Maybe it was the cheese sandwiches. Maybe it was the unusual training regime: beer, late nights, lack of sleep. Or maybe it was simply the god of running smiling down upon my rather unimpressive body. Either way I doubt I will ever again beat a five-time Olympic gold medallist into 369th place at a half marathon in a smallish city in southern Spain. The scene for your correspondent's miraculous triumph was Murcia - a town a few miles from the Mediterranean coast whose 322,911 population opened up its arms and its toilets to a troop of British runners from the Flora London Marathon.

Among our throng were Sir Steven Redgrave, his wife Ann, a melee of journalists and assorted celebrities. It was my first test at this distance and with the Spanish heat it was always going to be hard work. Looking back now it is all slightly hazy and surreal. Some things whizz by, others are in slow motion. My running fell into the latter category. Despite this, I can reveal a few flashbacks of the 13.1-mile jog: the desperate search for a pre-race toilet, the unedifying experience of being passed at three miles by a trio of grandfathers, and the odd experience of the Spanish man who kept on shouting "Come on Steve" at me.

But from this haze comes three top tips. First: cover your nipples. All regular runners will tell you of the need for a couple of strategically placed plasters to prevent terrible rubbing and bleeding. Secondly, rub Vaseline under the arms and any other interesting areas which could be subject to friction. And thirdly, do not daydream - keep your eyes on the road and avoid discarded water bottles, stray dogs or fallen bodies which could cause embarrassment. Having done this, go on to beat an Olympic champion and collect your cheese baguette and medal at the end. All this is true and I am proud that the record states: David Munk: 1:51:47, place 368. Sir Steven Redgrave 1:51:53, place 369.