Race Against Me: My Story

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Born To Run

I was born in Islington, London, April 5th, 1978 and issued with my Government name, Dwain Anthony Watson (Watson being my mother’s surname). My birth took place in the Royal Northern Hospital. I lived with my two sisters, Loraine and Marie. When my mum was carrying me, my real father (Robert Chambers) left the family home. He showed up on the odd occasion afterwards but I can’t ever recall him living at our house. My older sister Christine, who currently lives in Derby, experienced the same treatment as I did by my father: it was a case of here today, gone tomorrow. I also have a brother named Robert who I’ve never met; he lives in Derby as well. Sad to say, Christine and I never met until I was around fifteen. I thought the meeting a bit crazy really. My father had never bothered with me or my other sisters for years and all of a sudden he wanted us to meet. I think it was a bit of a guilt trip or something like that. Surprise, surprise, the happy family syndrome did not last and my real father and I are as distant as ever again.

Thankfully though, the relationship with Christine blossomed and we are still close today.

My stepfather came onto the scene almost as soon as I could remember. Your memories are very vague as a small child but as far as I can recall he has always been around. He is called Lascell Golding. As far as I was concerned he provided for me and he was my dad in the same way as other boys on my estate had a dad. That said, there were an awful lot of single parents, boys without a dad at all. Sometimes I looked upon myself as fortunate, other times I wondered just what it was I had done to make my dad walk out on my mum as I arrived on the scene. These are the thoughts that young boys have when Dad does a runner. Dads that do runners, please take note!

I wouldn’t say I had a happy childhood growing up in the same house as Loraine and Marie, Mum and Lascell. Although Lascell was good to me and Mum and my sisters from a financial point of view, my stepfather and I never really got on when I was young. I think it had to something to do with my stepfather and my real father not seeing eye to eye. I remember a few very strained meetings in the house when Lascell and my real dad were in the same room. As a kid, no matter what your real father has said or done to you he is still your father and there is still a bond there. I must have given Lascell a bit of a hard time and, as young as I was, I was determined that he would never really replace my biological father. I realise now it was all very unfair on Lascell. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I found it in my heart to call him Dad. We now have a very strong and close relationship and I am proud to call him Dad.

He didn’t help his case with his strict upbringing. Man, he was tough. We were hardly ever allowed to play outside as my mother was afraid we would cause trouble. I don’t know where that came from. At the beginning she had no reason to keep me inside the house. The London streets were a lot safer then; no such thing as the knife crime and black on black gang fighting that there is now. I remember being cooped up in my bedroom being told to play with a few games while, from my window, I watched the other kids tear up and down the street.

To be honest, the most fun I ever had was on a Monday when I went with my friends Michael and Anthony Facey and James Davis to the local cubs for a few hours. Red and green tie, grey shorts, knee-high socks and worn-down black plimsolls. Man, what a sight we must have looked. But those two hours were like a breath of fresh air. I enjoyed the supervised activities and mixing with lads of the same age. Mum and Lascell were glad too because they were fairly certain I wouldn’t get into any trouble.

You might think I’m being a little harsh but things were quite difficult for us as kids. Our stepfather was very vocal and spoke his mind. Because of his overpowering presence we never answered back to him; this included my mother. It was the norm in a black family unit at that time. Fathers were in charge, fathers were king of the castle. So for years we would have to keep our mouths shut. This was so frustrating as we were never given the chance to express ourselves. This knocked my confidence for years. I moaned and moaned at my mum to let me out and, if Lascell was out working, occasionally she would let me. Man, what a mistake. Every time I was allowed out of the house I would end up in trouble. I never intended to get in trouble, I was just like a dog off a leash. I went bloody crazy. If only they’d let me out a bit more often.

Anyone who has traditional God-fearing, Christian black parents will understand. They don’t spare the rod. All those bible sayings would come out as I got positively battered for the trouble I brought to their door. At times I would hate my parents for not allowing me and my sisters a chance to be kids and have fun and I would curse them quietly as they doled out the beatings. I understand it now. While I certainly don’t agree with the level and ferocity of some of the beatings, I understand that at the time it was considered normal to batter the shit out of a child. Thankfully most of society seems to have moved on.

