Oh. My. God!

So it's finally happened. I'm actually doing it. Shit, as the young people apparently say these days, just got real. On April 28th next year, injury, illness and natural disaster permitting, I'm going to be running the London Marathon.

To be honest, I'd almost given up hope on it. Applied in the public ballot months ago. Didn't get in. Again. For the fifth year in a row. Applied for a media place - in which you are allocated a berth in return for using your position in the media to publicise the race (not that you'd think one of the world's most famous long-distance events would need the extra publicity, but still). Got a reply saying that competition for such places was fierce but they'd let me know. Then heard nothing. For seemingly ages.Until it just got to the point where you think, well, it's not meant to be.

The email from the lovely people at the Virgin Money London Marathon finally arrived on November 28th (my birthday, as it happens, which was nice). "Overwhelming number of applications" blah blah "panel has reviewed" blah blah... and then 16 heart-stopping words: "delighted to inform you that we can offer you a running place in next year’s Marathon".

I nearly bounced across the room when I read that. The excitement of finally getting a place when I'd convinced myself that it wasn't going to happen was overwhelming. For about five seconds anyway, before reality kicked in with a sharp "So how do you propose to actually do this thing, then?"

Reality has a way of doing that, doesn't it? Interrupting and being right, that is. I mean, what was I thinking? Run a marathon?? My brain is screaming at me "HOW ON EARTH ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO RUN TWENTY-SIX MILES??"

What a distance. Twenty-six MILES. TWENTY-six miles. Twenty-SIX miles. It doesn't matter how you say it, it's a sod of a long way. My mind tries to comprehend the amount of training I'm going to need, and then just shuts down and refuses to contemplate it.

In October, I completed a half-marathon and the training for that was hard enough. There were times, as I ploughed on, mile after mile, km after km, and my muscles got weaker and my joints got stiffer and my whole body just seemed to cry out with fatigue, that it felt like it was impossible to run even one more step. Now take that and double it.

I'm going to need a training plan. What sort of training plan, I'm not entirely sure yet, but my usual method of "running a bit longer each week and not worrying too much about how slow I'm going" is not, I feel, going to cut it.

And I'm going to need to kid myself. If I start thinking about the ultimate objective, I think I'll just panic and give up. I need to start out by thinking that all I'm doing is increasing my distance by a mile - that, say, 14 miles is the target - and that might seem more attainable. Then when I've attained it, I can shift the target. It's a tricky thing, trying to fool your own subconscious, but I can't see any other practical way of getting anywhere near the necessary level.

But anyway. I'm in. That's the first obstacle overcome. Now for the hard part.