Wheelchairs, Perjury and the London Marathon

by Tim Marshall

  This exchange had scarcely begun when there was then a letter written by Jenny, on April 5th, a Tuesday, to the senior policeman responsible for the overall running of the event from a traffic management perspective. She had already spoken to him by phone, and the letter requested that the first 4½ miles remain closed for half an hour after the starting cannon at 9.30 to accommodate the wheelchair start at 10. This was accompanied by a covering note to Tony Banks expressing disappointment that the wheelchairs were being made to start behind rather than in front, and seeking, if necessary, his support in her approach to the police for the extended road closure. Apparently, there was no problem with this.

  Two days later, on Thursday 7th, just ten days before the race, there was a full meeting of all the interested parties at County Hall: Brasher and Disley, Jenny, Lord Birkett, at least one of Banks and Harrington, me, and various others whom I cannot now remember. The meeting was to be followed by a press conference at the Waldorf Hotel in the Aldwych, at which the final outcome of the negotiations was to be announced. I hadn’t realised that the event was that close to being cancelled, but it turned out that this was indeed the case.

  I went to the meeting with a mixture of trepidation – apart from Brasher’s first letter to me back in 1980, all I had ever had from them had been a complete shut-out, with increasing hostility culminating in Disley’s “perjury” letter of the previous year, and I wondered what sort of reception I would get from them – and elation, that all the pressurising I had done seemed at last to have borne fruit; with the help of the GLC, of course.

  The meeting was held in an upper room of County Hall, overlooking the river and with windows on two sides; very light and airy. Much of the detail of the meeting has been lost – there were no formal minutes, I think – but right from the start there was an assumption that there would be a wheelchair section, and what the discussion was about was the fine details. So Illtyd Harrington, not Brasher, had won. There were, however, two matters which produced quite a lot of heat. Firstly, despite the clear statement to the contrary in Jenny’s letter that there would be a rear-end start, the matter of a headstart was raised (possibly by me). To John Disley, this was like a red rag to a bull. He was utterly and implacably opposed to a headstart – he threatened to resign his position as race director if a front-end start had been agreed by all the other parties – and all attempts to persuade him otherwise fell on deaf ears. Quite clearly, this point was a deal-breaker, and I didn’t have the nerve to hold out for a headstart, at the risk of having the whole race called off.

  It seemed to me that there were two arguments which could have been used to support his position. Firstly came the issue of the Changing of the Guard and the closure of The Mall. As I have argued earlier, with the then current state of marathon times in Britain, this wasn’t – shouldn’t have been – an issue: even with a 10-minute headstart the leading runners would have overtaken all the wheelchairs long before reaching The Mall. But there was no budging either Brasher or Disley. The second argument was much more philosophical, though neither of them used it. Starting the wheelchairs in front might have given them too prominent a role in the overall proceedings, deflecting attention from the primary purpose of showcasing the main race, and in particular the international runners who had been invited to the event.

  Neither of these arguments was used. Disley’s main argument for not allowing a front-end start was as follows: “If you start the wheelchairs in front and one of them crossed the line first, people would think that he’d won.” This argument was reiterated several times. To me, it showed such a staggering naivety as to what “people” might think that it might have been used in a satirical article mocking the whole idea of wheelchairs doing marathons. And it illustrated what to me seemed almost a wilful misunderstanding of the situation: that he seemed to believe the public would think that the wheelchairs would be in direct competition with the runners – against international regulations, of course – and that the public – the spectators – wouldn’t understand that there were two races going on (or four, if you count females separately). In no race that I had yet done did spectators ever make such a mis- interpretation, but Disley was deadly serious and I didn’t dare call his bluff.

