Staff at the Maidenhead Advertiser are an active bunch – and after a hard week at work members of its editorial team donned their running shoes and took part in the Windsor half marathon. Here the paper’s Andrew Streat reveals how it went…

It was all our sports reporter’s fault. Nine months ago Ron Stewart, the engine of our collective pain and misery, bullied a few of us more misguided souls at the Maidenhead Advertiser into running the Windsor half marathon.

The 42-year-old self-confessed bionic man was one of the oldest, yet nonetheless confident, member of our nine-strong Advertiser Amblers team in the event which took place in Windsor Great Park.

I’m not sure I’ve run as much as 13-miles altogether in my life before, so to do it in one sitting (so to speak) seemed like masochism on a kamikaze scale. I was running on behalf of a Romanian orphanage, which unfortunately gave me a reason.

Andrew, Sarah, Jane and Kristoffer

I was supposed to set off with sub-editor Kristoffer Mullin, but instead bumped into Helen Usborne, another sub-editor, who, when it comes to running, I suspect is not entirely human.

She came 67th out of all the women competing, finishing the course in one hour 45 minutes. By contrast my one sole ambition was to finish in less than two hours.

The weather for the 5,000 runners was good – almost too good. I began OK as I managed the first eight miles in a bit over an hour, but by the ninth mile things rapidly fell apart.

I had to stop at a water station to shore up my flagging vessel of a body with liquid and take a much-needed toilet break.

I tried to psych myself up to keep going for the last four miles, which isn’t best advised when simultaneously trying to pee.

I had still yet to spot any fellow team mates, editor of our magazine Shauna Hichens, and other reporters Jane Griffiths, Sarah Crawley-Boevey and boyfriend Andy Wragg (of the Rugeley and Cannock Mercury) and our youngest member, 19-year-old Josh Saxon, who all had the sensible idea of starting nearer the back than I did.

At the tenth mile I saw the aforementioned Mr Stewart and asked him how he was faring as he passed me. I can’t reproduce his comments here.

The last few miles were a confused blur, punctuated by an inexplicable craving for Strawberry Mivvis and rice crackers.

It wasn’t helped by the fact I couldn’t get the Steps tune 5,6,7,8 out my head. At one point I seriously contemplated lying down to die quietly under a bush somewhere.

The last mile, with the finishing gates in sight, should have been a relief. It wasn’t. The gates refused to get any nearer as my mother’s face appeared bellowing at the sidelines.

I was a wreck at this stage, my ridiculous team singlet which Ron had ordered – and which made me look like a strategically shaved bear – was strewn with blood from blistered nipples and my legs were operating independently from everything else.

I collapsed once I passed the line and had to lie down for about 10 minutes. I was then given the most welcome Mars bar I’ve ever had and a medal.

My ambition had been to finish in under two hours. I finished in two hours one minute, but in retrospect I’m just happy to have finished.

As I recovered enough to drive away during a downpour I spotted a rainbow and grudgingly conceded it had, in its own deeply uncomfortable way, been a very worthwhile experience.