IT wasn't until I got to the starting line that I realised entering a ten-mile road and moorland race in the Yorkshire Dales might have been a mistake.

There wasn't even anyone dressed up as a chicken, or wearing a deep sea diving suit.

The London Marathon and the Great North Run always have their fair share of idiots, joining in for the fun of it, alongside the determined athletes. But these lithe, lycra-clad runners, bussed in from all over the North to take on what had been described as a "challenging course", were all deadly serious, as far as I could see.

For one thing, they had all the latest gear. I was wearing the cotton t-shirt I normally wear in bed. Perhaps, I thought wistfully, I've just woken from a bad dream. But when I checked I was also wearing my tracksuit bottoms and trainers. This was for real.

"Don't worry," said the friend who had persuaded me to put my name down for the run when I told her I had just started jogging again two weeks ago, since my seven-month-old started sleeping through the night. "One of the runners is nearly 80, you'll be fine."

Before I could say "I'm an amateur, get me out of here," we were off, more than 200 of us jostling up a country lane. The fastest and fittest soon disappeared over the moorland and into the distance. The rest sped on ahead. Rather alarmingly, it wasn't long before a rather sinewy looking 80-year-old overtook me.

I was left, way at the back, with just a few stragglers. We soon struck up a bond. There was an amazing 65-year-old runner called Glynis from Tyneside, giving it her all. Another, in her fifties, had just started running a year ago.

Some walked the hills and pushed themselves on the flat bits. We all just wanted to get to the end. One woman gave me a drink of the "magic potion" she got from her local health food shop which, she assured me, loosened all the muscles and gave you extra drive. I can't say it worked.

After about eight miles my legs felt like lead. Glynis and all the rest sped on ahead. There was just me and a poor chap a few minutes behind, with the official race assistance vehicle - hazard lights blaring - chugging a few feet behind him. Every so often an ambulance hovered alongside him and then pulled back again.

I did feel for that man. Silently, I begged him not to give up. If he did, I would have the hazard lights and the ambulance on my tail and I'm not sure I could have coped with that. It was psychological torture. Having the marshals, their faces full of pity, trying desperately to encourage us at every turn was humiliating enough.

But we kept going. I came in at just under two hours. He came in a few moments later. My hero. I could have hugged him. I swear there were tears in our eyes.

The winners, who all finished in less than an hour, were amazing athletes and deserve all the praise heaped upon them. But don't underestimate those who come in last. Because, to finish last, you need true grit and determination. I should know.

My friend tells me she's entering me for another race in a few weeks' time - six miles and flat. I suppose it can only get easier.