I ran at Wooburn Park on Sunday morning; a beautiful setting for a race. The weather was sunny and warm and, for a locally organised race, there was quite a large accompanying event on at the start line, with locally produced food on sale, a tombola (from which I emerged £1 down but two moderately decent albums up) and the tempting smell of bacon sandwiches frustrating the resolve of many of the 300-odd runners.

The first kilometre was brutal, bearing a steep incline on a shaded path. I scaled it relatively quickly, and passed the first marker within 5 minutes. The cost told afterwards, however, as my legs turned soft immediately as the course became flat. My second kilometre took me well over my 5-minute target, and the rest of the race saw me run faster and faster as I recovered more and more from the onerous start.

Five to six kilometres was great fun, running roadside between thick country hedge rows and enjoying the sun. And of course what comes up must come down, and the last kilometre, thankfully coinciding with a dramatic increase in my music's tempo, saw me striding down the hillside like a man possessed, making the compulsory acceleration near the end when people are watching so much easier to achieve.

I was faced with a dilemma on the finish line, however. Flying as a I was - and concerned to keep my time as low as possible - I pushed on through the last 100 metres at full pace. Just ahead of me, a young female runner seemed to be experiencing the opposite thought process and, having been ahead of me throughout the race, was now slowing down. I hate nothing more in a race than for someone to accelerate past me on the finish line, but was suddenly struck with a moment of understanding of their position. As has been demonstrated to me recently with frustrating regularity, not everyone else's lives revolve around me, and these characters that rush past me right at the end may actually be preoccupied with their own time, rather than showing me up in front of any supporters.

I decided to slow and run along side her. 'We'll cross together', I thought. 'That'll be nice'. But at the last moment, my competitiveness got the better of me and I strode slightly longer, ensuring I pipped her at the post. Sure enough, when our numbers and names were called, mine was first. 'In your face, lady,' I thought, and then immediately realised the error of my ways. I still feel a bit bad. What a gentleman, eh?