’s 300-mile Northern Territories Swamp Romp? Or slither down stalactites in pitch darkness during the 10-day Malaysian Deep Cavern Challenge? “Here’s the deal,” Seaton confided as he broached the second 35ml bottle of still mineral water. “The Canine 9K

, 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

Hollywood movies. It was fine: I lived a chaste, quiet life, free from the madness and mayhem of Tinseltown.But you know how it is. Barely a week had gone by and there I was, stumbling out of Kate’s boudoir again at 11am, two hours late for my screen test

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

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

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

contained within the folds of a punctured football. And perched triumphantly upon its back was a fat, brown and cream striped spider. I stopped my watch at 2:07 seconds, and bent the better to observe the unfolding of this minuscule drama. Was I witnessing a

bush. Here I was spotted by Tim, ex- treasurer of the Totteridge Tossers, who spent the next three, excruciating miles telling me how he got lost during the Rhubarb Patch 10K in 1983. The sun was like a great, bronze gong, ringing in my ears. Tim