I blame my parents or perhaps the fault lies with some more sublime being.  In any event most people are graced with a segment of brain that cries out “Stop! Think! don’t say Yes……yet”.  This faculty was omitted from my brain at birth.  Sadly the absence of this mental function is always getting me into trouble, why did I agree to write a book when I had never even written an article?  Why do I agree to lecture on matters upon which I am wholly ignorant?  Why did I agree to run the London Marathon? 

The latter example is, perhaps, the worst act of misjudgement in a life which has led up to this moment of monumental stupidity.  I mean the looks on my friends when I shyly confessed to the dinner party that I was signed up, told it all.  One of my closest friends blanched, two fainted and a third one with pretensions to a medical background spirited a straight jacket from out of the ether crying for the others to pin me down while he arranged a proper level of psychiatric help, if such exists in Britain today.  As Linda quietly murmured to  me, “You are 57 (and your knees are 10 years older), you smoked 60 a day for years and I am sure that I recall a team of dedicated cardiac surgeons expressing some surprise that you are alive”.  Others quietly sidled up over the next few days posing various questions that my defective brain should have addressed in advance.  You do know that it is over 26 miles, that is Battle to Bexhill and back and then some?  Have you ever run a marathon?  Do you think your knees can cope?  Have you made a will….and if not will you leave me something…I am going to be a bit short this year?

So how did this sad state of affairs come about?  I suppose one has to go back three years to the words of a female of close acquaintance who patted me on my rotund paunch and intoned “My little Buddha”.  How is that women can mouth these words with a smile on their face and yet convey the undeniable message, “Look you are very nice, but ‘cuddly’ is an insult in my lexicon.  It’s shape up or ship out time”.  Woman the world over seem to possess this strange ability to say one thing and mean another, and woe betide the male who does not appreciate it.  So something had to be done about Mr. Paunch. 

I am much too attached to my food to go on a diet, so exercise was called for.  I tried walking and realised that I would be old and grey before I achieved the desired effect on my profile.  Swimming turned my brain to mush within two lengths.  When I began counting the tiles I was passing, guessing their length and then carrying out some complex calculus to ascertain the length, width, depth and volume of the pool, I knew swimming was not for me.  The gym was similarly harmful to my mental faculties, with the addition that I had to display my corpulent frame to young 20 somethings who pumped iron before running to John O’Groats and back on the running machine and then set the rowing machine to ‘the Americas and back’ setting.  So it came down to running.  And it has served me well, three years later I am two stone lighter and I managed the Battle 10k.  Lets face it I am a runner.  Well ‘plodder’ might be a better description, but no matter I can put one foot in front of the other.

Thus the innocent e-mail from my erstwhile friend Jane was already dropping on fertile ground when she forwarded a message from Maria of the Sara Lee Trust.  It was deceptively seductive in appearance

“I have a few spaces available for the 2012 Virgin London Marathon and wondered if you would be happy to circulate my email to colleagues, friends and family in case anyone you know may be interested in running for us.

The Sara Lee Trust has some sought after guaranteed places for the 2012 Virgin London Marathon (Sunday 22nd April 2012) for runners who commit to raising £1,750 for the Trust.”

In keeping with the low key approach, Jane simply said “Please let Maria know if this is of interest to you”.  So what does brain do?  It directs hand to write an e-mail,

“Right up my street.  I have done the Hastings half and would be happy to train for the full one.  I am sure I can rustle up £1750.00.  Happy to do this – if the trust wants.

Of course the rest of my body is in open revolt.  Led by the legs, feet and points south of the waist, my body is protesting that I ran the Hastings half a few years back, it is not up my street, lane or anything else and knowing the parsimony of my social circle the chances of raising £1,750 is up there with qualifying for the 2012 Olympics, winning the Lottery or indeed….finishing a marathon.  But no, brain is not in receptive mode.  It has decreed that the marathon will be run and thus it will be run.  So it took just thirty eight minutes from Jane sending the e-mail to my agreeing to run. 

Now Jane’s a lawyer and she realises that she has snared me in a life threatening pursuit.  So she does what any good lawyer does, she writes in the disclaimer.  “I thought this might be your thing. If quite sure, would you please contact Maria directly. I am sure she will be delighted.”  If you are quite sure?  What does that mean?  Its that female thing again.  “I have got what I wanted, you are a man and thus too proud to resile from a plan agreed upon, thus I can safely ask if you are sure, in the safe knowledge that no man would wimp out at this stage.”

And so it proved, and for the past weeks, since before Christmas, I have been cutting a lonely furrow on the streets of Battle and its close environs.  I have braved thunder, lightening (which seemed mighty close), hail, rain, sub zero temperatures and all that the gods of discordant weather can throw at me.  I have invested in running gloves (that’s gloves to run in, not gloves that run), fluorescent jacket, warm T shirt and new running shoes. (more of which in the future).  All because the brain lacks that simple function, enjoyed by the rest of mankind, the ability to engage logic before engaging mouth or typing fingers.  I keep telling myself it will all be worth it, my legs are not so sure