I scythed through the field like a spoon through butter

Well if you missed my interview with Steve Crumb on the BBC, it’s because it didn’t take place. God knows what has happened to decent chivalry and respect though. One of this country's greatest Olympians ignored. And Crumb wasn’t the only one to ignore me. I got off the train in London yesterday and hung around for ages waiting for Roland Branston to welcome me. Not a whiff of the chap.

So, I made my way to the start of the London Marathon feeling, if truth be known, a tad grumpy. I've had a strong feeling all week that the organisers seemed to be more interested in getting those Kenyans and Ethiopians on board than they were getting me to the start line. And that feeling turned to reality on Sunday morning when - and I know you'll be flabbergasted as well - I was denied access to the Elite Men's start pen.

And, Ronettes, if you can imagine the scene. There was I, peering through the 6 ft high fence at the hand-picked cluster of Johnny Foreigners masquerading as London Marathon winners-in-waiting. And, do you know, I swear I caught that Sammy Whostisname's eyes lock on to my gaze and his face turned to stare at the floor in embarrassment. Yes, even though he was dressed in a giraffe outfit, he was embarrassed too.

Anyway - enough of egos. How did my race go?

Well, I have to be pleased. I'd paced myself through the race and crossed the line at 3.50 which I thought wasn’t bad. Mind you, if truth be known I'd actually hoped to get there for half three - but ten to four was good enough. My time was a blistering 5 hours 53 minutes - a full 14 minutes quicker than my last marathon - but, oh dear Ronettes. Does it hurt.

Yes, it hurt yesterday and it bally well hurts today I can tell you. But I did it and that’s the main thing. So, what were the highlights of my magnificent victory?

Well there was plenty of anticipation as we lined up to prepare for the race. Unlike my fellow lightweights I popped into O’Neil’s in Blackheath for a last minute carbo loading bacon sarny - and that really set me up. Just stripped down to my orange Lycra ... and the bally heavens opened and drenched the lot of us. Got some funny responses from what were obviously first-time athletes who didn’t seem to understand that my offer to lubricate their wobbly bits with Vaseline was a perfectly reasonable thing to say on an athlete to athlete basis.

The race got underway and I stormed past my first Kenyan at just 400 yards - he was adjusting his Womble outfit and I took advantage of that to leave him for dust. Saw some pretty remarkable sites - Sally Gunnell dressed up as the back end of a bus was one early highlight. Felt a bit demoralised when a bloke carrying a fridge ran past me at 2 miles but I felt a whole lot better when somebody pointed out that the fridge was empty - well anybody could do that couldn’t they?

My race nearly came to a shuddering premature halt when a woman pushing a pram crossed the road in front of me – and then as I ran past her she rammed it on to my Achilles – now what was that about????

I was stalked throughout the first 10 miles by a flippin' partially sighted soldier who was dressed in full camouflage gear. I kept running past him only for him to come right up behind me poking me with his white stick thing. Now I have the utmost respect for people like that but his stick kept hurting the backs of my leg. But then something happened for which I have since reflected was probably not in the spirit of the race - and I apologise now. He came up on my inside for the last time at about 10 or 11 miles and for the umpteenth time I moved aside after being jabbed yet again by his stick. Just at that point, however there was a sharp left hand turn in the course - but your man carried straight on. And he was so determinedly walking straight that the marshals on the corner obviously thought he wanted to come off the course - so they removed the barrier to allow him through. The last I saw of him he was tip-tapping his way away from the course down some main road - presumably wondering why the field had thinned out. I know I should have done something about it but ….

Some blokes with one leg sprung past me at 4 miles followed a few minutes later by a huffing and puffing bloke with a rucksack with a load of spare legs sticking out of the top - what was that all about?

But the early parts of my race were OK. I had decided on a 5/1 walk-run strategy where I would run for 5 minutes and walk for 1 minute - to conserve my energy. At my pace I reckoned that would get me round in 5 hours 27 minutes - and I would have taken that. The plan worked well up until 13 miles when I felt my groin go - but I carried on regardless and at 17 miles I was doing OK and about five minutes ahead of my target time - but by then I was feeling tired and groin-sore. I decided to take a couple of minutes to recover and then set off again but I was soon feeling quite sore and although I struggled on to 20 miles - still about on-target - the wheels began to fall off as I hit the dreaded hedge.

All marathon runners will know the feeling when you do hit the hedge – your legs turn to jelly, you cant control your breathing, you have no energy and every muscle in your legs and arms starts to burn.

The last six miles took me an age to get through. My thighs were really burning and my right calf had stiffened up. The groin strain was making me limp - oh do stop sniggering - and both my knees had taken just about as much as they could. But at 20 miles and then 21 miles I reckoned that if I could just struggle through to run, say half a mile per mile, I could still have made the target time or thereabouts. But it wasn’t to be.

At 22 miles I had a blazing row with myself - and I tell you I damn near hit myself I was so annoyed. Whether it was the heat or whether my brain had just scrambled because of the intense effort I don’t know. But it had so turned to jelly that I just couldn’t calculate where my five minute runs and 1 minute walks started and finished. It is, of course quite easy - you run for five minutes and then walk for one minute - which means that every sixth minute should be the end of the walk - at 6, 12, 18, 24 etc minutes past the hour. Well my brain worked perfectly well for most of the afternoon - but like my legs it just it seemed to give up. I was stopping at 13 past the hour starting walking at 16 - and then I eventually had to stop and start to manually calculate what I should be doing. Am I supposed to be running now … or walking? I almost asked a woman in the crowd for some pencil and paper - and that, Ronettes, is what marathon running does for you.

The last four miles were pretty tough on your man here - but there was a kind of Eureka moment when it suddenly struck me that I had stumbled upon my problem. You see when I was running I was keeping up with those around me. But when I stopped to walk, all those walkers around me were walking past me. So, that I surmised, was my problem. It wasn’t that I can’t run fast - it’s that I walk too slowly!

24 miles came and I was not a happy hamster. I was barely walking and barely thinking straight. Humiliation complete when a bloke ran past me dragging a half-built brick wall.

At the 40K mark I should have been about 12 minutes from the finish line - but it took me damn near on half an hour to get there. Turning the corner into the Mall I summoned one last effort to run to the tape - and effort made slightly more difficult by having to avoid two apples, a donkey, a small giraffe and two Star Wars characters - I needed to have that finish line photo with real athletes in it - not half the cast from some bally pantomime.

And there you have it - the marathon from the perspective of an Olympic hero.

The Half Share had shot off from yard 1 and nipped round in 5 hours 20 and was waiting for me with a Guinness and a pie for dehydrating purposes after the race. And you know, sometimes you get no credit do you? Her mood darkened somewhat when Ernie picked me up in the Transit - now there was only room for me in the van and anyway there was a perfectly good taxi service from the train station to the Cucumber and Trumpet where I was being feted last night for my magnificent achievement. I gave her most of the money for the flippin’ taxi – so just what was the problem eh? But I was not going to let anything spoil my perfect day. After a couple of tubes with well wishers I retired to the bottom of the stairs to wait for morning – well there was no way I was going to climb the things!

And so, to today. How do I feel?

Sore that's how.

But at least I did the thing. And the race was good experience for my next big event which is not far away - I'm planning on running the marathon in Luxembourg next month and yesterday should, at least, help my preparations. In the meantime I'm going to take it easy this week - pop into a few local pubs to show off my medal etc. And then, on Sunday the relentless treadmill that is training for the 2012 Olympics gets switched on again when I travel to Reading to take part in the Shinfield 10K.

Keep on tapering

Ron