Free Twin Ambitions - My Autobiography by Mo Farah Page B

looked down at my leg. There was blood everywhere. The sharp edge of the gutter had ripped a gash from the top of my thigh all the way down to the back of my knee. I clamped my hand over the wound to stop the blood gushing out.
    My immediate thought was, ‘I can’t let Alan find out.’ I wasn’t even thinking about the county championships at that moment. All I cared about was not getting Alan in trouble. He’d been kind enough to let Mahad and me kick the ball and I worried that he might get the blame for letting us play unsupervised. A few moments later he came rushing out of his office. He must have heard the noise from me falling off the roof. Alan asked me what was going on. I mumbled something about falling over whilst going for the ball. After he helped me clean up the wound, Alan drove me to A&E at West Middlesex Hospital, where I had several stitches in my leg. Once I got the all-clear from the doctor, Alan took me to the athletics club for a meeting with Alex McGee. The look on Alex’s face told me it wasn’t good news.
    ‘No Middlesex Schools for you this weekend,’ he said. ‘You can’t run carrying an injury like that. Out of the question.’
    I was gutted. Missing the Middlesex county championship meant that I wouldn’t make the cut for the English Schools Track & Field that summer in Sheffield. I was doubly determined to win the next English Schools Cross Country race the following March at the County Showground in Newark, a few days before my fourteenth birthday. I gave maximum effort in the build-up and didn’t miss a training session that season. I ran well all year and felt in great shape going into the competition.
    Then I got off to the worst possible start. Someone clipped my heel at the beginning of the race. I tripped, lost my footing, stumbled to the ground. The leading pack took off ahead of me while I scraped myself off the ground. No big deal. I just had to run even faster. There was no way I wasn’t going to win that race. Not after having put so much effort into training.
    At the 1 kilometre mark I was down in twentieth place. I steadily worked my way up the group, picking off the other runners one by one. Winding it up. With less than 1 kilometre left of the course, I caught up with the ten guys leading the race. This time I had learnt my lesson from Weymouth the year before. Instead of kicking on early and wearing myself out, I just kept pace with them. Pushing and pushing, burning off my opponents. I had to fight hard to keep the pace. It was really windy that day and I was running into a hard breeze. But, with 500 metres to go I drew level with the race leader. At 400 metres to go I left him in my shadow and broke clear of the chasing pack. First place was up for grabs. I dug deep, concentrated on holding my position and maintaining my pace. All I had to do now was hold it for another 200 metres, kick on for the last 100, and then the English Schools title was mine.
    All of a sudden, this kid flew past me, going crazy fast. He was wearing the Durham colours. I recognized him immediately. He was a friend of mine, Malcolm Hassan. A Sunderland kid, born and bred. Talked in a northern accent so thick you could almost stir it. There was still 300 metres to the finish line. My first instinct was to kick on and match Malcolm before he won the race, but then I thought, ‘There’s no way he can sustain this all the way to the finish. Don’t panic. Just keep your stride. He’ll burn out.’ I held back, kept my stride and stuck to my race strategy. Two hundred metres to go, and sure enough, Malcolm started losing speed. He’d made the same mistake I did in Weymouth and gone too early. Finally, with less than 100 metres to go, I pulled clear of Malcolm and swept ahead to cross the line. I’d done it. I’d won. I had the English Schools Cross Country title. Then it sank in: I’d be competing for England in the Schools International. I was on a high after that race, absolutely