, but what little self-esteem I still possessed was seriously eroded. Here was I, living a life of blameless purity and far from enjoying a sort of athletic Indian summer, a swansong of blistering times and smashed records, I was relying upon my dog, Oscar
stop and lie down at the end of each day. And strangely, I don’t recall ever experiencing a pang of disappointment at the sight of the finish line after staggering across 20-odd miles of blistering desert under a rucksack the size of Phil Jupitus
’t run another step. But that feeling is no more intense after 100 miles than it is after two. So why should it be any worse after 145, or 200, or 500? Given water, decent shoes, enough blister dressings to wrap a mummy and an infinite supply of power
was Rory’s idea of a joke. And we responded, I think, with admirable good-humour. So far there were no blisters, stress fractures or obvious cases of heatstroke. And the view from the top was simply stunning. Across the Vale of Evesham shimmered the misty
