EARLIER this year I ran the 26.2-miles of the London Marathon on a sweltering hot day in just under three-and-a-half hours.

Today, I waddled across the finish line of The Grizzly on Devon's south coast having taken just under three-and-three-quarter hours to run a measly 19.7-miles. Guess which one was harder?

The title of this year's torture was Armageddon Now Here, which was an appropriate sub-text for what numbing hardship lay ahead.

The race should have been staged last March. However the beaching of the ship Napoli off Branscombe Beach and the tide of scavangers who descended on Devon to get their hands on the containers which had landed on the shingle forced organisers to postpone it.

So Armageddon was delayed for six months. Instead of a windswept and damp March day, the town of Seaton was bathed in sunshine for the start. Fortunately, the skies clouded over later in the morning, but conditions were still humid.

I was feeling decidedly worried about this race. I'd left the trail shoes in the car and gone for lighter road shoes. It was a gamble, and fortunately was the right one.

The Test Way Relay the day before had left the trusted legs feeling weary, my body ached, and I began the run apprehensively; the distance, the thought of injury and whether I would make it to the finish lurked at the back of my mind.

The race itself was a veritable pot pourri of running. We began the race on the Esplanade in Seaton and set off for a tough half-mile stretch along the shingle, looping round to the start line and then off out of Seaton up the first hill.

It was a stiff opening climb up towards the cliff top and that set the template for the toughest of races as the field of almost 1,000 runners set out on a trail through the pretty countryside.

A week ago in Glasgow, the atmosphere for a big city half marathon had been characterless and charmless. Here in the rural west country, there was a fantastic feelgood factor to the race.

Musicians including a bagpiper, folk musicians, drummers and even a fella playing a didgeredoo, lined the route along with small knots of enthusiastic spectators handing out sweets and drinks. The marshals were cheery and smiling, and it was this double combination which helped mask the pain of the race.

The scenery was stunning and spectacular. The shell of the Napoli lay off the coast as we ran up and down the clifftops, down steep grassy paths and up windy, hamstring-hurting climbs.

Soon, it was a case of having to walk up the hills, conserving energy and then setting off again close to the peak.

If that was the appetiser, then the main course was tough to stomach. The musical strains of a bagpiper heralded the first of the bogs almost knee deep in glutonous mud.

More were to follow. We crossed streams, pulled our way up one grassy hill which was close to vertical as could be. It was hard and relentless and the pace was inevitably slow.

The miles ticked by slowly, it was a case of surviving. Conserving energy on the uphills and pushing on with the downhills.

Ten-eleven-twelve and thirteen miles passed. Soon the calves became cramping, the hamstring tightening. Runners around me were hurting too, stopping on the paths, tried to rid their legs of the aches.

The Grizzly takes no prisoners and accepts no passengers.

Fourteen-fifteen-sixteen and seventeen miles followed as the course headed up hill and down dale through the villages of Bramscombe and Beer. The crowds continued to be enthusiastic. I bagged a handful of jelly babies and Bassett's All Sorts as we trekked across Branscombe Beach before stepping up the infamous Stairway over the final cliff looking down to Seaton.

I couldn't wait for the finish. I looked at my watch. I had been running longer than the London Marathon and seven miles shorter. The final assault was one last short beach run to the finish at Seaton Esplanade.

Never has a finish been so warmly received. Never have I felt so knackered.

Firemen from the Dorset Fire Brigade were there to hose down our mud-strewn shoes and legs with seawater, and there was a seawater shower for good measure.

It was hard, it was tough, but boy did I feel a huge sense of achievement.