3rd May 2015 – 20:00

One of the many clichés attached to marathons running is it’s an addiction.  Like most clichés, there’s something in it. Like other kinds of addiction, marathon running is an expensive pastime, can be ruinous to health and relationships and generally takes you away from normal, social behaviour and turns you into a sell-centred, slightly obsessive outcast with Vaseline smeared into your most tender places.

The ballot for the 2016 London Marathon opens in about 6 hours’ time and like last year,  Iwill be staying up into the small hours – on a school night – refreshing the website hoping for the magic word ‘open’.

I first entered London in 1995 and was frankly amazed, rather than disappointed when I was rejected. I naively thought that you applied, you got in and you went to London and did it. Since then, I have completed 10 London Marathon.  I have applied 17 times – and on two of those occasions I was successful. With those odds, why don’t I just got to bed?

Because – and here’s the next cliché – London is a magical event. Actually running it is only a part of the experience.  The build-up, the exhibition where you pick up your race number, the BBC music, I could go on.

Any marathon, regardless of iconic landmarks, supportive crowds, faultless organisation is bloody hard work. For a paunchy middle –aged non-athlete, running the marathon is really bloody hard work.  It hurts, it’s can be soul-destroying and it makes you walk like an idiot for at least 4 days afterwards; going down stairs is agony. I have, thank God, no inspirational story to tell.  I have my limbs and have reasonable health.  I have overcome no significant obstacles in my running life (my belly excepted) and I have  a comfortable job that, if I can summon-up sufficient motivation, allows my the time to get some proper training done. No one is going to shed a tear watching me stagger to the finish line. Except, perhaps of laughter. I am one of many thousands of pretty unremarkable individuals who want to do something that is collectively amazing.

Two days ago I did a local 16k/10mile run organised by a local club.  Not only do my legs hurt like a beast, but so do my ribs. And my back – in fact everything really hurts.

So – It makes very little sense to deprive myself of sleep tonight and then try to deny myself beer, chips, chocolate for the next 11 months – and when you live in Belgium, as I do – that’s a challenge in itself.  It makes no real sense to try to set myself up to run (stagger, walk, mince) for the fabled 26.2 distance.  I’ve got nothing to prove – I know the route like the back of my hand – and I have no real expectation of getting in.

So why do it?  Because I have 10 finishers medals, and I want another one. Because marathon day feels like Christmas when you’re 8 years old; because everyone you meet there is smiling and is on a wave of mutual positivity; because the journey home seems to take forever – but you feel proud – everyone knows you’ve done the race, and only you know how quickly.  Because it’s unique and marvellous. Because I love it.

Here’s to a late night. Here’s hoping…