The Embankment. Then Westminster. And pavements thronged with thousands assembled in a common cause.

It took me back eight years to the last occasion I had been in the capital as a part of something huge – the march against the Iraq war. Only this time there was the possibility of a result.

While February 15, 2003, had been cold and rainy, April 17, 2011, was less cloudy and hotter than forecast, with temperatures reaching towards 20C.

For everybody striving around me, many of them now walking towards the promised land of The Mall, the glaring heat, omnipresent as the noise of 26 and a bit miles of moving support, was the overwhelming preoccupation. That, and the legs threatening mutiny below.

"Look at him," one runner said to me as we emerged from the Blackfriars underpass. "He doesn't even realise."

Slightly ahead of us, a young man with an iPod was weaving in exhaustion, his sodden black shorts sagging down almost to his thighs.

If this was an unwitting exhibitionist, many others involved in the 2011 Virgin London Marathon were nothing if not witting.

Earlier in the race I had seen a runner calling himself Cheeky, running in shorts that appeared to have been cut out to expose a (fake) bare backside.

Somewhere on the Greenwich stretch I was as aghast as a group of elderly ladies at the roadside to see an older gentleman pass me wearing nothing but a black mankini and a jet black Borat wig perched on top of his white hair. Was he raising funds for Kazakhstan? Or was he merely an astounding show-off?

Further along the road I passed Jimmy Savile, that is, someone impersonating Jimmy Savile, and doing it very well, puffing occasionally on a gigantic fake cigar and then performing the familiar, crouching double thumbs-up sign. He went down a storm...

After 20 years of observing it from the pampered confines of the press room, I wanted a proper experience of the great event established by Chris Brasher and John Disley back in 1981.

And I tried to do so in the memory of my former friend and colleague Cliff Temple, the former Sunday Times athletics correspondent – to pin a title on a lovely man and a lovely writer – who died in tragic circumstances in 1994.

As someone who had coached athletes to Olympic finals, and also, in the case of Mike Gratton, to a London Marathon title, Cliff would have been thrilled by the quality of Emmanuel Mutai's record-breaking run, and of his Kenyan compatriot Mary Keitany's flourishing victory in the women's event.

And the playful side of Cliff, who was also a talented comedy writer, would have revelled in the quirky individuals further back down the field. And the compassionate side of Cliff would have been moved by the instances of individual courage en route.

How do you run for someone? It's an odd notion. You think about them when you are training. You think about them when you are running. I suppose that's it.

All I know is that, on the day, when I put my shirt back on having written the words "For Cliff" on the back of it, I felt a difference.

It would be nice to report that I subsequently ran a supercharged race and surpassed my target of a 3hour 59min 59sec marathon with ease. I didn't. I managed 4:09.

It felt like not quite getting a 2:1. But the beauty of this event is that there is the possibility of a re-take just around the year's end.

By 22 miles I had got to the point where I was missing mile markers. The sight of my eldest daughter in the crowd almost made me cry.

It was certainly novel to glance up at Buckingham Palace as I approached the close of the race. At that point in my long runs I am normally passing the Three Tuns pub in London Road.


But all the transcendent things that are said to occur at the actual finish line transcended me.

To be truthful, I wasn't even sure where the finish line was, almost stopping after passing through what turned out to be the penultimate red and white arch, a few hundred metres from the line.

And my predominant concern, I confess, was small and selfish - to get as close to four hours as I could.

Passing through the post-race area, where the process of chip untagging, goody bag giving and medal awarding occurred with all the efficiency I had been led to expect, I heard the runner immediately behind me say to the lady bestowing the awards: "I don't think I've ever worked so hard for something."

Therein lies the satisfaction of the marathon.

And if targets were easy, everybody would always reach them. Therein lies the lure of the marathon.

The day had offered an unexpected bonus in that I had found myself, briefly, on tour with the Banana Army – the yellow-shirted TV Times celebrity running team who raise funds for Leukaemia & Lymphoma research.

After hitching a lift on their coach to the Green Start I was kindly invited by the charity organiser Ken Lomas - a former TV Times advertising director who lost his daughter, Karen, to leukaemia in 1986 -  to join the assembled crew in the room they had reserved at a hotel bordering Blackheath.

There the screen stars of Emmerdale and Coronation Street et al exchanged banter as they kneeled on the floor in a circle and inscribed names and messages on their trademark yellow shirts.

The fact that I don't watch either soap, or any soaps, probably muted the impact of all this proximity. Nicola, whoever you are, you're very nice.

A couple of faces I did recognise, however. Tony Audenshaw – "best known for his role as the Woolpack's amorous barman Bob Hope" – was busy dressing himself up as a fairy before setting out into the rising heat outside.

Audenshaw, a seriously good runner, was apparently desperate to crack three hours. It wasn't to be on this occasion.

Another familiar figure was that of Chris Chittell, aka Emmerdale's resident crook, Eric Pollard.

Had I been more au fait, I might have asked how Eric was faring after the turbulent events of the last 25 years, during which time he has survived a plane crash which killed his first wife, shrugged off rumours of her murder, married a mail-order bride from the Philippines, been talked out of torching himself and his failed wine bar business, married for a third time before spending his Wedding Night with another councillor in a bid to be elected as Mayor, come to terms with the fact that his latest wife has run off with all his money, and to the fact that he is David's biological father, and then suffered a drunken fall down the stairs of his B&B.

In the event we shook hands and wished each other a good race.

"Have you done many of these?" I asked. "A few," he said. "I had given it up. But then I thought: 'Why let the youngsters have all the fun?'"

After a team picture on Blackheath, the Banana Army fanned out across the park towards the start of another marathon fundraising effort.

One of the founding principles of the London Marathon was "to show mankind that, on occasions, the Family of Man can be united."

Once again, tick that box.

Mike Rowbottom, one of Britain's most talented sportswriters, has covered the last five Summer and four Winter Olympics for The Independent. Previously he has worked for the Daily Mail, The Times, The Observer, the Sunday Correspondent and The Guardian. He is now chief feature writer for insidethegames. He was running for Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. If you would like to donate click here.