The Race of My Life (7 page)

returned to India, chastened by my poor performance in Melbourne. I had been so excited by the prospects of being part of the Indian Olympics team, but naïvely, hadn’t realized how strong and professional the competition would be. My success in India had filled me with a false sense of pride and it was only when I was on the track that I saw how inconsequential my talents were when pitted against superbly fit and seasoned athletes. It was then that I understood what competition actually meant, and that if I wanted to succeed on the international arena, I must be prepared to test my mettle against the best athletes in the world. I remembered Charles Jenkins’ advice that it was only through regular and rigorous practice that a sportsman can improve his technique and build his stamina. In my determination to avoid failure, I set myself a goal to work towards, that is, to transform myself into a running machine.

Between 1956 and 1957, my primary mission in life was to excel in running. The track, to me, was like an open book, in which I could read the meaning and purpose of life. I revered it like I would the sanctum sanctorum in a temple, where the deity resided and before whom I would humbly prostrate myself as a devotee. To keep myself steadfast to my goal, I renounced all pleasures and distractions, to keep myself fit and healthy, and dedicated my life to the ground where I could practise and run.

Running had thus become my God, my religion and my beloved.

My life during those two years was governed by strict rules and regulations and a self-imposed penance. Every morning I would rise at the crack of dawn and after the usual ablutions, would get into my sports kit and dash off to the track, where I would run two or three miles cross-country, in the company of my coach. After the run I would do stretching exercises to develop my muscles.

I followed a similar routine in the evenings—running a couple of miles, jogging between races, and then there would be a period of cooling down. No matter what the weather was, I would practise for five hours every morning and evening, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. It was this disciplined routine that moulded me into the athlete I became. Running had become such an obsession that even when asleep, I would run races in my dreams.

To further build my stamina and strengthen my muscles, I would run long stretches on the sand, or wherever possible, do hill running by going up and down mountain slopes. Three days a week I would lift weights to strengthen my arms, legs and stomach. Sometimes I would play vigorous games like hockey, football or handball, all with the end goal in sight.

I practised so hard and so strenuously that often I was drained of all energy and looked pale as death when the session was complete. There were times when I would increase my speed to such an extent that after my rounds, I would vomit blood or drop down unconscious through sheer exertion. My doctors and coaches warned me, asked me to slow down to maintain my health and equilibrium, but my determination was too strong to give up. My only focus was to become the best athlete in the world.

I recall my practice sessions during the hot summer months of May and June at the National Stadium in Delhi, when temperatures would rise to as high as 45 degrees Celsius. My friends thought I was mad taking such risks, but I refused to let their remarks or the weather daunt me. I would run round after round under the blistering sun and when I would pause for a rest, I could feel the heat radiating from my body and my vest would be dripping with sweat. I would then pull it off and wring it dry into a bucket. By the time I had finished my practice, the bucket would be filled with my sweat, and I would be lying prostrate on the ground, totally exhausted. In desperation I would cry out, ‘
Wahe-Guru, ais wari mainoo bachha lo aur main aae phir kadi nahi karanga
! (Oh God, save me this time and I will never do this to myself again!)’ But then images of packed stadiums filled with cheering spectators, wildly applauding me as I crossed the finishing line, would flash across my mind and I would start again, encouraged by visions of victory.

I had learnt the hard way that the road to success would not be easy, and that I would encounter many obstacles and barriers along the way. Yet, I had intentionally embarked upon this difficult journey, driven by my desire to succeed. At heart, I was still that impoverished boy who ran to school in his bare feet and who had courageously fought with fate to become what he is today.

My perseverance and tenacity were relentless. Besides, I firmly believed that if a person works hard and sincerely, his efforts would be rewarded. My coach during these years was Ranbir Singh, who would observe my every move and action to see that I adhered to the programme he had prepared.

In my experience, the relationship between a coach and a trainee has to be based on extreme trust. He is your guide, your mentor and also your sternest critic. A coach should be a hard taskmaster as well and discipline you if the need arises; after all, it is he who controls your career as an athlete. All the coaches who have trained me, including Gurdev Singh, Baldev Singh, Ranbir Singh and Dr Howard, have been sources of great inspiration and motivation for me. In fact, it was because of Dr Howard’s motivation that I won the gold at Cardiff. I will always be grateful to them.

My strenuous training programme had to be supplemented by a balanced, high-protein diet to make up for the nutrients lost during practice. I avoided fatty substances like butter and ghee, and instead, drank glasses of milk and ate plenty of green vegetables, fruit, eggs, fish and lean meat. I would never eat the same meals every day, but would vary the ingredients and combinations to help digestion. There is nothing more ruinous than a sportsman with diarrhoea.

