IN MY FATHER’S FOOTSTEPS

BRUCE’S SON CLIVE RECALLS THE REMARKABLE JOURNEY

I was six years old when we set off with Dad. I was more excited to be missing school than thinking about what he was trying to do.

We lived in a tiny caravan – the table folded down into a double bed for Mum and Dad, my 18-yearold godfather, Mark, slept on the bench and I was in a hammock above him.

On the first day, Dad passed out with cramp after 25 miles. I was meant to be keeping a diary but even at six I realised asking how you spell ‘faint’ wasn’t a great idea – so the diary has a little stick-man runner lying on the ground.

There are moments I remember vividly – three nights in the Salt River Canyon when Dad was hobbling along with an Achilles tendon problem, yet I thought it was brilliant; a campsite in the Wild West. I was unaware of the struggle Dad was going through. I remember the poverty of the southern states, the excitement of arriving at Manhattan and the fuss everyone made. For a six-year-old it was just one great big adventure, and my Dad was the hero.

Now, 52 years later and having been a runner all my life, I am in awe. The thought of running 42 miles a day in a pair of Adidas Rom for over two months seems incredible.

The only thing I think Dad did wrong was run too fast – he tried to average just under seven-minute miles. There were no headphones, no audio books and hardly any runners in America at the time, so only on a few occasions did people join him. I used to do the first mile of walking with him every morning.

I have an ambition of trying to do the run myself, at a slower pace. Next year is probably my last opportunity, as I’ll be 60 – anyone fancy joining me?