Claire Squires: an amazing testimony to the faith of human spirit

IT'S a testimony to the faith of human spirit and generosity that, at the time of writing, more than £600,000 has been raised for the Samaritans following the death last Sunday of London Marathon runner, Claire Squires.

The scale of generosity has been quite staggering for the 30-year-old hairdresser, who collapsed and died in Birdcage Walk near St James's Park after completing more than 25 miles of this gruelling challenge – she was just a bend away from the finish line in the Mall.

People from all over the world have made donations to her JustGiving page – in fact, 55,000 people have donated to Claire's cause, with the website saying it will waive its fees after a record number of visits to her page on Monday.

I last ran the London Marathon five years' ago on an absolutely blistering hot day in the capital. Temperatures that day peaked at 23.5c, with radiated heat from the road reaching an energy-sapping 27.5c. The race took its toll on the runners. It was carnage over the last 10km with dehydrated and cramping casualties lying on the side of the road wrapped in foil blankets, others retching into the gutters as St John Ambulance dealt with more than 5,000 people.

The race in 2007 also claimed the life of 22-year-old David Rogers, a fitness instructor from Milton Keynes, who collapsed again not far from the finish and later died in hospital. It was later discovered that he had died from drinking too much water – hyponatraemia or water intoxication, when there is so much water in the body that it dilutes vital minerals such as sodium to dangerous levels, leading to confusion, headaches and a fatal swelling of the brain.

For David Rogers and Claire Squires, they were the 10^th and 11^th runners to die after competing in the London Marathon since this showpiece event began in 1981.

The risk of dying on a marathon course is twice as high if you drive it than if you run it, Canadian researchers once found.

Life is a 24 hour risk, whether crossing the road or climbing a mountain. Wouldn't life be so dull and boring if we were constantly wrapped up in cotton wool? God forbid if the moronic and mindless health and safety crowd ever decided to bring a halt to marathons because of the remote risk of fatal injuries.

Following the death of David Rogers in 2007, in fact with any of the previous London Marathon deaths, all of whom were men, there was nothing like the amazing public reaction which has seen Claire Squires' fund-raising efforts spiral to such unbelievable proportions. When she set out from the start line in Greenwich last Sunday morning, her fund-raising for the Samaritans had reached a fairly modest £500.

So the question is, why the sudden interest in Claire Squires? Her death received the same initial media prominence as David's, but it is the level of fund-raising which has turned this snowballing story into a global one. Was it a sudden interest in the work of the Samaritans which pricked people's conscience? Maybe now we have hit a double dip recession, this story touched people's generosity as well as their hearts. Why did Claire Squires strike a philanthropic nerve?

Bluntly, one has to ask whether a key factor was a very pretty and photogenic female, whose smiling face in running kit and athletic poses, shone like a beacon from newspapers and websites to help foster the phenomenal fund-raising momentum. Had it been hairy old me, with the protruding tummy collapsing outside Buckingham Palace, would I have garnered so much support for my charity? Probably not.

Fair play to Claire and the Samaritans. Here was a gutsy young lady who had climbed Mount Kilimanjaro for charity and for whom the Samaritans was a cause close to her heart through her mother's involvement as a volunteer, and following the death of her brother of a drug overdose 10 years ago.

Reading the tributes from her friends, Claire was someone who was loyal and always helped others. I wonder what she makes of what has happened.

The London Marathon is an amazing running race, unlike any other. It is a spiritual experience driven by the fantastic levels of public support along the 26.2 mile route. When you think how greedy the world has become, driven by a grotesque selfishness and frequently a disdain at times for fellow man, the feelgood-frenzied atmosphere from the London Marathon restores your faith in human spirit. 

It is chicken soup for the soul.

Claire was an amazing woman, since taking on the marathon remains a supreme test of body and mind. For Claire, she will have left an amazing legacy from her short life. A legacy perpetuated thanks to the fantastic and unexpected outpouring of public generosity.

