Annie Hayes, HRZone.co.uk's very own contributing editor and self-confessed reluctant runner has been charting her training regime for the Flora London Marathon here in this blog. In her final entry she tells her story of the big day, blisters and all.

Attending A&E before crossing the starting line must be a first. The epic marathon weekend began, for me, with a trip to the Chelsea and Westminster hospital with a complaint of a very sore eye – the dashing doctor, who was generously sympathetic, packed me off with some eye drops for my scratched cornea – limping round the course, hand cupping one eye, was not the way I wanted to start.

Still, a liberal smattering (just a 'tad' more than the prescribed dose – there were no instructions on what to do if you really, really need to see your way round a 26.2-mile course) of the eye drops and a gargantuan portion of spaghetti bolognaise made me feel much better. A final night of alcohol abstinence and I turned in early. This plan quickly proved problematic. The neighbours, who seem to have to celebrate every Saturday with a party, decided to kick-off. First upstairs.

This went on until about three in the morning. I wasn't sure, however, whether scraping noises across the floor warranted some verbal abuse. The relief when they’d gone to bed was short-lived, when the adjacent flat decided that 5am was a good time to pump up the music. Bleary eyed, I decided enough was enough and I instructed my husband to go in all guns blazing. And he did. "Excuse me, my wife is running the marathon tomorrow, if you don't shut the [bleep] up I will call the police." That did the trick.

A little (that is an understatement) less rested than I'd hoped, the big day had started. A huge bowl of porridge and two bananas later, I was ready to make full use of the free travel (thanks Ken) on the underground. My assistant (weary husband) came to hold my bag. We found Sandra and her friend Renee lurking and looking equally apprehensive in Greenwich, and after a quick and very nervous dash to spend a penny and get intimate with the Vaseline jar we were ready. I sent the husband packing and before we knew it, it was time to get in position.

Under starter's orders, we were off with a big wave to the camera above us – the truth be told it was a little while until we actually started running – thick crowds, the weird and wonderful costumes to dodge and some slow breathing to put the nerves in check all took its toll on the clock. In all honesty, it was about five miles until I managed to find my pace and stop pinching myself that I was 'actually running the London Marathon' - unintentionally I also separated from Sandra, I quickly found it was impossible to look back and see if I could find her.

So it was just me, myself and I, oh and the other 35,000 or so runners. The course, which is basically flat, takes in some good sights - the Cutty Sark (the re-build), Greenwich, the Tower of London, Westminster – sadly, though, you have a few other things on your mind than getting snap happy with the camera.

Buoyed along by the amazing crowds that lined just about every part of the course I was really rather enjoying myself; that is until it decided to rain torrentially and I was completely soaked - the contact lense ban didn’t help matters, I really couldn’t see a thing, and hundreds of running shoes merged into one big rain drop. My emergency running pack, which included my lens cleaning cloth and more eye drops, (possibly the only runner to do 26.2 miles complete with an optometry set) saved the day.

At 13 miles, I ran past the Tower of London and I heard a loud voice shout "Annie!" To my glee, my entire family were congregated waving and shouting out loudly – it improved my spirits enormously. I was delighted they'd come to see me and gave me some much needed va va voom.

Miles 13 and 20 were pretty hard – I'd never been to Millwall before and would never go again - eventually we got to Canary Wharf but it seemed like forever and the thought that there was still much, much more to do didn’t improve my spirits, nor did the lucozade or the sight of a million runners peeing at the side of the road (not nice). I got even more deflated when I thought I’d already past the 18-mile marker and was on my way to 19 when I realised I hadn’t; I was a mile further behind than I thought. If this was the wall then I had truly hit it.

The only thing that got me through were the runner’s t-shirts - people running for their dad, mum, baby brother – a thousand different stories and, in turn, a thousand different reasons to pick myself up and get on with the task in hand.

