that. Each week I’d show up at his office before training to kick a ball around the gym for half an hour or so, often with cousin Mahad and sometimes a few friends in tow. Sometimes Alan would join in too. Mahad loved football, although it’s fair to say he had his limits when it came to the unforgiving English winter. Once, we were playing football during PE in the freezing cold, participating in these little three-a-side games, the idea being that we’d keep moving and keep warm. Much as Mahad loved football, he hated having to run around in the cold, so when the whistle blew, he lashed the ball into the corner of the goal with almost his first kick of the game and promptly wheeled away to celebrate, running all the way back to the changing room to escape the cold. If it had been me, I would’ve kept on playing. Nothing stopped me from a game of footy. But the two of us enjoyed those kick-abouts in the gym.
At 6 p.m. Alan would call time and drive me across town to Feltham Arena, where I’d join in training with the other kids at Hounslow.
Training at the club was twice weekly, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings after school. Borough of Hounslow AC had a good reputation for distance running, and by the time I joined, there was a solid core of international competitors based at the club. I was soon making friends. One of the first guys I got to know at Hounslow was Abdi Ali. He also came from Somalia. We’d hang out away from the track too. The two of us would go into town, jump on the buses and ride around Hanworth and Hounslow, not doing anything, just chilling really, the way kids do. Abdi had potential on the track, but he proved that little bit elusive. From time to time he’d suddenly stop coming to the club. No reason. He just wouldn’t feel like running any more. I wouldn’t see him at the track for ages, then one evening he’d appear out of the blue, grinning at me and taking the mick, like he’d never been away. He once asked Alan Watkinson, ‘Why am I not as fast as Mo? We’re both from the same country!’
Another early friend at Hounslow was Mohamed Osman. Mohamed was such a talented athlete it was almost ridiculous. He had enormous raw potential. Sadly, he fell in with a bad crowd and never fulfilled his early promise on the track. This is a story I’ve heard more than once – kids I knew growing up who got involved with the wrong type of people. At Feltham there were kids from my year who ended up in gangs, taking drugs, that sort of thing. I wasn’t close to these guys personally, but living in the area, you’d hear the stories from time to time. So-and-so’s in trouble. This person is in prison. I’d hear these stories and think, that could’ve been me slipping between the cracks. Easily. If it hadn’t been for running, who knows where I would’ve ended up? Not somewhere good, I can tell you. Life is tough in Hounslow. Things happen.
Later on, I’d get to know the senior runners more – the guys who were running for their country, who were being talked about as future hopes on the big stage. But to begin with, I hung out with the likes of Mohamed and Abdi and the other juniors being coached by Alex McGee.
Alan Watkinson has sometimes mistakenly been referred to as my coach; that’s not true. Alan has been many things to me – mentor, friend, best man at my wedding – but he would be the first to admit that he never actually coached me. My first coach was Alex McGee. He was good to me during my early years at the club – he really looked out for me. I remember meeting him for the first time. He spoke in this slight Scottish accent that I’d never heard before. ‘Where is that accent from?’ I asked myself.
As a junior coach, Alex took a longer-term view of training. Rather than trying to push us too hard to get the wins and recognition at national level, Alex was more interested in developing us into athletes capable of competing in the senior ranks. Training as a junior is
At 6 p.m. Alan would call time and drive me across town to Feltham Arena, where I’d join in training with the other kids at Hounslow.
Training at the club was twice weekly, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings after school. Borough of Hounslow AC had a good reputation for distance running, and by the time I joined, there was a solid core of international competitors based at the club. I was soon making friends. One of the first guys I got to know at Hounslow was Abdi Ali. He also came from Somalia. We’d hang out away from the track too. The two of us would go into town, jump on the buses and ride around Hanworth and Hounslow, not doing anything, just chilling really, the way kids do. Abdi had potential on the track, but he proved that little bit elusive. From time to time he’d suddenly stop coming to the club. No reason. He just wouldn’t feel like running any more. I wouldn’t see him at the track for ages, then one evening he’d appear out of the blue, grinning at me and taking the mick, like he’d never been away. He once asked Alan Watkinson, ‘Why am I not as fast as Mo? We’re both from the same country!’
Another early friend at Hounslow was Mohamed Osman. Mohamed was such a talented athlete it was almost ridiculous. He had enormous raw potential. Sadly, he fell in with a bad crowd and never fulfilled his early promise on the track. This is a story I’ve heard more than once – kids I knew growing up who got involved with the wrong type of people. At Feltham there were kids from my year who ended up in gangs, taking drugs, that sort of thing. I wasn’t close to these guys personally, but living in the area, you’d hear the stories from time to time. So-and-so’s in trouble. This person is in prison. I’d hear these stories and think, that could’ve been me slipping between the cracks. Easily. If it hadn’t been for running, who knows where I would’ve ended up? Not somewhere good, I can tell you. Life is tough in Hounslow. Things happen.
Later on, I’d get to know the senior runners more – the guys who were running for their country, who were being talked about as future hopes on the big stage. But to begin with, I hung out with the likes of Mohamed and Abdi and the other juniors being coached by Alex McGee.
Alan Watkinson has sometimes mistakenly been referred to as my coach; that’s not true. Alan has been many things to me – mentor, friend, best man at my wedding – but he would be the first to admit that he never actually coached me. My first coach was Alex McGee. He was good to me during my early years at the club – he really looked out for me. I remember meeting him for the first time. He spoke in this slight Scottish accent that I’d never heard before. ‘Where is that accent from?’ I asked myself.
As a junior coach, Alex took a longer-term view of training. Rather than trying to push us too hard to get the wins and recognition at national level, Alex was more interested in developing us into athletes capable of competing in the senior ranks. Training as a junior is
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