As I’ve grown older and become a parent myself I can now understand the stresses and sacrifices both Mum and Dad (Lascell) went through in order to put a roof over our heads. My stepfather worked late and my mother, a nurse, literally had to run from her shift at work to pick me and my sisters up from school. She’d come home, cook, clean, wash and dress us, and put us to bed with a full stomach. For some reason she would always try and get us up to bed before Dad came home. Lascell worked long hours. By all accounts he would return home tired and miserable. Looking back on it, I suppose up in our bedrooms was probably the best place to be. Mum would do all this for us and always seem to be in either a state of panic or stressed to hell. It was a fine balancing act and at the end of each evening she would breathe a sigh of relief. When her alarm clock went off at six the next morning she would start all over again.

Mum and Dad, I take back all the hatred I once directed at you both. I never told you enough but I love you so much. At times I hated our childhood but realise in your own minds there was a method in your madness. It’s finally beginning to make a little sense. I’ve learned a lot from Mum especially. She tried to instil values into us: stick it at school, learn to love books, and respect those around you. Above all, believe in yourself and stand firm in what you think is right.

My mum and Lascell decided to get married. I must have been eight or nine years old at the time. My sister Loraine took my stepfather’s name as he played a better role in Loraine’s life than her real dad did but, even though I can’t really say my real dad did anything for me, I decided to keep my paternal surname Dwain Anthony Chambers. Even at that young age I knew what I wanted and although there were some heated discussions (and a regular hiding or two) Mum allowed me to keep the name Chambers. At the time Lascell didn’t seem bothered either way, but deep down it must have pained him. Here he was bringing up another man’s boy, working all the hours God sends and that’s how I thanked him. Sorry, Dad.

It was around this time that I discovered I could run. Running fast is a gift, something you are born with. No matter how hard you train or whether you have the greatest coach and back-up in the world, if you aren’t made to run fast it isn’t ever going to happen. Even as an eight or nine-year-old growing up in Partington Close, Islington, running the streets with my friends, I was aware that I had something special. At that point in my life I hadn’t even been near an athletics club let alone seen a coach. And yet, getting involved in the skirmishes and scrapes that all boys of that age do, I was acutely aware that not only could I outrun boys of my own age but also the ten- and eleven-year-olds couldn’t get near me either. For fun I would race my mates on their BMX bikes and beat them comfortably. We would laugh about it at the time and my mates would call me a freak. I didn’t care, eight-year-olds, ten-year-old boys on bikes, I simply loved beating them.

And when I ran, whether in a play race or running from the boys from a nearby estate, I was at peace with the world; content, confident in my own ability, simply amazed at how quickly I could pump my little arms and legs when I wanted to. It’s difficult to describe but it was as if I was in another world. The wind rushing past my face, every muscle in my body, every sinew stretched and taut and pushed to the limit. Trees, bus shelters, indistinguishable shapes flying past my face. And that oh so special adrenalin surge when victory was assured, victory in a play race or victory in managing to outsprint the aggressors, the bullies intent on causing me harm.

And as a ten-year-old, in 1988 I remember watching replays of arguably the greatest assembled field for the 100 metre Olympic final. I watched the fastest men in the world in a race against each other. Little did I realise at the time but I was about to watch the most controversial race of all time.

They were all there: Carl Lewis, Ben Johnson, Williams, Mitchell, Calvin Smith, Da Silva and of course our very own Linford Christie. Being the Brit, Linford was of course the man I wanted to win. Little did I know as I watched my hero limber up he would become my agent many years later and during my junior days a newspaper would christen me ‘Little Linford’.

In the minutes preceding the start I couldn’t help being drawn like a magnet to an almost trance-like Canadian sprinter, a man at the top of his game. Ben Johnson was focused, he had tunnel vision of his lane only. His personal tunnel ended 100 metres away in the shimmering Korean haze. Nothing else mattered. He was on his own; the thousands of people in the stadium, the race officials, the other runners were simply not there.

