Like all the best ideas, it was on a whim a few Friday nights back that I decided I would do the Omagh half-marathon. The following morning.
I had spent all Good Friday fishing and not eating, and decided against football training in the evening to take part in the Saturday lunchtime race. I crammed as much pasta as I could down my throat and got to bed early.
On the day, I walked the mile from the door to the start line. A quick nip to the loo later and the trigger went off; no time for a limber up or a stretch, but I blasted round the course as best I could.
At the finish line I was delighted to learn I had taken two and a half minutes off my time last year, but that wasn't my reason for doing it.
I did it because I love the big, heaving, sweating mass of humanity that such a race engenders. At one point, feeling my hips and knees grind off the bone, a girl who had once played camogie with my mother came sailing by, imploring me to "keep it going, Bogue!"
At the end of a race, there is a glorious feeling of achievement and fulfilment. The afterglow is a wholesome, natural high that can last for days.
Given the respect that human beings have for one another in such a brilliant sporting event, it is especially devastating what happened at the Boston Marathon.
On one side you have the noble intentions of those that lined up at the start, the other has the hate-filled spite of whoever planted these devices.
Boston will overcome this, and so will sport.
Hopefully, so can humanity.