When Paula Radcliffe failed to finish not only the marathon, but also the 10,000 in the Olympic Games, most runners probably sympathized with her--but not all.

Commenting in the Internet V-Boards Forum I manage online, one man from suburban Chicago said: "I can't understand why Paula didn't just finish. There is dignity in finishing, even if you're out of medal contention." A woman from Central Florida agreed: "She should have finished not just for dignity, but out of respect for the sport."

I felt sad for Radcliffe, the world record holder, but I felt sadder that people within our sport failed to comprehend the immense pressures inherent not only in the Olympic arena, but at the front of any major race.

Ours is a sport that has changed, during my lifetime, from one involving mainly fast runners to one in which the dominant theme is: "To finish is to win." We pride ourselves on the bond between someone who runs 2:15:25 and those several hours slower. We can stand on the same starting line with Olympic champions and world record holders. We feel the same pains. We experience the same pleasures.

Or do we?

In an online poll I later conducted, nearly half felt Radcliffe should have finished the marathon, no matter how slowly. A narrow majority believed her justified in dropping out of both the marathon and the 10,000. One Britisher commented: "Paula earned her right to start both races and certainly shouldn't feel any obligation to finish far behind." A Chicagoan added: "Just because I've run a few marathons doesn't qualify me to make judgments on the racing strategies of Olympians any more than I would tell a surgeon how to remove my appendix because I've dressed a few wounds."

To finish is to win?

I've run 111 marathons, some from the front, some from the rear. One race that I won overall, I finished years later next to last, barely walking. But I have dropped out of races, including the 1964 Olympic Trials run over a hilly course with weather in the 90s, similar to Athens. I was in second place at 17 miles when my ears started ringing. I slowed down; the ringing stopped. I speeded up; the ringing started again. I quit. The runner who passed me into second staggered off the course at 20 miles and spent the next week in the hospital.

One year at the Nationals, temperatures also in the high 90s, I battled another runner in the last laps of the track 10,000. He placed 4th and collapsed. I took 5th and threw up afterwards. A week later, he died in the hospital. Sometimes accepting a DNF is not disrespectful to the sport.

Yet to finish is to win, so say today's philosophers. I agree, but now wonder if those criticizing Radcliffe know what it means to dedicate your life to winning an Olympic medal? Could they run even a mile, much less 26, in her shoes? I wonder if they know how to push their bodies to the point where taking one more step in a race becomes psychologically, if not physically, impossible?

In a media interview following her Olympic failures, Radcliffe responded to a question as to why she dropped out of both races and why she even started the 10,000. She offered what, depending on your viewpoint, were either plausible reasons or merely excuses. Then she paused and said to her questioner, "I'm sorry."

We're sorry too, Paula. But apparently not all of us.

Click Here To Order a Print Version of the
Marathon Training Guide and Other Books by Hal Higdon