AS I puffed, panted, wheezed and staggered through my three-mile jog yesterday, it was easier to sympathise with Oscar Wilde than to comprehend the amazing achievement of Paula Radcliffe.

Wilde said whenever he felt the urge to take exercise he lay down until the urge passed off.

Wise man, you might think, and despite the apparently flourishing growth of fitness centres there are plenty who would agree.

At her first attempt at the masochistic distance, Radcliffe became the second fastest woman in marathon history, only nine seconds outside the record.

It was a spectacular effort by a thoroughly admirable woman, and immediately brought predictions that it would reawaken British marathon running.

Twenty years ago 103 British men ran under 2hr 20min in the London Marathon, but on Sunday only four bettered that mark. There are plenty prepared to dress up as an ostrich, or Ali G, or Thomas the Tank Engine, and stumble round in five hours, and it's easy to argue that is the essence of the event, especially if they're doing it for charity.

But it can also be argued that the lack of long-distance runners in this country prepared to compete with the Kenyans and Ethiopians is a reflection of our increasing idleness.

Whatever the optimists might say about Radcliffe providing inspiration, I don't believe it will make the slightest difference to a teenage generation hooked on text-messaging.

If they can't go for two minutes without some sort of human contact they will never survive the loneliness of the long-distance runner.

Equally, a quick workout in a gym might increase the feelgood factor, but it won't win gold medals, which is something now within Paula's grasp.

She has traditionally led major 10,000-metre races, only to be agonisingly beaten into fourth place through her lack of a sprint finish. But now she can seriously dream of Olympic gold in the Athens marathon in two years.

TWO others who were way out in front at the weekend were Tiger Woods and Michael Schumacher.

But as we have grown accustomed to their domination it has become boring.

Those who can muster an interest in motor racing seemed to entertain the forlorn hope that this would be David Coulthard's year.

But the evidence from San Marino was that he's not even the top Brit any more as he was outraced by Jenson Button, at 22 nine years his junior.

Button was all the rage two years ago.

Perhaps it went to his head as he suffered a severe case of second season syndrome, but he's currently fourth in the world championship standings and doing well enough to offer a flicker of hope that Schumacher won't rule forever.

HOW many decades will it be before anyone tames the Tiger? The cream rose to the top to challenge him over the last round at Augusta, but they all flopped miserably, none more spectacularly than the last man other than Tiger to wear the Green Jacket, Vijay Singh.

Any competent golfer knows it's better to leave yourself a full wedge shot into a green than a shot of 60 or 70 yards.

Vijay chose the latter option at the 15th and put two balls in the water, while Tiger left himself the fuller shot and put the ball a foot from the pin.

As his error instantly put paid to any hope of an exciting climax, it would have added greatly to the entertainment had Vijay sent his wedge whirring gloriously through the air to a watery grave then beat the manicured Augusta turf furiously with his fists.

He probably wouldn't have been invited back, of course, and in any case the psychologists tell golfers that any expression of anger is self-defeating.

So there was barely a flicker from Vijay, yet even that was more than we would have got from those two charisma-free South Africans, Ernie Els and Retief Goosen.

They also stumbled in the home straight, as if to prove that you have to be more than a robot to catch the Tiger.

If only Arnold Palmer were just starting out.

IT was quite a weekend for London, what with the magical marathon and Arsenal and Chelsea booking their trip to Cardiff.

As I support whoever Chelsea are playing I will most reluctantly have to side with Arsenal in the FA Cup final, although they were lucky to get past valiant Middlesbrough.

When things like 40-yard own goals have been going in your favour, your luck is bound to run out some time, which was what happened to Boro when poor old Uncle Festa found his own net.