Still Running (weakly). Issue 125

WARNING: this blog talks about suicide.

PAST – “I committed an inexcusable blunder in front of the Japanese people.  I must make amends by running and hoisting the Hinomaru (the Japanese flag) in the next Olympics, in Mexico,” said Kokichi Tsumuraya to his compatriot, Kenji Kimihara.

Tsumuraya had been lying in second place as the runners entered the stadium at the end of the marathon at the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, but had been overtaken on the track by Basil Heatley of Great Britain, who recorded 32 seconds for the last 200 metres.  Abebe Bikila of Ethiopia had defended his title from Rome 1960, winning by over four minutes.  Tsumuraya took the bronze; Kimihara finished eighth.

Tsumuraya felt that he had brought dishonour upon Japan – by losing a place in full view of his countrymen – and, as mentioned above, vowed to make amends.  However, by January 1968, with back problems making a successful Olympics unlikely, and his girlfriend marrying another man, Tsumuraya committed suicide.  His military bosses had denied him leave to get married until after the 1968 games, and his girlfriend’s parents had refused to let her wait that long.

Ironically, Kimihara won the silver in Mexico City, behind another Ethiopian, Mamo Wolde.

PRESENT – Ricky Hatton’s suicide, sadly confirmed last week, reminds us yet again that elite sportspeople especially can struggle when approaching or past their professional retirement.  Gary Speed, Robert Enke, Graham Thorpe, David Bairstow, Peter Roebuck, Shane Christie, to name but a few.

Sportspeople after all must deal with the fact that, in all likelihood, their greatest days are going to occupy perhaps just a decade in the first third of their lives.  Not only does the personal satisfaction fade away, but the public acclaim also dies with the echoes of the cheers in the stadia they once graced.

After a life where every action has been timetabled in order to achieve peak performance on the day of competition, suddenly there may be a complete and bewildering loss of purpose.  And if they are no longer world champion, Olympic medallist, world record holder, what is their identity?  Actually, who are they?  On a more mundane level, they may experience social isolation and even financial difficulties.

Everyone is different and some of those mentioned above may have experienced negativity completely separate from their sporting lives.

FUTURE – I hesitate to even dare to comment further on this subject.  I am certainly not setting myself up as an expert or pretending to have a magic formula.  And I am fortunate that I’ve never had to face the sort of despair that claimed the men mentioned above (though I should make it clear that it is not always men), so my right to offer any insight is limited.

The closest I have come to catching a glimpse of their feelings – and the only licence that I have to write further – came last year when, out of the blue, I was diagnosed with Stage 3B Lymphoma, a cancer which is said to be one of the nastiest to endure and most difficult to defeat.

I experienced some dark nights of the soul, especially in the early days when everything was raw, shocking and uncertain.  During those times, I held fast to my belief in my body’s ability to get through the treatment and beyond the disease, as I had likewise trusted it to endure across decades of ultradistance running.  I also resolved to make sure that my life was about more than just cancer.

I eventually reached a certain clarity of purpose.  I was determined to do four things: I would continue to exercise in a sensible way; I would continue to write; I wanted my conduct in the face of the disease to set a good example, especially to my children; and I also wanted to have good conversations.  What does that mean?  I found that I wanted to be kind to people!  Faced with something that was pretty negative, I almost subconsciously wanted to counter that by pouring as much positivity into the world as I could.

Now, I am not saying that any of this is a formula for avoiding despair; it is simply as far as I can go – given my life experience – in suggesting attitudes and actions that might just help.

What I am saying is that doing something along those lines, being as positive as possible at any given moment, could perhaps minimise our chances of being caught in the mire that ensnared Ricky Hatton and the others, and maybe maximise our ability to edge out of the darkness and into the light.  But I know that, for some people at some points, that is the most difficult thing in the world to do.

None of us living has a recipe for survival, because none of those men who died can tell us how they might have been saved.  We do not know.  And probably they did not even know.  That is our conundrum.  And that is their tragedy.