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

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

could see, the Amazonian rainforest came pretty close to the Garden of Eden. No nettles, no brambles, no midges, no mosquitoes. Just lofty, dignified trees and sinuous vines and cute little frogs and the odd, flesh-necrotising centipede.Frankly, I

.And then it suddenly dawned on me that next Sunday would be the first for 20 years when I wouldn’t tread the well-worn path past the blackened remains of the stolen moped; wouldn’t trip lightly across the little wooden bridge over the stinking ribbon of slime

/(kg.mile swimming) 0.62 cals/(kg.mile biking) 1.44 cals/(kg.mile running). It must be true it was on the Internet. – ToucanI have, no doubt incorrectly, been reluctant to claim too many calories for biking and swimming, because I tend not to feel so much pain as I