BEHIND sunglasses shielding her eyes from the glare of the Olympic stadium’s megawatt bulbs, the doubt was already flickering in Paula Radcliffe’s eyes as she sandwiched herself like a piece of biltong between two Kenyans, Sally Barsosio and Alice Timbilil, at the start of a 10,000 metre slog she would never finish.
Some competitors, perhaps sympathising with her most public of breakdowns on the road from Marathon, wished her well. The chants of “Paula, Paula” rang out from the British supporters in the upper corner of a 75,000-strong stadium more preoccupied with Mirela Manjani, a Greek javelin thrower, winning a bronze medal than a longdistance runner most had probably never heard of. A cool breeze ruffled the tiny blonde ponytail holding back her fringe. She had been running every day since Tuesday and was said to be relaxed having decided on the morning of the race to take the plunge. She smiled.
This was her chance for redemption, an opportunity to silence those who called her a quitter, those who said she did not have the mental strength or legs for another 6.21 miles after 22.5 fruitless ones had ended in tears on Sunday.
But in the 21st minute of the journey back from her own private wilderness, Radcliffe was again found wanting. Pulling up with cramps, she could only stand on the centre field with her hands on her hips asking, “Why?” A crushing realisation was sinking in as the race went on without her and the crowd barely noticed. The dawning of cold reality was that she had failed in her third Olympics to add a medal to her world records and her unquestionable potential.
One of the first books a young girl reads is Judy Blume’s coming of age classic Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. Radcliffe, who consumes literature eagerly, would probably have been no different. It was required reading for her generation. Like all teenagers struggling to come to terms with puberty, she would have shared the torment of Margaret Simon, 11, as she experienced her first feelings of social exclusion. Exclusion from
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PTS, the Pre-Teen Sensations, a club of the sexually awakened where all talk was of boys; exclusion from organised religion and the Jewish community centre frequented by Nancy, Gretchen and Jamie; exclusion from womanhood.
At 30, going on 31, and by running the 10,000 metres against the advice of experienced hands such as Liz McColgan and Ingrid Kristiansen, Radcliffe was trying to put an end to that lonely state of feeling left out. To dismiss the final notion that she might never be an Olympic medal-winner. Derartu Tulu, Gete Wami, Emil Zatopek were all in the club. Radcliffe wanted to belong, too.
Her quest for membership of the sporting greats ended shortly after the halfway mark as Worknesh Kidane formed the apex of a trio of Ethiopians heading into the distance. Radcliffe, who likes to lead from the front, was fading fast in ninth place behind a line of African runners with more energy and more resolve.
After 20 minutes and 45 seconds, Radcliffe just stopped. She stopped wanting to punish her body any further. She stopped wanting to reach the finishing line. Forced to wait while the runners lapped her stationary figure so she could cross the track to the dark tunnel and the questioning media beyond, her exclusion was total. She was a mere sideshow.
Although not outwardly religious, Radcliffe does have strong faith. As Margaret in Blume’s book asked God to give her her period before the last of her friends so she could feel part of their club, Radcliffe might have considered the heels of Xing Huina, the eventual winner, and thought: “And if I’m the last I don’t know what I’ll do. Oh please God, I just want to be an Olympic champion.”
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The pain and the anguish took hold. Coming last would be too much. Better not to finish. That way she could find refuge in the clutch of other DNFs. As this thought became a decision, there was an opportunity to stick it out. It was physically possible after all. In Sydney, Tegla Loroupe finished thirteenth in the marathon and fifth behind Radcliffe in the 10,000 metres three days later.
One last opportunity. Are you there God? It’s me, Paula. Nothing. The silence was deafening.