I am not a morning runner. I have tried to be. The evidence is not encouraging. Every morning run I have planned has involved setting an alarm I either slept through or turned off with the specific intention of getting up and then did not get up. I have run at 6am perhaps eight times in my adult life. Four of those were races. One was an emergency. Three were genuine morning runs that felt so unlike my normal experience of running that I am not sure they count. The morning run belongs to a different type of person. I respect that person. They probably also buy Christmas presents in August. I am not that person.

I love running trails, there is no better feeling for me than to be in the middle of nowhere, on a rough track, and surrounded by hills or lochs or forest or anything but concrete. It is running stripped back to the essentials, following paths that are man made, following routes that have been walked out of the landscape by necessity and ease of all those who have come this way before us. We are running in history, in the footsteps of previous centuries. It inspires and humbles and, I admit, frightens me too. What happens if I’m injured? How do I get home?

I was 47 miles into a 52 mile event on the West Highland Way when I couldn’t walk any further. I’d had a stress fracture in my left foot. I couldn’t put any weight on it. I was five miles from the finish line at the top of Loch Lomond. At least two miles from the nearest road.  

I could do nothing but walk. Slowly. Shuffling. Right foot out. Right foot down. Steady myself. Left foot out. Left foot down. AAAAAARRRRGHHH! Breath. Repeat for five more miles. 

Or you might worry about getting lost. I ran hills on the western side of Loch Lomond. I didn’t. I had been turned around and I was running further and further away from the car. It was only when I met someone walking in the opposite direction and we had a quick chat about where we going did I realise that they were going where I want to go: the car park.

If you’re thinking of running longer trails, then always think about running with other people or telling people where you are going and what you’re doing. 

A sprint is different from running faster. It’s a short intensive burst of speed that you reserve for special moments like racing 100 or 200 metres on a track; the last minute of a race as you dash to the finish line; or you realise that you are in the wrong court and you have documents which must be lodged that day and the right court closes at 5pm and the time is 4:58pm.

That last example may just have been me.

After a mix up as a trainee solicitor, where I was told to go to the Court of Session, in Edinburgh, to lodge a document, when the document was in fact due in the Sheriff Court, I have an unverified claim to have broken the land speed record during my sprint between the two courts. More impressive, I didn’t need Adidas’s cheat boots, I had black leather dress shoes. 

When I’m not sprinting between courtrooms, I normally reserve my sprints for the end of a race and my favourite finish line was at the Escape from Alcatraz triathlon in San Francisco – a race that starts with a 1.5 mile open water swim from Alcatraz Island to the shore, before a hilly bike leg and an 8km run along the coast to finish. 

As a triathlon, it also had that quirk of triathlon known as triathlon tattoos, where every competitor is given a temporary tattoo with their race number. This is so that if you drown during the swim they will know who you are. Which is fair enough. Who doesn’t want the reassurance of knowing that someone has thought, when they drown, at least they have a solid logistical identification system in place for the coroner? However, the Escape from Alcatraz triathlon didn’t stop there. It went one step further. They also stamped me with my age group. Why they didn’t also require the name of my next of kin and last will and testament, I don’t know. 

The good thing about the age group stamp was that it was on the back of my calf. And, as I ran round, I could see who was ahead of me by reading their calves: 18 – 24; 45 – 50 etc, and build up an extra picture of them in my mind as I beat them to the finish line. Which was a good idea, until 65 – 75 overtook me at the end. I swear he didn’t look a day over 45. 

Find a sprint. It doesn’t need a track or a starting pistol. You just need someone ahead of you, a finish line, and the sudden decision that you are not going to let them beat you. Pick your target. Check their age group stamp. Go.

If you say “I’m not lost” then that is a sure sign that you are, in fact, lost. Not that I was lost when I said it. I knew exactly where I was – in a wood, near Elgin, at night, in the dark, surrounded by deer – but I admit I may not have known quite exactly which path to take to get back to Elgin, and not end up, hours later, in Inverness.

Last week, I decided to try some night-time trail running. I was in Elgin and, while there are a lot of nice varied routes to run, there is one thing missing: hills. Elgin is flat. If you dropped a slinky, it would not slink. Run through town – flat. Run through Cooper Park – flat. Run to Maggot Wood (one of my favourite place names, as it does make you think how many maggots there must have been to name a whole wood after them) – flat. All completely flat.

For a change, I decided to run out of Elgin and try some trails through the hills on its western edge. I brought my head torch, found a willing companion who didn’t baulk when I said “fancy going to the dark woods tonight?”, and we set off to find a route through the trees.

Problem one: we didn’t know where we were going, or where any path might start.

Problem two: we didn’t know that everything looks like a path when you only have a head torch to guide you. A flat bit of grass between two trees looks like the start of a track when you can’t see further than three metres ahead.

