Mo Farah on life in Trump’s America and the separation that shaped his life
Born in Somalia and raised in Britain, Farah has lived in the US since 2011. The distance runner reveals why he was nervous about returning following Trump’s immigration order and the trauma of being separated from his twin
Last month, Mo Farah – usually described, since he won gold in the 5,000-metre and 10,000-metre events at both the London and Rio Olympics, as Britain’s greatest athlete – ran into Hong Kong for a few days. He’d been invited by Credit Suisse to appear at the 20th anniversary of its Asian Investment Conference and, as part of the celebrations, participants were given the opportunity to accompany him on a morning jog. And so, painfully early one morning, while the sun was still loitering in its bed, a small group of people began to gather on Bowen Road.
Those taking part weren’t just random sprinters. Credit Suisse didn’t want a two-speed race and when the invitation went out, it had to be serious runners who applied. “Serious” in this case – explained one of the Credit Suisse organisers – meant someone who could run a mile in 4½ minutes. Or maybe it was a kilometre in 4½ minutes. A dawn discussion ensued among a few statistically wobbly non-runners. (It was a kilometre.) Whatever the definition, Mo – as everyone referred to him – was going to be quicker.
As the participants arrived, they were offered a Credit Suisse T-shirt printed with the company logo and the words “Run With Sir Mo Farah”. “For branding,” as someone helpfully remarked. Being already clad in running gear, most declined. Credit Suisse water bottles were handed round. The sky lightened, revealing groups of senior citizens contorting themselves into various shapes as they exercised, unbrandedly, under the trees.
Soon, a convoy of three enormous cars drew up and out of one of them hopped a slight man in a tracksuit clutching a cup of coffee. No matter how much you’ve read about his size, the physical minuteness of Farah is a shock. It seems biologically impossible that those teeny-weeny legs could propel him 10 metres down the road without snapping.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, and beamed. The Mo-grin is in inverse proportion to the Mo-stature; you feel you could warm your hands on it for the rest of the newly arrived day. The runners – about 20 of them, only one of whom was a woman – pressed forward. Small talk ensued.
There were a few advisory words about the run (“We don’t want to scare people or run people over”) plus a warning that Post Magazine was taking photos so if anyone had issues with their image appearing in the media, could they please let the organisers know. Farah gave a little cry of horror and covered his face with his hands. Everyone laughed.
