The Whitfield Years 1981-1989

[an error occurred while processing this directive] The Whitfield Years 1981-1989 This page last updated: Saturday, 20-Mar-2010 13:22:12 CDT
[an error occurred while processing this directive]

The Whitfield Years 1981-1989

by Kevin O'Kane

As the past recedes at a rate inversely proportional to my speed, some of the big questions in life demand to be answered. What is the nature of man? Who knows. What is the nature of woman? God knows. Is inner peace ever really achievable? No - not while the Whitfield PB's are there to haunt me.

But, going backwards, why does this rivalry endure, years after Ian Whitfield is clearly incapable of further physical confrontation? Perhaps there is something in the past to give a clue.

June 21, 1981:

Ian hasn't run since his schooldays. Over a few post-squash beers, we arrange (well maybe there was a little coercion) to run the Belrose-Davidson Fun Run (8 kms), one of the hilliest of fun runs. I start off at my (then) usual 4 mins/km pace.

At 2km I look into the distance at the leaders, and there's Ian loping along beside them. At 4.5 km I pass Ian wheezing up the 19th hill, his tongue sweeping the dirt between his brand new LDV's. O'Kane 1, Whitfield 0. (That was the last time I was in front.)

January 13, 1982:

At Waverley Twilight Joggers' weekly 3km handicap, I shatter my previous PB, running 10.54. Whitfield runs 10.30. To hell with short runs - I'll marathon him. He's never run a long one.

May 2, 1982:

Harbord Diggers' Marathon, Manly. Drawing on my vast experience (1 previous marathon), I "coach" Ian along, holding him back, knowing I'll take off at 35 kms and leave him a broken and humbled runner. 34km: Ian takes off. I run 3.29, a 25 minute PB. Whitfield runs 3.23. Next time!

May 29, 1983:

Leader 10 km Fun Run, Kogarah. Time to sharpen up, 2 weeks before I take out Whitfield in the Australian Marathon. I let him lead out, but he's never far in front.

9.8 km I surge past his jellied remains. O'Kane 38.13, Whitfield (depositing breakfast in a tasteful technicolour display) 38.15.

June 12, 1983:

Wang Australian Marathon, Sydney. As we're both in good shape, we keep an eye on each other. We stay together to about 35km, when my brother Mick offers us a beer. Mick's like that. At the sound of the word "Tooheys", those long Whitfield legs start pumping. Mine don't. Maybe he'll get tired. He doesn't. O'Kane 3.18, an 11 minute PB. Whitfield 3.13.06. Damn! (Or words to that effect) Next time!

June 9, 1985:

Wang Australian Marathon, Sydney. I'm in just about the best shape of my life. There's no way he'll see me today but, more importantly, his PB is ancient history. I have my 3.10 pacing chart with me. 8 km: I drop Whitfield behind, feeling like I'm floating. So I throw away the chart. The first 10 kms flies by in 42 minutes, as does the second. I go through half way in 88 minutes (8 minutes under my Half PB). The third 10 kms also passes by in 42 minutes.

In my madness, I calculate that I'll run sub-3 if I just run the last 12 kms at four and a half pace.

32 km:On a small rise, I try to lift my legs, but nothing happens. It's going to be a long last 10. My pace slows from 4.2 to 4.5 to 5.0. As reality kneecaps me, my ebbing consciousness focuses on the one really important thing left in life - Whitfield's 3.13 PB.

With 5 kms to go, I only have to run 6 minute/km pace to go under 3.10. "Pleeeease, legs!" I implore. "Get stuffed" they reply. Stuffed was right. I finish the last 2 kms at 7 and then 8 mins/km pace. 3.14.38. ONE PATHETIC MINUTE! Next time!

August 4, 1985:

The City to Surf. The Thursday before, after skiing down through ice and rock at Perisher, I hear a call from an oddly familiar figure in the world's oldest blue balaclava. As I turn towards the noise, on a perfectly flat approach, the front tip catches, and I hear the fibres of my right knee ligaments going their separate ways. Through the fog of pain the sound above my twisted body crystallises "Are you all right, mate. Ha ha ha." Yes, Whitfield. All day Friday on the lodge floor, my ice packed leg in the air. Saturday, and I can put just a little weight on the leg.