TODAY will forever be known as pain Friday!

It began with what was meant to be a gentle seven-and-a-half mile early morning run along the Solent on a beautiful sunny start to the day.

Ian the postie, who has become a regular running partner has decided that this time next year he and I will have tapered perfectly for the London Marathon. Based on my form this morning, I ran through the muddy clifftops and across rain-soaked field with weights seemingly in my shoes thinking 26 miles was merely a pipedream.

"This is as bad as it gets," I shouted to Ian, whose feet danced along the surface, running effortlessly off his toes; the soles of my shoes were weighted firmly back, my legs ached and my breathing laboured heavily.

We got round, though. It was miles in the bank, I stuck to the task, and once we increase the mileage I'm sure the aerobic fitness will return as the runs become a little more enjoyable. I'd certainly like a fourth tilt at the London Marathon, and will be watching enviously this Sunday at those lucky enough to take part in this year's carnival around the capital. It is like nothing else, a true spiritual experience.

With the wedding little more than a week away, my fiancee Alison had asked one favour before the nuptials. Would I get my back waxed?! The things we do for love!! I had my legs waxed as part of a charity fund-raiser five years ago, and didn't feel a thing. Today, it was 20 minutes of pure pain at the beauty salon where I'd chosen for this masochistic marriage appetiser.

The lady at the salon was nice enough as she poured on this hot liquid onto my back, and then preceded to rip the hairs of my back. Never mind it smarting, this absolutely hit the pain threshold roof. I didn't want to show any pain,  or make any wimpering noise - the humiliation would have been too much. Instead, as part of distraction therapy, we chatted about the lady's own wedding plans - she's getting married in Lapland next February in an ice palace, taken there by a carriage drawn by reindeer. I bet her fiance isn't have his hairs ripped off his back.

Anyway, I survived the ordeal and Alison is delighted. But I feel like a plucked chicken as my back feels all sticky and wet. I have no idea why women put themselves through the ordeal waxing. I was definitely not feeling my feminine side lying on the couch of the beauty salon, stripped to my shorts while seeing the lady put these waxing strips filled with thick, black hair into the bin. I should have kept the waxing strips and presented them to Alison as a wedding present.

And so to complete the day, there could have been nothing better than a trip to the dentist for some root canal treatment, which took over an hour, didn't hurt physically, but financially, crickey O'Reilly! That's me on salad for the next month.

It's all systems go, though, for the wedding. I'm envious of my friend Emma who this week jetted off with her fiance Simon to get married in Jamaica - just the two of them. Ours is very much a family affair, but while the temptation to head off to get married on a sun-kissed beach is enormously tempting, there can be nothing better than sharing the day with family and friends, some of whom you haven't seen for quite a time.

At least come our wedding next week, I'll be a little bit fitter, I'll have my teeth fixed and whitened, and a hairless back! Sorted!!

Forgive me blogging father, for I have sinned....

FORGIVE me father, it's been six long months since my last confessional blog. I've become such a badly lapsed blogger. It's not because I didn't have the time, father, or even the inclination to sit down and write; writing is, after all, what I do professionally and have done for more than 30 years.

No, the reason I've lapsed badly is because I've had nothing to say. I've written newspaper columns for many years, based on the first rule of communication; if you've got nothing interesting to say, then don't say it!

Not that this basic principle has prevented a hideous clogging of the social media arteries by tedious Tweets and boring blogs from folks who want to reveal to the world what they had to breakfast or dinner, intricate details of travel plans, or the latest office gossip. What is the world coming to? Get a bleedin' life, I say!

Don't get me wrong, Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn and their various acolytes have opened up a whole new exciting world of information. Working in the media, we've had to up our game considerably in recent years to a new level, and we're still trying to keep up after a sluggish start. We are no longer custodians of news and information. Our cosy environment has been disrupted. Fifteen years ago, we would have no truck with the internet and the world wide web. To newspaper men back in the mid-90s, the world wide web was the devil incarnate. Now, it is the mother of necessity and if we don't embrace it properly, then we will die.

