Sun 30 Dec 2001

I find myself in Sussex, for probably the last run of 2001. It’s another bad experience. My diet in the last 2 days has been dreadful. Left alone in the house for a day or two, I slip into naughty schoolboy mode, hoovering up crisps and chocolate and polishing off a bottle and a half of wine on Friday evening. Yesterday I went to the match and feasted on a hot dog and later on, celebratory fish and chips. So it was no surprise that 5 or 6 minutes into today’s run, I started to feel that ache creeping up my ribcage again, where it stayed for the next 5 miles of miserable stop-start. I am now quite certain that the pain is a consequence of eating badly, or drinking alcohol, though I still don’t know what the exact link is.

The saving grace was the sunshine, which brought the runners out in strength. The whole range was represented, from the sleek, spring-heeled club runners to… people like me. It’s funny to read the bile that some of the ‘pros’ write about the newbies and the ‘funrunners’. Their particular bette noire is the marathon brigade, whose presence they regard as a pollutant of a noble tradition. One of the greatest fears of a seasoned marathon runner must be to be overtaken by a 17 stone bloke dressed as Tinkerbell.