The Qwer Old Fella's Marathon Method

5 a.m.: The alarm screams. Hullabaloo; what on earth… I realise. I lie there in the scratcher and remember that I need to get up and get out on the road. But I get the twinge – in my mouth. Best not run today. Let it heal and start again in a couple of days. All the same, up I get. Got to keep the discipline.

Guilt ridden, I decide to tackle the mountain of ironing. How many real men get up at five and plunge into the ironing basket? Not many. Yep, that’s the sort of mental fortitude and toughness that sees you through the final stages of a 2:25 marathon – when you’re 45 +.

So there I am, iron in hand, skimming the clothes, full steam ahead, when I pick up my new Nike running top. Silky soft. Little reflector thingamajigs all over the shot. Wicks away sweat before you start to sweat. Top stuff. What Garmin is to weekly mileage, Nike wicking is to comfort and freshness on the run. Do I iron it? What if somebody sees me out running in a wrinkled Nike running top? Just wouldn’t do, would it? Got to look the part.

My mind drifts back to my late teenage days, not long after the summer when I broke 9 for 3000m – a time when men were real men, a time when you weren’t a ‘real’ runner unless you had at least two stress fractures in each leg, a time when worn-out Plimpsoles evinced your running credentials: the more holes in the soles, the more miles in the legs.

My first Tuesday club night with the men. There must have been four or five sub 2:14 marathon warriors (standard for most clubs) and a plethora of sub 2:25 B string wannabes.

In the changing rooms, men growled and stared and grunted as they slipped into their Plimpsoles and ever so short shorts and sweat-crusted, cotton T-shirts; perfect for a gelid December night. Stories embossed on the eyes of each man. Each story a bitter indictment of pain and disappointment, each story hinting at the despair of each runner’s meaningless journey towards the nothingness, and each story riddled with the fear of missing a training session.

Men, with tufts of hair sprouting from chins which blunt razors failed to shave, looked at me with disdain. The young pretender.

Out there in darkness and the cold of the December night I felt the insecurities of youth. What if I couldn’t hang in there with them, I thought. If they drop me, I’ll be the laughing stock. Got to stay with them, no matter what.

A burst of steam from the iron burnt my hand and snapped me out of my reminiscing. Tomorrow, when the alarm screams, twinge or no twinge, I'll be up and out there - on the road, like a real man.