, and that the combination of sweltering temperatures and rolling hills might in some way mimic the experience of shuffling across Wadi Rum with a sack of anvils on my back.As usual, I had deluded myself. For one thing, I’d failed to take into account the commencement

’t I do something a little less… grandiose?”My accountant was visibly disappointed. Then he brightened. “You could always go for a course of reconstructive dental prosthetics, and join a gym.”And that’s exactly what I did. Looking back, now, from my packing case beside

chalk downs, and hear the unceasing piccolo of larksong. Nothing takes you back like an old shirt.There were no larks this morning. The day was veiled by a curtain of drizzle, and even Oscar The World’s Fittest Dog looked dubious as he sniffed

.Indeed in New York’s Central Park, where the runners are exclusively short, spherical, middle-aged ladies, The Twelve-Minute Mile Rule is generally observed. Out West, of course, they’re very laid back. In fact, there’s fierce competition between Californians

you like a cloud. You can’t eat, you can’t drink, you can’t do anything at all because at the back of your mind you’re aware that you’ve got to go running. Until you do, you’re effectively paralysed. And of course – as everybody knows – running itself

have to go back and start again at one. What usually happens is that I get to nine and think to myself, “Bloody brilliant! Nine!” And then it’s back to the beginning again.It’s as if I’m two people: Me, and the Official Me Observer (OMO). The OMO likes

If I should let drop that I’ve just run 20 miles to the gym and back, just to idle away a dull morning, I can count on one of two responses from my audience.First there’s, “Run? I can’t even run for the bus, me!” Surely, I reply, that depends on who

thundered down the back straight at 125mph, the front wheel bearings collapsed. The wheel might so easily have seized, hurling me over the bars in the Hollywood version of my horse-riding mishap. No such luck. I clattered to a dignified halt, and walked

– to celebrate Sean Fishpool’s 30th birthday by climbing around 30 granite outcrops, or tors, in one vainglorious circumnambulation of the Moor. I’d explained the plan to my sceptical but resigned wife. “It isn’t going to be quick (I won’t be back until Sunday

was the perfect training for the MDS – which is really about trudging up endless down escalators of sand with half a ton of useless junk on your back. And now I’ve discovered that, in terms of running fitness, 20 minutes of boxing achieves as much as an hour