Final day - Hargrave, Chester to Liverpool: At the time of writing this, I'm sat with Adam on a wall outside Woodside ferry terminal soaked in sweat and shivering like a dog tied to a lamppost on a freezing January morning - but I'm ecstatic. Liverpool's majestic three graces stand proud a mile away on the other side of the Mersey and in a little while we'll be over there, where our exhausting journey will meet its end. Today's 21.2-mile home leg was never going to be a problem. I didn't bother wearing any shin or knee supports and hardly stopped for a break all the way through to Birkenhead. The Wirral was teeming with mods on ridiculous scooters. One stopped me, I presumed, to ask what I was doing and to wish me luck. But I was mistaken; he asked me where he could get petrol! Unbelievable. I've worn a face like death for a week, I'm kitted-out in a MacMillan vest, I'm blowing bubbles and I'm accompanied by a support cyclist, and he still thinks I'm the man to ask. Get over Quadrophenia.
I'd like to tell you that the last few miles to the banks of the Mersey were the most enjoyable I've ever jogged, but they still hurt. The money raised has made the pain and fatigue of the journey more than worthwhile though. Thanks to everybody who has supported our efforts. The incredible sponsorship over the duration of the run spurred me on when I was flagging - particularly the generous and humorous Fiver readers. A special thanks must go to Adam, without whom, the whole run would have been impossible (I'll buy the first round tonight). Thanks too, to my mum, who inspired me to support MacMillan.
Worst road: The A5. Too hard, too straight. Knocked inches off my height
Best grass verge: Watling St, Milton Keynes. The spongiest grass you could ever hope to run on
Worst hill: The A51 out of Stone. Steeper than the price of a pint in London
Day 11 - Weston, Cheshire to Hargrave, Chester: I once read a one-off cartoon in Roy of the Rovers about a misfiring striker who was playing so badly he felt like he had lead in his boots. It turned out he did. His manager (a typically fiery Scot with a name like Jock McTartan) had secretly tampered with his boots to weigh him down in the league matches prior to the forthcoming cup final. On the eve of the match he took them out, and in the final, the striker felt so fleet-footed he scored a stunning hat-trick and single-handedly won the cup. This is exactly how I felt in today's 21.7-mile leg, after discarding my restrictive knee-supports and legging it up the A500 and A51 as if fleeing from a forest fire. I was sure Adam had laced my drink with banned substances, such was the euphoric feeling of a million endorphins rushing through my bloodstream. Rows upon rows of cars and caravans were backed up as they attempted to make an early dart to north Wales for the weekend, and I outpaced the lot for at least 10 miles. Thanks to the stranded motorist who pushed a fiver into my hand as I hopped past the hedgerows near the A500/A51 roundabout, it made me feel like I was on show, and if anything, I ran faster. It might be that I jumped the gun in putting so much into today's penultimate leg before tomorrow's big push to Liverpool, but to be honest, I don't care about the pain in my knees, my tight muscles or the 101 other ailments. I'll get through tomorrow no matter the consequences. We're due to finish at the Liver Building at about 2pm and I'll be in the Pumphouse supping a pint soon after. If you're in the area, feel free to join us.
Day 10 - Stone, Staffordshire to Weston, Cheshire: The days started to melt into one another some time ago. They all start the same way: a 7am alarm call, a couple of groans; the expulsion of gas; and then the horrid realisation that the surroundings are not the comforts of home, but a hotel room some 20 miles from another hotel room. Interestingly, we've re-discovered a primitive means of communication. Today's preparations went thus: "Grnnngh," says I. Adam throws me the grease to smother over any part of my body that may rub until it bleeds. "Harrrunghhh," says he. I send the deodorant hurtling his way. Not till a few miles into a leg do we rediscover how to formulate an instructive sentence, and even then, we're usually so involved in our iPods we don't hear it.
