As I staggered across the finishing line, the man on the loudspeaker was announcing excitedly that more than 24,000 people had now finished the Great North Run. A few minutes later, as I queued for my runner's medal and tee-shirt, the figure changed to 25,000.

The mass start for the Great North Run from Newcastle to South Shields makes a colourful picture

I don't think I've ever before said "I came 25,000th" with quite such pride.

This was my first half marathon: and right from the first moment I knew I was involved in something big.

The six-strong Evening Press team - myself, sub-editor Richard Johns, picture co-ordinator Anne Wood, photographers Frank Dwyer and Steve Bradshaw and Terry Ruane from the advertising department - met at Newcastle Central Station a few minutes before 9am.

The station was packed with runners, all streaming down to the metro for a ride out to the start line. There were the tall, athletic types with their red numbers indicating they were "elite" runners and the haughty expression of the trained athlete; the short, dumpy types straight out of the office and clearly competing on optimism, hope and sheer big-heartedness: and, of course, the comedians - a man dressed as Cleopatra, with legs so hairy he must have suffered wind-resistance as he ran; a clutch of Mr Men in massive ball-shaped costumes that could barely squeeze on to the train; and a host of fairies, gnomes, witches and wizards. Worst of all was the man clad only in a body-stocking and fig leaf, who probably improved the running times of half the field because they were so determined to keep ahead of him to avoid the view that running behind him would have given them.

By the time we reached the start line, there were over 40,000 competitors assembled on the near-by fields: and tens of thousands of spectators. The sheer number of people was astonishing: the background roar of their voices humbling.

We assembled behind the starting line, a river of humanity about to give their all. Then, a minute's silence for the victims of the Paddington rail disaster, a long, slow motion minute all the more poignant for the noise and excitement that had come before.

Then we were off: scarcely able to walk at first for the sheer press of numbers, the pace picking up gradually to a slow jog, a river of people running in time. Spectators lined the sides of the road, calling out encouragement.

Under the Tyne Bridge, and the roar became deafening. It was like an echo-chamber. 'Oggi, oggi, oggi!' someone shouted. 'Oi! Oi! Oi!' we all bellowed in response, the sound reverberating in the confined space. Pure elation.

The miles ticked past. Water stops beside the road, bottles snatched up on the run. A refreshing shower set up in a bus-shelter. And everywhere the spectators, applauding, offering drinks and biscuits, calling out 'Well Done!', 'Keep Going!', 'You can do it!', dragging us onwards with their goodwill. Suddenly in the middle of the road a giant poster said: 'You've reached the Magic Half Way point." We all cheered.

The miles began to pass more slowly. Somewhere about mile nine Cleopatra passed me, wind-resistance and all, and I knew I must be flagging.

It was the last mile along the sea-front that was the hardest - that, and the long, uphill slog through South Shields between miles 10 and 11. I did, I admit it, walk part of the last couple of miles. My legs seized up and had nothing left to give. But I was able to summon up a shaky run for the last half mile and crossed the finish line in style.

It was, though, a great day, and a great event. Every one of the six Evening Press runners crossed the finish tape in under three hours - with Richard 'Johnnsie' Johns making it round in a cracking one hour 36 minutes.

Now there's a time for me to aim at for next year.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.