Mad for it!

THE joy and relief at crossing the finishing line in Sunday's Manchester Marathon was, even for a journalist, indescribable.

It was only confused by the numerous aches and pains as I already dreaded the agony of waking up on Monday morning.

The relief was not only that the 26 miles 385 yards were behind me - and that I could collect my Bleakholt Animal Sanctuary sponsor money with a smile on my face - but relief that the months of training were over.

No longer would I be dropped off 18 miles from home in some backwater and forced, by my own determination, to run home.

No longer would I get home from work, get changed and go straight out before I had the chance to think "settee", "food" or "television".

It was all over the moment I crossed that line. Well, that is until I got the crazy idea in my head that I wanted to do another one . . .

So, what made me do the marathon? One reason was that just over a year ago I joined the Radcliffe Times (sister paper of the Bury Times) sports desk and one of my first jobs was to write about last year's Manchester Marathon achievements and I thought, as a keen runner, "I can do that". It was too late for the London Marathon and I'm not overly keen on big crowds so I set my sights on Manchester instead.

I'd already decided to run for the Bleakholt sanctuary. My training runs take me past the kennels and, as an animal lover, I had to have something close to my heart to to inspire me!

So, the entry form went in, I got some sponsors including the Radcliffe Times staff, Radcliffe Boro FC, Rochdale FC and Bury manager Stan Ternent, did some training (probably not enough with hindsight) and before I knew it the dreaded day was upon me.

It was a 9.30am start from Heaton Park and my social life had taken a back burner the night before as I lined up with more than 2,000 other runners.

Already the organisers had done a great job, collecting our baggage to ferry to the finish and toilets were available - although only the bravest would dare to enter some of them!

I was running with Steve, from my home town club of Clayton-Le-Moors, and we set a rough agenda of eight-minute miles - for a start anyway!

I bounded round Heaton Park with early enthusiasm, not having run for several days and feeling fine. Once round the park we went into Blackley and, not being local, I must admit the next 20 miles are a blur as we passed through the centre of town after town in the suburbs of Manchester. I made six miles in 47 minutes still pleasantly chatting to Steve - anything to take our minds off the 20 miles that still lay ahead of us. On nine miles we stepped up the pace without realising it and - ouch! - it was soon to hurt.

Around eleven miles, I saw Roy Davies, the physio from Radcliffe Boro FC running off the course for a wee - easier for men than women!

The miles ticked away and we reached the half way stage in one hour 44 minutes but the pace was definitely getting too hot. I battled on another couple of miles but told Steve to go on - I was about to enter hell! I was now down to a jogging pace just putting one foot in front of the other and it was agony. My knees were "jarring" on 16 miles and I ached all over. Even walkers were passing me! But the marshals, St John Ambulance and the police, who all did a brilliant job, kept cheering and shouting encouragement. Even bored-looking motorists, trapped in jams caused by the marathon, were applauding and the whole atmosphere was great.

It was just what the doctor ordered - well, perhaps not, I think he would have told me to pack in gracefully.

The weather blew hot and cold but remained dry and the water stations were a welcome relief. The children and adults who manned them were magnificent.

"Nearly there" and "not far" were the cries from the supporters but those last four miles seemed the longest in history.

I had set myself a bit of a target as my dad had a best time, out of his two marathons, of 3 hours 54 minutes and, before the start, that was my main aim. But, as most runners know, simply finishing soon becomes the priority.

"Nearly there" was still the shout - although one man next to me commented that nearly was not enough and that's how I felt! But the miles gradually dwindled away as I jogged on, on auto pilot. Soon, with 25-up, we were turning into the last circuit. "Not far now," continued the shout "just a mile!". One mile was one mile too far but, with 385 yards left, I managed to pick up the momentum.

Into Wythenshawe Park, the crowds lined both sides and they were fantastic. I managed to "sprint" the final 100 metres but had to stagger on as I entered the finishing tunnel, got my medal, and stopped for the first time in 3 hours 52 minutes. I'd got the record for the Robson household after all!

All I wanted to do was sit down but I don't think I would have ever got up again. Ten minutes after and I never wanted to run again. Ten hours later and I was filling in my form for the London Marathon. I think I am beyond help!

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.