the Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI), whose members have rescued Mike on numerous occasions – most recently in November when, in the early hours, his trawler’s motor failed 23 miles out to sea.

“I’ve worked with the RNLI for a couple of years now and I am delighted to support the charity because I feel like I’m giving back something for all the care they have provided to my family and friends in Newlyn,” Jack says en route to his home town to shoot a film, showcasing this special relationship, for the Telegraph and Dove+ Men Care. “It is special for me to support things where I come from and the tiny Penlee Lifeboat Station has always been a big part of my life. When I was offered the chance to get involved with them I bit their hand off.

“Our house is just up from the station and I remember as kids me and my brothers would watch crew running across the bridge and the RNLI boat rushing off into the sea. It was exciting to see and we would wonder what was happening, whether it was really serious, or not.

“I was brought up on the water and made well aware of the dangers. I know all the RNLI guys because everyone knows everyone here in Newlyn, and they chuck themselves in the water to save people, putting their own lives at risk.”

Indeed, RNLI Penlee Lifeboat Station is synonymous with bravery and its crews have been garlanded with close to 50 awards for gallantry in a history stretching back to 1803. There have been tragedies, though, with the worst happening one December night in 1981, a dozen years before Nowell was born, when all eight RNLI crew perished in an attempted rescue.

“That happened a couple of miles from our house,” Nowell says. “The weather was awful and unfortunately they lost their lives, but every single RNLI crew member is aware that could happen – and they are still willing to go out and do it.”

To show his appreciation for the RNLI’s selfless and risky work, Nowell has fronted a number of awareness campaigns. Last year he produced a traditional English Pale Ale, with the help of the nearby St Austell Brewery. Five pence from the sale of every pint of Cousin Jack during the 2017 RBS Six Nations Championship, in which Nowell featured in and England won, went to the RNLI. More than 100,000 pints were bought. “I think most of them were poured in Newlyn,” he jokes.

Jack’s relatives have displayed their thanks to the RNLI for their care too. In April his mother, Louisa, and her sister raised more than £5,000 by running the London marathon. Bravery, it seems, runs in the Nowell family. This England star has the strength and desire to support the RNLI, whose care has kept his father and Newlyn fishing community safe for more than two centuries.

This article was first published in The Telegraph in May 2018