Rod Smith

Thirty-four and a half years old, nigh on fourteen stone, with a figure that any bell would envy, I find myself nervously excited (a bit like when you nearly fall backwards off a wall or fence) at the prospect of training for a marathon in November. The day itself, Sunday 5th, , is going to be just one twist in the rollercoaster ride of sweat (plenty), blood (limited, I hope) and tears (I am giving no guarantees that I won't blub.)

Already in the throes of the first, and very modest, training runs, which have been hindered by my need to politely decline all manner of offers of skunk and sensi from the plethora of Finsbury Park dealers, I have had a taste of the infamous friction that can be achieved when skin in precious areas meets unaccustomed sportswear.

Suffice to say, I am convinced that the only way to avoid looking like an odd stigmata victim is to ditch the jockstrap, boxer shorts or the cavalier "Commando" and plump, literally, for an orthodox pair of cotton M&S harvest festivals ("everything safely gathered in.")

Moving swiftly on, this challenge is all about Getting Kids Going - hundreds of thousands of children up and down the country are waiting to receive specially adapted wheelchairs so they can get out and get involved in sports. These wheelchairs cost £3,000 a pop, so please give as much as you can.

In the meantime, I'm off to apply Savlon, liberally and topically as it says on the tube, before donning cut off jeans and Dunlop green flash and heading out to the streets of N4 to the clamorous abuse of the local children.