As the gun fired Ben Johnson’s head jerked up and he got one of the best starts of his career. He thundered down the track like a thoroughbred racehorse in a five-furlong sprint. Lewis and Co tried to catch him but were left trailing in his wake and he was never headed as he powered towards the gold medal and a place in history with a new world record time of 9.79. He was even afforded the luxury of slowing slightly as he crossed the finish line and raised his right arm in a victory salute while almost casually flicking a glance towards his great, now defeated rival, Lewis.

My mum Adlith, my stepfather Lascell and I watched in astonishment from the front room of our small terraced house in Islington as Ben Johnson pulled away almost effortlessly from the field. Neither Linford Christie nor Carl Lewis were at the races, so to speak. As I say, the memories are sketchy but I’m told by my mother that we all cheered as Linford Christie breasted past the finish line in third place.

He had won an Olympic medal. The fact that it was bronze didn’t matter. The man, our man, had won a medal at the Olympics; he was now recognized as one of the quickest men on the planet. The memory of that race will stay with me forever. I still watch it to this day on video. And for a few short days Ben Johnson replaced Linford Christie as my hero.

As the Canadian flag fluttered in the late afternoon Seoul breeze, the national anthem ‘O Canada’ rang out round the stadium and a shiver ran the length of my spine. Oh, how I wished God Save the Queen had been playing. Oh, how I wished it was me standing on that podium. I was ten years of age and I discovered I now had an ambition, a goal and a focus in life. While my friends wanted to become footballers, cricketers and astronauts, I had just one wish in life… to stand on that podium with a gold medal hanging from my neck and the Union Jack being hoisted aloft. I wanted to be the fastest man in the world.

Then everything changed.

I remember the announcement on the BBC news. I heard words I had never heard before. Drugs – stanozolol – steroids. Johnson was a drugs cheat and a fraud. I listened in horror as it was announced my hero had been stripped of his medal and his world record. I shook my head in confusion as my father tried to explain. Carl Lewis was promoted to the gold medal position, and Linford Christie awarded the silver. Oh well, at least that’s good for Linford, isn’t it? Suddenly it was Linford Christie who I looked up to.

But then events took another turn for the worse. It turned out that Christie’s urine sample also showed suspect readings. What was going on? I was as confused as a ten-year-old could be and even my dad couldn’t explain it in terms that a small boy would understand. What were drugs and steroids anyway and why were they so bad?

Later Christie was cleared when it became apparent that his readings were as a result of drinking ginseng tea. No further action was taken against him and he was allowed to retain the silver medal from the 1988 Olympics.

The reverberations from that race lasted many years with many fingers being pointed. As recently as 2004 Ben Johnson accused the American sports authorities of protecting American athletes at the expense of foreign ones. Let me just say that that’s a very interesting analogy.

To this day Johnson claims a ‘Mystery Man’ who he names as one André Jackson was the man who put the stanozolol in his food. Good call, Ben, but a few years later you admitted you’d cheated. During a comeback period in 1993 in Montreal he was found guilty of doping again, this time for excess testosterone.

Even as far back as 1988 Ben Johnson (and other athletes) insisted that they used drugs in order to remain on a par with the other athletes on drugs who they were competing against. It bears some weight. Four of the top five finishers of that 100 metre final at the 1988 Olympics have tested positive for banned drugs at some point in their careers. Somewhat unfairly, some may say, that out of these four athletes only Johnson was forced to give up his medal.

I still look back on that race today. No one can take away from Ben Johnson that he was the fastest man around at the time; no one can take away that elation he felt as he crossed the line in front. Many years later he would say:

I did something good in my life. My mom and dad saw me run faster than any human, and that’s it. Better than a gold medal.

I can relate to that, I can understand what drives a man to the ultimate sacrifice. I can understand that drive, the need to run faster and I can understand the temptation Ben Johnson succumbed to. I can understand it because I too relented under that pressure.

But now, just like me, he is ‘the cheat’. He has never recovered; he will always be ‘the cheat’, not the fastest man in the world… ‘the cheat’.

