This might seem counter-intuitive. Why would you want to run in the wrong shoes? No one wants to race a half marathon in a pair of green wellies. You’ll never get a personal best in Gucci kitten heels.  This may seem obvious. You don’t need extremes to prove it. Yet, extreme footwear is what we hear when people start talking about running because running shoes are seen not just as something to keep your feet warm and comfy, they can also help you win. 

Take Sebastian Sawe, who broke the official marathon world record by running it under two hours in 2026 at the London Marathon. Or Yomif Kejelcha – who finished second and also ran under two hours – and Tigst Assefa, winner of the women’s race. They all wore the Adidas Adizero Adios Pro Evo 3, a so-called ‘supershoe’.

The first runners ran barefoot. The legendary Pheidippides, the Greek herald who ran 25 miles from the battlefield of Marathon to Athens in 490 BC to announce victory over the Persians, was said to have run barefoot. Admittedly, after announcing the victory he keeled over and died. But that does appear to be unrelated to his footwear and more to do with a lack of water and energy gel station along the way. It was the first marathon, event logistics was still to be invented.

As our knowledge and appreciation of footwear increased, we understood that running barefoot is not as simple as it first seems. Just try running on a beach. I have and I can tell you that the feel of sand between your toes soon wears off when you realise it’s not sand between your toes but sandpapers and you’re in some sort of torture experiment from the killer Jigsaw in the Saw franchise of movies. 

“You will be crushed to death in 10 minutes. You can escape if you run away, but every step will slice a section of your foot off like pastrami in an American diner! Do you run or do you stay? Ha! Ha! Ha!”

That’s why I don’t have Run Barefoot as a run in this book. For the same reason I don’t have Run Into A Brick Wall or Run Off A Cliff. Running barefoot hurts.

Instead, I want you to consider running in the ‘Wrong Shoes’. While Nike and Adidas or New Balance and Mizuno may tell you that you need to run in only the fastest and lightest and most expensive shoes that they can persuade you to hand over your cash for. You don’t need those shoes and running in the ‘Wrong Shoes’ teaches you that. 

I have run in the ‘Wrong Shoes’ several times. Often because I’ve forgotten to bring the ‘Right Shoes’ with me. One time, I was visiting my mum and dad in the Western Isles of Scotland. I’d arrived on Friday night and had to leave early on Monday morning. I had two days and one of those days was the Lewis Sabbath. Most people call it Sunday. But, in the Western Isles, Sunday doesn’t exist. Only the Sabbath exists, and it starts at 11pm on Saturday when the pubs close and ends at 8am on Monday morning when the local Free Church Minister wakes up. It was not a day; it was a complete cultural tradition and shutdown. Everything shuts. No shops open. No bars serve a pint. The swings in playparks are tied together. Even hotels are careful to serve residents deep in underground bunkers away from the prying eyes of extremist locals in case the Lord finds out that someone has blasphemed the Sabbath with a rotisserie toaster. 

I planned to run on the Sabbath, and I’d left my trainers behind on the mainland and I only discovered this on Saturday night, after all shops had closed. I had two choices: I could either not run (and not offend the lord with my knees on the Sabbath) or I could run and wear my walking boots instead. I chose the boots.   

While it was not the fastest of runs, a pair of wellies would have been better as the boots weighed as heavy as our neighbour’s judgment upon me for venturing outside in shorts and a t-shirt on the Sabbath. It was still a run. I did it. I didn’t need cushioning or a carbon plate springboarding my feet into the record books. I just needed to run. In shoes. And ‘Wrong Shoes’ were the ‘Right Shoes’ because they helped me get out and run, regardless of their suitability.

I have worn the ‘Wrong Shoes’ many times since. Slipping on what shoes I have to hand (or foot) rather than choosing not to run because the conditions weren’t perfect. Also, because I’m forgetful and often leave my shoes behind. I should have learned this lesson by now. 

Try running in the wrong shoes. Not because it’s fun or that it’s going to help you break any world or personal records. Do it because it shows you that you can run anytime, anywhere, in anything – without waiting for your feet to be cushioned by angels. Except barefoot. I mean it. That’s just crazy. You’d be better with cheese graters on your feet.  

My watch can connect me to not just one, or two, but three global satellite networks. It can pinpoint my location down the exact spot I am standing on the earth right now – and all I can think is:  “Did the United States and Russia spend trillions of dollars/rubles in the mid-century Space Race to throw all these satellites into geosynchronous orbit so that Fiona from HR knows if she’s running 10 minutes 38 seconds per mile or 10 minutes 37 seconds per mile in her local  Parkrun?”