No, it's how the social media is used today which freaks me out. There is so much chaff that it really is hard to distinguish the wheat. It's like being stuck in an overcrowded pub with so many inane conversations spinning around that those half decent ones, those with any semblance of value, go straight over your head.

The mundaneness of social media sometimes beggars belief, notably the blogs and Tweets of so-called professionals who, pre-Twitter, would always have thought cautiously before giving a considered opinion on any subject, especially those reaching the public domain. Now these experienced communicators, and footballers, open themselves up with off-the-cuff observations which lack perspective or any sense of trust or respect.

So will mine me any different, or will it be another boorish blog?  Truthfully, that's in the eye of the reader.

Well, there's enough material bobbing around in my small life to offer something which could be readable - I'm getting married in two weeks' time, work has taken a fresh turn in the past year taking me to a new part of the country, I'm in the midst of organising a Doughnut Race during the Olympic Games, while training for the London Marathon in 2012, and I have an opinion or two.

These views on my blog are my own, they're not plagarised and are often written with tongue firmly in cheeck. If you like them, then say so, if you don't, well there are plenty of other interesting geekish blogs to digest.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee........

Does runner Rockin' Robin use twitter?

PICTURE this. We’re five miles into the Swindon Half Marathon being buffeted by winds along the Ridgeway which sits high overlooking the town. Holding aloft a sprightly banner, I’m pacing a chatty bunch of runners at 10 minutes a mile, chasing a fancy-dressed robin.

We’ve had Rockin’ Robin, the Swindon Town mascot, in our sights since he passed us at the two mile mark. As we made our way up the stiff climb that is Badbury Hill, the motley crew chimed in with an assortment of inane cheap bird jokes;

“What do you give a sick robin? Paratweetamol.”

“What do you call a bunch of robins playing hide and seek? Fowl play”.

“What do you call a very rude Robin? A mockingbird!”

“When is the best time to buy a budgie? When it’s cheep!”

with suggestions of putting robin’s picture on Twitter?”!!!

Eventually we caught up with Rockin’ Robin who was struggling a little. In fact he was sweating like a weightwatcher in a cream cake shop, beads of sweat running down his forehead, as he clutched his mascot head with one hand. “I ran a marathon in this costume recently and lost almost a couple of stone,” he told me. “Today is really, really tough. I am so hot.”

We chatted for a while. I took the mascot’s head while he fed himself with a bottle of water. The lining of Rockin’ Robin’s thick, hairy costume was something else. You’ve really got to be fit to run in that outfit, and sure enough he finished the course. Respect!

As we ran into the village of Liddington, which always has a great turn out of spectators, he quickly put back on his head and played to the crowd waving and offering high fives as we took the hairpin bend and ran back towards Swindon.

Impressively, Rockin’ Robin finished just behind our pacing group, as fellow pacer Mike Affleck and myself crossed the line in 2 hours, 10 minutes and 17 seconds – 17 seconds over our target finish time, which wasn’t too bad. It was a privilege to take part and enjoy a very different way of running a race – a bit pressurised at times with one eye on the Garmin pacing watch to make sure we kept on schedule even up the excruciatingly steep hills.

This was the fourth year I have run the Swindon Half Marathon which is, without doubt, one of the best organised and friendliest race around. Girlfriend Alison helped out on the baggage area along with several Swindon councillors and volunteers who seemed to have a great time amidst a sea of bananas, water and chocolate!

The race is a carnival and celebration, albeit a tough hilly half marathon. For me it was great to see so many runners wearing their new sky blue Shin Splints running tops. This is the running group which I have helped to mentor over the past couple of years, who meet every Saturday morning at The Sun Inn and on a Wednesday evening as part of a 22 week training programme to build towards running the magic half. 

