Loz Dace's marathon effort

University of Nottingham student Loz Dace ran the London Marathon for spinal cord injury charity Aspire after seeing a close friend paralysed from the neck down in a rugby accident. He tells us about the toughest run of his life.

Preparation is key. This is the first and most important statement you hear when you have chosen to run a marathon.

Preparation in training, preparation in what is needed mentally and physically in the lead up to the event and final preparations before the big day itself.

If you haven’t done enough for any of these, then when you reach the climax, the most gruelling point, you will fail, and you’ll only have yourself to blame.

So you can imagine, lying in bed the night before the marathon, I don’t feel like the most relaxed competitor there has ever been. Naturally I don’t consider preparation my forte.

I am infamous within my group of friends for always being late, generally because I leave stuff to the last minute and so I find myself pondering at which points have my preparation for this event not been enough.

Firstly I haven’t actually been out running for a fortnight because the injured knee that is throbbing under the duvet has been too weak to risk, surely that can’t be a good start.

Secondly, have I done enough training runs leading up to this, I almost collapsed after my only 20 miler so where the heck is the energy for the other 6.2 going to come from?

Have I drunk enough water today? Too little and your fluids go to low and you pass out, and possibly die; too much and your body’s organs overflow and you pass out, and possibly die.

So how on earth is an amateur that knows nothing about the human body supposed to know how much is best?! Have I had enough carbs? Have I had too much protein? Where are my trainers? Should I take my Ipod? The questions are endless. "Shut up, Loz", I say to myself. "You’re running a marathon tomorrow, get some sleep."

Easier said than done. As you can tell I’ve felt better.

We leave first thing in the morning to get to Greenwich for about 9am. Training partners, Adam and Stu, donning the same lycra short and vest combination that I am, names plastered proudly on the front in the hope that a supportive crowd will gee us on if the going gets tough.

"In the words of Rocky," Adam says to us inspirationally before leaving for his Blue start line, "it's not how hard you hit, its how hard you can get hit." And he’s right.

Deep down what terrifies us most is how hard we will get hit, how hard the dreaded 'wall' will knock us back, and most of all whether we’ll be able to get through it at all.

The race begins to loud applause from all of us at the Red start line and we’re off, crossing the start line in a carnival like atmosphere.

Immediately both sides of the road are lined with people, kids sticking out hands for high fives; cheers from groups of supporters and music blaring from live bands or pub speakers.

The atmosphere is truly fantastic, even a priest on the side of the road stands in robes throwing Holy water at passing runners! The sun is out in the sky and it feels like the middle of summer. What a fine day for a run, and we’re feeling great.

Do not speak to soon, this feeling of exaltation does not last forever, and as if the weather matches our mood, as we move into miles eight, nine and 10 the first twinges of pain come into play and the previously blue sky turns dark and menacing as if something is lurking ahead, something menacing. Waiting for us.

The knee twinge is now a painful ache, the right leg aches and so the left is having to do the extra work. I begin to question if it’ll have enough to get me round. 15 miles feeling like this, and I am not relishing the prospect.

The rain is now pelting down, but the spirits of the crowd are not dampened in the slightest. Still roars as we run past. "Go on, Loz", "Great work, Stu", if they can see your name then they’ll give you a shout, the support is absolutely amazing.

All the runners get such a boost from the crowd support, and you suddenly remember just how much fun you were actually having. Screw the fact you’d rather cut your leg off than run another 13 miles.

And then comes Tower Bridge, the famous land mark bursts out of nowhere lined with supporters packed in on both sides. You feel as if you have celebrity status bounding along the middle of the bridge, and morale goes through the roof.

Maybe the next 13 won’t be so tough after all, you think to yourself as you catch another Jelly Baby thrown generously to you by a fan (presumably the only time in your life you can take sweets off a stranger).

And indeed the next few weren't so bad, the knee softened up and miles 14-19 were more than bearable. If it stays like this, I thought to myself, I don’t see what the fuss is about.

Yes I'd rather be watching the United-Arsenal game with a pint in the pub but this isn't hell. Maybe I'll even send off my name for the ballot next year after all, maybe I'll make it an annual thing.

CRACK! There it is. A friend had told me before the day that the marathon is a race of two halves: the first 20 miles and the last 6. And boy were they right.

As if someone had picked me up shook me to pieces and thrown me in a blender, when I crossed the 20-mile mark I became a different person, a shadow of my former self. I'm not sure if it was quite the wall, but if it wasn't I'd dread to feel what it was really like.

The knee seized up and the quads burned, cramp set in on both Stu and I, and what had previously been confident strides towards our goal turned into timid shuffles hopelessly in the right direction.

It's a cliché I know, but every mile seemed to be a marathon of its own, and I convinced myself that every mile marker had been a double mile, only to have my hopes dashed as my tear-filled eyes focused on the true figure.

22 miles, and I questioned honestly for the first time how I would finish. I couldn't stop and walk because my knee would never start again, but surely my pathetic, wrecked excuse for a body didn't have enough to get me to the end.

But it was this stage the crowd truly came into their own. After the race we discussed how running those four miles in that state, hearing those people, could restore faith in the human race of even the biggest cynic.

The noise, the cheers, the calls, all of it just kept us plugging along. The atmosphere really was phenomenally special.

It’s not like a football match where there’s home and away fans desperately hoping their team gets the win, it arguably even more special, everyone wants everyone else to make it, to celebrate the achievement, and knowing that makes it very, very difficult to give up.

And finally there it was The Mall in all its glory. 600m to go the sign read, and it sums up just how we felt that this sign pushed us further to the edge of sanity as we struggled to comprehend how we’d make 600m, rather than hold our heads up high for a final victory straight.

Still eventually we made it, crossing the line arm in arm, fists raised, at that point ecstatic not yet for the sense of victory, but instead for it all to be finished.

They did not refer to this event in the paper on Friday as the ‘Human Killer’ for no reason. It simply was the most gruelling, yet rewarding experience imaginable, and to sit back and know you’ve conquered it is pretty special.