Kerre Woodham: Dogged determination keeps body on marathon path

I suppose it was inevitable. You can't go from walking the dog to marathon running without something falling apart.

Especially when you're 41 and carrying more weight than is strictly necessary for survival. Something had to give, because training had been going suspiciously well.

Once I made the commitment to run the Auckland Marathon three months ago, I gathered a team of experts around me. I figured it was bad enough to be fulfilling the cliché of the 40-something baby boomer, running a marathon in an attempt to avert a midlife crisis.

Far worse to be a cliched baby boomer on the waiting list for knee reconstruction and a hip replacement. So I have my trainer, chiropractor, masseuse and nutritionist all trying to nurse me to the finish line without any lasting damage that will see me a burden on the health system.

I have a bigger entourage than David Tua, but unlike David's, none of my team wears a toe ring and they have my best interests at heart. They've done a brilliant job.

But even they can't prevent some things happening. Once I started clocking up the ks, it was time for my body to let me know that it wasn't happy.

From running around the block, I have progressed to running a half marathon. My trainer and I went down to Blenheim to run the Woodbourne Half a couple of weeks ago and very pleasant it was too, with the sweat from my brow irrigating the soil as we thundered through the grape fields of Marlborough. 2006 should be an especially interesting vintage.

I didn't set the record books on fire - I don't think I'm going to be Auckland's answer to Bernie Portenski - but I wasn't last and my entourage told me 2hr 3m is a respectable enough time for a middle-aged woman on her first run.

As my trainer pointed out, if I hadn't spent so much time gushing over the little border collie pup at the 18km aid station, we might have cracked two hours. I kept to myself the fact that if I hadn't gushed over the puppy, I might have needed to be airlifted to Nelson Hospital.

But, really, running the half was fine. I wasn't in any discomfort. Just a few aches and pains in my legs alleviated with a spa bath.

The nagging pain in my foot, however, was getting to be a problem. I can set my watch by it. After one hour of pounding the pavement, a niggle starts and the pain doesn't stop until I do.

So it was off to add another expert to my collection. In fact, two experts. The podiatrist sent me to the sports doctor who sent me for an x-ray. It's costing a fortune, but hey! Whenever somebody sets out to fulfil any sort of goal or ambition, there's going to be a massive investment of time and money.

Apparently the niggle is a stress related injury. On its way to a fracture, but they don't think it's there yet.

Hopefully, the orthotics will prevent the damage from worsening and my trainer has decided to split the training.

Instead of one three-hour run, it's two 90- minute canters. No sweat. And if I have to wear the silly moon boot, or do the aqua jogging, so be it.

Its amazing how much it's come to mean to me to run this marathon. The half won't cut it.

My run's sponsor, Regal Salmon, is giving five grand to Cystic Fibrosis if I finish the 42km, but my motives are not purely altruistic.

This marathon has become my challenge. I set out to run the full, I've put in a great deal of work to get myself this far and I want to prove to myself that I can do it.