  The other item which occasioned if not a shouting match then a lot of unproductive heat, looked back to a piece in Jenny’s letter of March 31st, about our having equal status regarding use of feeding stations, medals etc. Brasher was as adamant as Disley had been over the front-end start that we couldn’t have London Marathon medals. We wouldn’t be doing the London Marathon, since this was a foot-race, and medals were awarded to those who had completed the foot-race, not to those who had traversed the distance, and route, in a wheelchair. There was an agitated discussion about how to create a medal with an appropriate design; some decision was eventually reached, not the least bit satisfactory to either Jenny or me, but again we were stuck against the hard-line position taken by Brasher.

  We also had to accept, not just a rear-end start half an hour behind the running start, but also a “guide car” that would travel slowly in front of the wheelchairs until we had reached the bottom of John Wilson Street and turned left towards Greenwich. This would have been a very fast section of the course – as future years proved – and it was felt necessary to protect the last runners from wheelchairs which might have been travelling at well over 20 mph approaching the bottom of John Wilson Street.

  So we trooped across Westminster Bridge to the Waldorf. I don’t think I’d realised before the County Hall meeting how close to a complete cancellation of the whole event we had come, with on the one hand the GLC’s threat to “withdraw co-operation” from the race, and on the other, Disley’s threat to resign as race director if we/the GLC had insisted on a front -end start. There was a brief introduction by Illtyd Harrington mentioning that discussions had taken place between the three parties: London Marathon Promotions, the GLC, and BSAD. There wasn’t a hint of the rancour that had filled the newspaper columns for the last several weeks before he handed proceedings over to Chris Brasher.

  His opening words were “The London Marathon scheduled for April 17th will take place” as though to assuage doubts which might reasonably have arisen in anyone following recent press reports. There was almost an audible, collective sigh of relief from the audience, even if cancelling the event would, in the short term at least, have made a far bigger, and more interesting, story. Brasher went on to explain revised arrangements for the race, including that there would be a rear-end start for the wheelchairs, before handing over to the audience for questions.

  I hadn’t a clue who was in the audience – by name, that is, I just assumed that they were sports reporters from newspapers, TV and radio; but I do remember the first question from the floor. “Pat Butcher, athletics correspondent for The Times. Isn’t a rear-end start for the wheelchairs dangerous?” The question was referred to me. I gulped – should have seen this coming. Over the last few years I had written several articles about wheelchair road racing, including two or three in what had come to be the most popular magazine on road running in general, “Running”. I felt the editor, Andy Etchells, had been generous towards the issue of wheelchair participation in road running events. But my articles had frequently included a statement to the effect that rear-end starts were dangerous to runners. Was Andy in the audience, and ready to quote my own words back at me? And did Pat Butcher have any of those articles at his fingertips, ready to do the same?

  I made some anodyne comments about preferring a front-end start, but without going as far as saying that it hadn’t been possible to agree on this – that much must have been obvious to anyone who knew anything about the subject – and then remarked on the ability of wheelchair athletes to control their chairs in a crowd. Astonishingly, no one picked the point up, and the discussion moved elsewhere, with the whole conference being over in an unconscionably short space of time (I don’t even remember whether there were drinks and nibbles at
the end, but I think not). At the end, I went to talk to Jenny, who had to sort out final details over the next ten days with the GLC, Brasher and Disley, the police and, of course, the runners themselves. And then I started back up to Euston, finding myself in the company of both John Walker (the People’s Marathon) and Billy Wilson (the Wolverhampton Marathon). To them, the whole business seemed like a storm in a teacup, or something out of “Alice in Wonderland”: a great hoo-ha about nothing.

  What eventually emerged from Jenny’s work was that we would have to find our own way to the start on Charlton Way, and make our own arrangements to be collected at the end and returned to our vehicles. Race numbers would be issued at the start, and we had strict instructions to stay behind the pace car right to the roundabout at the bottom of John Wilson Street.

