"WHAT hasn't already been said about the May 24 Marathon Derby probably isn't worth saying."

When Dale Butler compiled a history of the event in a wonderfully-illustrated book some years back, at the outset he might have harboured such thoughts.

Yet he'd probably be the first to admit there are sufficient tales among this small community to piece together another dozen publications.

This week the original Marathon Derby Cup, won for the third time by Jack Castle back in 1935, was unveiled by Castle's grandson who, unknown to many, had kept it in his possession for 38 years. It had been in the same family for much longer.

The story was told in this newspaper and if ever there was a case of 'behind very picture tells a story', then this was it.

More than likely every one of those who have competed in this unique event also has a tale to tell.

I'm no exception.

Having trundled over the course frequently during the last four decades (25 times at last count), the memories are as fresh as ever – even in a memory bank that isn't quite as safe as it used to be.

I've enjoyed the so-called 'runner's-high', that sense of relief and accomplishment, the undescribable emotion that envelopes so many as they cross the finish line. And I've slammed into that proverbial 'wall' – the point where the brain says one thing and the legs another until they both conclude 'we ain't goin no further.'

That wall's been battered so many times, there's barely a brick left although somehow I've climbed over and reached the finish, finding the same target that the vast majority of runners set themselves when they line up on the start line.

In the immortal words of Olympic founder Baron Pierre de Coubertin, "The most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well."

That 'high' and 'the wall' are expressions normally associated with the full marathon over 26.2 miles.

But in a race half that distance over rolling hills, under a blazing sun and strength-sapping humidity, they're equally applicable.

Bermuda's own May Madness offers and inflicts both, and so much more.

An event which might overshadow any race of its kind anywhere in the world, it provides its competitors and the throng of spectators with the same sense of exhilaration and excitement.

The Derby is to Bermuda what the Boston, New York and London Marathons are to the rest of the world.

It's a race where sections of the crowd gather six-deep, where every step of the way there's someone on hand to offer the runner that much-needed lift . . . a race where triumph is enjoyed not only by those at the front but stragglers at the back.

Agony and ecstasy, it combines the two. A race that can lift the soul and at the same time break the heart.

My own recollection dates back to 1974, as a rookie reporter on The Royal Gazette – at that time located on run-down premises in Reid Street.

Briefed by then Sports Editor Ron Hunt, I was sent out to observe, report and interview the winner. What he forgot to mention was this was no ordinary race.

He made no reference to the sea of friends, family and supporters on mopeds and motorbikes who engulfed the runners to the extent that the stars of the show could barely be seen.

The one exception was the long-striding Calvin (Baldy) Hansey, who could outrun anything on two wheels.

He'd won in 1969, '70, '72 and was about to win again, with not a rival in sight.

As for the interview! No chance.

Hansey didn't talk to the media nor for that matter anyone else. He hit the finish line and without breaking stride turned around and headed straight back to Somerset at the same breakneck pace.

Without explanation, Hansey decided that was his last hurrah. He never entered again. His crown was handed over to the equally impressive Cal Bean who would dominate for the next three years, having first won in 1971.

What began was a new chapter in Derby history, an era I was determined to be a part of.

A year later, inspired by team-mates at Academicals FC – Ray Ming, already considered one of the Island's finest runners, his brother Teddy, and Mike Whalley, who was to later etch his name in Derby folklore as the 'Flying Scot' – I was fooled into believing that a few laps around a football pitch would be sufficient to handle the course, that year to be run in reverse direction from Hamilton to Somerset Cricket Club.

After all, I'd competed in school cross-country at county level back in England.

And a couple of years earlier, in Hansey's absence, another ex-pat, Mike Woods, another Academical, had upset the odds – not to mention the locals – by running away from the field.

If he could do it, why couldn't I?

I was about to find out. Chasing a football was one thing, the Derby something entirely different.

Legend 'Sir 'Stanley Burgess, an 11-time winner then well into his 70s, was still attributing his success to his pre-race preparation which included a bath of port wine, honey, beet tops and rum. Attempting the course for what woulfd prove to be the last time, he then rubbed his legs with myrrh, turtle oil, oil of wintergreen and more rum.

Football team-mate Ming had insisted there was nothing better than vegetable juice to enhance endurance. Personally I preferred Heineken and took that route on the evening of May 23, a choice I lived to regret.

On the day of the race, a friendly two-dollar bet with fellow reporter Barry Grindrod as to who could complete the course first, was sufficient to inspire a fast start, quickly reduced to a slow jog and ultimately an agonising crawl.

Revived by the rush from a spectator's hosepipe as I slumped into a ditch in Southampton, I somehow tottered to the Somerset finish line.

Despite finding myself two dollars richer, I vowed never again.

I made the same promise a year later, collapsing onto the field at St. David's Cricket Club following a torturous journey east from the National Stadium. If it could be called as such, there was at least a lighter moment when newly-hired coach, Robson Sr, attempting to revive his charge while on the Causeway, climbed off his moped and hurled a bucket of water in my direction only to completely miss his target and drench an oncoming cyclist, sending both man and machine onto the tarmac.

As fast as my weary legs would take me, I didn't hang around for the inevitable confrontation.

In ensuing years, the running boom exploded.

And as such the Derby changed its complexion.

No longer could the lead runners call themselves professionals, no money could change hands and the motorcycle brigade and all other vehicles were banned from the course.

And finally the race had a course it could call home. Somerset to Hamilton was the chosen route and has roughly remained almost the same since 1977.

Introduction of January's International Race Weekend elevated road running into a position of Bermuda's number one sport – certainly in terms of participation.

Whereas the Derby had once been the only race of any real significance, sponsors couldn't wait to cash in on the exploding sport fast enough.

Almost every weekend a new event appeared on the calendar.

But amidst the mayhem, May 24 remained the mother of all races – even though it was restricted to Bermudians and residents who had to have lived on the Island for at least six months, a regulation that remains in place to this day.

While big name athletes from all corners of the globe invaded the Island for January's spectacle, Race Weekend in the eyes of locals has never managed to match May 24 in terms of prestige.

And that will be emphasised more than ever on Monday when an expected 1200 competitors take to the start line.

Among them will be several past champions, and hundreds of others who have taken part in the last 50 years. For all, myself included, it will be a special trip down down Memory Lane.