This morning I forced myself to watch some of the London marathon, which passes my front door. The verb forced introduces this story.

Last year, I was lucky enough to run the London marathon, fulfilling a 20 year dream. I documented the process in case you’re interested in how I did it, and how it went. Having completed the marathon of all marathons, I decided to hang up the running shoes, as I tend to do after hitting big running goals. Except this time, with the coming of my son, I had the sense this would be a longer-lived commitment to conserving that energy for family matters.

I was glad to have my weekends back, with more time & less risk in going back to other sports. But I also knew that I hadn’t satisfied my London bug quite. The race hadn’t all gone to plan, due to a combination of heat and developed intolerance for the gels, nutrition went into the Thames and the last 6 miles were staggering through treacle to the beat of the unrelenting sun while John Barnes looked on.

In short, I didn’t get to soak in the day the way I’d always imagined. I missed the glory for the gory pain of the wall.

But these feels were nicely locked up in a padded cell in some dark, unvisited corner of my mind, never to be visited. I’d achieved my dream, and the serious marathon running was behind me. That is until the thumping heart of the London marathon pounded the pavement past my door this morning.

I forced myself out to watch, thinking and feeling every minute that these people didn’t get it, that I was supposed to be that side of the railings, not this side with an espresso and a baby (I love the baby, and the espresso, to be clear). This is my thing, and I’m not a part of it.

The greatest thing about road racing is this: Sunday league footballers rarely play Wembley. Saturday night bands don’t play Glastonbury. But anyone with heart, shoes & spirit to fill both can line up behind the greats of distance running and compete, as equals, on the same pavement.

Well this morning I felt like a Rolling Stone, wondering if I’d played an arena for the last time. Had my peak passed. Would I never clinch that dream of running along Embankment, seeing Big Ben with a tear in my eye? (As opposed to the grimace and cries of distress.)

Life ticks by, marked each year by the coming and going of some several tens of thousands of runners and their millions of admiring families. None of us have that many London marathons left, let alone the will & chance coinciding.

Who am I to waste those years?

Marathons are peculiar. We spend months mostly alone, in the cold and dark, doing the strange things marathoners do in preparation, while our families, neighbours and strangers give us whithered looks. Then we emerge into the light to parade in front of millions of people, including those same bemused faces, who celebrate at the top of their voices all that we’ve achieved. Marathon running is magic. The marathon is an arbitrarily arrived distance that inspires awe. For some reason it means something, so much, to people who know nothing about running.

Below is the message I wrote to the group chat used to organise people coming to support me, the day after the race:

I have wanted to run the London Marathon for a long time. Watching Paula Radcliffe run a world record here in 2003, I decided it would be a dream to run this race, in this city.

Getting to do that today is like letting out a breath I’ve held for 20 years. It meant a lot to me.

But, once I started the race, I quickly realised that what I was most looking forward to wasn’t Tower Bridge or seeing the elites pass on the other side of the road, meeting John Barnes at a Lucozade stand or even finishing.

In fact what I was most excited for was to see all of you. To share it with you. Whether I saw you or not as I went by, knowing you were there was what made this day special, and what kept me going. And when I did see you, or hear you, it made a difference. There were several seconds per mile gained going through Canary Wharf and seeing so many of you, just when the sun was starting to beat me.

3 takeaways for me • Live your dreams — they don’t disappoint • Share them with people you love — the magic multiplies • Run colder marathons

Miles make it a marathon distance, but only doing it together, on that Sunday, is what make it a London marathon.

And thus you see the drug of London, that opportunity to celebrate the solitary pursuit of running in a wholly un-British fashion, has its claws into me a again. Let us see if the grip takes.