Kerre Woodham: My last gasp

I arrived in London to a beautiful early summer morning.

The sky was cloudless and the thermometer had already climbed to the early 20s. My cabbie was ever so proud. "They say we're going to be hotter than Rome today," he said.

I said I could well believe it and he beamed.

He asked me why I was in London and I told him I was running the London Marathon. "Really?!" he said incredulously, glancing in the rear view mirror. "Done one before then, love?" I told him I'd run two and his shoulders relaxed a little.

He said he went out to stand on the footpath and cheer on the runners every year and said it never ceased to amaze him how many people turned up to run without having done any training whatsoever.

"It's as if," he said, shaking his head, "that they think they can run 26 miles on sheer desire alone. Are they mad? Anyone with half a brain would realise you'd have to actually train."

Yes. Quite. And so, as you read this, I'll be hours away from heaving and gasping my way round London, underdone and overweight, and just praying I don't see my cabbie.

Still, I never intended to scorch up the course. This will be my last marathon and I want to take my time and enjoy the sights of London and the madness of the other participants.

I'm lucky to be able to be here and I'm going to make the most of it. But if I get passed by the man dressed as the Luvvly Jubbly Margarine tub, I may just call it quits and stagger into the nearest pub.