Alistair
When I saw Jonny wobbling all over the track at the World Triathlon Series in Mexico in September, I felt so frustrated with him, I shouted: “You stupid effing idiot!” I was so angry with him for ruining the race for us both. To be honest, I could have written the script: it’s typical of Jonny to over-worry then push himself too hard, rather than work out how he could get round as easily as possible.
At the time, I had to make a split decision, so of course I pushed him over the line so he could get medical attention — he fell unconscious and was taken straight to A&E with heat exhaustion. I didn’t see him until the next day, when I think he mumbled an awkward, Yorkshire-style, “By the way, thank you very much.”
“When I saw Jonny wobbling all over the track, I shouted: ‘You stupid effing idiot!’ I was so angry
I was quite depressed about it afterwards because I nearly got disqualified for it — I really didn’t know if I’d done the right thing. But I quickly realised that running past my own brother was never actually a valid option.
Something weird happens when you train every day — Jonny and I discuss this all the time. If you have not done some kind of exercise on a given day, you consider it a failure. That’s probably a physiological thing — you’re missing the high you get — but there’s a psychological compulsion too. Because of the way we were brought up, we feel we’re not achieving anything if we haven’t got a concrete goal.
Growing up, we were very lucky. We were born in Dewsbury, in West Yorkshire, and went to a fantastic school in Bradford [the independent Bradford Grammar]. By the time Alistair and I were 12 and 14, we were cycling to school in our Lycra, and of course that made us stand out from the other boys, who could be cruel, so that made me feel protective towards him.
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Jonny is determined and loyal. He also has a highly developed — and quite harsh — moral compass. He lives by pretty strict rules, on everything from how you should cross a road to how much time we should spend with family. His belief system drives him, but the downside is you end up feeling guilty quite a lot. I deal with it by either taking the piss out of him or being supportive — the skill is knowing which approach is right.
When you’re on the start line and it’s you against the world, it’s easy to be kind, but when it’s just the two of us training in a field, trying to kill each other, I’m a lot harder and tougher on him. At the heart of it, we’re just two young guys from Leeds competing against each other and that could easily have pushed us apart.
I’d like to think that if Jonny started beating me now, I’d be able to accept it. I’ve done a lot of growing up in the past five years, but more than that, you can only be genuinely pleased your brother is going to beat you in a top race if there is real love there. And there is.
Jonny
After I collapsed on the track in Mexico, the next thing I knew I was waking up in hospital with a drip in my arm, feeling sick. I couldn’t remember a thing. Then it hit me: I’d lost the world championship and felt so ashamed.
It was the middle of the night back home. Mum and Dad had watched the whole race on TV and it must have been terrible for them. When I came round, Dad, who’s a paediatrician, phoned me and went into total medical mode: “What’s your core temperature?” I then spoke to Mum. She’s a GP, but just went: “Hi … bye.” She wanted to hear my voice, but she didn’t want to cry over the phone. Alistair went out for dinner and I sat in my hotel room alone, feeling so upset with myself.
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We’re not good about talking over stuff as a family. Maybe I’m worried that if I took the lid off our relationship, too much emotion would come out and I wouldn’t be able to contain it. Alistair and I haven’t even discussed Rio and all the amazing things that happened to us out there [Alistair won gold and Jonny won silver in the triathlon at the Rio Olympics this year]. When we got home, I had that really sad feeling you get when Christmas is over.
Alistair was very much the dominant figure when we were growing up, and he still is. He’s stubborn, so he thinks he’s right, even when he’s wrong. When we lived together, I’d do everything his way — we’d leave the house when he wanted to leave. He’s messy and I like to be organised and plan ahead. If I were to say, “What shall we have for dinner tonight?” he’d say, “Oh, we’ll think about it later.” That kind of thing drove me crazy.
Even now, if we’re cycling, we’ll never set off when I want to set off, or go the route I want to take. He just overrules me. I have no say in it. As a younger sibling, you learn to put up with it. I was always a bit scared of him, so I didn’t like to annoy him and would often be trying to work out if he was in a good mood or not. Maybe because of that, I’m better at reading people. I don’t think he cares what people think. I do. I want them to like me. I can remember not enjoying my own birthday parties because I was so worried about whether the other kids were having a good time.
The strange thing about my relationship with Alistair now is that he always wins and I always come second. If I won, it would actually feel a bit strange — and that’s a weird feeling to go into a race with, because you are already half defeated.
It’s the same with arguments. He’s like Dad: clever, determined, and you forget what you’re arguing about because he changes tack all the time. Mum sometimes intervenes and says: “Alistair, you are going to hurt Jonny’s feelings.”
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Alistair is driven and definitely more ruthless than me. I don’t know how he’d react if I won. I hope he’d be happy because I know he wants the best for me. Even if he’s annoyed with me, I still want him to do well — I’m pretty sure we want that for each other.
STRANGE HABITS
Alistair Brownlee is a contender for BBC Sports Personality of the Year 2016, live on BBC 1 tonight at 6.40pm; vote at bbc.co.uk