PRE RACE:  Welcome to the Edgar Centre in South Dunedin for the commencement of the inaugural Bullethole Half-Marathon Challenge.  Today, I'll be attempting to disprove the commonly-espoused notion that white men can neither jump nor run. My goal is to complete the 21km run before the two-hour mark, or my death, whichever comes first.

I wouldn't say I'm nervous as much as I am deeply concerned in my ability to run this distance. I haven't run in two weeks due to a foot injury which is still causing a little bit of discomfort. My build-up has also been hampered by flu, a sub-Antarctic Dunedin winter and rampant alcoholism. But now is not is not the time for excuses, Bullethole. This day has been a long time coming and nothing less than a 100% effort will suffice. In the greater scheme of things, what is two hours of bone-jarring, gut-wrenching, burning, screaming pain?

We’re about to find out.

The starter issues his call to arms and Dan and I take a position towards the front of the field. We glance around at the toned, serious-looking athletes surrounding us, and take a new position towards the back of the field. We fit in much better here amongst the children, geriatrics and people dressed as sheep and ice hockey
players. One minute to go. I'm shitting myself. 30 seconds to go. Not too late to pull out, surely? Ahhh, fuck it.

0.5km: It's definitely not the fastest 500m I'll ever run. Dan and I are caught up in a field so large that it's moving at snail's pace. No danger of going too hard at the start then.

1km: As some kind of sadistic joke on the part of the event organisers, the course doubles back on itself so that we're now running past the start again. Already the frontrunners have rounded the bend and are heading in the other direction. I look out for Evelyn but it's impossible to make out who these runners are, since they appear as nothing more than a blur accompanied by a faint whizzing sound.

2km, 11min 48: Dan and I have weaved our way through the back markers and the field has opened up considerably, allowing us to pass people left right and centre. It's a good feeling for sure. I'm quite happy with the pace we're running at but careful not to overdo it. I can hear my wise friend Matthew dispensing sage-like advice in my head as I run: "don't go out too hard Barnya...don't go out too hard Barnya...fuck I got so drunk in Wellington last night, you won't believe who I hooked up with...don't go out too hard Barnya".

4km: We are making excellent progress as we pass through the industrial area, still weaving through slow-running traffic. Now we are coming up to a pair of runners tied together: a deaf woman is running along in front of a blind woman, or at least that's what their shirts say. I have to wonder how on earth they got in front of us. Suddenly I'm not so confident of my own abilities.

5km, 27min: Disaster strikes as we arrive at the first drink station. Dan needs to piss and makes a beeline for the portaloo but is just beaten to it by another girl and has to wait. I bid him farewell and he promises to catch me up, which he no doubt will. I'm still feeling bloody good, no pain, barely short of breath...it's a piece of piss this half-marathon lark!

7km: I'm now heading out of Dunedin along the Port Chalmers Road. Without Dan I am completely alone, so it's probably time to crank out a few tunes in my head. I start with a favourite running song of Matthew and mine, "All These Things That I Have Done" by the Killers. This is followed closely by "One Headlight" by the Wallflowers. Singing loudly in your head is one of the best ways of tricking your body into thinking it's not in pain.

10km: At no point so far have I felt like I'm not going to make it. Physically I feel great, my left hamstring has tightened a little but it's no real cause for concern. I'm still passing people at a great rate, and what's more I outwardly appear to be in control while those I'm passing are huffing, puffing and gasping for air. Admittedly most of them are girls, but still.

Another head aches, another heart breaks, I'm so much older than I can take and my affection comes and goes, I need direction to perfection no no no no help me out, yeah, you know you gotta help me out, yeah, don't you put me on the backburner you know you gotta help me out, yeaahhh

10.5km, 55min: Halfway! A huge psychological boost. I am more or less on the home stretch, possibly. And on track for 1 hour 50, which would be a fairly pleasing result. I do have two minor concerns though, in the forms of two pretty serious hills that I am going to have to tackle between now and the end of the race. It's on those hills when we will discover whether I am man or mouse.

12km: A horrible moment as we round a bend and Port Chalmers hoves into view for the first time. It is a long, long, long way down the harbour. A long way.

13km: But I'm still feeling fucking good! I honestly could not have expected to be in better physical or mental condition at this point as I am. I'm employing another of Matthew's time-honoured HM tricks: find a girl who provides a - how do we say - favourable view from the back and use her as your pace setter. Even at this point though they're too slow to stay with me, until I draw alongside a ginger version of Dan Carter, and we quickly form an unspoken runners’ bond. Sounds a bit gay I know, but you'd only really understand if you were 14km in to the most gruelling physical challenge of your life.

15km: Disaster very nearly strikes as I approach the third drinks station. A boy of about 10 or 11 holds out a sponge for me, but just as I am about to take it off him, he inexplicably drops it. Instinctively I reach down and forwards to grab it as it drops, and I feel my hamstring tighten. For one horrible split second I fear my race might be about to meet a tragic end, but thankfully I regain my stride, throw the sponge back angrily in the direction of the boy, and trudge on. I can't help but feel that my condition is starting to deteriorate. They say elite runners hit the wall at 30km, so it's not a stretch to imagine that I've hit mine at 15.

15.5km: Dan Carter and I let out a collective "FUCK" as the first gutbuster hill hoves into view. Aside from the fact that the fatter you are, the harder it is to get up a hill, I always find them most demoralising because no matter how close you get to the crest, it always seems to get a bit further away. Dan Carter and I grit our teeth and begin the climb, and slowly but surely we reel it in. As I head back down the other side I silently pat myself on the back for a job well done, then realise that I've left Dan in my wake and slow down to let him pull alongside once more.

