Napoleon's army trudged thousands of miles across Europe before hitting subzero temperatures in Russia; Hannibal famously scaled the Alps with his elephants.

So surely End To End team can walk 40km of flat road/railway trail that separates St. George's to Dockyard on a sunny spring Saturday?

Our five-strong team, dubbed the Gazette Gazelles but hardly famed for sporting prowess, set off at 8.15 a.m. ? fifteen minutes after hundreds of other competitors left the famous old town in a flurry of powerwalking.

This delayed start, while we waited for a tardy team-mate to turn up, left us propping up the rear. And we were playing catch up for the rest of what proved to be a demanding but enjoyable day.

The fact we chatted our way constantly through Bermuda's nine parishes, made lengthy stops at every single refreshment/toilet post and never took our feet off the pedal marked 'sluggish amble' may have kept us at the back of the pack for the bulk of proceedings

And, under increasingly hot skies, that's where we were happy to stay; sticking to our leisurely pace while cancelling plans we might have had for Sunday, as we checked watches and secretly wished we'd packed torches, candles and possible a tent and some pyjamas in our rucksacks.

An ambulance zoomed past at regular intervals to ensure we were all still alive. Judging by the looks of concern on the faces of paramedics, they obviously feared our funereal march meant the End To End could literally spell the end for some Gazelles.

Our pace quickened, however, when some stewards started to playfully mock us for being so slow.

"How far are we behind the pack?" we asked one yellow-bibbed volunteer.

"About a week," came the quick-fire response.

The team ? first with the news, last on the move ? had apparently become a laughing stock...and it was time for action.

We finally started overtaking other teams in Paget. At first they ran from us, unwilling to accept the wooden spoon we had valiantly carried during four, long-gruelling hours on the road.

But we soon got into our stride and whistled past youngsters, now paying the price for darting off so fast in the early stages.

When we got to Southampton we overtook two women with their trainers slung over their shoulders. Ours were still firmly on our feet ? there clearly was no stopping us now.

Things were going so well we even managed to brush off a volunteer in a van, who offered to us the remaining few miles from Somerset to Dockyard. "You'll still get your medal," she chirped to our amazement.

"No," we replied in unison, angrily thrusting our water bottles at the her while waving the vehicle on its way.

Nearly nine hours after leaving St. George's we finally arrived in Dockyard. Never have those cement silos looked so welcoming.

It was nearly 5 p.m. Most of the crowds were long gone, their hands weak from clapping, their voices tired after cheering in competitors since early afternoon.

Hopes of a dramatic Chariots of Fire ending were dashed when we saw that one lone colleague was applauding us over the finish line. Volunteers were packing medals into boxes, ready for next year.

But we'd made it, and despite the fact we did appear to be among the last people to finish, we had completed the End To End and raised about $1,000 for charity in the process.

Blisters may have been popping and legs may have been weary, but we were proud of our efforts and were already thinking about next year's End To End...and whether we should start a day earlier than everybody else.