I’d always had a love-hate relationship with running. Playing sport was never an issue, but I’d try my hardest to get out of long runs that didn’t involve a ball. As I crept towards the big four zero, however, and got tired of 18-year-olds running rings around me at football, I knew I’d have to find another way of getting exercise in.
It was late on a Saturday night, edging into Sunday morning. I’d finished work and had jumped on the train to my local station. Sat in a warm carriage, I peered through the window. The rain was horizontal and the wind whipped the trees back and forth. I was praying there would be a string of cabs in the taxi rank. There wasn’t. Standing in the deserted ticket hall, I steeled myself for the inevitable drenching. All that separated me from my warm, inviting bed was two miles of hilly, dark, wet countryside.
