per cent humidity reduced my pace to a sweat-sodden slouch. The road wound up from the coast, through canyons hewn from ancient corals and draped with curtains of vines. Ten minutes on this modest little hill and I was gasping. My legs were cast from

, 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

. First Avenue was a blur. In Central Park I was a neurotic wreck on the edge of a panic attack. There were lots of hills, but I flew up them. I must have overtaken a thousand runners in two miles.One of them was my teammate Greg – handsome, intelligent

the first race in 1979.Horses, having twice as many legs as people, invariably win – despite compulsory vet inspections. This is just as well for sponsors William Hill, because they’re offering £20,000 to any runner who beats the horses to the finish line

it will never catch, I am reduced to the ruin who scratches out these sorry lines for you tonight.Was it only 20 years ago that, fresh of face and fleet of foot, I carved out my daily mile around the South Circular, from Clapham Common to Streatham Hill? Behold

of miles, I began to experiment with alternative scenarios.“He was abducted by aliens in Neasden.” “Kidnapped by Muswell Hill Runners. They’re demanding a ransom of 50p, but I’m refusing on the grounds that such a sum far exceeds the dog’s true value

at the open door. I noticed, for the first time, a peppering of grey about his muzzle. As I limped down the hill, I was overtaken by a pack of athletic snails.Nowadays it takes a good 10 minutes before the sharp pain in my right knee subsides to a dull

Yesterday was a monumentally significant one. I tottered out of the house with the traditional Sunday morning hangover and Oscar the dog, and swayed blearily down the hill to meet the usual suspects – Highgate’s equivalent of the Chelsea Pensioners

and Abbot already enquire, “Pint of cider, Andy?” as I stagger into the pub at 6.50, still shaking from the lunatic race up the A1 on the Ducati.Life in Litlington is like an endless edition of the Archers. Nothing wrong in that. I remember doing

while, I’ll get to hate the stupid mountains and the silly streams and the soppy wildflowers, and I’ll promise myself that when I get home I’ll move to Norfolk and never look at another hill as long as I live.And if it gets really bad, I’ll walk