When Neil Armstrong walked on the moon and proclaimed: “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind“. NASA didn’t ask him to check his watch to see if he’d run 0.01km or 0.02km. They just celebrated one foot placed in front of another. In the decades since we boldy went where no one has gone before we seem to have forgotten that running started with one simple purpose: to escape dinosaurs. 

In 2023 scientists revealed that one of our very earliest ancestors may have lived at the same time as dinosaurs ruled the earth. And while these early ancestors may have as much resemblance to modern man as Blackpool does to Monaco they must have shared the same thought as us when seeing a t-rex in Jurassic Park: run.

Because, if they hadn’t run, they wouldn’t have been our ancestors, and we’d be extinct after great-great-great-great-great-many-times-over-grandpa Todd became a dino snack.

Today, our watches can tell us our speed, location, our heart-rate, our pace. They can provide directions and maps, let us listen to music and even make an emergency call if we suddenly stop. 

But do you need to wear it? Is your life improved by having a graph of your perceived exertion level while jogging round a park? Next time you run, don’t record your run. Or, if you feel you do need to record, add the details manually afterwards. 

Or, if you currently don’t wear a watch, then wear a watch. See if knowing your max heart rate is a sign of fitness or a critical early warning sign of catastrophic cardiac failure. Heart rate of 230 beats per minute after standing up? Maybe, just maybe, wearing a watch will save your life? In which case, I take everything I just said about how pointless they are back. Watches are great. Get your blood pressure checked.

I have enjoyed several of Alastair Humphrey’s books and was looking forward to this one. The description captured my attention:

“After travelling the whole world, can exploring a single map ever be enough?
Adventurer Alastair Humphreys spends a year investigating the small map around his own home.

“Can this unassuming landscape, marked by the glow of city lights and the hum of busy roads, satisfy his wanderlust? Could a single map provide a lifetime of exploration?”

And the first few chapters live up to his goal as he start to explore a map a single place at a time. Until, after a few chapters I realised, he was never going to tell us where he was.

I can see why. He doesn’t want people to know where he lives.

Or maybe he’s trying to make the places universal by talking about them generally rather than with any specifics.

But the effect on me was feel the whole book as being vague and lacking any sense of place.

I think there is a great book to be written about one place – there are countless books that tell the story of a city or a home or a place – and there was an opportunity to do the same here in a random spot just outside his door. But without knowing where his door was, except somewhere near London, somewhere near the Thames, it quickly lost my attention.

A disappointment.

You can buy it here: AlastairHumphreys

Who writes an anonymous memoir? You’d never catch Iain TwinBikeRun or Me TwinBikeRun doing that. If Donald Trump asked to see our birth certificates he’d find that we were born TwinBikeRuns and have always been TwinBikeRuns! TwinBikeChild isn’t their real name either?!!?

So, chapeau to Mr The Secret Cyclist or The, as he’s called to his pals. But, as the book says he has won several races including grand tour stages, I have to ask why I can’t find his name in any record. I have searched for Clylist, Secret Cyclist and even Mr but nothing comes up. I guess that’s what happens when you are called The Secret Cyclist, it makes it really easy for tournament organisers to get your name wrong.

“Who won?”

“The Secret Cyclist”

“Oh, okay, I’ll just leave it blank then.”

I thought this was going to be a bit ‘meh’ but it turned out to be more enjoyable than many bigger name riders books for the simple reason that it was told from the perspective of someone who was part of a team, rather than a leader. Since it didn’t have to talk about how much everyone else helped them to win the Tour or cycle the world, it became a lot more about what it means to have a career as a professional cyclist and how the sport has changed over 20 years. The fact the author is anonymous is a nice selling point but I don’t think it had the effect of revealing any secrets that would otherwise have remain unsaid. Occasionally there’s a criticism of a fellow rider but nothing that felt like it couldn’t have been said by any named commentator.

It’s a quick read, each chapter looks at a different part of the sport so it’s easy to dip in and out of it. In terms of revelations I did find his comments on electronic doping interesting. He said that most riders would not want a battery in their bike because the financial penalties for being caught would bankrupt them as the bike manufacturers would not want anyone to think their bikes were fast for any reason other than good design and materials. A battery in a global brand bike like Specialized would destroy their reputation – so he can’t see any other the bike brands having anything to do with electronic doping. It would be far too risky to rely on a rider not being caught. Unless they had a Secret Cyclist, of course… wait a minute… how did he win those races…?

