It's hardly a fair race is it? Radcliffe starts right at the front of tens of thousands of people, so all she's got to do is keep running and she's more than half way round by the time the poor bastards at the back cross the starting line. She's also so skinny that they should make her wear some sort of ballast, preferably around her hips and chest to make her more like a real woman. We'd soon see how fast she could run then.
I did the marathon in 1998, and it was like a crowded tube station during rush hour. There was no way I could have run any faster if I'd wanted to, there were just too many people in the way. It was pretty crap really, and I rued the time I'd spent training, the drinks and cigarettes I turned down in the preceeding few days, when I could simply have walked in among the huge crowd of slowly moving people who were all convinced they were doing something worthwhile and/or difficult. It was all I could do to keep the boredom at bay by stopping for a cigarette every five or six miles.
The worst thing though, was that by the end, my knicker elastic was cutting into my thighs like an absolute fucker. This, and only this, is the reason for my crossing the finish line with such a ridiculously clumsy, stiff-legged gait, my face twisted into a grotesque rictus of total agony. I wasn't tired out - it's actually much easier than you think to finish, as over ninety percent of people cruise round in over five hours with a mixture of light jogging and walking that can hardly be considered taxing. If it was difficult, thousands of people would not do it each year dressed as chickens, or whatever other unfunny costume they decide to wear. No, what takes its toll on those poor unfortunate few who are filmed struggling by the cameras, desperate for something worth watching, is actually more likely to be an unfortunately tight and ill-chosen pair of underpants.
I'm sure that it can be even worse for men. We all remember that bloke with the jelly legs at the end of the inaugural marathon, as he heroically stumbled the last two hundred metres to the finish. It turns out that he had trapped his foreskin in the lining of his shorts, and because he was on live television, had absolutely no option but to stagger to the finish and the promise that the silver foil blanket would provide him with the necessary cover to make much needed adjustments.
I understand this only too well and from my own experience, I can say that I honestly believe that it would have been easier and more comfortable to run in that diving suit that bloke had a couple of years ago, than the pants I had on that day.