I stand metaphorically before you a man on the edge of personal oblivion.

Some months ago I signed up to run in the BUPA Great Capital Run, a 10 kilometre run around London's Hyde Park. I cannot now adequately explain what led me to such a rash and foolhardy decision. I can only say that I was insulated by the false perspective time gives to then far-future events. But now that far-away date has arrived. Tomorrow I must face the consequences of that decision, and can clearly see it for what it was.

A bloody stupid thing to have done.

I perhaps was dazzled by numbers. If a marathon is 42 kilometres, I thought, and people run that, how hard can a mere 10 kilometres be? (Answer: still a bloody long way!) And so I filled in the on-line form and my fate was cast. I had planned to train, but my training was cruelly interrupted, firstly by an injury to my back, and then by my inability to actually get round to it.I'm not going to disclose how long the longest of my training runs to date have been, but I think I can disclose one crucial fact - it's been no-where near ten bloody kilometres!

The eve of my day of oblivion has arrived. I would avoid it. Duck out. Bottle it. Put my BUPA timing chip back into its self-addressed return envelope and post it off. But my fates are forced, both by my previous declarations of intent, and by the fact that I've already accepted a load of charity money. Like a Japanese samurai faced with an approaching B29 Superfortress, I must wave my impudent sword and accept my destiny.

A few hours ago I ate what I believe is the traditional "eve-of-battle" meal for marathon runners: pasta. I fear that a pile of penne with a dollup of tomato and herb pasta source is, from a nutritional point of view, very much pissing in the wind, but it's a psychological straw I'll gladly grab at, thanks.

Wish me luck.

Tags: death (possible), great capital run, running