A hard 11.2 miles this afternoon. I spent much of last winter trudging along frozen lanes in the dark, fantasising miserably about the promise of long hazy summer days. Like Jeffrey Archer wistfully dreaming of ice buckets loaded with Bollinger, I remembered only half the picture. Or perhaps I wasn’t thinking as a runner then. The airlessness, the raw heat, the sweat stinging your eyes, the squinting glare, the salt-encrusted lips and cheeks, the mouthfuls of flies, the deep fatigue, the heaviness of the bones, the extra effort.… READ MORE.... …