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| With Mum and brothers at Nan's party |
From Nan's party to Blackheath Common
After I had completed my chemotherapy, I
had a couple of months off work to recuperate and relax. During this time, my
grandmother had her eightieth birthday and we had a large family celebration. Nan herself had been treated for breast
cancer some fifteen years previously and was now suffering from bladder cancer
– a condition for which she refused potentially curative treatment and to which
she would eventually succumb. She had
also lost her husband of 50 years – my grandfather – to bowel cancer eight
years previously. Throughout my treatment, during which I had very low periods,
she contacted me daily. I called her my cancer buddy. As she too was suffering from
cancer, she felt that she was in a position to understand what I was
experiencing. Despite this, I felt
alone. Despite her and other people’s attempts to ‘reach’ me, I was determined
to shut everyone out and revel in my misery.
The day before Nan ’s party I was on a shopping trip and in a much more positive frame of mind. I went
into a clothes shop and saw a bright red t-shirt with a silhouetted face of Bobby Moore on the
front and a large white number 6 on the reverse. Moore England Nan ’s party the following day. I don’t know
why – perhaps because Bobby Moore had recovered from testicular cancer and died
of bowel cancer - but the shirt seemed linked to my cancer experience and my
recovery. The party was a wonderful occasion. The whole family and lots of
friends had lunch at a local restaurant, and lots of us went back to my mum’s
house afterwards. As we celebrated my Nan ’s
eightieth year, lots of people took the opportunity to ask how I was doing.
With my bald head and bright red t-shirt I was the elephant in the room. It was
only three weeks since I had had my last infusion of chemo, but I was now feeling
well and positive and thoroughly enjoyed the occasion.
Seven years later, in 2009, I was looking
for an event in which to participate to raise funds for cancer research. I had
attended Race for Life events locally, and was struck by the wonderful
positivity of such occasions. These 5K runs bring together thousands of women in the cause
of raising funds for breast cancer research, and take place in many towns and
cities across the country. A that time, Cancer Research UK Moore
Dave and I are not runners. Dave was a
keen footballer in his youth, but in his forties those days are well behind
him. I suffered from asthma as a youngster, and my schoolboy footballing career
was spent between the posts as a goalkeeper. I can’t run more than a few yards
without gasping desperately for breath , like a fish on the deck of a trawler. We decided we ought to pace out a 5K
route in our local area to get an idea of how far we would have to run on the
day. Our route took us past our local park, in which my family has planted a small tree in memory of my grandfather. We stopped in the park to take a photo of
ourselves by the tree – and to have an ice cream. The route seemed pretty long
and challenging for two unfit blokes of our age.
The day of the run arrived, and our two
families drove to London Moore Nan ’s party. Nan had passed away five years previously as
a result of the bladder cancer. Pomp – our grandfather – had died fourteen
years previously from the type of cancer for which we were raising funds. It
seemed right to dedicate the run to them. I wrote ‘For Nan and Pomp’ on my race
number, and Dave did the same.
We were determined to enjoy the race. Of
course we were both unfit and ill-prepared, so we had no chance of finishing well. Therefore we resolved to get a place at the
front, as close as possible to the start line, and at least start well. As all
the other runners participated in a mass warm-up, we stood as close as possible to the
start-line in order to secure our place. The idea was to sprint as fast as we
could and get ahead of everyone, so that when we told the story we could say that we were, at one
point, leading. The other runners joined the queue behind us – 1700 of them.
Dave and I suddenly felt very daunted. A
lot of very serious runners were lining up behind us, and most of them looked as
though they could run far faster than we could. We were in great danger of
being trampled! We would have to run like hell from the off in order
to avoid disaster. Suddenly our preparation – ice cream in the park, a 5K
stroll and not bothering with the warm-up seemed ridiculous and foolhardy. Determined not to appear scared, we showed our concern by waving to our wives and children and pulling funny faces.
As the claxton signaled the start of the
race, we had no option but to run for our lives. We must have been a ridiculous
sight; my legs flailing ineffectively like a gazelle running for its life from
a predator; Dave lumbering at commendable speed. We managed to get into second
and third places, but could not overtake the leader. Photos of the start of the
race show the two of us with enormous smiles on our faces as we put everything
into our attempt to look like serious competitors.
Around the corner, away from the crowds at
the start-line, we were able to slow down, walk, and take in the scene. The
sight of many hundreds of men, all wearing the red number 6 shirt like the one
I had worn to Nan’s party was inspiring and a little overwhelming. My personal
journey seemed to have been multiplied by a factor of nearly two-thousand. I’m
sure each of the participants felt the power of the unity of purpose just as I
did.
Dave and I walked most of the rest of the
route; breaking into a run only when we passed attractive female stewards, to
whom we would wave and shout, ‘Hi ladies!’
‘Well done!’ or ‘Keep going!’ they
would shout back, encouragingly. Some of our children joined us for the final
part of the run, and as we crossed the line, forty minutes after starting, the
crowds clapped us in and our wives treated us like heroes.
The 2009 race was, sadly, the last Run for
Moore
