Athletics: Ian O'Riordan follows in the alleged footsteps of Pheidippides, and encounters agony and ecstasy on a classic scale

The Olympic marathon should never have happened. The story which inspired the race was partly made up, and when they retraced the route for the Athens Olympics in 1896 no one should have finished. I know this because when I crossed those same hills from Marathon to Athens it felt like the last place on earth for the birth of such a classic race.

Even the word "marathon" should refer solely to that small town 25 miles north of the city - not, as it does now, to the host of imitation races worldwide or any event of great duration. This I know after completing that run from Marathon to Athens.

Nothing so exhausting, or half so exhausting, should ever have been repeated.

And that original route should be closed off to distance runners, permanently. It can fool the body into a sense of comfort and soon have it begging to stop. It's an absolute killer. As much fun as running the same distance across a hilly desert.

Despite this - and yet further reasons for failure - the Olympic marathon did happen. More importantly, it succeeded to the extent that it ensured the very survival of the Games. Soon, more than any other Olympic event, it will return to its origins when the Games come back to Athens next August.

So what better time to get to the heart of it, to trace every step of the race that turned part of an historical event into the universal symbol of human endurance? That was the motivation for heading to Athens last weekend. Temperatures in Greece can also be beautiful this time of the year.

For added purpose the city provides the opportunity for those aspiring to run the real thing. The Athens Classic Marathon was started in 1983 and attracted a few hundred runners. Last Sunday it drew almost 4,000 from 62 countries, and from start to finish acted as a full dress-rehearsal ahead of the Olympics.

This journey, though, was more concerned about the past, in particular to reflect on that of Spiridon Louis. At the age of 23, while working as a water carrier in Athens, he almost single-handedly ensured the success of the Olympics of 1896. Louis was the world's first true marathon champion.

He was on my mind as the fleets of buses left for the town of Marathon at 6.30 a.m. Darkness still hung around the Panathenaiko Stadium in the heart of ancient Athens, but there was real enthusiasm in the air, an infectious energy. This grand, marble setting, itself a monument to the first modern Olympics, was the ultimate destination of the day. For now it was a grazing area, breakfast on a cold marble step.

Louis already had an advantage on me. He knew the route. The Greek marathon runners for 1896 were decided on two trial races, and both covered around 25 miles from Marathon to Athens. Louis was only the fifth Greek finisher in the second trial, was selected anyway, and joined 12 Greeks who journeyed to Marathon the day before their race, set for mid-afternoon of Friday, April 10th, 1896.

Those travelling by bus in the early morning were soon asking the first hard question of the day. Where was this race going? It felt like an abandoned part of Athens. Nothing like the sort of inspiring route we'd all imagined. An Australian in the seat in front of me described it as a bordello.

At Marathon itself the sights weren't much better. But the town had earned its place in history. In 490 BC it was where the outnumbered Athenians held off the invading Persians. Defeat there would have dramatically changed the course of Greek history, and possibly denied the world the wisdom of Socrates, Plato and Aristotle.

Before that battle, the Athenians had sent a trained messenger called Pheidippides to seek help from the Spartans, camped 150 miles away. Deep in some religious festival, the Spartans couldn't oblige. So Pheidippides ran back to Athens within two days - and that's where the facts end regarding the origins of the marathon.

Still, having secured their momentous victory in Marathon, the Athenians would certainly have sent another messenger the 25 miles back to the city. The problem is none of the contemporary accounts made any specific reference to it. Some 600 years later a story appeared of Pheidippides also running back to Athens, shouting nenikikamen (rejoice, we have conquered), and then promptly dying, as well he might. But it's pure legend.

From the start at Marathon towards Rafina, 15 kilometres.

None of 4,000 runners who stood on the bridge at Marathon at 8.30 a.m. cared which messenger actually made that final journey. Nor whether he survived. This was still the original marathon route and they couldn't wait to get going. A lone pistol shot signalled the off (so the 1956 Olympic marathon in Melbourne remains the only false start in marathon history).

Unlike Pheidippides, though, the organisers of the 1896 Olympics had in fact mapped out this exact route. Baron de Coubertin had the vision of reviving the Olympic Games, but it was another French historian, Michel Breál, who presented the idea of re-enacting the legendary run from Marathon. The Greeks, moved by the presumed significance of such a race, agreed immediately - despite their complete lack of experience with distance races.

The sun was now up. Before long there was sweat running into my eyes. Not a good sign. But here the road was beautifully flat, with some fruit-pickers to provide the audience. There was a minor detour during those first few miles so that we could all run around the Tomb of Marathon, an inconspicuous mound to honour the 192 Athenians who were buried here 25 centuries earlier.

It was clear now the route markers had been laid out at kilometre intervals, rather than miles. At 10km I did the first calculation: about six miles, just over 38 minutes. It was a little quick, but better to stick with the steady pace. And hope those hills ahead wouldn't be that bad.

Albin Lermusiaux thought the same. He was one of five foreign athletes who joined the 12 Greeks at the start in 1896, and was certain he could win the marathon for France to add to his third place in the 1,500 metres. As the race passed through the villages of Mati and Rafina he opened a three-minute lead on the chasing runners.

