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The London marathon is not a political event, and I’m not seeking to depict it as one. But each of us, participants and spectators alike, draws our own version of the moral meaning of the grueling, heartening, experience and, for me, this year’s, the 33rd, is already defined against the backdrop of a London that is changing for the worse.

It comes at a time in its history when the capital has been casually claimed as a playground, financial killing field, and unofficial tax haven by the most worthless of the super rich, and used as a testing ground by a desperate, dishonest government for its policy of pinning blame for austerity on those least able to defend themselves. All of this goes on with the chortling approval of a dilettante London mayor, for whom City Hall is a mere public podium of convenience from which to pursue his private ambitions.

The marathon, it seems to me, is nourished by the antithesis of this mean, destructive spirit. The efforts poured into it by ordinary people illustrate and resolve a potential paradox: on the one hand, it is an intensely individual and competitive event, with most of those running engaged in a grinding struggle with their own bodies and minds; on the other, and simultaneously, it is a huge collective endeavour largely conducted for the benefit of others.