Once I was at 20 my mood cheered, it was a mental marker - there were only six to go. At 22/23 I saw my family again – waving and jumping up and down madly - it was another boost just at the right time. I past the potato man and the guy dressed as superman and extracted the last ounce of adrenalin I possessed - now there was nothing for it but to peg it to the finishing line. It didn't help that there was a serious case of runners' fall out – they were dropping like flies, tapering off to the sidelines head in hands. I had to ignore this and keep going.

Westminster was a beautiful site, I knew then that I had done it – well almost, a last drive home up to St James' Park and I was done. I've never been so glad to stop in all my life. I felt very emotional, but just about held the tears back enough to scoop up my winner's medal and my bag of goodies.

It was amazing how quickly I got cold and the flora cape didn't really cut the mustard on that one. So the finishing time? Four hours 34 minutes, and happy with that – pretty much as predicted. Poor Sandra had badly injured her knee at mile 17 and bravely limped on to finish which deserves two medals in itself.

If you remember, I started the quest to find out if marathon running is akin in stamina as drug-free childbirth. So what's the answer? Well I don't remember having a start or finish time when I had my son George, and I don't know of anyone who has ever taken 16 hours to run the course or screamed their way around, so no – childbirth is much, much tougher. I know I've now done both! And yes I'm still wearing my marathon medal and I'm the proudest runner and mother ever.

Annie ran the 2008 Flora London Marathon in aid of Heart UK. You can still sponsor her at www.justgiving.com/annabellehayes

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Annie Hayes, HRZone.co.uk's very own contributing editor and self-confessed reluctant runner is bravely taking part in the London Marathon this year and she is charting her training regime here in this blog. This week, she completes the 16-mile Kingston breakfast run and finds a friend in the Saga pace setter.

Try as I might I couldn't shake off the old lady that was permanently at my feet for the entirety of Sunday's Kingston breakfast run. She must have been at least 70 and I a hearty 30-something seemed, I’m embarrassed to say, completely unable to overtake her. I wish it had been the hunky James Cracknell who'd been snapping at my tail.

I've written enough about age discrimintion to watch my step on this one though and, if the truth be told, she was a jolly soul and I hope I'm as full of energy by the time Botox is a regular feature in my diary. In fact, I was very impressed with her dedication – a whole nutritional regime dedicated to her running retirement and yes she is also doing the big one on 13 April.

The event was 'fun' - did I just say that? Well I mean it, I really rather enjoyed myself. The worst part was being ditched by a friend who'd originally harangued me into signing up and then wimped out after a close inspection with the rainfall charter.

Alas it was just me, myself and I. The whole ritual began on Saturday night with a desperate search for the entry number and some safety pins. Whilst sipping, ok glugging is more accurate, my glass of wine and with one eye on the TV, I read (for the first time) the information sheet where it said alcohol two-days pre-run was a serious no-no. I skirted round the issue by downing the remainder and walloping back two pints of water in the vein hope that the 'one cancels out the other' solution would apply.

The early night (also advised by the information sheet) was also foiled by the upstairs neighbour who decided that a late night party was in order - either that or they were dragging a dead body across the floor. So weary eyed I awoke at 7am (well actually it was really 6am - some bright and helpful soul had decided to put the clocks forward).

Of course to insure against the vagaries of oversleeping I set four alarm clocks, my husband returning from a night out at the pub decided he also needed to make sure that I would wake for the event and added his blackberry alarm to the mix, deliberately placed at arm's length.

Five alarms later and I and the whole block were awake. Hurray. I climbed into the car and set off for Kingston. Not being the best navigator (if you read the countryside blog you'll agree it's not my forte) I was chuffed to have found Kingston and not ended up in Devon, and parked the car without damaging any others - that's another story.

I've never seen so much lycra in all my life and then there was the runner's gel to contend with. We're talking serious athletes here, complete with waist bands packed full of the stuff. Whilst they were comparing their PBs with their tapering strategies (it's a whole new language) I was deciding whether or not I would be able to remember where I'd parked the car.

Under starter's orders we were off and a lovely jaunt out of Kingston's lovely market town and down by the Thames past Hampton Court and around in a big loop – once for the eight-milers; twice for the 16-milers, mainly made up of Marathon luvvies.

