Mile 20. The crowd is thinning. Your legs feel like they’ve been replaced with two damp sandbags. And somewhere deep in your gut, a civil war is breaking out between the three gels you’ve panic-swallowed and the isotonic drink you grabbed at the last station. Sound familiar? That, my friend, is what happens when fuelling…
It’s 5:47am. The alarm went off twelve minutes ago. It’s raining – obviously it’s raining, this is Britain. You’ve got a 10-miler planned along the towpath and one very pressing question: do you eat something, or do you risk it on an empty stomach and spend miles 6 through 10 plotting your own funeral? Knowing…
There’s a special kind of heartbreak that comes from paying £3 for a tiny sachet of beige sludge, squeezing it into your mouth at mile 14, and realising it tastes like wallpaper paste. Yet somehow, we keep doing it. As club runners chasing PBs on muddy towpaths and windswept long runs, we’re constantly hunting for…