"Bermuda's a small island." This oft-used phrase seemed desperately inappropriate for novice Bermuda Day marathon derby runners such as myself running in 73 degree heat yesterday.

No, Bermuda is not a small country. It is a veritable continent whilst Somerset and Southampton are vast swathes of land large enough to cede and go independent should they so wish.

And the Hamilton finish line is a very, very long way from these two, reached by traversing mountains, take my word.

It all started brightly in Somerset, but the opening mile saw me easily outpaced by all my acquaintances as I settled into the group known as the also-rans.

You get to think a lot when you are running. I thought of all the things I had forgotten - sunscreen, a hat, a sensible training regime. I was glad I had remembered my strategically placed plasters to cut down on nipple chaff, which can seriously debilitate the unwitting runner.

However I had forgotten similar protection down below resulting in friction from my shorts which will have me walking like John Wayne for the rest of the week.

But whoever spoke of the loneliness of the long distance runner hasn't competed in a Bermuda Day Marathon Derby.

Vast lines of spectators lined the streets urging you on. "Looking good Number 190!" Such sweet liars.

"Looking knackered and a bit foolish Number 190!" might have been a more accurate cry.

But that's the beauty of the marathon derby. The crowd are the stars. Without them it would be just a sweaty slog, with them it was an uplifting experience.

To all those people who urged the runners on I salute you, you will surely find your reward in heaven.

In return I did my best to play for the crowd, looking pathetic to garner sympathy while running past maternal types but speeding up and looking defiant as I approached friends.

I tried the latter approach at Johnny Barnes roundabout but found my burst had taken everything out of me as I hit Front Street. Honestly the mould in my apartment moves quicker than I did.

Crunch time came up Cavendish Hill but despite the temptation, I did not walk, although at that speed the difference between walking and running is academic.

And then the finishing line comes into view. Or a finishing line to be more exact. Having put in a final surge to reach it I found it was merely a mirage, the real finish being another 150 yards away. Such a tease. But I reached it and remembered the word of my mate who had challenged me in a drunken moment to enter the race with the words: "You'll love it. It's the best day." And so it was.

Full coverage of the Marathon Derby in Sport, Pages 17, 18 and 19