Anyone who has recently completed a marathon or is training for one, possibly their first ever, will be grateful to Sally Wilson for putting the experience into words. The RNLI is receiving everincreasing support from sponsored marathon runners—could this article inspire still more to raise money in this way?way? WHY is IT only when you're in the middle of a gale force 8, with nil visibility, your lifejacket in the forepeak, your harness hanging in the heads, too much sail up and your skipper shouting obscenities enough to frighten the fish that you remember you only gave that nice lady outside Woolworths lOp on Lifeboat Day? You arrive home full of enthusiasm for putting this matter right and quelling your conscience. But what, of a practical nature, can you do? You have only catering skills, and a sausage pie or quiche lorraine as a donation are hardly adequate. Perhaps a sponsored run.

Every other person seems to be pounding the pavements each evening—why not you? The thought is there but is the will power, or rather the leg power? Just as the idea flags, a friend drops a sheet through your door: Novice to half marathon in 14 weeks. Well, novice is correct, the rest we shall see.

So the training begins and you learn rapidly about calf muscles, achilles tendons, stitches, knee joints and chest pains. Weeks one to four are no problem (or not noticeably so). Now, suddenly you are expected to be out running five nights a week and not four, on top of which you are supposed to jog 'easily' for one hour—all very nice on paper I'm sure. It gets worse. You just make it to week ten and you're barely alive. Week 11—jog one hour and 20mins 'easily'. How can that length of time possibly be easy? The enthusiasm needs bolstering so you mention the training to friends; now you really can't back out. The ladies think you ought to be in the mental hospital—not working for it.

The men are all for the venture but only if you'll agree to wear sexy shorts. Oh well, it's all for a good cause.

Illustrations by Georgette Purches.

The sponsorship forms arrive with a good luck note from the RNLI in Poole.

Little do they know how much that's going to be needed. Week 14—you can't believe you've got to the end, neither can any part of your anatomy, nor your husband who has patiently tolerated 14 weeks of agony listening to blow by blow accounts of each run, five nights a week.

The day of reckoning arrives. 9 am and already the sun is hot and there isn't a cloud to be seen. The weather man cheerfully announces that it is likely to be the hottest day of the year so far.

Despondency settles over the household —none of the training has been done in conditions like these. The stuffy car journey to Ipswich is in silence. We arrive. 12.30: time to start drinking water. 1 pm: change into running kit.

1.30 pm: meet up with equally glum looking friends. 1.45 pm line up and loosen up. 2 pm: we're off! Suddenly your feet start moving and the excitement of the spectators and the other runners draws you into the event and no longer is it a distant date andvenue to train towards. You're in the thick of it with a task to do and no-one is going to stop you.

Mile 1—in the showground in front of family and friends, you're feeling good (even though it's now in the 80s).

Mile 2—you start passing a few of those who set out to impress the crowds at a cracking pace, which in this heat is suicidal.

Mile 3—Heaven! A feeding and sponge station, much needed by all.

Miles 4 and 5—Into the rhythm of the race now. Time to pass pleasantries with a few competitors.

Mile 6—A nasty looking hill which common sense tells you it is only feasible to walk up unless you want to overheat and expire. Over the hill and another watering station. The officials give up trying to keep any semblance of order among the mass of runners arriving at the station. A sadistic official directs a hose full blast at the runners and everyone gets absolutely drenched.

Mile 7—Is it worth it? Mile 8—Husband takes photos of a rather tired wife and administers the garden spray and a jug of cold water. So a 45 second stop and we're off again, although at a reduced speed.

Mile 9—I hope the RNLI awards me a medal posthumously.

Mile 10—Second wind, a delicate breeze and the legs move up a gear.

Mile 11—Husband miraculously appears to aid what should be a flagging competitor—but I'm well and truly determined to get to the end and my legs are all in favour.

Mile 12—I must have sweated off two stone, but not even dehydration is going to stop me now. The showground is in view, the family are shouting themselves hoarse with encouraging remarks.

Unfortunately you still have another mile to run in the grounds to get to the elusive finishing post. 100 yards to go and a final sprint for the photographers . . .

YOU'VE MADE IT! You receive your finishing medal, drink four pints of water, take the strain off your leg muscles which have instantly seized up and ask to be taken home.

Sorry, did someone mention the London Marathon? Absolutely not. Never.

I'll be certified first. Not even for charity.

Well, maybe I'll think about it ….