I can’t recommend this book. Or I can recommend it but only if you don’t want to read a bike book as this is not really a bike book, even if most of it is about riding a bike.

This book is about former bike courier Emily Chappell racing the Transcontinental: an unsupported non-stop race across Europe. Every hour slept is an hour someone else could be riding so racers sleep little and peddle faster. It’s one of the world toughest tests of endurance. And Emily Chappell was the first female to win it. But if the book is about Emily and about the race, you need to also take a hint from its subtitle. The book is called “Where There’s A Will” but its subtitle is “Hope, Grief and Endurance in a Cycle Race Across a Continent” and the key word there is grief.

When I read this book I hadn’t read the sub-title and thought it was just about the race. When the grief arrive it was unexpected but, also to me, unwelcome as I thought it was turning the book into something else. No longer a sports biography but a memoir of grief. And I found the transition to be jarring, even though the grief was real and this was just a record of real events. It’s what actually happened – and should the author not cover everything that happened? Not just the unimportant but the vital and real aspect of friendship and loss?

For me, I had the wrong expectations and I bounced from the book at the point. So, I can’t recommend it. But, if you know what you are getting, and hopefully this review helps set your expectations, then maybe this one is for you.

TwinBikeDoll found a doll. I say ‘doll’, I mean the start of a brand new horror franchise. Yikes.

Mrs TwinBikerun has an annual health check with BUPA arranged by her work. 

“Does your work see the results?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Then why do they arrange it? Don’t they want to know if you’re going to drop dead at your desk?”

“I think they assume I’ll tell them if anything is wrong.”

“And would you?”

“Well, HR would not be my first call…”

During the assessment, Mrs TwinBikeRun asked about heart palpitations.

“How long do they last?” the Doctor asked her. 

“Just a few seconds. I take a deep breath and everything is okay after that.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” said the Doctor, “we would only be concerned if they lasted more than five minutes.”

Five minutes?!?!? So, if my heart decides to recreate a drum and bass track for four and minutes and fifty nine seconds, I shouldn’t be worried. But if the cardiac rave lasts one more second then call an ambulance.

“That doesn’t seem right,” I said to Mrs TwinBikeRun, after she was home. 

“It’s what the Doctor said,” she said. 

“Aye,” I said, “but remember what happened two weeks ago.”

Two weeks ago we had to spend three days in hospital with TwinBikeChild after we spotted blood in her poop. It turned out to be harmless but, when checked at hospital, she had the same signs as e-coli and had to be treated as if she had it, even though the Doctors knew from initial tests that it was unlikely that she did. However, the only way to confirm it wasn’t e-coli was a test that required a 48 hour period to run it. 

“That was different,” TwinBikeWife said.

“How,” I asked. 

“That was incompetence.”

TwinBikeWife had first phoned NHS24 for an initial diagnosis. The person she spoke to was very helpful and when she asked if, when they went to hospital, she should bring a sample of the poop, he’d encouraged her to do so. Which is how she ended up with a clean Strawberry jam jar of poop in her handbag.

“What’s that,” asked the Doctor in A&E, when Norsewife brought out the jam jar.

“It’s not for your toast,” she said, “it’s a sample of what TwinBikeChild did.”

The Doctor looked at it the same way that a chef would look at steak and ice-cream. Technically there is no reason the two things cannot be put together but, in reality, dear God, why would you do it? A strawberry jam jar of poop?

“It’s okay,” the Doctor said, “we’ll take our own sample the next time she goes to the toilet. Its good you called NHS24 but we’ll do our own thing.”

And by “own thing” the Doctor clearly meant “the correct thing not involving a BYOP (bring your own poop)”.

This wasn’t the first time we’d been in hospital this year with TwinBikeChild. We had to come in a few months earlier when she developed red spots across her back. NHS24 recommended she was checked to make sure it wasn’t meningitis, even though she passed the initial tests. 

As suspected, it wasn’t meningitis, it turned out to be scarlet fever, a condition treated with anti-biotics and which saw TwinBikeChild almost back to normal the next day. However, unlile the poop jar, which we could not pass onto anyone else, TwinBikeChild passed her Scarlet fever to me. And then she passed two other throat infections within the space of two months. She was starting nursery and she was picking up every bug and making sure to share them with us. I spent weeks unable to eat more than a yoghurt as it was too sore to swallow. If I’d been racing this year I would have lost weeks of training as I had to spend a few months building my strength up before getting back into any kind of routine. 

Good health is not something we can guarantee when setting out on a training programme. The best we can do is to remember basic hygiene and hope for the best. 

And to get your wife to carry the poop jar in her handbag.