Keep on Running by Phil Hewitt Page B

round, and I wanted everyone to shout it out. The really valuable support comes from the people who take the next step. They don't just call out your name. They catch your eye. By this stage, I wanted the personal touch, and I was rewarded with some lovely, encouraging smiles.
    Â Â My race became a tactical search for encouragement. All the way along there were children standing with their hands outstretched, wanting you to touch them as you went by. I tried to indulge them. They were there for us, after all. The least we could do was let them touch a real athlete. Either that or touch me. Just as welcome were the outstretched hands bearing sweeties – jelly babies and the like. I soon learned to avoid the sweets still in wrappers. More hygienic, yes, but hardly practical in the circumstances. I took what I could, and it did me good.
    Â Â I reached the 20-mile marker in a time of 2:51, which is when I started to panic a little. My prospects of coming in inside four hours were starting to drift away. Slowly but surely, I was starting to feel ghastly. I was now markedly slowing, and the miles became a haze, with confusion creeping in. I remember thinking that I would later curse myself for hobbling so slowly, but then, thoroughly losing the plot, I found myself turning on an imagined future self and saying, 'Well, you bloody try it then!' Between two mile markers in the early 20s I wasn't sure for a while which mile I was on – which was shockingly bad given how little else there was to think about. How hard can it be to keep one number in your head?
    Â Â Fortunately, walking wasn't an option. It was easier to keep trying to run, however badly. I was trying to drink more, thinking I hadn't drunk enough. At least I now knew not to get overexcited at the first sight of Big Ben. There was still a long way to go. Slowly, very slowly, I chipped into it. Twenty-four miles came and went and so did twenty-five. It is astonishing to read that Paula Radcliffe did her 25th mile in 5 minutes 5 seconds that day. Mine was double that and more. But there was good news too. I forced myself into some calculations, and clearly sub-four was back on. There was a voice inside my head now telling me not to blow it, that this was my golden chance. A voice kept telling me, 'Come on, you don't want to have to do it again.'
    Â Â Once again, I started picking out people to shout my name. And the people were responding, little angels in the crowd locking on to those of us on our last legs and desperate. Then, suddenly, it was all starting to happen quicker than I had thought it would. Big Ben came and went. And then we were on Birdcage Walk, running towards a big sign saying '800 metres'. I thought, How am I supposed to know how far that is? Confusion was taking hold again. All I knew was that Birdcage Walk seemed to stretch forever. But then I turned and turned again to catch my first sight of the finish line.
    Â Â I had about five minutes in hand on four hours. And then I was listening to the guy over the tannoy urging everyone on to a sub-four finish. It had taken me 2 minutes 37 seconds to get over the start line, so I knew that even if the big clock over the finishing line said four hours, I would achieve my aim. The tannoy man was shouting, 'Less than four hours! How good does that feel! Come on! Come on!' He was fantastic. He drained the last drop out of me. He reeled me in to the end of the race.
    Â Â I got over the line and ran slap bang into a great wave of exhaustion that took my legs out from under me. I staggered and wobbled, and from nowhere a rock-solid hand – once again – was suddenly under my elbow, steadying me and keeping me moving. The frightening thing was that I was hyperventilating, a horrible panting noise that I couldn't control. I feared I was going to suffocate.
    Â Â I wanted (being very well brought up) to thank the guy who steadied me, because without him I would have been flat on