On the 12th October 2019, Kenyan Eliud Kipchoge ran the first ever sub-two-hour marathon in Vienna. It was thought to be one of the last great barriers in sport and was truly a moment in athletic history.
It is the historical nature of sport that has always enthused me. As a fiction writer, it is wonderful to think that these stories can become embellished with the patina of fiction, as the years pass.
It also gives me great pleasure to look back at the great sporting moments of yesteryear and imagine the stories behind them. My own book, “Gone to the Dogs” deals with a similar theme, but this time in the realm of situation-comedy. For a writer, nostalgia is a powerful driver.
Eliud Kipchoge’s sporting triumph sent me scrabbling around in my pile of books until I finally laid my hands on the “Eagle Sport Annual – No. 6.” As you can see, it is a battered old tome, but to me, it is truly beautiful. In it are some exquisite pieces like; “Patsy Hendren’s Cricket School;” “Meet Johnny Haynes;” and, for a book published in 1957, “Table Tennis – Classic Style.”
I wonder if, whether in fifty or sixty years, whether small boys and girls will gather around stories of Eliud Kapchoge’s running triumphs? Perhaps there will be autobiographies or films or novels of impoverished students running miles to school each day? Will we remember Kapchoge in the same way as Sir Roger Bannister, the great Brazil side of 1970, Red Rum, Mark Spitz, or Jesse Owens? Will those of a certain age become unnecessarily dewy-eyed over the running genius of this legendary Kenyan, Eliud Kapchoge?
I ask because nostalgia feels wonderfully comfortable to me, though even I admit, it is not as good as it once was. Even today, I will defend it bitterly. Was Pele better than Messi? Was Prost better than Hamilton? Was then better than now?
I’m still dealing with my own love of the past, in my fiction. Through my work-in-progress, I am delving into the past of Cornelius Thryke, one of the stars of my own fictional sit-com and novel “Gone to the Dogs.” Maybe I’ll decide that’s where I want to stay, in a world of dubbin, cricket sweaters and retired sports folk running quaint public houses, all with plenty of hearty pipe-smoking thrown in.
Perhaps Eliud Kipchoge would like to join me.