Problem three: dear God, what are those glowing eyes in the woods? Head torches, we discovered, make every deer that glances in your direction look like it’s possessed by the Eye of Sauron.

Problem four: sometimes the darkness in front of you is not just darkness but a twenty-metre drop from the side of an old quarry. A good tip, quickly learned: only step where you can see the ground.

Problem five: if you hit an A road, turn back. A roads have no pavements, and cars racing at 70mph towards Inverness pass very close when you venture onto the verge.

Problem six: if you turn back, remember where you came from — so that when you finally meet three mountain bikers with powerful beams, you don’t have to say “I’m not lost, but do we turn left or right to get back to Elgin?”

Night running is genuinely good fun. Just remember where you are, what’s in front of you, and – probably most importantly – what isn’t.

Got up. Had breakfast. Feet up. Race done.

My goal of running the Edinburgh Marathon was derailed in Lille, France, two weeks ago.

I had a throat infection, I thought it was going, but it ballooned with a vengeance when I was in Lille, on holiday. In the morning, I was fine. By evening, I couldn’t swallow anything. Even gulping was a problem. My throat was a golf ball and Rory McIlroy was trying to chip it out of bunker. Every swallow was painful.

By morning I was checking local hospitals and rules for getting treatment abroad. By lunchtime, I was in the A&E department of Lille University hospital. By 2pm I’d been attacked by a scalpel wielding doctor. By 3 pm I was on my second IV drip. By 4pm I was back in the hotel and feeling a lot better. Drugs work. Bladed assaults work. Merci, French healthcare!

Saying that, I was prescribed steroids and antibiotics. When Mrs TwinBikeChild went to the pharmacy, the pharmacist asked her if I was the size of an elephant.

“More like a giraffe with a big nose,” she said.

“In that case, I can’t give him these drugs. If he takes these doses, he won’t sleep for a month. He can have half.”

I think I must be the first person to have had a drug intervention before taking the drugs to become addicted!

Even with the reduced dose, I was still awake for three days, and had enough steroids to star in a Marvel movie. And I had to take them until a few days before the Edinburgh marathon.

With the infection, the emergency room trip and a week long recovery, I wasn’t going to start the marathon just three days later. So, for this year, my report is a simple one: woke up, stayed in Glasgow, feet up.

Ah, the Scottish B&B experience. A warm welcome, a steaming cuppa, and… a packet of Lichfield’s Fruit Shortcake. It’s a culinary enigma, a biscuit that defies definition, a taste that lingers like raisin-tinged depression. You’ll find it nestled beside the half-empty hanky box and the kettle that smells suspiciously of boiled socks.

Let’s be honest, calling it a “fruit shortcake” is a crime against both fruit and cake. It’s more like a collection of fossilised raisins trapped in a dry, crumbly tomb. “Dead fly biscuits,” as they’re affectionately known, seem to be the preferred treat of grannies and funeral attendees. But how, oh how, did this culinary abomination become the ubiquitous offering in Scottish B&Bs?

You might get lucky. A packet of proper shortbread (the real Scottish biscuit royalty) might grace your room. Or perhaps an oat crumble, a fleeting moment of delicious normalcy. But the Lichfield lurks, ever-present, a testament to some unseen force.

Why? Why do B&B owners subject their guests to this? Surely, they’re not blind to the tragedy unfolding with each bite? If we’re going to inflict a badly named biscuit on unsuspecting tourists, can we at least opt for the glorious, buttery perfection that is shortbread?

Now, this blog is notoriously averse to actual research. But, in the spirit of journalistic… well, something, we delved into the depths of the internet to uncover the truth.

It turns out Lichfield’s is a “luxury catering brand” catering to the hospitality sector. They offer everything from “Fair Trade speciality teas” to “award-winning coffee beans” and, of course, those infamous individually wrapped biscuits. They pride themselves on “enhancing the guest experience.” (One can only assume “enhancing” here is a subjective term).

Apparently, in 2009, Lichfield’s expanded its range, adding muffins and flapjacks to their repertoire. They focused on individually wrapped treats designed to complement hot drinks and boost customer spending.

And there, my friends, lies the answer. The packaging.

Yes, the humble packaging. Lichfield’s has mastered the art of individually wrapped, seemingly convenient treats, designed specifically for the hospitality sector. They’ve cornered the market by catering to the practical needs of B&B owners, ensuring a consistent, pre-packaged offering.

It’s about ease, consistency and cost. It’s not about taste.

So, while we may lament the “dead fly biscuit” and yearn for the buttery embrace of proper shortbread, we must acknowledge Lichfield’s strategic brilliance. They’ve conquered the B&B world, one depressingly dry biscuit at a time.

But, let’s be clear: just because they’re everywhere doesn’t mean they’re good. And anyone with a modicum of taste will agree.

