It was 11pm on 22 December. Dinner had consisted of two scotch eggs, a packet of pork scratchings, a lump of cheddar and a couple of oatcake biscuits. Hardly the best fuel to help my legs recover, having run 120 miles in the previous 40 hours and still with a significant distance to go. I was crawling into my bivi bag, lying on the cold floor of a pub car park on the outskirts of Tamworth. The smell of urine was overwhelming. It was my second night sleeping rough and I was beginning to wonder what I was doing.
Posted on: Fri, 02 Jan 2015 17:00:02 +0000
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