  I spent the afternoon and early evening of April 16th over at the house of some friends in south-west London, before driving over to the start and parking on a dead-end piece of tarmac somewhere on the Blackheath to spend the night in the van. It wasn’t quite as simple as that, however, because I’d spent the money the BBC gave me for appearing in “We are the Champions” on buying 25 T-shirts with the slogan “LONDON BANS WHEELCHAIRS” on the front. They were to be used if the planned protest ever got off the ground, so I had spent the Saturday afternoon painting out “BANS” and painting in “WELCOMES”, hanging them on the washing line to dry. But the Sunday morning, with everyone milling around at the start, was no time to try to get rid of them, and I ended up leaving a large bag with one of the helpers to distribute as they saw fit.

  Many of those at the start I already knew, either from other races or because they’d written to me or phoned me over the previous months. Most prominently, Alan Robinson, who had won the first two Great North Runs was there – I saw him as a likely winner – and though Gerry Kinsella had reappeared on the official entry list, he wasn’t actually there – pity, I thought. Nor, surprisingly, was Mick Karaphillides, who had won the Reading Half Marathon only a few weeks before. And then there was an older man, maybe in his mid–late 50s, who said he was William Charlton, who wasn’t on Jenny’s official start list, but seemed genuine enough, so he was issued with a spare number. We’ll meet him again in 1984.

  One other feature of note: recognising the potential hazards of a rear-end start for runners, many of the entrants had furnished themselves with audible signals to indicate that a wheelchair was coming through: either a bicycle bell or (louder) a whistle or (loudest of all) a sailing fog-horn. There were no central instructions about this, it just seemed a sensible thing to do. Amidst the melee I managed to find Ivor (climbing club again) and gave him the van keys to drive the van to Waterloo.

  The best way of describing what happened is to quote the article I wrote for “Sports ’n Spokes”:

  “GILLETTE LONDON MARATHON 1983

  Two and a half years of letter-writing, argument, persuasion, pointing to examples everywhere else in the country, approaches through the recreation department of the city council, none of this cut any ice with the organisers who persisted, for the third year running, in refusing to allow a wheelchair section in “their” race. Then, five weeks before the race, the national press became interested. One of the organisers writes a weekly column, and his newspaper’s main rival was obviously delighted to indulge in a bit of journalistic side-swiping; it must also have seemed a good story. The city council took up the issue again and threatened to withdraw their facilities – the roads!! – [NB see p.158] if wheelchairs weren’t allowed in. Hurriedly-called late-night meetings in London, press statements … Suddenly, the issue became one for national discussion, in all the newspapers (complete with cartoons) on national radio and television – all the media got in on the act as the race approached.

  A messy compromise, fully satisfactory for none of the parties involved. The organisers didn’t want us there at all. The city council wanted the wheelies to be fully part of the race, the organisers and the (running) athletics authorities refused, saying we couldn’t be part of the running race, but could have our own, separate race (“The Gillette Wheelchair London Marathon” – what’s in a name? – we weren’t really bothered). We wanted, argued, pleaded to be allowed to start in front; the organisers and the athletics authorities refused, and we didn’t feel strong enough to call their bluff over an implied threat to withdraw recognition from the event (thus disestablishing both the men’s and women’s national championships, and depriving dozens of runners of official qualifying times for the world championships in Helsinki in August – who wants that kind of responsibility?)

  Ever tried to organise a wheelchair marathon at 10 days notice (all that was left after the final rounds of negotiation)? No qualifying times, just who do you know who you think will do well? Several invitees declined, either because they hadn’t had the time to train, or because they disagreed with the rear-end start (so did we – but that or nothing: what would you choose?). Nineteen confirmed starters.

  The day before the race was beautifully warm, 65–70 degrees, with a gentle breeze; but the forecast was lousy – and right. 45–50 degrees the next morning, with intermittent heavy rain throughout the race. We had to start 10 minutes after the runners from the “Red” start (there are two starts in the London race, with the routes converging after 4 miles), and until we met the “Blue” start we had to keep behind an official car. The gently undulating beginning, and the 135 feet descent in ¾ mile from 2½ miles out, were totally wasted for the chairs, as the first 4 miles took 35 minutes, whereas we reckoned we could have done it in under 15.

