The thing about marathon running is that it's a simple equation. In life there are so many variables. Marathon running isn't like that. It's a + b = c. A being effort, b being training and c equalling result.
The equation came into effect last weekend. Of my fellow
London Marathon runners, five had taken their running very seriously, following Trainer Gaz's programme assiduously, cutting back on the booze. A few of the coach's pets had even thrown in extra aqua jogging sessions.
I, on the other hand, started panic training only three weeks before, had piled on the weight and ignored every bit of good advice I received. Consequently, last Sunday, we all got the result we deserved.
My five fellow runners did personal bests and were all around the four-hour mark (two went under four.) I did five hours 10. I started off merrily enough aiming to go under five.
For a while that seemed possible but as the 20-mile marked loomed, my legs started giving out and five hours slipped away. I readjusted my goals. I was determined that I wouldn't be passed by the man dressed as the rhino.
And then, when the bloody rhino passed me to the cheers of the crowd, and with a mile to go, all I could hope for was coming in under Katie Holmes' time for the New York marathon.
That I did was small comfort. The rest of my group was sitting in a pub, sinking their second pint, as I staggered over the line. You can't fudge a marathon.
If you don't work hard enough, then you won't get the result and, in this relativist age, there's a certain rightness in that. It's over and my only mission remaining is to find a pair of rhino skin shoes in one of London's chichi shops. That'll teach the odd-toed ungulate to pip me at the post.
