![]() ![]() In the middle of this scrum, Mark and Steve must somehow put their hours in. There are swirly carpets, draught bitters and a canteen doing brisk business in hot suppers (tonight's special: pasta bolognese), and the place is full to the brim with noisy parents here to watch their little darlings run and jump. A visit to the club, which is based at the Alexander Stadium in Birmingham, is an instructive reminder that - although Mark and his ilk now receive Lottery money to help them pursue their dreams - in this country, athletics is still very much an amateur sport. Lewis-Francis is a member of the Birchfield Harriers, the same club as the Olympic gold medal-winning heptathlete Denise Lewis, where he is trained by Steve Platt, a laconic, baggy-eyed, middle-aged engineer from Walsall. One day, the boy from the quiet suburb of Darleston intends to win an Olympic medal for his country. Though he expects to do well - during the team trials, he achieved a personal best time of 10.07 seconds - for Lewis-Francis, a trip north is only the beginning. Already the fastest teenager in the world, this summer he will run in the men's 100m at the Commonwealth Games in Manchester, the most high-profile race of his first full season of senior competition. ![]() His name is Mark Lewis-Francis and he is 19 years old (not really a man at all, then, even if his body - and oh, what a body - does scream otherwise). He eats it up, every stride a giant mouthful. When this man runs, it is as if the track is just so many Shredded Wheat and he merely has a hefty appetite. ![]() He smiles, aware that he is being watched, and, as he slows down, puts his hands on his hips. Will he be able to stop? More to the point, has he even noticed that I am standing in his way? Rather than wait to find out the answers (Lycra on cashmere: it could be messy) I retreat to a nearby patch of grass exactly two nanoseconds before he thrusts his chest forward and his shoulders back - a sign that he has slammed the brakes on his winged feet. The man, whose flapping, sinewy face looks like that of a fighter pilot caught mid-manoeuvre, is hurtling in my direction, a feat he performs with such majestic immediacy I am finding it difficult to stay rooted to the spot. Wrapped in an entirely inappropriate pale blue cardigan, I am standing on the red, springy track at the city's Alexander Stadium, some 175 metre away from a young man who has just launched himself out of a set of starting blocks. An overcast summer evening in Perry Barr, Birmingham. ![]()
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