Refuge Team photo - 9am, 23 April 2006. Spot the theme Queen!

My Heroic Marathon Failure by Cathy Warwick

No, I did complete the race – but way off my target time. I finished in 5 hrs 30 mins 26 sec. I’ve raised nearly £12,000 for Refuge so far and now I must convince my sponsors that despite my disappointing finishing time they should cough up some more.
(Go to www.justgiving.com/cathywarwick. You know you want to!).
Despite an injury sadly preventing her running, Claire Summerscale was determined not to let down her charity, Sense, and walked the course in 6 hrs 50 mins.

So, now for the excuses – just like a chess player after losing a game! But I’m in good company: disappointed favourite Haile Gebrselassie blamed the wet and cold conditions for “my worst result in international competition since 1991”. Haile will be my mega-moan pacemaker. My chessic charity fun-runner costume served its purpose, i.e. made me look like a silly queen on a chessboard (well, kinda sorta – give or take a pink Refuge running vest). Its initially lightweight silk fabric also turned out to be as absorbent as a nappy, soaking up the driving rain. By the end of the race I was carrying about a litre of water. As for the Immortal Game diagrams I sewed on, I need not have bothered: Anderssen-Kieseritzky 1851 may be immortal, but on paper it’s not rainproof. Most of the diagrams simply disintegrated.

Having decided that my wedding tiara was essential to the ‘queen’ look, I secured it with hairpins although I knew this particular piece of kit would be unlikely to help me achieve a Personal Best. Not only was I concerned that it might fall off – or worse, tear my hair out – it gave me a headache, jabbed and itched. But it was worth it of course because, as Refuge’s Fundraising Officer, Rose, encouraged, “no one can miss you!” At least one spectator on the course got the point of the costume: seeing me struggling past at mile 19 he called out: “you’ll be all right, Chessboard!”

As this was my first marathon, the learning curve continued steeply upwards - with the endless loo queues at the start. You may think you won’t need to go, but you will. In each portakabin were two proper loos, and two urinals. What on earth, we women kvetched angrily, was the point of those? Of the two proper ones, one was unusable. ‘You really don’t want to sit on THAT’, one predecessor advised. One by one her followers verified her statement, and waited for The One. Tip for next year: start loo-queuing no later than 0830am, or you’ll miss the starting gun. I crossed the start line at 10am - 15 minutes late.

Oldest cop-out in the book, but for the first time since taking up running last December I actually felt unwell: nerves, inadequate sleep, an ill-advised last-minute 5 mile overtraining run the day before, and the beginnings of a cold all took their toll. With a sore throat and a cough, I had trouble getting sufficient oxygen into my protesting body. The bananas and Jelly Babies I accepted from well-meaning well-wishers en route in the hope of adding extra sugar mostly just blocked my airway.

Nonetheless I ran the first half (13.1 miles) in 2 hrs 21 mins or so – apparently on target - but my split time was deceptive. By mile 8, I was feeling bad. By mile 10 I was feeling lousy. By mile 13 I was feeling terrible, and I knew it was only going to get worse. It wasn’t just the usual stuff (all-over aching, stitch). What really worried me was the unusual chest pain and shortness of breath. Once one has hit the wall, mentally chanting affirming mantras like ‘I am a strong and capable runner’ simply doesn’t work. The power of positive thinking has little effect on dead legs and breathless lungs. Instead the power of negative thinking kicks in: try as I might, I was unable to banish from my mind the whinging words of Times journalist David Aaronovitch: “the second half of a marathon is soul-destroyingly awful, and the slower you run it, the worse it is.” True, but I wish I hadn’t read that piece.

The great thing about realising oneself through physical pain is that all other anxieties – practical, emotional, existential – miraculously vanish. Suddenly one gives a damn about nothing except somehow forcing one’s few cubic feet of uncooperative flesh over those last 6.2 miles – and surviving. Every step of those last few miles hurts like hell, and might as well be 60 for all the confidence one feels that one isn’t going to die.

