This week, I pulled out of the Trans 333 the desert race that Ive been banging on about for months. Why? Its a long story. At the last minute, the race venue was switched from Niger to Mauritania. And I wont run in Mauritania. Well, not so much
As the Trans 333 looms ever closer, a frisson of pure terror is rippling through our little band of British ‘disties’ – we who are either too old, too fat, too lame or generally too congenitally useless to run anything under 100 miles in a time
in the trackless dunes of deserts so wild that no man has subdued them with a name. These abominations I have endured without complaint. But last Sunday was the last bloody straw. It all began with a simple e-mail: how’s the training going for the Trans 333
"How’s the training going?"It’s the first thing they ask me, nowadays. That’ll teach me to shoot my mouth off in pubs about the Trans 333.Fordham has the right idea. He refuses to disclose whether or not he’s doing a race until he turns up
to run for causes. However, this year I’m breaking with tradition. Foot and mouth disease has put paid to almost every race in my calendar – except one. The organisers of the Trans 333 have scoured the entire planet for the place that bears the closest
with his legs in the air. He surveyed me through one, half-closed eye. I could swear he was smirking.Around him was scattered the usual litter of chewed-up mail. Only one letter remained untouched. It was from the organisers of the Trans 333 desert run
say unaccountably because he’s a personal trainer. And only a few months earlier, he’d been the only Brit to complete the dreadful Trans 333, just before turning in a sterling performance in the Grand Union Canal 145 mile race – the one where
