This made me laugh.
Saturday's run reminded me of some of the things that make ultra running so unique and enjoyable. The joy of stopping for a number 2 in the fresh air, miles from anywhere, and then witnessing the shock on the faces of the two old ramblers who had just come round the corner to find a runner in mid squat. Or stopping for a quick streamie, only for one of the women in the race to choose that very moment to catch up - thanks Aileen. Or the odd sensation of running a bit too soon after eating a pot of Muller rice (with apple), not entirely sure whether it would stay down or not. Or watching my chicken and rice soup blow away towards the Falkirk Wheel. Or finding that both my legs had decided to cramp at the same time, with my arms joining them seconds later in a painful spasm. And finally, the serious embarrassment of trying to spit into the canal but making such a hash of it that most ended up in my hair and on my backpack.
So, dear reader, ultra running is not all glamorous, at least not where I am in the middle of the field. I am sure it is much more attractive at the front end, where Lucy, Jack, Thomas et al run with great style and panache - no jobbies in the trees for them, I suspect: I doubt they could afford to stop for that long and still get as good a time.
I am of course aware that I do all this for fun, and of my own free will, and that no-one forces me to take part.
This guy has just taken part in the annual Glasgow to Edinburgh run - a 52 mile race along the canal