It's been two months since I ran the Berlin marathon, and I've only just managed to get my fat arse back out the door and into my running shoes - in New York.

Running in other countries is a great experience and all very different. When in training for my first London marathon three years ago, I did the bulk of my long runs in Sydney, Melbourne and Byron Bay. Coping with ten milers in blistering Australian heat was more testing than John Howard's political agenda and, due to the amount of water you had to consume, having a bit of a wee while you were out on hoof became a regular occurrence.

But going out for a run in December in New York couldn't be a
more polar experience. Heading down to the East River Park on the Lower East Side at 9am with a bitter chill slapping your face and vagrants sipping beer out of their paper bags was enough to make you turn about to crawl whimpering back under the duvet. However, once I had hit the running track alongside the canal, my early morning workout instantly became a holiday highlight.

The temperature may have been at freezing, but the early morning sun showered the track with a glorious golden yawn and running through blusters of bronze leaves with a stunning view of Brooklyn Bridge was more awe-inspiring than any run I could do back on my home turf in south London.