The river of liquid cheese slowly coursed its way through the greasy lamb and bacon landscape, navigating the occasional deep-fried onion ring, before slipping over the burger bun and dripping, with the gentlest of patter, onto my chip-infested plate.

“You’re not taking this race training very seriously are you?” said Frosty.  Looking back at him across the Wetherspoon’s table, I took a sip of my pint as I considered his question.

Sunday 13 September

The sky was an early morning shade of grey and Regent’s Park thronged with runners. Maybe I should have been more concerned with my lack of training but my little head was revelling in the fact that I had woken up at 5am and was not tired, had eaten breakfast and that the t-shirt in my race pack meant I had successfully infiltrated this herd of joggers.

Shortly after Gingell and I arrived, Matt (aka blankbadge) showed up.  It was good to finally meet him, although he maintains this has happened before.  After being spoilt for choice when it came to picking out a portaloo, we made our way to a wet bench where we busied ourselves safety-pinning our race numbers to our tops (475, since you ask) and fastening our timing chips to our laces to measure our start and finish times.  It may also be worth remembering that the top of your race number should line up with the base of your breastbone, remember this well else the real runners may turn on you.

Eventually we were led through a presumably thorough warm up, although I don’t really have anything to compare it to, before being separated off into our holding pens.  There were four; ranging from orange, for those whose predicted running times were a death wish, through white (Gingell) and onto more sensible segments such as green (yours truly) and pink (Matt).

Then we waited.  The excitement began to fade and the cold set in, and then half an half hour later there was a stirring and we began the slow collective walk to the start line.  In front of me a grey haired man with a beige hearing aid, a young girl with a big wig and a neck tattoo, a middle aged couple repeatedly sucking face, all of humanity decked out in garish white shoes.

And then we were off.  The group slowly spread out and with that I was able to find a comfortable speed without tripping over anyone.

If you want to talk training and technique then it’s probably best to head on over to Gingell’s blog but at that stage all I knew was this; if I don’t finish this race Gingell will mock me relentlessly, therefore I must finish this race.  The reason I fail at running is because I don’t pace myself, therefore I must keep pace with these running experts around me.

Whether they were running experts or not I shall never know but it seemed to work.  The first two kilometres were pleasant; I took in the park scenery and was generally impressed by lots of smiley marshals who had matched their yellow tops with metallic accessories.

After that I began to experience the dullest of aches in my belly but it was nothing compared with my usual running pains, this was probably because I was keeping a sensible pace. At three kilometres there was a water stand, further on someone attempted to play the didgeridoo (either that or someone spiked the water stand), at four people were chanting my name (well, they were chanting the name Jon, that’s good enough for me) and then onto five, seconds before crossing the finish line I saw Gingell cheering me on and then it was over.

I had run five kilometres in 30 minutes 42 seconds, which for a non-runner is rather impressive.

As I picked up my goodie bag I felt drained but I also felt a real sense of achievement.  After stretching (I just copied Gingell) I sat, wrapped in my space blanket, sucking on my Powerade, thinking.

Prior to the run Matt had asked me why I was doing this race and I hadn’t really been able to come up with a satisfactory answer.  Running was a way to bond with Gingell, running was something people wouldn’t expect me to do, running was something that I was good at, yet also a sport.

Ultimately, I may be forced to admit that I like running.

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