Running to searing standstill

Ian O'Riordanfinds he is overwhelmed by the heat and humidity

THINK ABOUT that scene in There Will Be Blood, where the Daniel Plainview character falls down the mine shaft, completely winds himself, and requires several minutes before he gets his breath back. That's your first feeling after a short run around Beijing.

Huuuaaaghh-Uhhh . . .!

Then there's a savage desire for a cold shower. The air quality here is every bit as horrible as the World Health Organisation has warned us, and if that isn't enough to kill you, the heat and humidity definitely is.

There's going to be a lot of suffering over the next 17 Days of Glory. Take my word for it.

The pollution we know about because it's been hyped up, maybe too much, but Beijing's heat and humidity is just as bad, when even early in the morning, it feels like a dog day afternoon - the air scorched by constant heat flames from the large nostrils of the sky, the slight breeze as warm and distasteful as a drunkard's breath.

I would not like to be competing here, least of all in the marathon. Having run 26 miles in several steamy places including Hawaii, Jamaica and the original route from Marathon to Athens, a few miles around Beijing shouldn't have been too distressing. Except it was, and every one of the Irish athletes who are looking to give the performance of their lives out here probably don't know what they're in for, no matter how well they've acclimatised.

Even the sprinters are going to suffer, because if you walk 100 metres at anything quicker than a leisurely pace your shirt is immediately plastered to your back.

It was very hot in Osaka for last summer's World Athletics Championships, but nowhere near as humid as Beijing. There is no escaping it, unless you were born and raised inside a bowl of seafood chowder.

My plan was to join the last 10 miles or so of the marathon route, which starts down at Tiananmen Square and traces its way up to the Olympic Green, to finish inside the Bird's Nest.

Paula Radcliffe is still intent on making the start line for the women's race next Saturday, despite her long lay-off through injury, but she'll need more than a miracle if she's to finish anywhere near the medals. This Olympic marathon, more than any of its predecessors, will be a survival of the absolute fittest.

From The Irish Timesbase camp at Hotel Tibet (where nothing is free either, not even the water) the only way to join the marathon route is to run down the Fourth Ring Road - one of five M50s that circle Beijing. So I headed off through a roaring chorus of traffic, saying a quick prayer.

5 mins:There's a fair bit of bounce in the legs, the air feels okay. Dodging traffic gets the adrenaline up. I'm getting some strange looks, understandably, and one police officer temporarily breaks his blank expression to glance my way. The traffic is heavy, practically gridlocked, in both directions, this when half the cars in Beijing are off the roads.

10 mins:Sweating pretty bad already, bouncing much less. The Olympic Green comes into view, the traffic eases. The air feels thicker, as if it's about to lash rain. Passing along the last stretch of highway it smells like a blocked sewer.

20 mins:Now running by the blue line painted on the roadway to mark the marathon route. Salty, stinging sweat in my eyes causes my black Oakley sunglasses to fog up. The legs still feel okay but the arms tight and lifeless, the veins sticking out like a Skid Row junkie. This is the body's natural cooling effect, only it's not working very well.

30 mins:Reach the far side of the Olympic Green, where it is actually quite green. Quieter too, enough to notice the chirping of dragonfly the size of a small birds. Swallow one of those bad boys and your race is over. A couple of people take a picture, of me.

40 mins:Enough already. I think it may be dripping rain, but it's only me dripping sweat. Suddenly my lungs are collapsing, and I'm trying to catch every breath. I make a sharp U-turn and head back.

Most runners have turned spitting into an art form, can clear their throat with pinpoint accuracy. On the run back my throat is fried and almost impossible to clear. I make one last effort which narrowly avoids my leg.

Back at the hotel my red T-shirt is soaked in sweat to my back, my legs fairly dead, and on stopping I feel a throbbing headache coming on. I walk into the lobby and people move aside, clearly thinking I'm a lunatic who had jumped into a fountain to cool off.

Huuuaaaghh-Uhhh . . .!

Several hours later, inside the brilliantly air-conditioned Main Press Centre, I'm still sweating. This casual Olympic test run has proved one thing: the competition is not the only thing that's going to be red hot in Beijing over the next 17 days.