I sent my 64-year-old mum to race Team GB’s fastest man Zharnel Hughes

If the high-flying British sprinter wins a medal in Paris, we will have played a minuscule but crucial role in his Olympic preparation

It was an opportunity I never thought I’d be afforded. “Do you fancy racing one of the fastest men in the world?” Yes. Obviously. How could I miss out on this once in a lifetime chance?
But a week before the big day disaster struck. An old knee injury sustained through rugby raised its insufferable head. I couldn’t walk, let alone run against Team GB’s best men’s sprinter Zharnel Hughes, who has a genuine shot at winning a medal in the 100m in Paris.
Fortunately, I had a plan b of sorts… my 64-year-old mother. Granted, this may not seem like the natural move to make or the ideal replacement, but there was reasonable rationale behind the madness.
My Mam, or Iola Davies to some, has a genuine sprinting pedigree that puts me to shame. She is a former Welsh schoolgirl champion, and her 100m personal best is faster than I ever got close to in my prime with Mam having a rapid 12 seconds dead in the books.
Yes, it may have been a few decades ago, but my Mam’s competitive spirit still burns bright and, like mother, like son, she took little persuading.
Hughes’ personal best time of 9.83 seconds was as quick as anyone in the world in 2023 and he gamely agreed to take on his biggest challenge yet. It did not matter which generation of Davies family was put in front of him, Hughes would not back down from the challenge.
Once Mam had picked her competition clothes, she headed off to the warm-up area. She had her game face on, and there was no stopping her. “Fi’n cofio pôb dim, (I remember absolutely everything)” she tells me, exhaling purposefully as she goes through the pre-race routine, which thought had been retired 40 years ago.
Her then 28-year-old rival arrived being flanked by an army. Two were doing his makeup, one was combing his hair, another’s job seemed to be to hold a mirror to allow the others to perform their duty.
At this point, you could forgive my mother and I for assuming we’d be navigating a large ego all afternoon, who might well be, understandably, bemused by the whole concept.
We could not have been more wrong. My mother was anxious about being dismissed, but Hughes immediately puts her at ease with an arm around the shoulder. And they get talking immediately about their passion for sprinting.
“I am nervous as hell,” my mother concedes, perhaps trying to lull him into a false sense of confidence. The sprinters, and Mam definitely still considers herself a sprinter, then got lost in conversation.
She chewed his ear off about her missed opportunity, and how she was the fastest woman in Wales, but never got a look in because she was growing up on a farm using her driveway as her practice track.
Hughes, listening intently and somewhat impressed, interrupted the monologue with a smile, saying: “From athlete to athlete, I love that you still love it.”
But enough chit chat, time for the action. The conditions were simple. Hughes and my Mam would go head-to-head on the Lee Valley track over the agreed distance of 80 metres. I can only presume Hughes feared that my 64-year-old mother would finish strong, and therefore cutting the distance by 20m would be to his advantage.
The army of advisers recoil at the idea of their golden goose being let loose on the track.
“Yeah sure, man. Let’s do it,” Hughes overrules.
After an arduous warm-up, my Mam and Hughes were ready to do battle.
“On your marks, get set, GO!”
Davies flew out of the blocks and led for all of two glorious, glorious metres. Hughes initially trailing may be a point of concern for British fans – he readily acknowledges his start is his weak point – but boy does he know how to make up for it.
Hughes begins to ease away, barely breaking into a jog as the long strides permitted by his 6ft3in frame kick into effect.
Mam, despite conceding ground, continued to give it 100 per cent. Head down. Focus on herself. Block out the noise. She did not stop running as fast as she possibly could for the entire length of the race, even running through the finish line rather than stopping at it, as all good sprinters know to do.
The Team GB gold medal hope was too polite to put his foot down after pulling away, but the differences between human and superhuman were immediately apparent.
“Come on. I need you to humiliate her. Annihilate her,” I helpfully chime in from the sideline.
Laughing and shaking his head, Hughes clearly did not want to embarrass my mother, especially after the pair had bonded over their shared love of running fast.
My chirping did generate a slight change in gear from Hughes, but it remained effortless and frighteningly efficient as he accelerated down the track towards glory.
My Mam likes to think – and I do too – that if Hughes collects a medal in Paris, we will have played a miniscule, but vital, role in his preparation.
If you can conquer the unexpected, surely the Olympics will be a walk in the park?