Now that's what I'm talking about

It's 10am on a Sunday morning. The rain is lashing down on the car roof. I sit inside, looking out over the playing fields of Harrow School, where over a century of Harrovians have suffered bullying, abuse and humiliation over their lack of sporting prowess.

Judging by the amount of club runners turning out for this local race, I am quite concerned about the potential for me being humiliated for my lack of sporting prowess. Having run a grand total of 6 miles in the preceding 12 days, and still suffering from sorely bruised ribs, I'm not brimming with confidence as I hide in the dry car until the last possible moment. There's a strong chance I could finish last in this one.

Down at the start, the high proportion of 'proper' runners is even more obvious. Despite the temperature of 1 degree and rain coming down like ping pong balls, most people are lined up in the shortest shorts and the vestiest vests. They're freezing to death but they're definitely 'proper' runners.

All masochistic smugness I had about me being a 'proper' runner is starting to wane. Turning out in the rain doesn't make you that hard if you're decked out in tights, hat, gloves and your Team Labreque NYC marathon waterproof. The kudos are nothing compared to those bright pink legs and shoulders that everyone else has on display.

Once the race starts though, it's a totally different game of ping pong. Harrow's playing fields are the lowest point of Harrow School. Harrow School is at the top of Harrow Hill. Harrow Hill is supposedly the only part of Southern England that will not be submerged by the melting icecaps at the end of this century. It's that high. And we're running up it for the first 500 yards of the race.

By the time we reach the first mile marker, I'm definitely not last. I'm not walking either, which seems to be the default tactic for so many runners when faced with a hill. The rain is starting to ease, although we're still at risk of a major soaking from the deep puddles that local drivers insist on driving through when approaching a runner. They're just jealous.

By the time we get to the 3 mile marker, we're taking on the hill from the very bottom. I go past two 'proper' runners at the bottom - all short shorts and corned beef shoulders in their club vests. I go past another club runner halfway up the hill (admittedly I am coughing up one of my own lungs in my now obligatory bout of exercise-induced asthma) and as I get to the top I run past two more runners, one of whom is so 'proper' he is wearing the most conflicting amount of commemorative race tops ever seen on an individual. Show-off. That's me, I mean, going past him.

I drop another two club runners going down the hill again and by the finish, I have overtaken in total about 8 people. I am not going to be last! Hills are my bitch. I may never stop coughing again, but I am deliriously happy. I have just run 6 miles in 56 minutes, and someone has given me a KitKat. Running is brilliant, even in the rain.

I drink a cup of water, turn round and head back to the car to go home and dry off. In front of me, a grown man cries in pain. Perhaps his vest and short shorts are cutting into him.

LON