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IT'S just before 8 a.m. on a cool Sunday morning and Front Street is teeming with more than 800 people about to put themselves through something of an ordeal.

Only a handful of the runners and walkers crowded behind the starting line for the International Race Weekend marathon and half-marathon races have any hope at all of winning prizes or top age-group placings.

Everyone, however, has at least one personal goal, whether it be to complete the course, set a new personal best time or to earn a high placing.

Music is blaring out from the No. 1 Passenger Terminal and some of the large groups of charity walkers from North America are doing aerobics, shouting and clapping and getting themselves revved up for the long road ahead.

I'm not feeling so full of beans.

Ill-prepared after a sprained ankle limited my training to about six weeks of shorter-than-needed runs and beginning to regret the red wine I knocked back last night, I'm suddenly struck by self-doubt.

Am I really in a fit state to run 13.1 miles?

I had done the distance once before, in the Marathon Derby in 2002, but I was fitter then and had not sunk a few bevvies the night before.

In my head, I curse the two mates who laid down the gauntlet a few weeks ago, saying they would do the half-marathon if I would, and, furthermore, they would team up and go as a pantomime horse.

That turned out to be nothing more than beer talk.

But at least I made it to the starting line. And at least I wasn't stupid enough to sign up for the full marathon. And even if I collapse in a heap and drop out, there'll be no pantomime horse to trot past and compound my shame.

Through the megaphone, a voice announces the race will start in one minute.

My heart rate quickens, I take a few deep breaths and say to myself: Don't start too fast.

The pistol sounds and I find myself jostling for position among the hordes, trying not to tread on the heels of people who are all setting off around me at their own different paces.

The pack spreads out, the elite runners are already over the horizon and at last I'm with a bunch of people running at something like my pace.

Or is it my pace? No, inevitably I've set off too fast.

I know that overdoing it early on will take its toll in the latter stages. I know that the ascents of Trimingham's Hill and McGall's Hill within the first four miles have to be taken steady.

But in the excitement of starting with hundreds of people under a glorious red sky, I fail to take heed of my own knowledge and instead of being a bit over seven-minute-mile pace at the four-mile mark, I'm ominously under it.

I plod on along South Shore Road and settle into a comfortable pace. Clusters of people are dotted along the route cheering on each and every runner. Sitting in their gardens, on walls, on deck chairs, standing in groups on the verge, they smile and clap, shout encouraging remarks and help the runners on their way.

If I were not running, I'd be under the duvet at this time on a Sunday morning. I'm grateful that they've bothered to come out. I understand why they might want to see proper sports people in action, but when they are out cheering on the likes of me, that is a whole higher level of support.

These generous souls are the heart of International Race Weekend. They make it special. For me, they represent Bermuda at its best.

Even though I have to use valuable breath and energy responding to them, I do ? time after time ? even if it's only 'hi' or 'thanks'.

I call in a water stop, grab a paper cupful and try to drink on the run. More goes up my nose than down my throat. I splutter and struggle on.

Wending my way along the South Shore I'm on a high, following the spectacular coastline as the now bright sunshine shimmers on the calm Atlantic.

The field is now well spread out and I can see one of Bermuda's top female road runners, Anna Eatherley, about 40 yards ahead. That means I'm doing well ? or more likely she's taking it steady in the first half of the race as I should have done.

What the heck, I think, just try to keep her in your sights for as long as you can.

A left turn, over a nasty little hill and another left turn and suddenly the route is taking us west, along North Shore Road. The head wind I was dreading is not blowing. I thank my lucky stars.

Going through Flatts, the physiotherapist who had repaired my messed-up ankle just a couple of months before gave me cheer as I went by.

"See, you did a great job!" I want to shout, but the spare breath I need to force the words out is simply not there.

I feel like I've hit a good rhythm but I wonder when the fatigue will begin to bite.

Now I'm stopping to drink at each water stop to make sure I get a good mouthful of fluid. Better to lose a few seconds than to miss out on water, I think.

Approaching the eight-mile mark I see two women holding up banner saying: "You're nearly there!" Nice sentiment, but it's five miles from the harsh truth.

By the ten-mile mark, I'm running alone. Anna Eatherley disappeared from view long ago. My dodgy left knee is aching and I'm already beyond the distance of my longest training run. I know this is where it will get tough.

Two young girls applaud on the roadside and one of them shouts: "Come on, you're ahead of a lot of people!" That gives me a small but valuable boost, even if it's mental rather than physical.

Near the 11-mile mark, someone shouts: "Looking good!"

I suspect he's lying.

My legs feel heavy and I'm breathing harder. A black cat runs across St. John's Road right in front of me. That's all I need. A harbinger of doom.

A downhill stretch helps to speed me up slightly past the 12-mile mark, but now I'm feeling numb. Willpower and the knowledge that the end is near are the two things keeping me going.

I haven't seen another runner in ages, but then two pass me by. One is a marathon runner, the other is Kavin Smith. He may be road-running king of Bermuda, but he's not actually taking part, he's just jogging down Pitts Bay Road to give his legs a stretch.

I turn along the waterfront and see the Hamilton Princess, a welcome sight indeed. But like a cruel pyschological joke, the route sends you on a detour off Front Street when you're within a stone's throw of the finish line.

So up Bermudiana Road I plod, do a U-turn around a cone near the junction with Gorham Road and now I know I'm nearly there.

I'm sure there will be crowds at the line and I want to finish at a brisk pace, for respectability's sake.

But with 250 yards to go, an excruciating stitch kicks in and puts paid to intentions of a sprint finish. I think of the black cat. I think of the red wine.

The pain is so bad I would have stopped anywhere else on the course ? but not here, not this close, not with all these eyes upon me.

I hobble embarrassingly towards the line like a man who'd been shot in the leg. The clock says one hour and 32 minutes, a better time than I'd dared hope for. I cross the line. A woman thrusts a medal into my hand and says: "Well done."

It's over.

As my legs start to cease up, I think: Never again.

Yet I know that, like hundreds of others, on May 24 I'll put myself through it all over again.

Why, I'm not sure. Maybe the answer is simply that the exhilaration outweighs the pain.