Back down the road, Louis wasn't so confident. In November, 1935, he gave a rare, first-person account of his race to the Athens daily Athinaika Nea. "At the time I was thinking the stretch of the race was very long," he said. "But I was comforted at the thought that I had the right to quit the race if I realised I could not make it."

The unrelenting climb towards Pallini, 27 kilometres.

The route from Marathon to Athens is categorised as a net uphill gradient. In other words, more uphill than downhill. Only three other Olympic courses have put that burden on runners - Mexico of 1968, Los Angeles of 1984 and Barcelona of 1992.

I was running in a group of around six when the road started to demand more attention. By 18km I was concentrating on every breath, shaken with the realisation that this was becoming very hard work and it wasn't even half done.

The race was ascending Mount Pentelikon, where, according to the Acropolis Album newspaper of 1896, the course "swerves around its peaks, gorges and the mountain sections inaccessible even to travellers on foot".

That year the hills claimed the race's first casualties. Two of the Greeks immediately dropped out, and the rest were strung out in single file behind Lermusiaux. Louis even paused at a roadside inn at Pikermi, asked for and drank a full glass of red wine, and inquired about what still lay ahead of him. Considering he'd also been drinking long into the night before, it was a miracle he kept going at all.

I was just relying on water, mercifully provided every few kilometres, and the knowledge that my system was filled with the finest Siberian ginseng money can buy. It was now a full-scale struggle, though one totally expected considering my crash course in marathon training. There was also a sharp pain in my left Achilles' tendon. I blamed it on the shoes. Should have worn those Adidas instead of Nike.

Towards Stavros, 31 kilometres, and still struggling.

Well past halfway and the road was still climbing. Crowds were gathered in regular bunches, most just spilled out of the grill-houses or bargain shops which had sprung up by the roadside. But still there was nothing even remotely attractive about the course. Not even a few decent trees to offer some shade from the blazing sun.

Running alone, and with an unbearable thirst, the only thing that was keeping me going was the thought that if I stopped, even for two seconds, the body would seize up and my race would be over. I was counting down each kilometre way before I should have been.

Lermusiaux thought a break would do him good, and a French companion provided an alcohol rubdown shortly after the village of Pallini. But it proved disastrous because he couldn't go on, and retired instead to one of the horse-drawn carriages following the race.

Taking the lead was the Australian Teddy Flack, winner of both the 800 and 1,500 metres at the same Games, with Louis now up to third behind another Greek, Charilaos Vasilakos. But, like mine, their pace had slackened considerably, and none of them appeared capable of finishing.

They were a little luckier with the weather. The sun was beaming straight into my eyes, whereas they had run in cool, damp conditions. Rain in the days before had also softened their mud path, settling the dust. My road was freshly laid tarmac and absorbed nothing. If Athens hadn't been so unseasonably cool that day then neither Louis nor any other runner might have found the will to go on.

Approaching 20 miles the course remained unforgiving. But just when it seemed certain my race would end prematurely the coast appeared on my left. The descent: a wonderful sight of hope and glory.

Descending past Ampelokipoi, 37 kilometres, to finish at 42 kilometres.

At this point Louis was up running alongside Flack. After accepting some orange slices from his girlfriend at the crossing at Ampelokipoi, he eased in front. Flack tried to respond, but could only wave Louis on, and then collapsed - another retiree for the recovery carriages. If Louis could keep going now he would win.

Having crawled through the last mental barrier towards the final 5km, the last three miles, I too was sure of reaching the finish if I kept moving. But there was one last, agonising twist to this race.

When Louis arrived into the Panathenaiko Stadium in 1896, greeted by 100,000 spectators in and around the finish, he had travelled exactly 40km. Today the official marathon distance is 42.1km (26 miles, 385 yards), which meant the race now went past the stadium and down the road, then turned around and came back up into the stadium. A cruel detour that can be traced to the Olympic marathon in London in 1908, when the official distance was established after the race finished in front of the royal box.

But once into that old stadium with the Acropolis as a backdrop and that sweet smell of the old cinder track it was pure exhilaration. A hugely enthusiastic crowd filled one end of the marble stand, and for the first time all morning I was able to acknowledge them.

For the first time since before halfway I also looked at the clock - two hours, 51 minutes, 56 seconds. Not too far of what Louis ran, 2:58:50. Only seven more runners followed him home, the rest beaten by the cruel terrain as much as the distance.

How much greater was his prize. He'd won the first athletic title for Greece at the Games, and for that he became an instant hero. He was showered with every gift imaginable, told he would never have to work again. But he was content to return to his job of carrying water the 8km from Marousi to Athens.

Louis never ran another marathon, and was last seen in public in 1936, four years before he died, as the guest of honour at the Berlin Olympics.

Despite its precarious origins, its heart-destroying route and fragile list of entries, the first marathon race defied logic and turned into a celebration. For that reason alone the route from Marathon to Athens can never be rivalled. Not the best, but the original. And worth reliving - just the once.

The 2004 Olympic marathons are set for August 22nd (women) and August 29th (men). The next Athens Classic Marathon takes place on Sunday, November 7th, 2004.