“Let’s have lunch,” suggested Seaton in a startling display of magnanimity. “There’s some interesting stuff going on this year – we need to sort out your diary.” I could hardly contain my excitement – albeit less about the ‘interesting stuff’ than at the prospect of finally disco...

, and thought about it until my head ached. I have sat and meditated on the subject until my legs were racked with such excruciating cramps and my spine locked into a series of S-bends so acute that it took an osteopath, two chiropractors and a hydraulic jack

ran to work today I was overtaken by invalid carriages and the smaller representatives of the insect world. My legs were like rubber bags of molasses and I could hear myself snorting like an injured buffalo.So far, I could not in all conscience

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

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

by the fronds of stately willows.This was going to be a doddle.Eight hours later I was crashing, wide-eyed and breathless, through a thicket of malevolent brambles. My arms and legs were ripped by thorns, spotted with the burning Braille of nettles.The sun

was clearly designed by Geoff Boycott after a bad day. I knew within two minutes of setting out that that it was going to be awful. My lungs were full of pondweed and my legs weren’t properly attached to my pelvis. As the quaint cottages of Staithes fell away

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

the bus.Then there’s, “I tried running once, but it was so bloody boring.”“What?’ I exclaim. ‘Did you run on a treadmill in a darkened room, then?” For running, it seems to me, is just living while moving your legs.Take this morning’s modest effort

will sink forever beneath the timeless sands of Niger.”And so it was with a cruel hangover that I stumbled last Sunday from The Old Slaughterhouse with the World’s Fittest Dog. My legs seemed to operate independently of my torso, like those of Barbie