Running: The Autobiography (2 page)

1

GETTING THE BUZZ

‘Wednesday, four miles, 30 minutes, six x 400m, off 30-second recovery, times of reps was 72 secs, 71 secs, 70, 72, 73, 71.’

‘Oi, Ron, get up!’

‘Ah, Dad, give us a break, I’m knackered.’

‘Come on, son, time for a lovely little run. You know you want it.’

Jesus. I was about 12 when I started running. Dad made me run, and it was like the Chinese water torture. I hated it. I was always talking about leaving school early to play snooker. And Dad said, you’ve got to be disciplined about it – you’ve got to go to bed early, do your three-mile run every day, keep fit. Healthy body, healthy mind. He said if I was physically fit I’d be able to focus better when I went down the snooker club. Dad realised I was already capable of winning little tournaments if I could have the edge of being fit. Back then snooker players didn’t bother with fitness. The opposite, in fact. Hurricane Higgins would always have a fag on the go, and a pint of Guinness at his side. The Canadian Big Bill Werbeniuk even got a sick note from the doctor saying that he had to drink beer when he was playing to control the tremor in his arm. That
was his excuse anyway. As for all the up-and-coming kids, most of them spent their time playing fruit machines and gambling rather than keeping fit.

Sometimes when I ran, Dad followed me round in the car. It was horrible. I was always a bit scared of him – certainly too scared to say no to him. But there was sense in what he was saying. I wasn’t fast, but I was okay – I was a bit porky, but I could get round three miles easily enough, and keep going.

In the end I stayed on at school till I was 16, when I turned professional. I also kept up with the daily three-milers. Not that I had any choice. But it all changed when Dad got banged up for murder. As soon as he was charged I stopped running and training. I stopped doing everything really. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. My mind was elsewhere. I couldn’t believe what was happening to my world, or that my dad could be charged with murder – let alone be guilty. I was in pieces. Then he came out on bail, and he insisted I went back to the old routine.

‘Just because I’ve been away is no excuse for you to stop the running, is it, Ron?’

No excuse? What, he’s been in nick for months, I’m in pieces for what the police say he’s done to some poor fella, and he’s having a go at me for not having a jog. Bloody cheek.

‘No, Dad,’ I muttered.

‘Right, let’s go, son.’

So I got my running shoes on, he got the car out and stalked me for three miles.

Bloody hell. I thought I was going to die. All it takes is a few months off the pace, and it’s like you’ve never run in your life. My heart was going like crazy, my legs didn’t belong to me and my feet were already blistering.

‘See, not that bad, was it, Ron,’ Dad said with a huge grin.

‘No, not bad,’ I puffed. Not bad, my arse.

But Dad was right about body and mind. When I ran my snooker was better, and I did better in pro-ams, where both amateurs and professionals compete. Pro-ams are a long day; you’d get picked up at eight in the morning, get home at midnight if you got through to the final, and you had to keep focused throughout. Somehow, when I wasn’t running, my mind wandered all over the shop.

Also, weirdly, running helped me with my sweating problem. I’ve always been a hairy fella, and I’d find myself sweating under my arms, through jumpers and shirts. It was horrible; embarrassing. I found that when I wasn’t running my armpits were squirting like the Trevi Fountain. If I wasn’t running, I’d forever be in the toilets, drying my pits under the heater. As soon as I started again the problem would disappear. I sweated while running but afterwards I was fine. It’s like a detox – it just flushes the shit out of you. There were other advantages to running, too. My legs wouldn’t rub together and cause me chafing hell because they were slimming down.

Dad was in custody for nine months, and then he came out on bail, and the first thing he said was, you’ve got to start with your running again. I’d put on a bit of weight, but not changed drastically – except in my attitude. I’d become a procrastinator: ‘I can’t be bothered, I’ll do it tomorrow.’ So I started running again while he was out, and then when he was finally convicted for murder that was it. Boom! The end. I fucked it off for about six years. I swapped running for bingeing – on drink and drugs.

I knew I was losing it but I didn’t realise I was turning into a right porker. By the time I was 20, I’d got myself up to 15½ stone, a 37½-inch waist, and I could have fitted two 15-year-old Ronnies in my playing pants. I’d become huge – a rhinoceros of
a fella – and I wasn’t even aware of it. I just naturally grew into it, and nobody said anything to me about it.