Together with the 70-year old and two lucozade drinks, I crossed the line in a respectable two hours 30 minutes. I was knackered – ahem exhausted, cream crackered, done for – you get the picture. I didn't really realise it but I was running faster than I would normally - being swept up with the Saga pace setter crowd takes it out of you. I gathered up my completion goodies – a browning banana and a chipped mug - and managed to find the car, success indeed.

Now all that is left is the big day itself – I must refine, revise and review the final plans (translation - find the information sheet, probably under the bed with George's vomit still on it) polish the safety pins (translation - save them from being swallowed by the 16-month old), buy the Vaseline and clean the mud off my shoes. The end is in sight, bring it on.

Annie is running the Flora London Marathon on 13 April in aid of Heart UK. You can sponsor her at www.justgiving.com/annabellehayes

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Annie Hayes, HRZone.co.uk's very own contributing editor and self-confessed reluctant runner is bravely taking part in the London Marathon this year and she is charting her training regime here in this blog. This week, she admits the tapering is out of control.

I wish I hadn't read the Marathon mag's article on 'tapering' because, ever since, the training has become non-existent. According to the Holy Grail (ahem Marathon News) the final long run takes place three weeks before the event to give the body time to recover and get fit before the big one. Well I've been sold on this idea ever since as everything seems to be against me.

Last week I had to wrestle with vomit-gate - my son George contracted a bug of mammoth proportions which resulted on us, the house and our pet dog being sicked over for near enough four days solid. Any energy left over was expended on washing clothes and bed sheets, scrubbing floors and making a nuisance of ourselves with the NHS.

Recovered from the stomach bug, we took flight to the Cotswolds for some 'r' and 'r'. On the first day in the countryside I gleefully donned my running shoes and braved the weather once again (in fact thinking about it I don't think I've ever 'not' had to brave the weather, although on this occasion we are talking hail and snow) and hit the track. A short run of 40 minutes to ease me back in – this 'tapering' stuff is magic I tell you. What a blast.

On day two of the countryside retreat, I awoke with a sore throat, probably the result of running in the arctic conditions – the country folk involved in the local hunt did give me the eye – the 'you're a mad women from the town' look, not 'you look hot in those lycra runners' eye, you understand. It would seem they were right. I was mad because ever since then all I've been able to do is stuff myself with antiseptic throat sweets and guzzle nurofen like it's going out of fashion. So in short I've done a big fat zero amount of training.

Tapering galore, I'm now a pro. On Sunday I'm entered for the Kingston 16-mile breakfast run where I might just redeem myself and remind my body that there is a marathon to do – so no more wallowing in the 'sick bay' doldrums. Toodle pip, I must go and shake the dust off my trainers and remind them I love them, well tolerate them.

Annie is running the Flora London Marathon on 13 April in aid of Heart UK. You can sponsor her at www.justgiving.com/annabellehayes

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Annie Hayes, HRZone.co.uk's very own contributing editor and self-confessed reluctant runner, is bravely taking part in the London Marathon this year and she is charting her training regime here in this blog. This week, she wipes out and is scraped off the streets of south London by a man and his trolley bag.

Like a piece of meat, I lay splattered on a dark side road in north Battersea, separated from my water bottle and my self esteem. A nice gentlemen pushing a trolley bag stopped to ask if I was ok. Fighting back my tears and, remembering that my sixteen-month-old can even control the temptation to let the water ducts flow (well from time to time) I bravely told him I would be ok.

It was a loose bit of paving stone that made me lose my footing, either that or my two left feet. As I examined the damage – an impressive bruise and shaving of my skin on the left arm and a swollen middle finger on the right hand - all that was going through my head was that annoying ad: "Where there's blame there’s a claim".

The possiblity of suing Wandsworth Council and scooping a five-figure deal, or maybe four (well probably three) was leaping around my head – oh the pain, the agony, surely someone should pay? The helpful man reunited me with my water bottle and told me "not to give up" and I resigned myself to the truth – actually I really couldn't be bothered to sue the council, I don't even have the patience to wait on the helpline, let alone march down the all guns blazing route.

