Why I should have imagined that a 14-mile run along the Cleveland Way in August might be good training for the 105-mile Jordan Desert Cup, remains a mystery. Perhaps I reasoned, not unreasonably, that August = Summer = Heat
heat-seeking missile.Then, with a piteous yelp, he sat down suddenly and heavily on the limp rag that was once our hand-woven Moroccan rug.I was puzzled. This was unprecedented. Why hadn’t he yet broken any priceless antiques?He held out one front paw
’s heat is lost through the head. And since my pate is now virtually threadbare, I really should invest in a woolly hat.I glanced at my watch. If the boys were on schedule, they should pour out of Big Wood in around three minutes.They were late, and when
the wilting junipers as we trudged and jogged along the scarp of the Cotswolds. On either side, plains of scorched stubble stretched away into a vague penumbra of heat and dust. Crouched beneath sweltering hills, Stanton and Broadway played dead
