The Story of the 4 Minute Mile

However ordinary each of us may seem, we are all in some way special and can do things that are extraordinary, perhaps until then even thought impossible. 

Thus starts Roger Bannister’s charmingly modest account of his historic achievement The First Four Minutes, the basis for an unforgettable Oxford Playhouse promenade performance (if that’s the term for such a pacy production).  

And neatly structured to match the four circuits which make a mile run, the setting is the very track where history was made nearly sixty years ago.

Our first lap takes us to a childhood of bomb-damage and rationing in 1950s Oxford.  But the injury was deeper – we were a limping, fading power, fondly looking back at our colonial peak on the world’s podium.  But for our narrator Michael, glued to dancehall on his new wireless, only one thing mattered – and it sure wasn’t someone trying to die by running a mile in under four minutes.  He went courting in Shotover Park and missed the whole thing!

The second circuit evoked the excitement of the day itself – Jack’s radio commentary breathlessly ran through the ever-tightening race to break the elusive barrier.  But as the Bannister character dipped in and out, it was soon apparent that even such a seemingly personal achievement was actually a team effort, relying heavily on the pace-making skills of fellow runners. 

Our third time round brought us to the present day, with Mara preparing us for this country's greatest ever sporting event, the London Olympics this August (more of which in later blogs!).  An intense contrast with Bannister - new black and female, she also represented the frustrated ambition of most professional athletes, an anathema to the ‘amateur’ Bannister, who wanted to be remembered for his contributions to neurology.

But what of the all-important fourth lap?  A nice twist - we got to run it ourselves!  There was no ash track or hard leather spikes to slow me, but I still took 1 minute 14 seconds to run a single lap.  At least a late sprint gave me the honour of heading the pack (and painful elbows to this day).

I came out buzzing – impassioned by the inspiring story, and the message that if only we try hard enough, we too might achieve what seems impossible.

Yet as I got my breath back in my new house just 4 minutes stroll up Iffley Road, I wondered if the story could be just that - a myth?

Google ‘four minute mile’ and you’ll find beautifully understated BBC archive footage.  Surprisingly though, you won’t find much else on the athletic achievement – today’s appreciation comes from life coaches, management gurus and motivational speakers.  Airports full of self-help books now try to universalize his feat (and feet).

Their theme is that it was Bannister’s power of positive thinking that led him to break his barrier – and you too can achieve your dream, as long as you have faith! 

The story goes that everyone at the time believed a sub-four minute mile was impossible, or at least lethal.  Yet as soon as Bannister did it, others quickly followed.  You see, it was possible all along, it just needed him to show it, and then the barriers tumbled.

Convincing – but actually nonsense.  From his own candid account, it is clear Bannister was no spiritual dreamer.  His efforts owe more to natural physique, hard-headed application of physiology and a specific strategy for training and pacing – plus a dose of good fortune with the weather, with the wind dropping just before the race.

Neither was he alone - Bannister’s rivals were equally convinced the barrier could be broken - this was simply a race to be first. 

The fact that people only succeeded after him is tautological - if he got there first, by definition others could only follow.  What’s more, both minutes and miles are totally arbitrary – if they happened to be defined differently, someone else would have arrived first at whatever alternative but equally artificial record was set. 

So, sadly, I have to conclude that the magic of the four minute mile is something of a fable. 

But even without the mysticism, I don’t doubt the achievement - Bannister’s triumph nearly 60 years ago at the running track I pass every day was truly momentous.  Let’s hope the spirit of this great man will be remembered as the records tumble this summer.

Beer: the perfect ingredient?

The recipe for success is a delicate balance.            


Water is essential, but Harviestoun’s alone filters through the granite Ochil hills.  Quality lowland barley is equally vital, but is only as good as the carefully cultivated yeast for its germination.  



And without beautifully bitter hops, your real ale is just another mediocre lager - which, lacking the magic herb's preservatives, may go off (if you can tell the difference).

We really do appreciate the work and waiting to perfect this subtle combination.  Yet still our eyes glaze over – before we’ve tasted a drop!

In fairness we’re a hard audience:  this is the tenth time we’ve learned the brewing process, grist to the mill of our annual beer weekends. 

And maybe this isn’t ‘purist’ enough: if you add salts to your water, oats to your barley, even lager to your range of ales – and base yourself in a soulless industrial unit - well, for us it’s hard to swallow. 

Yet Iain is an enthusiastic and generous host, soothing sharp questions with honesty and pragmatism – and our thirst with generous tastings.  We all adore a beautiful blond, and Bitter & Twisted is a worthy Champion Beer of Britain.  The fruity zing of Wild Hop pale ale makes it my favourite.  And we jump at the chance to sample the dark, rich Old Engine Oil stout – though a few drops are enough!

Tasting continues into the evening, with Stirling’s surprisingly rare supplies of real ale drained by our rapacious thirst for education and enlightenment.  An hour in a sports bar to witness Chelsea’s triumph is 60 minutes of wasted ale-appreciation, but we end on an high note in the comfort of the Porthcullis Hotel, tired but happy after a fulfilling day.

Yet whilst necessary, good beer in itself is not sufficient to make the weekend. 

