’were ’is next door neighbours, like. To make things worse, he were sick on their cat.”“Aye. He ran a crackin’ race next day though. Knocked three seconds of t’ Commonwealth 10,000m record, as I recall.”“Four, actually.”“Ah,” says the angel on my left

As the Trans 333 looms ever closer, a frisson of pure terror is rippling through our little band of British ‘disties’ – we who are either too old, too fat, too lame or generally too congenitally useless to run anything under 100 miles in a time

… and having adjusted them in the light of the mysterious ‘could/couldn’t give a monkey’s’ factor, sets the internal metronome governing my rate of energy-deployment so that, whatever the race, I run it at a pace just short of the impossible.I’d like to think