It was the London Marathon today and P and I went and stood down on the Embankment to cheer people on. In particular we went down to cheer on Matt, a friend of ours who has honed his podgy frame into that of an elite long distance athlete. We saw him at mile 23 – a point at which you are being ground in the jaws of the Beast. He had plainly burned the last of his energy he was running on an alternative fuel source (i.e. sheer cussedness), his legs ticking metronomically in tiny strides. Having shambled glacially away from us he arrived at the finish line after 4 hours 49 minutes – a full 30 secs slower than I did it last year. So this is just to say: Hey Matt – you loser!

In fact I amazingly proud of him. I never fail to be moved by the spectacle and by the courage of those than run this race. Embarrassing though the admission may be, I spent much of my time at the race close to tears. I watched runner after runner struggling on to honour someone dear to them that they had lost. Some had the names of a son, a mother or a husband on their shirts; others had small photos pinned to them. Even those running for themselves are an inspiration. It is astonishing to be part, even as a spectator, of an event in which so many people are simultaneously achieving a lifelong ambition; in which so many people come to realise that they have depths of strength and character that they have never previously tapped.

The guys who finish in 2 hours 10 are admirable but my heroes are those who at 5 and half hours are struggling up the Embankment, their knees creaking, breathing raggedly and absolutely refusing to stop.