It wasn’t all bad. All the positive things people say about the London Marathon are true – it really is an amazing occasion with a marvellous atmosphere. One unexpected delight was the children dotting the route who wanted to ‘high-five’ the runners. Many little girls seemed especially attracted by my quaint and curious costume, so I brushed their outstretched hands with my black running glove as I passed. After mile 6, I decided to spare well-wishers this touch of grace since by then I was availing myself of the anti-chafing Vaseline being handed out by rubber-gloved helpers (its uses may be left largely to the imagination, but my supporters observed one male runner suffering from a nasty case of Runner’s Nipple).

Bands of all kinds were playing at intervals along the route, but of course I couldn’t hear a single note because my ears were welded to my trusty Ipod Shuffle playlist. I was informed afterwards that depending on one’s musical taste I might have done myself a favour there. Then there were the wonderful costumes which inspire other runners to greater efforts while appealing to the sense of humour. For much of the race I ran alongside Justin of Save the Rhino (look him up on justgiving or Google). He overtook me eventually, as did the green human caterpillar chain-gang. There was an immense teddy running with a gorilla (Chew Bacca?) just in front of me. The teddy only took his huge head off to hydrate at the water stations. But for most of the race my pacesetter was a naked man. I did a double-take when he first wiggled into view; then I realised he was wearing the briefest of leopardskin-effect thongs, a bow-tie, and some decorative tattoos. I don’t remember his running number; it wasn’t, after all, what caught one’s eye. Still wondering what he did about that.

At about mile 14 I started to run-walk – running downhill and some of the flat, but walking the upward inclines. What really makes the difference between a 20 mile race – which I ran much better - and the marathon is that when you know you have fewer miles to go, you are more confident of finishing and therefore, better able to keep going. Feeling dreadful half way, my instinct was self-preservation rather than ‘going for it’ and risking total collapse: a good decision in view of what happened to former British no. 1 tennis player Andrew Castle, 43. At some point after mile 23, Castle was rushed to hospital suffering from life-threatening dehydration.

At mile 16, thanks to plenty of ‘recovery’ walking, I was able to jog again – imperative anyway since I knew my dozen-strong crowd of personal cheerers was lying in wait at some unspecified point between miles 16-18. Not only was I anxious to avoid appearing before my loved ones as a total loser, I wished to avoid arousing undue concern. They commented on how well I was looking, but not long after I had passed them – at mile 18 – I knew I would be walking most of the last 8.2 miles. The cold rainwater weighing me down helped freeze my limbs that little bit faster. Occasionally, encouraged by the frenzied crowd as by an electric prod, I summoned a compliant trot. That’s why your charity makes you put your name on your vest. To be honest that aspect is simply a refinement of the torture: you want to shuffle along bearing your cross of agony in consoling solitude, and your road to Hell is lined with shouted good intentions. “Come on, Cathy! Come on, you can do it! Keep going!”

Another reason so many runners walk after mile 20 is the need to save a final reserve of energy for the Mall. No matter how knackered you are, you must somehow run the last 400 metres, and you must smile as you cross the finish line. The finishing photos are not yet available, but I bared my teeth as best I could. Now for the consolations: (1) the Medal. According to an unbreakable rule pronounced by Race Director David Bedford, this must be worn for at least a week after the race; (2) I finished only a minute or so behind Olympic multi-gold medallist (rowing) Sir Steve Redgrave. (3) I beat 20-something stick-thin supermodel Sophie Anderton.
One person who beat me was that brave woman Jill Tyrrell who almost lost a leg and nearly died in the July 7 bombing last year. Jill’s finishing time of about 5 hr 15 mins was, incidentally, similar to the maiden London Marathon time of my special heroine Jane Tomlinson, cancer sufferer and super-fundraiser. Such inspirational people challenge us all to rethink our limitations and – despite all I’ve written here – quit making excuses. I’ll run the London Marathon faster next year. Promise.