Like me Ben Johnson had his prize money taken away from him and he was stripped of medals he had won. The only difference between Ben Johnson and me is that he made the mistake over and over again. I’ve learned from my past mistakes. Now I run clean. I feel better for it both in body and mind and my conscience is clear.

I was brought up to believe in the Christian Church and its teachings and philosophies; no matter who has wronged me, spoken out against me, ridiculed me on television or in the newspapers I will always give them a second chance. I will always forgive them.

I remember a passage from Matthew; it goes something along the lines of:

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, ‘Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?’ Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.’

There we have it. I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination but I have made just one mistake during my long athletics career. Furthermore I have served my sentence. My mistake has brought my family to the brink of financial ruin and I must live with that forever. Leonie, my partner, has supported me both financially and with unquestioned loyalty. She has backed me every inch of the way. She has forgiven me and I’m sure the Lord has too. What I can’t understand is why others haven’t got it in their hearts to do likewise. I am further disappointed that prominent members of the church haven’t joined in the debate. They have been conspicuous by their absence.

In this book I must explain to you, the reader, why I succumbed to that temptation. I don’t expect you to understand but if my explanation and subsequent conclusions make just one young athlete change their opinion about performance-enhancing drugs then this book has been worth writing.

If I’m totally honest with myself the next eight years were not pleasant ones in the small house in Partington Close. I felt caged and restricted and my relationship with Lascell deteriorated, affecting my relationship with Mum. Poor Mum, what she must have gone through...

Like most youngsters placed in a similar situation I found a release: running and athletics. By now my speed on the streets and the track was beginning to get noticed and I progressed through the various school and minor athletics channels catching the eye of the local coaches.

It was my primary school teacher Dave May who first encouraged me to run in supervised structured races. I wasn’t the world’s greatest scholar and was always getting into trouble with him. My first event was a cross-country race though I don’t recall where. I simply remember how much I hated it. The whole event was too long and there seemed little point. I dare say the boy that came first had a totally different take on the race but, to me, running through mud and shit across the fields and tracks of North London seemed just about the craziest waste of time and effort available. My chest burned, my calf muscles ached and, halfway through the race, I feigned injury on the root of a tree that jutted out above the ground.

I remember sitting by the side of the track thinking shit, what’s all this about. Nevertheless I got my breath back, got a second wind so to speak and finished the gruelling three-mile circuit swearing I would never run again.

In 1991 I was introduced to my first real coach, a guy called Selwyn Philbert; he would become my coach for a number of years. Boy, was he mad! He had me doing all sorts of crazy shit. As a sprinter I had no idea what training was about so when he said run I ran, as simple as that. He was an eccentric, of that there was no doubt, and if you don’t believe me ask any athlete at New River Sports Centre in Haringey about him. But Selwyn Philbert modelled me into a sprinter and believed one hundred per cent in my ability. Selwyn said some nice things about me:

I think Dwain is going to be one of the best 100 metre sprinters Britain has ever seen.2

Although Selwyn was one crazy son of a bitch I can honestly say he focused me and set me on the straight and narrow. It was during my time with Selwyn that I made my mind up as to which career I would follow. I have an unenviable record when it comes to dumping coaches and people who are trying to look after me. I haven’t always made the right decisions and I know I’ve upset a lot of people along the way. Again, I think this stems from my insecurity; my father walking out of my life didn’t help. You try to think you are big and tough and that it hasn’t affected you but deep down inside you know that it has.

At age sixteen my athletics career hit the big time and I became English Schools Intermediates Champion at 100m. I was nearly remembered for something far more embarrassing. I remember that during these championships I had arrived at the competition with the wrong kind of underwear. Normally I would wear boxer shorts but have thigh-length tights over them. The uniform they provided me was simply vest and shorts and I was expected to wear them. I never wear shorts! I slipped my boxer shorts underneath but there was no place for the tights. I started with a few stretches, then a fifty-metre run prior to the race beginning. I was in full flight and something caught my eye! Guess what? I was hanging out! I was so embarrassed. I had to do a quick fix with a few safety pins and half a minute later I became the English Schools Champion with my dignity intact.