My greatest race: Brendan Foster

On home turf, the European champion vowed to christen the revamped Gateshead Stadium with a world record bid

Gateshead Meeting, Gateshead,  August 3, 1974 – 3000m, first place, 7:35.2 (world record)

In 1972, I ran the 1500m in the Olympics and was fifth. I thought: “That’s as good as I’m going to get,” so I stepped up to the 5000m. I ran two miles at Crystal Palace in 1973 and broke the world record but then, in the autumn of that year, Gateshead Council decided that, with money in the budget following local government reorganisation, they would build a proper track at the stadium instead of the ash track which we’d had for years.

They held a reception for my two miles record and I’d had a couple of drinks. I did a reply saying thanks very much indeed and I then said: “I promise you, if you put the track in, I’ll come back and organise an event and break a world record.” Of course, it was reported in the press and everything locally. Eventually, summer came around and I thought: “I’m going to have to do it.” People started referring to it and it became a big deal.

The Commonwealth Games was in January 1974 and I finished second in the 5000m, breaking the British record for that distance and also in the 1500m. I was obviously running really well and the world record was a logical step.

I thought: “Let’s go for the 3000m,” which was Emiel Puttemans’ record. It was a bloody good record of 7:37.6. It’d been 7:39 before that. When I started studying it, I realised I needed to run 61 seconds for seven-and-a-half laps, which is quite a tall order. Luckily, I was in good shape.

The track was laid about 10 days beforehand. Before they put the lines on it, I ran on it and thought: “This is really good.” It probably felt like these new running shoes. It was nice and bouncy, it looked good and it felt good.

For the meeting that we organised, we’d sold all the tickets. It was absolutely packed with 10,000-12,000 people so it was all turning into a big event. ITV decided they wanted to televise it.

Maybe nowadays, making a promise that you were going to get a world record would feel a bit risky and a bit stupid, unnecessarily aggressive or loud. This was different. It was just matter of fact. It didn’t feel as though, if it didn’t happen, it would be a big deal. Now, if I’d said I was going to do it, and I didn’t manage it, I would be battered on social media.

I’d trained in Leeds…