order â a pair of shaped plastic pieces which sit in the shoe just under the arch of the foot to prevent it from rolling over and inwards. He was confident they would do the trick, and suddenly there was hope. But the first time I wore them, after two weeks without a run, I quickly developed some spectacular blisters just where they rubbed, particularly on my left foot. The skin flopped with fluid. A pin seemed the only option â unwise, I know, but at least it brought some relief â until the fluid built up again. Frankly, my foot looked awful.
  Fortunately, by the time race day dawned, the healing had started, but one way or another the final weeks of my training had been poor, erratic and sore. My knees still ached and were occasionally sharply painful, and I had no idea what I might be about to open up on the soles of my feet. Confidence ran out the door. Fear took ever-greater hold, and sleeplessness was my nightly companion. You need everything to come right if you are to run a good race. Absolutely everything. My 2002 London Marathon bid was punctured below the waterline before I even started, I moaned. And then moaned some more.
  On the morning of the marathon, my knees were still tender. I worried whether they could possibly withstand the endless pounding of 26.2 miles, and I let the worry go round and round in my mind. I just wanted to get out there and get started, but at the same time I was dreading it.
  But at least there was the extra companionship to look forward to. The night before the marathon, Michael and my mother-in-law, Stella, stayed in the same hotel as Fiona and I did, just by Charing Cross Station, perfectly situated for the early-morning train to Greenwich for the start.
  The children stayed with my parents in Gosport for the weekend, and while Fiona and her mum took in shops and museums on the Saturday afternoon, Michael and I enjoyed four hours of total inertia in the hotel room, flicking through endless TV channels, reserving for each the attention span of a flea as we resolutely refused to do anything likely to expend any energy. We wrapped ourselves in cotton wool for an afternoon of utter idleness. Towards the end, even channel-hopping became too energetic as we whiled away the hours watching some obscure sport on an even more obscure channel. Whenever we've done a marathon since, Saturday-afternoon indolence has been a vital warm-up to our Sunday-morning exertions.
  Adding to the pleasure on the Sunday, of course, was the fact that I now had someone to travel to the start with. This really was going to be a family marathon, and Michael and I lapped up the atmosphere before going our separate ways to our respective start points. We were starting several hundred yards apart. His aim was to finish, mine was to break four hours.
  After a minute's silence for the Queen Mother, who had died two weeks before the race, we got underway in warm and pleasant conditions. Soon the miles were slipping past, and with them my fears. My knees were holding up remarkably well. So far. They were bruised and tender, but they weren't holding me back â to my huge relief. More miles came and went, and still no major discomfort.
  I passed the halfway point after 1 hour 51 minutes, a time which horrifies me now but which at the time seemed fine. It was 14 minutes short of the time it took the men's winner to complete the entire course, but for an also-ran like me, it was perfectly acceptable. Even better, things continued to go well for the next 4 or 5 miles. But then suddenly I started to wonder if I hadn't gone off too quickly at the start. It wasn't knee-related, but I was starting to flag, a problem not helped by the fact that by now I was going through some of the dullest sections of the course.
  Here, however, the crowd really started to come into its own. I started playing the name game in earnest. My name was on my chest this time
  Fortunately, by the time race day dawned, the healing had started, but one way or another the final weeks of my training had been poor, erratic and sore. My knees still ached and were occasionally sharply painful, and I had no idea what I might be about to open up on the soles of my feet. Confidence ran out the door. Fear took ever-greater hold, and sleeplessness was my nightly companion. You need everything to come right if you are to run a good race. Absolutely everything. My 2002 London Marathon bid was punctured below the waterline before I even started, I moaned. And then moaned some more.
  On the morning of the marathon, my knees were still tender. I worried whether they could possibly withstand the endless pounding of 26.2 miles, and I let the worry go round and round in my mind. I just wanted to get out there and get started, but at the same time I was dreading it.
  But at least there was the extra companionship to look forward to. The night before the marathon, Michael and my mother-in-law, Stella, stayed in the same hotel as Fiona and I did, just by Charing Cross Station, perfectly situated for the early-morning train to Greenwich for the start.
  The children stayed with my parents in Gosport for the weekend, and while Fiona and her mum took in shops and museums on the Saturday afternoon, Michael and I enjoyed four hours of total inertia in the hotel room, flicking through endless TV channels, reserving for each the attention span of a flea as we resolutely refused to do anything likely to expend any energy. We wrapped ourselves in cotton wool for an afternoon of utter idleness. Towards the end, even channel-hopping became too energetic as we whiled away the hours watching some obscure sport on an even more obscure channel. Whenever we've done a marathon since, Saturday-afternoon indolence has been a vital warm-up to our Sunday-morning exertions.
  Adding to the pleasure on the Sunday, of course, was the fact that I now had someone to travel to the start with. This really was going to be a family marathon, and Michael and I lapped up the atmosphere before going our separate ways to our respective start points. We were starting several hundred yards apart. His aim was to finish, mine was to break four hours.
  After a minute's silence for the Queen Mother, who had died two weeks before the race, we got underway in warm and pleasant conditions. Soon the miles were slipping past, and with them my fears. My knees were holding up remarkably well. So far. They were bruised and tender, but they weren't holding me back â to my huge relief. More miles came and went, and still no major discomfort.
  I passed the halfway point after 1 hour 51 minutes, a time which horrifies me now but which at the time seemed fine. It was 14 minutes short of the time it took the men's winner to complete the entire course, but for an also-ran like me, it was perfectly acceptable. Even better, things continued to go well for the next 4 or 5 miles. But then suddenly I started to wonder if I hadn't gone off too quickly at the start. It wasn't knee-related, but I was starting to flag, a problem not helped by the fact that by now I was going through some of the dullest sections of the course.
  Here, however, the crowd really started to come into its own. I started playing the name game in earnest. My name was on my chest this time
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