If the ‘World’s Toughest Foot Race’ was merely a race to develop the world’s toughest foot, I’d be laughing. I’d spend a couple of weeks firewalking in Haiti, soak the old plates of meat in permanganate, and bingo! – I’d be quaffing my Special Brew

and whimpered in a sort of hurt, bewildered way. There could be no other explanation – the World’s Fittest Dog was injured.It felt strange, leaving the house without him. For one thing, I didn’t have to stop five times before the end of the road while he

, according to a recent survey of RUNNER’S WORLD readers, I’m slightly less popular than Glenn Hoddle.Last month my running had descended to an all-time low. While training in the Peak District I was overtaken by a large boulder. I was deeply shocked

is hot, the beer is cold and all is well with the world.But imagine if running were not just an unpleasant but psychologically necessary interlude in your self-indulgent day. Imagine doing it for a living.It wouldn’t be a case of, ‘I’m just popping out

will doubtless throw good sense to the wind and render ourselves incapable of movement for days. No matter. We shall regard it, in the fine old tradition of Numbskulls AC, as resistance training. Meanwhile, Oscar The World’s Fittest Dog and I will be upping our

resemblance to the editorial department of RUNNER’S WORLD. In the middle of the clearing, on an ancient Aztec throne, sat Seaton. Slowly, he turned his enormous, shaven head towards me. The firelight danced on his oiled torso. My mouth was dry with fear and a

ahead of Ajdjiti M’bmti, reigning world champion, then collapsing into the enfolding bosom of Shania Twain.Insane optimism is just as dangerous as leaden-footed self-flagellation. I’m sure that really great runners don’t have OMOs. They’re just them

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

hours of bragging in bars and writing in RUNNER’S WORLD. Thus, over the course of weeks and months, you can convince your body that what you’re demanding of it is not as inherently stupid as it first sounded.Watch this space.

-mail, every column in RUNNER’S WORLD, commits me more deeply to this unthinkable madness. All that can save me now is a Blighty – a running injury so persistent and deep-seated that the Trans 333 would be entirely out of the question. Such an injury would