It’s more than just a running group, but a social group too with no airs or graces, simply a spirit of encouragement and positivity and now the Swindon half is over, they will continue to meet throughout the winter.

Many of those who belong to Shin Splints are newbies; people who used to run but stopped, those who see running a vehicle to improve their health and reduce weight, and those who see Shin Splints as kick-starting something new in their life.

Shin Splints is all about confidence-building so that from running for just a couple of minutes without stopping, you’re soon running a couple of miles non-stop and beyond. Beyond to 13 miles.

It’s the speedies at the front who take the headlines, but the biggest achievement of all was among some of the folks running with me at 10 minutes a mile and those who finished further behind.

I’ve never run a half marathon as slow in my life, and it’s hard to be on your feet for 140 minutes. But for these runners, the achievement of running a half marathon is palpable. Thirteen miles is a major milestone for some who have not enjoyed this sort of exercise since school. A year ago, one Shin Splint told me the last time she had this much exercise was when she gave birth.

For everyone, running is about achievement in your zone. For some of the finishers, it is the achievement of simply finishing, for others it is a personal best or more.

I ran with one elderly guy and as we passed the nine mile mark in 90 minutes he recalled somewhat despondently that years ago he would have finished the half marathon. I said to him that running is about what you achieve now, and not in the past. As we set get older, we set fresh goals.

“Tell me this” I asked. “How many of your friends or family could run a half marathon right now?” “None,” he replied. “Absolutely none of them.”

“That,” I said. “Is the achievement, and as long as you are running every day you are achieving your goals and achieving something new.”

I had a fabulous weekend in Wiltshire. Thank you Swindon!

Make sure you're wearing the right underpants when running!

                          Gary checks uses a rudimentary sundial to find the nearest toilet

HOME is where the heart is, and last weekend, with the sun beating down glazing the calm waters of the Solent, I couldn't have been happier than running along the clifftops by the sea.

For the past seven years, I've lived something of a Nomadic lifestyle. In fact, during that time I have moved no fewer than 10 times between various parts of Hampshire, Wiltshire and Dorset.

It's amazing how much crud you collect with those moves. How you trail around cack which has some sentimental value, which you don't want to throw away, but which you know will be tucked away in a darkened wardrobe never to see the light of day again – my collection of Michael Jackson LPs, torn football shirts, and 35-year-old newspaper scrapbooks charting the times when Notts Country were tosh.....and still are.

But finally, I've come back home to the south coast having moved into a new home in Titchfield, an historic village lying half way between Portsmouth and Southampton. It's close to my boys, I'm living there will my newly adopted family, and, quite crucially, I'm back running along the farm tracks, remote woodland, and coastal paths with decorate this beautiful part of Hampshire.

In terms of beauty and majesty, it probably can't compare with the serenity of running say in the Lake District, the Peak District and other remote outcrops of the UK, but for me there is a reassuring comfort and warmth about striding over this remote backyard that is home.

Memories flood back of some great runs, and also the horrendous sessions in driving rain and snow. Last weekend, my fiancee Alison joined me on her bike for a 10-mile run out from home, down a narrow winding road to the haven, and then across the cliff tops along the Solent and up the River Hamble – a mixture of grassy paths, road and beach shingle – before reaching Warsash and tacking back to Titchfield.

Then the following day I went out for a six-mile amble with long-time running partner Gary. We're been plodding around the south coast countryside for a decade now, our routes tempered by Gary's weak bowels and need to find a toilet along the way! On Sunday, his stomach was feeling decidely dodgy having grabbed a coffee before coming out to run, and discovered a mouldy biscuit plastered to the bottom of his mug.

We had to stop a couple of times as Gary felt queasy and began retching on route, but managed to make our way to the finish with a final assault up West Hill, an horrendous climb passed chocolate box cottages in the heart of Titchfield.

I've often thought when running alone about the implications of suffering a major injury or worse while running rurally. Not that the paths around the south coast are remote since they are well trodden by dog walkers, cyclists and horse riders.