16km: That hill has fucked me. I'm blowing a lot harder now than I was 5 minutes ago, that's for sure. 5km to go Barnya!! I check my watch. WHAT THE FUCK?!?! It says 11.50am. I cannot possibly have been running for 2 hours 20. Or could I? Have I lost my mind?  All's I know is that I am now deeply entrenched in a world of pain.

It's time to try for another pain-deferring tactic, which is to perform difficult calculations in my head. This is about the only time in my life I wish I had an iPod, but I can make do with my own brain. Georgina is currently somewhere in transit between Christchurch and London. This HM is looking like taking me about 2 hours. Georgina's plane, travelling at 900km/h, is covering the 21km distance every 1 minute and 24 seconds. I feel so much better knowing this. In other news, I hurt.

17km: A familiar voice behind me yells my name. Dan has finally caught up to me! Not a minute too soon either, because I'm really starting to fade. Dan drags me along for a kilometre or so through Port Chalmers as we go past Jess and Rach on the side of the road, but he's clearly got more gas in the tank than I do, as does Dan Carter. It is with great sadness that we part, but I know I have to do it alone from here on in.

18km: Agony. An old bearded man, possibly Moses, is dispensing drinks by the side of the course. "How far, sir?", I gasp. Three kilometres is the answer.
Fuck.

18.5km:
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier

19km: And now, at last, here it is. The final hill. This heartless monster is all that stands before me and half-marathon running immortality. It looms menacingly and forebodingly, like a morning-after dogan when you've consumed large quantities of beer and curry the night before.

I'm at the base of it now, trying as hard as I can to convince my legs that this really isn't that big a deal, seriously. Trouble is, I don't believe it myself. This slope appears to have no end, it just curves around the side of the hill and out of sight. I am deeply troubled by this.

Two girls are running next to me. One is yelling slogans of encouragement at the other, such as "come on! You're doing well!" and "nearly there!". Her friend is responding only in exasperated gasps and the occasional "fuck". I begin my ascent and I use fit girl's encouraging words as my own motivation. Come on Bullethole! Six months of training for this, and I'm fucked if you're gonna throw this away on this piece of shit hill. Somehow personifying the hill makes it easier to hate. This hill is Sue Bradford, and on the other side of it is her battered and dismembered carcass.

19.5km: Fuck fuck fuck fuck. This hill is positively never ending. It just carries on winding up and up the hill. I feel like I'm running up a gravel spiral slide. Some distance behind (and below) me, fit girl is still trying to coax her friend to the finish. I feel suddenly nauseous. Oh fuck, I'm gonna spew. Still the hill drags on and on with nothing but pure evil on its heart, much like Sue Bradford. I'm almost retching. Fuck, I am gonna spew. Wait! No I'm not. Or am I?

I suspect I may have just died, because straight ahead of me at the top of a long straight is another kindly looking old man with a beard, beckoning me forward like a high-priced hooker silhouetted against the light at the end of the tunnel. Somehow I am still running. I reach the man now and he greets me with a huge smile. "Not far to go now, all downhill, well done". I've done it! I've fucking done it! I'm at the top of the hill. I've conquered my Everest, shattered the pain barrier, all that kinda bullshit. Far below my feet, Otago Harbour spreads out in front of me in the spring sunshine and far off in the distance, I can see the finish line. I high-five a slightly bemused middle-aged lady as she walks her dog in the opposite direction.

20km: One kilometre to go. It's all downhill, but it's still going to be the longest kilometre of my life. I'm running on fumes now. I'm focusing on a spot on the road 20m in front of me, daring neither to look up nor down. Every part of my body aches. I'm not so much breathing as desperately (and very audibly) gasping for air. Now Scott Stapp is singing "Running" by Evermore. Stapp has a lot to answer for, and to be fair if I met him I'd probably punch him in the mouth, but right now he is the only thing keeping me going.

21km: 100 metres to go. The world has taken on a distinctly surreal appearance at this moment. People are yelling and clapping but they feel 100 miles away. I'm rounding the last bend now, almost there. Come on Bullethole! I'm gonna make it, I'm totally gonna make it. I'm on the last straight now. I pull back the throttle, lengthen out the strides, cross the white line in 1 hour 53 minutes, and collapse in a heap on the ground.

POST RACE: I struggle to my feet and look around in a state of bewilderment. I feel like I'm really drunk. Evelyn sees me and comes to offer her congratulations. She of course looks fresh as a daisy, but that's probably because she finished 15 minutes ago. Dan, Jess and Rach locate me and Dan buys me a sausage. Slowly but surely I begin to regain a grip on reality. There is much swearing, falling to one knee and drinking of water, but eventually I am in some kind of state to walk back to the car and head off home.

Well mother fuckers, I did it. It wasn't pretty, it wasn't quick, but it's done. One Half-Marathon successfully negotiated.

Let me finish by thanking the people who helped me on this running odyssey. Firstly the good folk at thesilverfern.com for all their health, diet and nutrition tips. To every asshole that called me a faggot or a fat FluffyBunny out their car windows while I was training, when was the last time you cocksmacks ran a half marathon? To all my friends who have encouraged me along the way, thanks team. I love my fans. You guys are what keep me going.

So, where to now? Will I run again next year?

Well, they say that your first Half-Marathon is always the hardest.

All I will say is, I fucking well hope so.