  Then came the problem of trying to weave through the ankles of the 19,000-odd runners without hitting them. Some of us had aerosol canister foghorns; they helped, but were not a solution. For the first time in 7 marathons and 2 half marathons the writer heard complaints from runners about the presence of wheelchairs: the way that we were coming across them, from behind, you can’t really blame them; but the blame really belonged elsewhere.

  The course is an historical one, beginning on the line dividing eastern and western hemispheres (the Greenwich Meridian), moving into the eastern hemisphere until reaching the river, turning back westwards through dockland, over Tower Bridge and then back to the east, returning westwards again through the grounds of the Tower of London and on alongside the river, with a finish connecting Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Bridge. Surfaces variable: they include approximately 1 continuous mile of cobblestones before, during and after the Tower; but at their best they are superb.

  Once released from behind the official car the race began in earnest. Perry, Fletcher, Marshall and Dobson made an early collective break, and were never seen again by the rest (once you make a break through a crowd of runners it becomes very difficult for the following chairs to move through – you can’t even see who you’re chasing, have no idea how far ahead they might be, and the psychological barrier is big). The first three alternated the lead until mile 10 when Marshall was left by the others. They kept more or less together round the lonely Isle of Dogs (more dockland), but Perry made his break at about 20 miles and was clean away. Fletcher subsequently broke Dobson about 2 miles later, and Marshall took Dobson back with two miles to go.

  The times are pathetically slow by world standards, though we reckon that perhaps 40 minutes of this was due to the starting arrangements. We were all adamant that we should have started in front, and this notion seems at last to be getting through to lots of people in and around the running scene (though not, alas, the organisers or the Amateur Athletic Association). I estimate we’re 5–6 years behind the USA in our performances, for the fastest time yet set in Britain remains Kinsella’s 3 hours 1 minute in the Mersey Marathon. Things may yet change: if he’s fit, some of us will be meeting George Murray in the British American marathon in May, and the Scots are hoping to tempt over another North American star for their race in the fall.

  Results:

  1 Gord
on Perry 3h 20m 07s 10 Denise Smith 4.29.03

  2 Joe Fletcher 3.25.03 11 Graham Young 4.35.11

  3 Tim Marshall 3.26.15 12 Andy D’Costa 4.44.10

  4 Leroy Dobson 3.27.40 13 Alyn Claremont-Davies 4.52.44

  5 Charles Raymond 3.52.55 14

  Chaz Sadler 5.01.35

  6 Ernie Gomec 3.55.50 15 Rick Cassell 5.11.38

  7 James Gilham 3.56.57 16 Rudi de Christopher 5.56.19

  8 Sha Estandfari 4.08.16 17 Jo Roberts 6.09.03

  9 Stuart Anderson 4.29.03

  Sports ’n Spokes did publish it, under the title “Marathon Mix-up” – abbreviated to about 100 words, but without the results! I guess they found the times embarrassing.

  There are a few points to make. Firstly, the cobbles in the Tower were just as bad as we had been warned about. You couldn’t keep any momentum going, and in effect this meant that each one could only be tackled with a separate push – very dispiriting. Even worse, they led up to a climb out of the Tower through Traitor’s Gate – but although the surface here was smooth, you had no momentum with which to launch into the climb, so you had to do it from a standing start – again, very discouraging. From then on, however, the surfaces were superb, especially along The Mall, and turning into Birdcage Walk and along Great George Street, you could see Big Ben and Parliament Square, beyond which was the finish. But the finish: past Parliament Square was Westminster Bridge, on the far side of which was the tape. To get up there was a climb, not very long and not very steep, but rising gently for perhaps 20 feet to the crest of the bridge before falling slightly for the last 20 yards or so. After 26 miles, that climb seemed a cruel way to end it all.