However, it was interesting to read the story this week of acclaimed fell runner, Bill Smith who was found dead in a peat bog in Saddle Fell. Police believe his body may have been there for three weeks after the 75-year-old, who was a member of Clayton-le-Moors Harriers for nearly 40 years, became trapped.

Bill was a legendary character among the fell running community and became well known for his 1986 books called “Studmarks On The Summit – a history of amateur fell racing 1861-1983.” What a horrible end for Bill, who travelled by public transport to races and was known as a true gentleman of the sport.

For me, I wouldn't mind Old Father Time coming to collect me while out on a run – as long as it was quick and I'd remembered to wear the right underpants!

Sally Morgan: the psychic who didn't see this row coming

I WENT to one of Sally Morgan's psychic shows about 18 months' ago, and it was a bizarre experience.
Sally, known as Princess Diana's confidante who she spoke to every day over four years when she was alive, and dubbed "Britain's best-loved psychic" is currently wading through a furore she didn't foresee.
The 60-year-old was accused after a  recent show in Dublin of being fed information from the back of the auditorium. According to one audience member, known as Sue: "When the second half started, we could clearly hear a man's voice coming from the window behind us.
"Everything he said, the psychic would say ten seconds later. It was if she was having the information relayed to her."
Suddenly the whole psychic world has come under scrutiny, although Sally has straight-batted the claims by insisting: "I totally respect cynics and sceptics, as if we don't ask questions we don't get answers. However, I will not stand by and be accused of fraudulent behaviour, from inaccurate sources of information It's completely and utterly balderdash."

Crikey! I've not heard the word 'balderdash' used for a while.
Go onto the Sally Morgan website and here's what I wrote at the time: www.sallymorgan.tv/medium-rare-review-sally-morgan-wyvern-theatre-swindon/
I thought it was a great show, but it was very different and, at times, puzzling.
Sally is a popular woman. She's often on TV and her gruelling roadshows are a sell-out. Do I believe in psychics? I don't know.
In this instance, I don't understand how Sally could have gained much inside information from being fed by a spotter at the back of the auditorium. How could she possibly learn about the complicated family circumstances of each and every audience member?
And if Sally's act was a sham, she would need to have balls of steel to go on stage for a couple of hours each night to connect with so many people who she has not met and try by clever association to present herself as an incisive psychic.
At the Swindon show, she connected with dozens of people - including a couple by photographs which they had let. There were two suicides, a couple of fatal accidents and even a murder among the spirits coming through the traffic from the Other Side.
Sally Morgan is a lady of many voices as she relays the thoughts and words of the spirits.
Once she spoke to an attractive lady who had a message from her grandmother. The audience watches the exchange from a big screen on the stage beaming the image of Sally's latest connection. Sometimes she strikes lucky, other times she is way off beam blaming that someone in the audience has intercepted a message meant not for them.
With this lady, the exchange was pretty good, talking about an illness she recently had, and about her family. Sat next to this lady was a striking man who Sally asked about. The predominatly female audience thought the guy was gorgeous and cooed when Sally spotted him and his image was beamed on the screen. "Is that your boyfriend, your husband maybe?" asked Sally coyly. "Not, it's my brother!" she replied.
So, if you are being cynical, why did the grandmother not have any words to say to both her grandson and granddaughter?
It was clear to see how much impact some of the connections had on the audience. It was very moving, and yet Sally moved on from one to the next. I felt that must have been very difficult to have one moment been on a spiritual phone connected to a loved one, and then suddenly cut off and left cold.
The funniest moment was when what could be described as a rough-looking woman picked up a message from Sally. It was from her former husband who had died in a motorcycle crash. The woman complete with dyed hair, nose ring and mouth like a sewer, was pretty hacked off with her ex for dying suddenly and leaving her in the lurch.
Sally always ends the connection with warm words of parting along the lines of "Danny wants me to tell you that he misses you, he loves you dearly, cherishes the times you shared, and watches over you."
Sewer woman, without missing a beat, answered back: "I bloody well 'ope not, not in the bedroom where I'm shagging my new man most nights!"
Psychics, you've got to love 'em!!

