It was the right time to tackle the Great North Run

The event had run its course, opined the half-baked young hack, suggesting joggers in fancy dress had no place on live mainstream TV.

Thankfully, the Beeb and Brendan Foster ignored the suggestion from the fresh-faced recent recruit to the Durham Advertiser newsroom.

I am fresh-faced no more. And on Sunday, I ate humble pie 32 years on by taking part in my first ever Great North Run.

Participation was a landmark birthday present to myself; a rather masochistic gift you might say for someone four weeks into his seventh decade who hadn’t put on a running shoe since his schooldays more than 40 years ago.

News in February, that my application to run had been successful, could not have come at a better time.

I had piled on pounds after the excesses of Christmas and New Year; and a routine check-up at the doctors revealed high blood pressure in spite of the long-term medication I was taking and, for the first time, a high cholesterol reading.

I told myself I had to lose weight and had to be fitter. Getting in shape to tackle the 13.1 miles between Newcastle and South Shields seemed to be a certain means of achieving my healthy objectives.

And so began the long road to the starting line last Sunday.

I soon discovered an old-age recipe to losing weight, by eating more sensibly and in more moderation, without resorting to the support of a slimming group or succour of liquidised concoctions.

And I soon discovered the way to start running, without the expense of designer sportswear.

I splashed out on a decent pair of running shoes … that seemed a sound investment. But the reminder of my athletic apparel took the form of an old T-shirt, a pair of white socks and faded blue shorts only ever seen on the shores of the Mediterranean.

I admit my first steps were somewhat reticent. I put off my first training run for some weeks, concerned about what neighbours and acquaintances might think of this old man having (as my close relatives told me) a mid-to-late life crisis.

And even though my initial aspirations were not ambitious – Riding Mill to the Broomhaugh roundabout and back is hardly stamina sapping – I was genuinely concerned I might not make it back in one piece.

I recall that first run vividly. It was an early Tuesday evening in May. No one was at home when I returned from work, so I summoned the motivation to embark on my training regime.

Those first 100 yards were the hardest of the hundreds of thousands I subsequently covered.

The calves tightened like a drum skin and I was soon panting for breath. The temptation to end the ordeal before I passed the village boundary sign was almost overwhelming.

Thankfully, I persevered. The calves relaxed. The breathing settled. And soon, I was actually achieving modest forward momentum with little effort.

The only familiar face I saw on route was my wife, returning home after just pulling off the A68, and somewhat taken aback by my roadside presence.

I touched the bench at the roundabout, turned round and headed home. I took heart from the fact that I’d kept going for all of 20 minutes … and that the missus reassured me I didn’t look ridiculous!

After the first test run, I devised a training strategy which suited my needs. I would only run first thing in the morning, when there was little chance of being spotted. And bit by bit, I would add a little more distance.

It was to be a two or three mornings a week routine that wouldn’t transform the Alberto Salazar blueprint for Mo Farah, but it would suit me fine.

And on it went. My second outing, at the crack of dawn, took me to the roundabout bench, but on the way back I took a detour over the railway line and past the village church, adding further 600 yards.

Next time, I ventured across the A68 to the first bus stop, and back. And so on…

Exactly a week before the big day, I felt able and fit enough to venture through Stocksfield, past the churches at Bywell in glorious early morning sunshine and back home … the best part of 10 miles.

A six-mile run on Friday, and preparations were over.

The Great North Run was everything I hoped it would be…and more. Surprisingly, I had more excitement than trepidation when I got to Newcastle.

The support from the crowds of people who lined each and every 23,000 yards of the route was amazing. Their cheers and the good humour from fellow runners made the task in hand surprisingly relaxing and pain free.

There was the lovely couple … he running for mum, she running for rum. And my favourite, the Scouser, who after his team’s 5-0 drubbing by Man City, declared he was running in memory of Liverpool’s defence.

Did I make it to the end in one piece? Yes. My time was 2 hours 30 minutes and 51 seconds, not bad for a running novice of such vintage.

Just turned 60, I can say with immense pride that I’ve completed the Great North Run, and got the medal and T-shirt to show for it.

And my advice to anyone thinking of following my late-in-life lead … as the box my trainers came in didn’t urge, ‘Just do it!’