Sunday morning, with the knee bandaged so tightly it could not move at all, somehow I limp from the cab to the start. Running on one leg, I hobble up and down the hills surprisingly quickly. At Campbell Parade, there he is! I take a wide line around the unsuspecting Pom and hop frenetically to the finish, 20 seconds in front. The look on Ian's face when he finds out was almost worth the two months on crutches.

January 3, 1987:

Palm Beach to Manly 30kms. It's hot, it's humid and it's Whitfield and O'Kane again. Up and down the hills, first one and then the other leads. 28k: I roar into overdrive past him as we hit North Steyne. He's struggling. 28.5k: He sprints past me. Why does he always do that? 29k: I dig deep and surge back up to him, but he won't let me pass. We both "sprint". Ouch! 29.5k: I look at him, he looks at me - it's agreed. Our first and only dead heat. We're both dead and we're both hot.

March 15, 1987:

Lane Cove River Park. For no good reason, I run the Internal Half Marathon in 89.10, inside Whitfield's 4 year old PB. At least that's one he won't take back.

July 11, 1987:

Bathurst Marathon. I know I'm in 3.10 shape. HIS 3.13 must go. So what happens - a bitter 50 knot wind in our face, that's what! Next time!

July, 1988:

Whitfield sneaks away to the Gold Coast and runs 88 minute Half Marathon. The course must be short. Damn again!

January 14 to 21, 1989:

National Running Week, Thredbo. There's a bottle of champagne on who wins the most races in the week. Starting the last event, it's O'Kane 2, Whitfield 2. The final showdown, the Crackenback Challenge. It might only be 2kms, but it's straight up under the chairlift. So steep that the winner does about 19 minutes. At the start, I use the navigation skills honed on Sunday STaRs, and veer to the track to the left rather than take the steps under the chairlift. When I come out from behind the trees, Whitfield is about 400 metres in front. Smart move, Kevin. After another 20 minutes of lung searing effort, I'm 5 metres behind, but on a narrow track. Nobody runs around those elbows on anything narrower than a six lane highway - he sharpens them before every run. I jog at half pace to the end, with no room to pass, the champagne dribbling sadly away. I hope he had a hangover.

These scenes were repeated many times in the 80's. Ian always went out hard. Sometimes he broke me. Sometimes he broke himself. Maybe (without admissions) he won a few more than he lost - when I wasn't trying. But we were so even that, after a decade of competition, there was still nothing between us - except those PB's.

I've learned a lot about Ian Whitfield over the years. I've learned never to go fishing in a small boat with him, or stand next to him on a T-bar (how many people go up the T-bar in a four foot snowplough?). And I've learned never to go in to bat with him at the other end, unless you enjoy being run out by 5 metres. And I know that he should never be allowed to drink too much - have you ever heard him singing English football songs at 2.00 am after a bottle and a half of good red? But I still can't fathom how those ungainly arms and legs could possibly propel him along a road at a speed faster than I can manage.

Rivalry? Certainly, but why? What does it matter whether or not I can beat a few old times? Is it just my way of fighting back the approach of middle age - to show that I'm still what I was, physically? Perhaps, but probably not. Is it a function of common aims, abilities, experiences? Getting closer. But really, it's just plain, old fashioned male competitiveness - the need to put an obviously inferior athlete in his place. No, I won't rest until I can ensure his grovelling acceptance of my ultimate superiority as a distance runner.

So, if you see me staring vacantly ahead in a race or on an early morning run, it's not the scenery I'm looking at. It's the ghost of a tall Pom with greying hair, two taped knees and a few extra pounds. And I'm going to get those PB's yet - next time!

Postscript

April 14, 1995:

Canberra. My training with the Marathon Training Group keeps me on course for a 3.10 in the marathon, although the Group members seem puzzled by my target time of 3.13.05. My training goes too well. 10 days before the marathon, and I haven't had an injury since I started training 6 months before. But that old oil filled heater just needed to be put out - no worries, the stiffness in my back would soon go away. 14k's into the marathon, and it feels ridiculously easy, even though I'm on target. The first back spasm comes at 15kms. The second half takes more than half an hour longer than the first, with a huge fade to 3.43. I try to hide as I struggle to the line, but as I cross it, there he is. "You don't look too good. Ha ha ha." All right Whitfield, just you wait until ............NEXT BLOODY TIME! [an error occurred while processing this directive]