I was out one night at a club with a mate, and someone said to this girl: ‘That fella’s Ronnie O’Sullivan.’

She looked at us and said, ‘Is he the fat one or the skinny one?’

I was like, well, I know I’m not the skinny one because this geeza I was with was skinny. And I just thought, fuck, I must be fat. I’d never thought of myself as fat at all. It hadn’t even crossed my mind. But that really hit home. If I could see the woman now I’d thank her and shake her hand and say, you’ve done me a massive favour. The next day I started training. I felt heavy, slobbish, gross, and I knew I had to sort it out.

So I started running regularly and got my weight down to a decent level. I lost three stone, and felt so much better for it. I’d had a big wobbly belly and now I’d started showing muscles. Wow! That was a mad feeling because it seemed to happen overnight. Until then, I couldn’t see any results. Then one day, after about three months, I looked in the mirror and thought, fuckin’ hell, I don’t recognise that bloke. It was 1997, I was 22, and now I’d gone from 15½ to 12½ stone. Result!

I kept the running up for six to seven years. There were times when my head was in pieces – too many times to remember, to be honest – but I always think it would have been that much worse if I’d been doing no exercise. I’d go down the gym, run, get a swim in, play football occasionally. But nothing extreme. It was just a way of keeping myself in decent nick.

Then, in 2004 I started serious running. Competitive running. A mate of mine, Alan, who I ran with at the gym, said, come up to the running club, see if you like it. I was, like, alright, even though I didn’t know anybody, and I’m shy by nature. I got to know a few of the lads there – they were a
friendly bunch and said, d’you want to meet up on Sunday, we’ll do a long run.

I was world champion at the time, but not in the best of spirits. I’d been in the Priory, come out, been clean for nine months, which was wonderful. I went to meetings every day – drug addiction, alcohol addiction – and I was feeling fantastic. I was reborn. I couldn’t believe it. I was getting up in the morning, running, eating healthy food.

My life was good. I felt fit, fresh, alert. And that was all because of going to Narcotics Anonymous and getting structure to my days. Good structure. And because I was enjoying my snooker more my game was getting better and better, more like it was when I was a youngster.

I went to the meetings every night, and I was reminded where my addictions could take me. I kept away from all the nutters who were likely to tempt me, and got my head down on the pillow early every night so there was less chance of me weakening. I used Narcotics Anonymous as a drop-in centre, to stay around people who weren’t using. And by 10.30 p.m. I’d be ready for bed anyway. It was that tricky time between 6.30 and 10.30 p.m. that was most tempting. I’d think, I’m bored, I’ve played snooker, done what I’ve had to do, I’ve got this three-hour gap to fill, what now? And that’s when the meetings were so brilliant. They were perfect – I’d go to them, have a cup of tea, sit there, listen to what everyone had to say, say my little bit, have a cup of tea after, go for coffee. It was the company more than anything that helped.

I knew I didn’t have the strength to say no to drink and drugs for ever. I was always tempted, and after nine months I gave in to that temptation. After that, every so often I’d go on a bender. I kept dipping into it now and again. Going on a bender here and there – a lot of puff, and I could get through
15 pints of Guinness a night. It sounds a lot, but it isn’t really when you’re on the other stuff. You could drink all night if you were taking drugs, then you’d take more drugs because you were drinking. I loved a joint. The only problem with a joint is that one spliff follows another, and another, and then you get the munchies and you eat everything in the fridge, and put on loads of weight.

At the end of the night I’d go to someone’s house, start smoking, and, boom! I felt good. Great! I knew I didn’t want to get back on the constant drinking and drugging benders, but also I knew I didn’t have the strength just to say no, never again. Then every now and then you’d have a night where you got a bit out of hand and you’d go, fuckin’ hell what’s happened now, and you’d think about all the stuff you learnt in the Priory about addiction, and you’d feel ashamed of yourself.

After my first bender, I got clean again for three to four months, and then went on another bender. It became a pattern. I thought, lovely: so long as I was going to my meetings, and was just dipping in and out, I’d be fine – it was just a bit of a release I was after. And, after all, the damage wasn’t that bad – I’d justify it to myself, tell myself it was just the occasional drink or joint and so long as I wasn’t doing it every day. But, of course, I was deluding myself because the reality was I was hooked on it.

