LONDON — I blame Megan Rapinoe for this.
Rapinoe, the U.S. women’s soccer star, let me handle her gold medal on Thursday night while I was interviewing her. It might have been the coolest thing I’ve done at these Games, my first Olympics.
Inspiration can drive you to do silly things.
This might explain why, at 7:45 in the morning Friday, some six hours removed from leaving Wembley Stadium after covering the women’s football final, I am standing alone at the start of the Olympic marathon course, ready to take it on.
My plan is to walk 26.2 miles through London, passing some of the most spectacular sites in the city and seeing what the Olympians will see today when they run the men’s marathon — the final competition in the Games before closing ceremonies.
Yes, I did say walk. What did you expect? At my age and excessive girth, I am out of breath running from the wine list to the dinner menu at a restaurant. To borrow the phrase written on the T-shirt women’s weightlifter Holley Mangold was wearing the day I interviewed her last week: “Running sucks.’’
The marathon distance is about the equivalent of a little more than five rounds of golf, spanning 90 holes (four-day PGA Tour events go 72 holes). I will be doing this without carrying clubs or worrying about double bogeys. So how hard could it be?
As I stand at the start/finish line on the mall (the English pronounce it “mowl’’) inside St. James Park in the shadow of Buckingham Palace, I am alone. There is not a soul in the stands, no one to scream encouragement or hand me cups of water to hydrate.
I set off not to make a specific time, but merely to make it.
Wearing khaki shorts and a short-sleeved button-down shirt, I do not look the part of a marathoner. Minus the fanny pack, I blend in with all the other tourists aimlessly meandering in the streets with a map in hand.
Usain Bolt I am not. I take my time, not only to assure I can make it without collapsing, but to take everything in. This is, after all, a marathon not a sprint.
I am a multitasking marathoner.
Stopping for lunch, I look for an African or Ethiopian restaurant thinking it might help my performance based on the success of their marathoners, but settle for sushi. I make a pub stop or four for a pint. I even get a haircut and a shave.
The first time passing by Buckingham Palace, I happen to arrive during the famous changing of the guards, one of the grander scenes you will see in London.
Five hours later, at the completion of the second of three loops that make up the course, I walk past Big Ben at 6 p.m. and the church bells toll, raising the hair on the back of my neck.
Aside from Buckingham Palace, where there is no sign of the Queen, Prince William and Kate — or even Pippa — I see Westminster, the London Eye, the Thames, the Tower of London, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Horse Guards Parade, Trafalgar Square, the Houses of Parliament.
Now for a confession: I have a Rosie Ruiz moment.
The office calls on about the 18th mile of my journey and informs me I’m needed to cover the track later in the evening. This forces me to expedite my trip, so I rent a street bicycle and ride for about six of the final eight-mile loop — a harrowing experience because of the traffic madness on the congested London streets.
Crossing the finish line on foot at 8:10 p.m., some 12 hours and 20 minutes after I began, is as exhilarating as it is exhausting. The readout on the pedometer says 36,425 steps were taken during the 26.2-mile trek.
As I assess my physical state at the end — achy knees, feet, hips and back — the words my taxi driver uttered earlier in the morning when I told him of my day’s plan rang in my head like a bad song: “You’re doing what?’’