In love with the London Marathon? Jog on... I hated every single minute

At mile one some smartarse will shout: 'Not far to go now!' sure that this is a brilliant joke

Good morning to 37,000 very special people. You may be rather too preoccupied to return the greeting this particular Sunday. You are on your way to Blackheath, focused on rehydration and pacing strategies, on juggling flavoured gels and sticky Vaseline, and on scouting around for a last comfort break. You, ladies and gentlemen, are running the London Marathon.

After months of training in the rain and dark, of pushing yourselves that little bit further, and of frantic fund-raising, you are arriving on the green, red or blue starting line, with just 26.2 miles separating you, your self-doubt and nervous excitement from glory. Some will say this is the greatest day of your lives, when the nation’s capital shakes off its reserve and envelops you in loving embrace. Maybe. I hated every single minute.

Perhaps it is the quintessential British nature of the event, the three-line whip decreeing all must relish the enforced jollity. Or is it just me, and the curse of the curmudgeon?

I have lost count of the times I have run the London Marathon. Six? Seven? You might suppose that makes me a fitness freak. Alas. A glance in the bedroom mirror tells a different story.

It is a pain to get to the start-line – all that queuing for trains, nervous energy, and dying for a pee. Then, there’s the irritating chatter before the big off: about training schedules, fancy watches, runners’ nipple, and false modesty.

At mile one, some smartarse will shout: “Not far to go now!” He is convinced that he has devised this brilliant joke. Dire pub bands belt out “Keep on Running” and “Don’t Stop Me Now” every few hundred yards. Your head pounds.

Well-meaning bystanders proffer little pick-me-ups, reacquainting you with revolting confectionery you thought they had stopped making years ago. Spangles, anyone? The kids are apparently desperate for a high-five. Are they taking the piss?

Even by my own low standards, 2008 – I think, it was – was spectacularly miserable. Five minutes in, and suddenly I was flat on my back. Without warning, the runners in front of me had parted to avoid the bollard I never saw.

Heroically, you might think, I struggled on with throbbing foot until mile 18 in Docklands, when I halted at the first-aid station. The medic took one glance at my grey visage, and told me I was overheating. I could not restart unless he could take my temperature. And, for reasons I have never quite fathomed, it had to be done rectally. A thermometer up the jacksy carried little appeal, and so I bowed out.

But the over-riding truth? This is a brilliant event, about sacrifice, selflessness, love and ambition. All those people running for their mum, dad and – most heartbreaking of all – children. All that money raised; all those precious memories. What’s not to like, really? Verily, we salute you all.