Running the London Marathon/Rosie & Philip Millard/ The Times/Sport Psychology

How did Mr & Mrs Millard get on over the 26.2 mile course? After months of training, numerous miles covered and injuries to contend with...

Mrs Millard thinks “I must stick to the plan”

THE bells were ringing out from Greenwich when Mr Millard, I and 35,000 others charge off on the course. Gospel singers, brass bands and DJs line the route, as well as people yelling “Oggy Oggy Oggy” from pub balconies. I don't join in with the customary response. I'm too busy keying into the mental plan that I and my sports psychologist Amanda Owens have prepared.

I've broken the marathon down into five chunks; the first 13, then miles 13-16, 16-21, 21-24, and finally the last two. At no point do I think about the whole 26.2. At mile 6 a fellow runner taps me on the shoulder. “Hello Mrs Millard,” she says: “I've been following your progress!” As she speeds past, I call out: “Mr Millard's ahead of you!” She nods her head vigorously. “Always sets off too fast, doesn't he?” I'm going reasonably slowly. In Rotherhithe I run past the wonderful Masai warriors. As thousands of us grab our bottles of Vittel, I think about the Masai tribesmen, running in shoes made from tyres to raise funds for their village well.

I also think about my charity, Help the Hospices. As I near Tower Bridge I think about the preciousness of life. I know, all very intense, but the physical slog of pushing on past the mile markers means you have head space for only the great messages of existence.

At mile 20, a familiar figure. Running on his toes, too, which doesn't look good. “You go on,” gasps Mr Millard. Bless him. As I charge past mile 22, I bless two more people; Amanda, for giving me a structure so rigid it is impossible to dismiss, and my brother Richard, for reminding me to do speed intervals: where you sprint for a minute then recover for a minute ten times to strengthen your legs. That's what keeps my pins going; past my cheering father and brother-in-law at Westminster and up to Buckingham Palace. Then, a great big overhead sign, saying “Only 385 Yards!” What can I tell you about running under that sign, turning up the Mall and crossing the finish line? Only that I know it is a great life moment.

Mr Millard thinks “I must run my own race”

THE Big Day rather creeps up on me, although Rosie's ashen face is a constant reminder of what we are about to go through. This is a bit like getting married, especially as we are doing it together. Many good luck texts come in, Mrs M spends several hours the day before at the hairdresser. A rather smart car arrives at 7.25am, courtesy of our next door neighbour (personal best: 3hr 18min), who is also running, to whisk us off to the start of the marathon in Greenwich. I'm wearing a yellow wristband which shows how fast I must run to hit my predicted time of 3hr 45min.

At the start, we end up close to a runner with a large rocket stuck to his back, a man with green hair and the obligatory pantomime horse. I've run only a mile when a nasty pain presents itself in my left knee. I gallantly ignore this. The sun is shining and I'm soon scorching past people. I think about the various half marathons I have run. I join in the singing and booing. I glide - yes glide, Rosie - past the Masai warriors who are chanting, carrying spears, shields and running in shoes made of old tyres.

Somebody I know runs up alongside me. We start running rather fast. Even a rainstorm will not deter us. If I can hang on to this guy's coat-tails, all will be well. The half marathon is despatched in 1hr 45min. I'll be home in no time. I see the winners running the other way like demi-Gods.

A rather annoying loo stop at 15 miles wrecks my rhythm. At Canary Wharf, I look out, vainly, for my supporters (four small children, a nanny and several friends). The noise is deafening. I spot somebody I know just after the 20-mile mark. It's Rosie, sloping past me.

By now, I've got the reverse jets on. I start attacking strangers, grabbing handfuls of Jelly Babies. After 3hr 35min, I'm still two miles from home. My running speed suddenly judders to a halt, near walking pace. The crowds are roaring, annoyingly, as I emerge from the last tunnel. Somehow I reach the Houses of Parliament but as I run past Buckingham Palace somebody swears. Apparently we are in the group labelled “Those That Just Missed The Four Hour Mark”. It has taken me 26 minutes to hobble the last two miles. A curious depression settles on me as I collect my medal. But in the sudden rainstorm Rosie is there to hug me, cheer me up and to remind me that I did well, although not quite as well as her. Bring on the re-match.

FINAL TIMES

Training miles

Rosie: 500 (started November)

Philip: 350 (started January)

Pre-marathon training races

Watford Half Marathon, Reading Half Marathon, Finchley 20-mile, Kingston Breakfast (16-mile)

Injuries

Rosie: none

Philip: pulled calves, bleeding nipples, black toenails

Key recovery agent

Aromatherapy Associates De-stress Muscle Gel

Habits abandoned

Wine, late nights, caffeine

Habits acquired

Early mornings, speed running, obsessive mileage calculation, occasional grumpiness

Weight loss

Rosie: couple of pounds

Philip : 1st

Sense of personal achievement

Immeasurable

THERE'S STILL TIME TO DONATE

There are 55 days left to donate! Rosie and Philip ran the London Marathon to raise money for their respective charities. Philip ran in aid of TreeHouse, a national charity that was set up in 1997 for the education of autistic children. Rosie raised money for Help the Hospices, of which there are 240 hospices in the UK offering free care for all who need it.

You can still make a donation to Philip or Rosie, simply log on to themillards.groups.timeshealth.co.uk