children like pulling the legs off flies.I’ve always hated stretching. Warming up, it seemed to me, was a waste of time. As far as I was concerned, the first 10 miles of the race was my warm-up. Result: I am barely able to touch my knees, let alone my toes
as fast as today’s sorry bunch.“Ah! Good morrow, Mister Blackford!” At least Norman managed a semblance of cheery bonhomie. Harry just grunted at the dog, and Big Ron barely raised a grimace.“You’re slow today,” I replied as I tagged on to their flank
bright, spring morning. We hobbled past the café at Kenwood House where Oscar had once terrorised the customers in a sort of North London middle class remake of The Hound Of The Baskervilles. Under great and ancient oaks on landscaped lawns, children were
of ultrarunners. Rory Coleman, the race director, was characteristically neither peaceful nor nervous. “First of all, welcome to the first-ever Children With Leukaemia Marathon of Britain! For 12 months, this has been my dream – now I want it to be your dream!” He
