and Abbot already enquire, “Pint of cider, Andy?” as I stagger into the pub at 6.50, still shaking from the lunatic race up the A1 on the Ducati.Life in Litlington is like an endless edition of the Archers. Nothing wrong in that. I remember doing
the early stages of a marathon, it’s advisable not to be soaked in urine. Particularly someone else’s.Random micturation apart, the Bridge is a great way to start a race. Linking Staten Island with Brooklyn, it used to be the world’s longest single
, to drag me up the high kerbs.I was beginning to wonder whether the secret of achievement in athletics was gross excess. Listening to some old pros at the Lanzarote Challenge last year, they seemed to train on a diet of Guinness and curry.Dyer remember
“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