What was I thinking? I picked myself up and limped home. Now there is a reason why I run without my phone and my Oyster card, or any money – it's the incentive that there really is no other way to get home bar run, that gets you round – this was a time when I regretted that strategy; I really could have done with some kind soul picking me off the Battersea floor and saving me from my own humiliation.

A glass of wine does wonders for your sanity and injuries and after a session with the Pinot Grigio I felt much better and the sore finger, although not fully flexible, appeared to be much improved as was the self respect and the loathing of the council. I had to face up to it – it was time to go where I hadn't been before – an 18-miler.

It was 8.30am on Sunday morning before I summoned the strength to leave the comforts of the warm, cosy flat and one abandoned attempt, when I had to come home to fetch a rain coat – my husband's far too big, bright yellow cycling jacket and off I set. The rain was pouring, the wind was howling and I was a lone soldier on the roads of London – everyone else was far more sensible and had decided to stay under the duvet.

Two and a half hours in and I was feeling rather good, if the truth be told, and I gave myself little pats on the back (not physically you understand - Paul McKenna would be proud) at each completed part of the course. With the extra two miles on top of my normal 16-miler it took me three hours and 10 minutes – happy with that. And you have never seen such a cold and wet looking runner.

I throughly enjoyed my warm bath when I got home, but my Sunday rest was interrupted with my very sickly son George, who proceeded to vomit over everything and everyone – poor wee soul - for the rest of the day. A visit to A&E later, in which I cheekily asked the doctor if he wouldn't mind checking whether I had broken my finger (I hadn't - well we were there anyway), and I'd forgotten all about how sore and exhausted I was – sometimes it's good to put the Marathon in perspective.

Annie is running the Flora London Marathon on 13 April in aid of Heart UK. You can sponsor her at www.justgiving.com/annabellehayes

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Annie Hayes, HRZone.co.uk's very own contributing editor and self-confessed reluctant runner is bravely taking part in the London Marathon this year and she is charting her training regime here in this blog. This week, she hits the wall as the cloud descends.

Bar the unsightly underpants I'm starting worry that I'm more of a Simon Pegg character (the lead actor in Run Fat Boy Run - if you haven't seen it, do) than a Paula Radcliffe type. Indeed fretting is my latest marathon pastime. I worry that I haven't done enough training, what will happen when I hit the 'wall' (and I will hit it), whether I will need to go to the loo in the midst of the big day and whether my feet, lungs, legs and inner va va voom will get me through. The sheer magnetism of the challenge is hanging over me like the biggest, darkest cloud you've ever seen.

Still, on the bright side, I repeated my 16-mile epic this Saturday but for some reason it felt harder than the weekend before. I don't know whether that's because this time I knew how far it was going to be. I didn't improve my time – it still took three hours and I could have done with a proper warm down but I was so pleased to get home and have a cup of tea I forgot about it. I remembered the importance of the post-run stretch on Sunday when I did a good impression of John Wayne.

I'm counting down the weeks now – it will be a delight to not feel guilty, nor stiff and just think of all the extra, lovely time I will have on my hands – what do people do when they are not training every weekend? Well I have a few ideas.

Now don't get me wrong, you might be thinking I'm not looking forward to it – in a macabre way I am – it signals the end of gruelling training and I've been told that on the day the crowd sweeps you along and, dare I say it, I might even enjoy it – well as long as I'm dosed up with plenty of painkillers in advance. And of course I'm delighted to have raised some money for charideeeeee along the way.

Next week, I won't be watching any ridiculous movies about reluctant marathon runners like me or fretting about the size of the Vaseline pot I will need – I will be re-united with my co-running buddy Sandra after several weeks in the inner-city wilderness all alone – thank goodness, it's like therapy - I will unburden, re-motivate and focus. Two pairs of feet are always better than one.

Annie is running the Flora London Marathon on 13 April in aid of Heart UK. You can sponsor her at www.justgiving.com/annabellehayes

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