It's 6.28 am on Sunday morning and I'm trying to eat a bowl of porridge without much appetite.  Porridge is not the sort of food you can eat very easily when you're in the grips of nervous tension and not feeling hungry. 

Garmin, iPod, jelly babies, patella taping kit and the dozen other marathon essentials are lined up downstairs ready for the first leg of.  The last of the die hard party goers will be stumbling back to their lodgings now amidst preparations for the river of lycra due to hit Brighton shortly.  There are roads to close and gazebos to set up and stock with water and Lucozade.  Toilets to search for overnight debris and prepare for their original intended use.  8,000 souls will be emerging from their beds wondering why they are up so early on a Sunday morning and why they've spent a good deal of the last 12 weeks pounding the streets (or treadmills) in preparation for this early rise.

I'll let you know how it goes later on.