The start of the race (is a marathon really a race for a middle-aged plodder?) is at the Capitolio. It is an impressive building, which gives some legitimacy to the typical Cuban casualness outside. Numbers are pinned onto shirts. The more enthusiastic push forward to get in the front of the pack. I am in no rush: my training schedule fell off a cliff some months ago, replaced by an acceleration of drinking and late nights. Even my associates are now looking professional, limbering up, stretching, rubbing oils and potions, drinking energy drinks. I guess that a pre-race cigarette would not be de rigueur.