Did I ever tell you about the time I nearly froze to death on the remote Atlantic island of South Georgia? While running solo across the ice cap, I’d fallen into a swamp of frozen guano. My blood had attained the colour and consistency
of the new Ice Age. Only days before, a tornado had cruised majestically up the Humber, and Hull was buried under hailstones the size and weight of hedgehogs. With Oscar The World’s Fittest Dog at my side, I climbed out of the sleepy fishing village
gazelles across the next tract of filthy bogland. Seaton was supposed to be crippled. He confided to me, If I cant manage this, I cant in all conscience go to New Zealand for the Completely Stupid Blindfold Ice Abseiling 500. The CSBIA is just another
As I once remarked to Rob Wright, a founder member of Numbskulls AC, “You know, running is a mental thing.” He nodded vigorously. “It certainly is, mate. Do you remember the Nude Year’s Eve Triathlon when we had to break the ice on Regent’s Park
