IT WAS the most exhausting weekend we've had. Our bones are still aching, the salt stains won't wash out of our clothes. But phew, what fun.

We broke the habit of a lifetime and declared Sunday a sporting day. So we got up early, flexed our TV-remote fingers and switched on the 25th London Marathon.

Boy what a sight. It left me knackered, proud and ashamed.

The spectacle of more than 30,000 people lined up on a gorgeous spring morning to tackle an urban running track of more than 26 miles was awe inspiring.

Shoulder to shoulder (it's hard luck if you can't face crowds) they lined up - young and old, men and women, serious runners and those out to prove a point, whether to themselves or others. There were those in the daft costumes out to have fun while raising money for good causes, and there were the wheelchair racers showing the rest of the world they were as fit as the next.

Only a few miles into the race, I felt dehydration setting in and told the wife to put the kettle on. While she sprinted the course to the kitchen, I wallowed in the guilt of an armchair sportsman.

The marathon is not simply the achievement. It's the culmination of rigorous training regimes which entail turning out in all weather, at the start or end of busy days, to get fit for the big event. That in itself is a lonely self discipline.

At the half-way point, when the crowds are thinning, I'm worn out and sofa sores are setting in. But I have time to wonder how much profit Nike and Reebok and other big sports shoe manufacturers have made out of the event. Just think of 30,000 sweaty pairs of trainers - and all those that have been worn out in training. And what do you do with them after the event? Have them fumigated and hang them on the wall with a plaque saying: "London Marathon Trainers, 2005."

While munching on a TV snack during the final stages, I have the energy and mental capacity left to wonder if I could still do it.

It's amazing how watching achievement on the telly inspires us. It also fools us, pricks our vanity. During and just after each Wimbledon, the park tennis courts are full of flabby folk who have ogled Henman and convinced themselves: "I can do that."

After every televised world snooker championship, men and boys can be seen walking the streets with long, thin cases. They've packed their cues and are off to find a table to rattle a few brightly-coloured balls, convinced they are the next Steve Davis, Jimmy White or young Hendry.

It was the same when we were kids after the Saturday afternoon cinema matinee. If it was a pirate movie, we'd tie a hanky on our head at a rakish angle, fashion our cutlasses from an old orange box, hang a length of rope from a tree and swing down on to the enemy deck in a dazzling display of swashbuckle.

If we'd just watched a knights-in-armour film, we'd use mum's fire guard as a shield, a sweeping brush for a lance and joust till it was time for tea.

Talking about knights, that was how we completed our sporting double on Sunday. Legs still quivering from the marathon telly session, the good wife and I still had reserves of energy left for a game of rugby (she likes men in shorts and I was too weak to protest).

So we went to York City Knights' home game against Sheffield. The pitch and terraces were less crowded than the streets of London earlier in the day, but the energy and passion for sport shone out.

It also convinced us we are a couple of softies who need exercise. So the regime starts here.

We'll start with a gentle hike to a country pub (it's 40 paces from our house); then I'll oil our rusty bikes and we'll cycle on Sundays (thank God it's so flat around here); then we'll maybe look for an adventure holiday trekking the foothills of the Himalayas or shark-back riding off the South American coast.

Well, at least dreaming is a non-contact sport.

Updated: 10:31 Tuesday, April 19, 2005