Lofty running ambitions deflated by injury

IT is a perfect morning, possibly even a plus-perfect place to be running right now. With a new day dawning over Eastbourne's seafront, the early morning exercise merchants are enjoying the last remnants of "short weather" running.

Just as the clocks religiously go back an hour during the last weekend of October to herald the end of balmy British Summer Time and the advent of Greenwich Mean Time - with the emphasis here on the "mean" - so runners are preparing themselves for the inevitability of trading in their silky summery shorts and loose-fitting t-shirts, for clingy leggings and laboratory-designed, all-weather fluorescent tops.

It's a veritable fashion parade along the promenade this morning. One petite lady, ponytail flapping in the breeze, eases past Eastbourne's grand pier with designer clothing, dark glasses, sporting an ipod and earphones, with a luminous yellow jacket tied around her waist.

A young couple with enviable bronzed bodies, golden hair and sickening looks to front any self-respecting fitness magazine, pass by at a fair lick in the opposite direction towards Beachy Head, with a seagull-chasing Labrador trailing in their wake and struggling to keep up.

I'm watching this spectacle from a fourth-floor seafront flat which overlooks the pier and the beautiful gardens which provide a dazzling splash of horticultural colour. A roadside sweeper pulls past a red and cram Brighton & Hove bus picking up passengers, while out on the horizon a huge container ship laden with cargo is slowly heading westward up the English Channel.

Me? After my first week of a new job in Eastbourne, I'd hoped to be joining the throng of runners this morning, but instead I'm embarrassingly laid up with the sort of injury which few athletically-minded fortysomethings would brag about.

Dispensing with the need for a ladder, I decided at the weekend to pull myself into the loft to bring down a box, while perched precariously on the upstairs bannister. It was a big-time miscalculation. Eventually I managed to haul my portly frame into the loft after much grunting and groaning, but I ended up with a painful side strain.

I thought the pain would subside quickly. But the injury has been quite debilitating and recovery pretty slow. What a muppet way to get injured. With new work colleagues to meet, many of whom have heard about my running exploits thanks to a glowing biography emailed round by my new boss, it is particularly pathetic to explained the reason for my running abstinence is that I've been sidelined by a side strain. What a wuss!

Now a searing hamstring tear, a delicate Achilles' strain, or even a Beckhamesque metatarsal injury would be worthy of some impressive nods and knowing looks. But a numpty sidestrain caused by trying to climb into the loft.....keep it quiet!!

Although the injury has gradually improved this week, I'm feeling anxious because my next race, the Swindon Half Marathon, is little more than a fortnight away. I've yet to run more than 10 miles in the past three or four months, and I need to get at least another 10-miler in before my October trip to Wiltshire.

So this week has been one with plenty of rest. What else can you do? Plenty of hot baths, frequent applications of Deep Heat, and bizarrely I've been microwaving a wheat pack which has been applied to the painful area just beneath my ribs.

The irony is that this week I feel I have arrived in East Sussex and landed in a running Mecca. Eastbourne is bordered on its western front by the glorious South Downs, an undulating terrain I know all too well - challenging remote running, but glorious all the same.

And then to the east is the coastal road. For the past couple of days I have been working in Hastings and driven along the coast road past delightful Pevensey Bay to reach the historic town.

It is another glorious day here. The last of this season's holiday makers are lapping up the last of this year's sunshine beneath blue skies swathed with wispy clouds. I feel that this is a place where I can get into some serious running. No treadmills, no traffic-choked streets, no meal-mouthed excuses for not getting out of bed, but a readily available running paradise right on the doorstep. First, though, is the small matter of a sidestrain.