Runners are like vegans: you know what they are within the first 10 seconds of meeting them because they will tell you. Guess which one I am (clue: not vegan).

See?

I tend not to talk about it here, or anywhere, because: a) talking about running is boring; and b) my whole schtick is failure, and I’m weirdly good at running. Obviously “good” is a nebulous term, but I can run five kilometres in between 21 and 22 minutes, depending on the wind and gravity.

What I am is “good” for somebody in their early 50s. I’m not a sprinter, but I’m decent at 5k and above. I’ve run a few 10k races, eight half-marathons, and one full marathon. I even came second in Parkrun once (Narin Beach, Donegal, 11 runners, it still counts).

So why am I talking about running? I refer you to reason b) above. At the weekend, I took part in the Great North Run. In case you don’t care, the Great North Run is a half-marathon that goes from the heart of Newcastle, over the Tyne Bridge to Gateshead, and then on to South Shields. It’s the biggest half-marathon in the world, and, before Sunday, I had completed it three times.

I was very much looking forward to the race, and posted a number of Instagram updates, informing my many followers of my movements in excruciating detail. And then I bumbled up to the start line and was off.

During my training, I’d noticed that my speed had been increasing. This is a novelty to me, a man in his early 50s, who has become accustomed to everything else decreasing. Accordingly, when I started my race, I noticed after two kilometres (with 19 to go), that I was, not to put too fine a point on it, absolutely caning it, and feeling no ill effects.

“Keep going,” I told myself. “You can slow down later, and cruise to the end, thereby smashing your personal best.” This is how I speak to myself, in full sentences, giving me the respect I rarely receive from others.

And so I did. I did the one thing I should never do: listen to myself, an idiot. I was still going strong at four miles, though starting to flag a bit, when I ran past my adoring coterie of friends at their little cheering section. But I pushed on, deciding to slow down a little for the second third of my run.

By nine miles, I was feeling the strain. I’d chewed two dextrose tablets and taken on water, but it was a hot day. At ten miles I was noticing people overtaking me, but only vaguely. I couldn’t quite see properly.

At eleven and a half miles, I was aware something was wrong, and I moved to the side of the course, planning to stop for a minute, to gather myself and take a breath. It’s all a bit hazy after that. I remember stumbling, falling, and being unable to get up unaided. A group of very lovely spectators got me to a chair and gave me water, while alerting St John Ambulance volunteers nearby.

The St John people helped me into a wheelchair, and they started pushing me up to their treatment tent. “This is my ninth half-marathon,” I kept stating, in case they thought I was one of those celebrities who rocks up at these events with no training and comes a cropper. “I can run 5k in 21 minutes.”

I called my fiancée, who was waiting for me in the finishing section. “You’ll never guess where I am. No, not at the finish line. In a wheelchair.” I was feeling perkier than one might imagine.

And that is how I ended up, in a white tent, like the victim of a terrible murder, lying on my side, on a stretcher, in just my pants, socks, and trainers, with ice packs stuffed under my armpits, while one St John Ambulance volunteer squeezed a dextrose gel down my throat, and a kind-faced nurse attempted to shove a rectal thermometer into its intended holster.

“If you could just relax for a moment…” she suggested.

I appreciate that, to many of you, this is a powerfully erotic image, but I want to assure you that, in the moment, I was not, in any way, feeling relaxed.

Anyway, my reading was 39.7 degrees, a temperature best described by medical professionals as “toasty”, and my blood sugar was low, so I endured two more bouts of gel/rectal thermometer until the ice packs had done their work, and I was able to dress myself again, just as my fiancée arrived, having had to run two miles herself.

“This is standard,” she assured the wonderful St John Ambulance staff in attendance. I agreed, and I was discharged to walk the two or so miles to the baggage buses. I’m perfectly all right now – apart from the usual. But that is why, to anybody who was wondering, I did not post a picture of my sweaty and beaming face while I held a medal at the end of the race.

And that is why I’m going to have to do that bloody race again.