One of the maxims I have always followed was early to bed and early to rise, because rest and sleep help raise energy levels. I lived an austere, almost monkish life, abiding by the rules I had set for myself. I shunned late nights and never indulged in bad habits like smoking, drinking or too much caffeine—I have seen the impact such addictions have had on athletes, how they affect speed and reduce muscle power.

As my fame grew, so did the attention I received from my fans, both men and women. Huge crowds would follow me wherever I went, and often I would find that the girls outnumbered boys. At times their boldness would embarrass me, but there were also moments when I would feel flattered by their admiration. But one of my rules was to avoid any close relationships with the opposite sex. Starting a romance in those days was not an option for me; I did not want any complications in my life then. I was convinced that I didn’t want any distractions that would keep me away from my goal. Besides, I was still young, and in no hurry to find my soul mate.

I had the full support of the army during these years when my demanding practice routine had taken over my life. My regiment gave me extra food and milk and I was exempted from the regular military duties so that I could concentrate on my training. My victories made my regiment very happy, more so because by setting new records, I was also bringing glory to the armed forces.

n 1957, my career was an unbroken record of victories. I participated in all the usual sports tournaments, ranging from regimental events to all-India meets, establishing new all-India records. At the Bangalore National Games, I won both the 400- and 200-metre races, clocking 47.5 seconds for the former and 21.3 seconds for the latter. As a result, my name became well known throughout the country, not only in sports circles but also in every home.

The next year, 1958, was a glorious one for me, one that I firmly believe was the year of my destiny. My coach was an American called Dr Howard, who taught me an advanced technique of taking a start. Once again, there was the usual cycle of events. My demanding routine had brought the expected results and I was now a running machine, breaking the records I had set the previous year—clocking 46.2 seconds for 400 metres and 21.2 seconds for 200 metres—at the National Games held at the Barabatti Stadium in Cuttack. Other runners lagged far behind me. Seemingly, I had broken the previous Asian record in 400 metres, but I found my new record hard to believe and requested the National Games’ organizing committee to measure the track again. They did so and I was assured that my timings were correct.

My new record had created a stir not only in India but also throughout Asia. I intensified my practice, bearing in mind that the 1958 Asian Games in Tokyo were due to take place a few months later. Although the Indian contingent was large, all eyes were fixed on me.

In May, our team left Calcutta for Tokyo. I was thrilled to have been given a chance to visit Japan, a country I admired for the tenacious way they had rehabilitated themselves after the devastation wrought by the Second World War. When we landed at Tokyo airport, our eyes were dazzled by the brightness of the multicoloured lights. The puddles of water that had collected after a recent shower glowed with the reflection of the lights as well. As we deplaned, we saw hordes of reporters, press photographers and cameramen waiting outside. They had heard that Milkha Singh had arrived, but wanted to know who he was. In response, India’s chef-de-mission, Ashwini Kumar, presented me to the press, saying, ‘This is Milkha Singh.’ Cameras flashed and microphones were thrust before me as I was surrounded by dozens of reporters. I was made to stand in front of the other athletes as a newsreel was shot. Fortunately, I did not have to answer any of the questions that I was bombarded with—they were all taken care of by Mr Kumar and Baldev Singh, our coach.

I boarded the deluxe bus, still bemused by the reception I had received. Our bus was escorted by two smart young men, dressed in black outfits and white caps, riding motorcycles, with lights flashing and sirens blaring as we raced through the city. When we reached Diatchi hotel, the place we were staying, hordes of people had gathered outside, waiting for me. I was mobbed when I got off the bus, some people even thrust autograph books at me. Suddenly, Mr Kumar was at my side. He grabbed my arm and led me away, saying, ‘Please don’t get distracted by all this. Concentrate on your practice and the event. I have collected the autograph books and you can sign them in your room. I will return them to their owners.’ He then turned to the crowds and said, ‘I request you all to please excuse us so that the athletes can settle down in their rooms and rest after their long journey.’

When we entered the hotel, the receptionist greeted us, saying, ‘We have received many telephonic enquiries about Milkha Singh. Kindly give us a time when we can hold a press conference.’

Mr Kumar replied, ‘We have just arrived after a long journey and are tired, so at this moment it will not be possible for Milkha Singh to meet anyone. We request all well-wishers to excuse us for now. If they can come to the hotel tomorrow morning at 11, Milkha Singh will be at their disposal.’

My roommate on this trip was Parduman Singh, who had for many years been the Indian and Asian champion for shot-put and discus. We were both gratified by the affection that we had received but could not understand why this was so.