Paul Tonkinson’s ‘26.2 Miles to Happiness: A Comedian’s Tale of Running, Red Wine and Redemption’ is an alliteration in search of a story. 

Running, Red Wine and Redemption may all start with an ‘R’ and read well together as a tagline for a book but the book itself is not about red wine or redemption. It’s about running. And as a book about running it does a good job of explaining why the comedian Paul Tonkinson loves running marathons. But it’s not a tale of redemption. He sets out to run a sub-3 hour marathon, he writes about running a sub-3 hour marathon. There is no redemption, unless the redemption is the time he tried to do it and narrowly missed out. But that’s not redemption, it’s just a second attempt. He was just trying again. 

As for the red wine. He mentions having a drink at Christmas and that he likes a nice bottle of wine but for the attempt at a sub 3 hour marathon he decided not to drink. He also decides not to eat biscuits but the book doesn’t mention that in its alliterative title because ‘B’ doesn’t fit in with his ‘R’s’ theme.

Anyways, the book is pretty good, an interesting and quick read about the dedication required to run faster and Paul Tonkinson does a good job in sharing his enthusiasm for running. 

But it’s not a book about redemption and it’s not a book about red wine.

‘

I’ve never watched a game of rugby. Nor have I seen senior naked netball. I don’t need to see either to know it’s not for me. I can use my imagination and my imagination says “no!”.

So, for 48 years I’ve not watched a game of rugby. Or read about it. Or thought about it. I don’t know the rules, I can’t name a player, I don’t even know it’s on, when it’s on unless I’m in Edinburgh and there’s a thousand fans on the train trying to get through. Rugby has passed me by, until now.

Last month I received an invite for corporate hospitality at Murrayfield to watch Scotland v England in the Six Nations (a competition involving six nations, aptly named) and the Calcutta Cup (a competition involving two nations, neither Indian, and not well named at all).

I said “yes” as I thought that maybe this would be my chance to find out why so many people enjoyed watching rugby by watching one of the oldest battles of them all, England humping Scotland.

Except, it turns out that Scotland have been more successful in recent years and, unlike football, they were regularly beating the English at Murrayfield.

“But not Italy” said Mrs TwinBikeRun, checking Google, “Scotland has just lost to them in Italy. You can maybe mention that to show you know something about rugby?”

So, armed with the knowledge that Scotland had just lost to Italy, but having forgotten to check the score, I set off on Saturday for my first trip to Murrayfield and:

Getting there

There’s usually a big queue at Queen Street station to get the train to Edinburgh, Instead, I jumped on the train at Central and went the long 90 minute trip through Lanarkshire to get to Edinburgh instead. Ha, take that everyone queuing for the 47 minute train. I didn’t queue and spent twice as long getting there to avoid the queue.

Yes, I know there’s a train every 15 minutes at Queen Street. And, yes, I know it was very unlikely I would have to queue more than 45 minutes and for three trains to leave before I could sit down. But I beat the queue by walking straight onto a train! A train that takes twice as long, admittedly. But I didn’t have to queue, so who’s the winner? Me!

Having got to Edinburgh, it’s only a short walk to Haymarket before a trip round Murrayfield and the first problem. Murrayfield has several entrances and, depending on which one, you should change your approach to the stadium as otherwise it’s a long, long loop around the ground to get in. I went to the wrong one so I got to race Phileas Fogg around the world to get to the other side of the stadium. Check where you are going before you go.

In the stadium

Finding my seat was straightforward but I was surprised to be in front of several fans with England tops. Was I in the wrong place? Should I start sining God Save The King to fit in? No. It turns out that all fans sit beside each other. There’s no ‘away end’ for the other fans. Which was fun, when Scotland went into an early lead, and I could hear the despair behind me. It did mean there was a lack of atmosphere as the English fans never sang together as they were all spread out.

During the game

I had no idea what was going on. Luckily the person who invited me was happy to answer all my daft questions: “Who’s that? What’s happening? Why did they stop? Why did he kick the ball out? Are we the team in blue?”

Rugby was a far more tactical sport than I expect with possession and control being more important than individual skill. Without the explanations I would have been lost as to why one team was better than the other and who had the advantage at any one time.

After the game

We won. But the atmosphere, at least to me, never seemed to rise beyond polite applause and a couple of renditions of Flower of Scotland at a volume which can only be described as ‘polite Morningside’ and ‘don’t wake the neighbours’.

There was no swearing. No hate. No casting aspersions about the opposition’s parentage, religion or affiliation with the right honourable company of freemasons. It was dull (but family friendly unless you’re family is friendly with a west coast bigot).

Overall

It was… alright… ish. I enjoyed the game, could see why others enjoyed it, but, like naked netball, it was not for me.