Location is crucial, and over the years we’ve been fortunate to balance Stirlingshire and the Lothians with Cumbria and North Yorkshire - with Oxfordshire now on our list.  Good accommodation helps, this time in Stirling’s impressively-situated and imposing youth hostel.   

Food, whilst secondary to drink, is also part of the mix - a welcome pizza sets us up for the evening, whilst Sunday begins with an indecisive tour of coffee shops, our selection criteria as shaky as our stomachs - but we finish strongly, with a stonkingly good pub lunch in the sunshine at Sheriffmuir.

This, of course, follows that other key element - the morning-after walk, without which the weekend just isn’t complete.  This time Rick does us proud with a cracking hike giving clear views across the Firth of Forth and ample chance to stretch legs and clear heads.

Yet all this would be for nothing without the most important ingredient of all:  friends. 

And what a cracking collection!  Nick, Dick, Mox and Me may sound like a children’s book, and we do indeed go right back to schooldays, with welcome additions Chris (once, so far), Gareth and our latest rookie Christian.  Nick successfully added Scoff (sadly missed this time), Andy and Mike to the mix – and of course Tim:  sometimes key ingredients just cannot be sourced locally.  

This easy mix generates a relaxed camaraderie – a natural understanding developed through studying our subject together over many years.  Conversation includes love, laughter and livelihoods (what is it you actually do - again?), not to mention the perennial musing on what makes the mix come together so well – and to what extent the elements can be changed (wives and girlfriends next time? - only joking!).

As the gentle haze of the weekend lifts, I see clearly that the ingredients for a good beer weekend are as varied and complex, and sometimes as difficult to define, as those for the brew itself. 

This weekend though, I think we found the perfect recipe.

An Englishman’s Home

I'm not materialistic, nationalistic or sexist - but can you blame me for thinking an Englishman’s home is his castle?

After all, for the last 6 months Katja and I have lived in one small room in East Oxford. 

Our expectations were low after living in wooden shacks, and having been far apart we just craved being together.

Believe me, if you live in just one room, you truly get close!  If I wanted to reach the kettle, bed or desktop without leaving my chair, I was in the right place.  If I wanted an excuse to share bodily warmth, two single-glazed windows and a humble heater helped.  At least it was cosy at Christmas.

We didn’t worry about bills, and it was all seriously cheap – allowing me the luxury of turning down a well-paid but soul-destroying job in London to hold out for something better and nearer to home.  

Nor did we have any ties – we were free to take off around the world if we wanted.   We even got to meet ‘interesting’ people, who generously provided a free and uninterrupted supply of environmental cannabis smoke.

So yes – it was basically a scruffy, cramped bedsit.  

Katja and I love each other deeply, but when one bounces in from work whilst the other is sleeping off a night shift – well, one room is just not enough.

Sharing a bathroom with semi-domesticated tenants isn’t ideal either.   And living a few feet above a sociopathic neighbour from hell can be a little wearing.

It wasn’t so much the shabbiness, as much as the inability to do anything about it.  You’ll probably never get round to it, but isn’t enduring frayed carpets and rotten windows easier if you at least have the freedom to change them?

Living on the top floor of a block of flats with only one escape route is worrying enough, without having a dodgy landlord who saves money on little luxuries like working fire alarms.

And all the while I was using up any remaining fraternal love by storing an immodest number of books and other junk in my long-suffering brother’s loft.

So here we are – as of last month, we are the proud owners of a lovely little two-up two-down in Harold Hicks Place, east Oxford – and we just love it.

To be honest I’ve never been that bothered about buying my own house – what’s wrong with renting?  And if Tories espouse a home-owning democracy then I’ll likely lodge out of principle. 

And being a proud owner-occupier is certainly not without its challenges.  For a start, all those bills the landlord used to pay (or dodge) are now our personal responsibility.  When the boiler breaks, roof collapses or – as happened last week –a tree falls in front of your door – it’s now my problem.

Then the monthly repayments kicked in.  Getting a £250k mortgage was hard, so maybe I didn’t scrutinize smiley Santander’s smallprint showing that with interest we’ll eventually pay a total of £365k.  Isn’t that a whopping mark up?  My knowledge of French should have made me question if matching death (mort) and a pledge (gage) is really wise.

It’s a time-consuming business too, even briefly delaying the steady stream of blogs.  Please somebody put me out of my misery if I start Sunday worshipping in home interior stores.

Ah, but it’s actually bliss.  There really is something deeply, atavistically satisfying in coming home from hunting a salary to the comfort of my own home – and hoisting the drawbridge behind me (even if it’s more of a cave than a castle at present).

I’ve even enjoyed some of the mundane homeowner tasks – getting our very own recycling bin from the council was a relished victory, and personal, functioning broadband is bliss.  I particularly enjoyed exercising my right to switch energy suppliers, and now glory in the green glow of Ecotricity.

The little garden is also just wonderful – small and north-facing it may be, but it still houses a couple of budding trees, the odd squirrel, and a testily territorial blackbird and his missus (or should it be brownbird and her mister?).  I regularly stay out there for literally minutes at a time, balancing the risk of hypothermia with the joy of sitting in my own backyard.

Buying a house may sound unexceptional.  But the truth is I feel extraordinarily happy and truly thankful that we have now moved – to a place of our own.