At my worst I had to have a joint first thing in the morning just to function. Without it, I felt paranoid, uneasy in myself. So I thought, if I can keep the benders to once every two, three, four months and then have a blast. But loads of the time, the snooker got in the way of my benders rather than the other way round. It was as if I was in training for the benders. It was my Olympics. Every four months I’m going to get totally wasted. I’d tell myself that was a good reason to stay clean, you’ll enjoy it more, you’ll deserve it.

I’m not really sure how I managed to get through the drugs tests during this period. I remember getting to every World Championship and thinking, I can’t wait till this tournament is over ’cos then there’s no more drugs tests, there’s nothing for three months, so I can go out and smash it. I’d got caught once early on in my career, but that’s all. I’d get tested between events, and I was just trying to judge it perfectly so there’d be no drugs left in my system, but I was pushing my luck.

My mum said to me, ‘You’re going to get caught soon. You can’t carry on like this.’

I said, ‘No, I’ll be alright. As long as I don’t overdo it and stop a week before the tournament I’ll be fine.’

In the end it took a new addiction to knock the drink and drugs on the head. Running. So Alan got me to go to the club. I still run with him now – he’s 50 and killing me at the moment. He’s probably running 10 kilometres in 36 minutes just now, but he’s one of the best vets in Essex.

I’d had a bit of a bender and saw Alan at the gym. He took a look at me, and could tell I wasn’t at my best.

‘What’s up with you, Ronnie?’

‘Ah, you know, Alan, bit of a night last night.’

‘Looks like more than a bit to me,’ he said.

I didn’t answer.

‘You alright, Ron?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I thought you were doing your NA and all that.’

‘Yeah, I am.’

‘Well, I’m sure massive benders aren’t part of your twelve steps, are they?’ He’d sussed me. Anyone else, I’d think they were taking a liberty, but he said it so kindly. I knew he was just thinking of me.

I smiled at him – bit of a stupid smile, really, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘Come on, Ronnie, come for a run with me. You don’t need all this booze and stuff. Fresh air, get your heart pumping, serotonin, that’s what you need.’

I did about five, six miles and it killed me.
Killed
me. Then he introduced me to the athletics club, Woodford Green in Essex, which is quite famous as it happens. Until then the only running I’d done was by myself or with a few fellas at the gym. And once I’d been to the running club for about two months I ran at the gym with normal members, and the other guys couldn’t believe how fast I was.

The first time I went down the club I was a bit shy. I didn’t say much, did my bit and sneaked off. But the runners were really friendly, and after two or three times they’d introduce themselves, and I’d go to the bar and have a glass of orange with them after we’d killed ourselves on the track. A few of them recognised me, but they didn’t seem that interested in who I was. We never spoke about snooker; it was all running. Everyone left their job at the door. It was just about racing; who’s running well. If you were into running, Tuesday night at the track was just the best thing.

There’d be 50 to 60 people on the track, running all kinds of distances, and javelin-throwers, shot-putters, long-jumpers, all sorts, and I just thought, blimey, there’s so much going on here. Everyone had their own little group.

I’ve always tended to keep my head down when I’ve been out to places. People will recognise me, come up and talk to me. You get used to it. I don’t mind people chatting to me, it’s just when they start driving you mad and you think: ‘Oh, mate, give it a rest!’, and before long they do your head in. But this place was different. Just gentle chit-chat, encouraging you
to run better. Eventually, once you got to know them, you’d get the odd one who might say: ‘How are you doing with the snooker, Ron? I watch you’, but generally they weren’t interested. It was just times, races and who had decent form.

My first race was 3,000 metres, seven and a half laps on the track; 10.06 minutes was my time. I’ve only done it once, so it’s my personal best. One of the coaches on the side was saying: ‘Stay on his shoulder, stay on his shoulder’, so I did. I was about 40 to 50 metres behind the next fella, and they meant use the one in front, to push yourself, then I’d come round for the next lap and he’d say: ‘Push on now, Ron, push on to the next group’, so I’d push on and I was thinking, I ain’t got it in me, but I just found this speed. I thought, if the coach believes in me I must have it. So I went on and he’d be: ‘Get on the next one, get on the next one now’, so I’d push on to the next one, and by then I’d made up 40 to 50 metres, and on the final lap I was up with three of the faster boys and I remember just finding a sprint down the last 100 metres and I beat a couple of the runners who I would have never dreamt of getting in front of. So I surprised myself.