While most sane London people will be in bed on Sunday morning, probably nursing a hangover from Samuel Adam's brew or an IPA, 30,000 hopefuls with black toenails will set off on one of man's most hideous journeys, the marathon. In unseasonal heat of 22/23C for this time of the year, London's streets will fill up with hairy men in Oxfam dresses and very slim Africans who get their kicks from running this gruelling distance in just over two hours.

If someone could spare an eon to explain why all of this happens, please do oblige. Exercise is great for helping you make it into your ninth decade and curse the day you didn't decide to drink more and take recreational drugs. But seriously, moderate exercise can do wonders for keeping the black dog at bay. Just ask Ronnie O'Sullivan.

In a recent conversation, one acquaintance of mine recounted a sweet story about attending one of the recent London marathons as a spectator. She noticed that one of the lady athletes was covered in what seemed to be dirt.

"Aw, bless." said this acquaintance to herself. "She must have slipped on the muddy ground". After considering the fact that the London marathon is indeed a road race, she promptly arrived at the correct opinion that this woman had suffered a symptom of fright syndrome that involves the opening of the bowel.

Some of you might ask why she was still running? Did she feel no shame at having last night's spag bol run down her legs in an altogether different consistency and texture? Was she not concerned that half a million people would hold their noses to prevent the inhalation of odour from her faeces? Would she not squirm at the thought of the BBC broadcasting this puce-inducing embarrassment to the nation? No, she did not. She kept on running.

This, ladies and gentlemen, gives us a good indicator as to the state of mind of your average marathon runner.

tags:marathon

Published by Colm.