The Hastings Half (lung)

My lungs don't work.

My GP told me this morning that I should be pushing the flimsy little plastic tab in the peak flow meter up past the 600 mark. I can barely scrape past 200.

This performance, six weeks away from the London Marathon, is as the euphemism has it, challenging.

So tomorrow, at considerable expense, I'm off to Harley Street to see a specialist, who will, for the money, not only reflate my lungs with mountain fresh air, but will also excise my midriff (less of a muffin top and more of a pain de campagne), and straighten my teeth. Oh, and throw in a cleansing colonic, I'm sure.

I make light of this, of course, but I'm not happy. This marathon has provided a spine for my flabby thinking over the past few months, guiding me through the dark days of winter and surprising me with unimagined achievements. So for it to come to this... Grr.

Still, I've got my first medal; or rather horse brass, courtesy of the Hastings Lions for completing their 25th Anniversary Half-Marathon on Sunday. The sun shone, the people of Hastings banged pots and blew bagpipes, and more than one church seized the opportunity of 5000 captive punters and sang folk/rock/gospel music to us from the side of the road. (I declare an interest as a former guitarist of St Gertrude's Folk Choir - we rocked.)

They have a road that leads out of St Leonards; on the maps it's called Queensway. I call it another name; an ugly, angry, name. You know, the really bad one. Because it's a six mile hill. Which we had to run up. It just goes on and on, curving into the distance, for so long you think (no, you just wouldn't be running up it) I thought it was just taking the Michael, playing with us, goading us. "Nearly over, nearly over - awwwh, sorry about that, IT'S NOT OVER - AT ALL. HA!"

Not easy for any chubby man in his mid-forties; Calvary for a chubby man in his mid-forties with no lung capacity. But, dear reader, it got done, baby-wheezy step by baby-wheezy step, and we emerged onto the ridge and level ground and the choirs and bands and banging pots and all was well as we barrelled back down into town.

Free Lucozade Sport, medals, a slightly heady sense of satisfaction at crossing the line - we got quite a lot done before lunch on Sunday. Now all we have to do is run that distance, twice.

But we never have to run up that hill ever ever again.