Today's 19-mile grind out of Stone through the verdant countryside of north Staffordshire began with the biggest hill we've yet had to tackle. "One more of these and my hamstrings are gonna' burst out the back of my shorts," said Adam, through a grimace that could make a paramedic wince. To his utter dismay there were at least another four hills of similar size back-to-back. I had to walk down these such was the pain emanating from a nobbly piece of bone that's growing at an alarming rate below my left knee. This would later bring my running to a hiatus just before the village of Betley.
The scenery provided a soothing contrast to the physical torture the terrain was dishing out. A gentle breeze carried us through bright yellow fields of rapeseed, woods abundant with bluebells and a dozen idyllic villages who, between them, appear to have a stranglehold on the Britain in Bloom title. The only sour note, was the number of badgers that appeared to have been cruelly shovelled to death in the hedgerows. Oh, and Adam suffered a third puncture in three days a mile from the B&B. I've iced my knee and I reckon I'm good to go tomorrow - 180 miles down, 40 to go. I can almost smell the Mersey.
Day nine - Wolverhampton to Stone, Staffordshire: Everything hurts! Today's 23.2-mile leg-shrinker almost broke me. To start with, spring called in sick in the West Midlands; winter saturated the air as we made a brisk exit (apart from a toilet stop in a bush on the A449) via the tidy suburbs north of the city. This wasn't a problem to begin with, but after 15 miles tramping it up the same non-descript road towards Stafford, I'd leaked more saltwater than Gazza in the 1990 World Cup semi; and I was freezing. This forced me to move my failing legs faster in order to generate any warmth, even though a tightening of the tendons behind my right knee, an aching left foot and a curious lump below my left knee were telling me to do anything but.
My spirits were momentarily lifted as we crossed the M6 slip-road, where a passing driver by the name of Ian Roberts made a U-turn that Starsky and Hutch would have been proud of to cut us off and thrust a tenner into the kitty. It was just the lift I needed and I hope your dad gets better mate. By the time we hit Stafford we'd already cleared 16 miles but my legs felt they'd done twice that. What a time for Adam to suffer his second puncture in two days. Another enforced 15-minute break brought on the shivers again and there was still eight miles to the hotel. Eight miles that will live long in the memory for the pain and anguish that creased my face as Stone seemed to get no nearer.
The hotel finally appeared unexpectedly around the corner - a better feeling I doubt I'll experience, barring a Fernando Torres winner tonight. I'd tell you what Staffordshire's like if I could, but my sole experience of it was restricted to hedgerows peppered with empty packets of Ginsters sarnies - and pain. Thanks to Mike Hewitt at the Stone House Hotel for the complimentary night's stay.
Day eight - Birmingham to Wolverhampton: We needn't have bothered following the map to get from A to B today - we could have sniffed our way to Wolverhampton. The Black Country mightn't have the industry of days gone by, but it still emits one hell of a whiff. Today's 14-mile trek was the shortest of the 11 running days, and given the built-up nature of the West Midlands, it was always likely to be the least aesthetically pleasing. The spice warehouses of Smethwick pleasantly drifted up my nostrils as I fought my way through the brambles at the side of the A41, but that was to be the last pleasant nasal sensation of the day.
The acrid burning of plastic in Wednesbury presented a full-on assault of my senses. "Smells like burnt pan-handles round here," said Adam, through contorted features that suggested he wanted to vomit. And the stink only grew stronger and more varied as we passed through. Custard creams, candyfloss and odious farts we agreed, were among the many smells drifting through the Black Country air. A miserable day for my nose was complete when I stepped in a pot-hole while my index finger was lodged right up there, prompting it to shoot up my nostril further than any finger ever should. I stemmed the blood-flow eventually.
Adam suffered his first puncture today too, in Bilston, three miles outside Wolverhampton city centre. We managed to block the pathway and draw the derision of a blue-rinse pensioner who had to take a detour thanks to our cack-handed attempt at changing the inner-tube. Job done, we arrived in Wolverhampton in good shape - which is all very well, as we've got a near-marathon up to the north-west tomorrow.
Day seven - rest day, Birmingham: "Let's go the gym and do a few miles eh?" pipes up Adam, to my bleary-eyed bemusement as I drag my carcass out of bed. I laugh, but he's not joking. "We might seize up if we don't do a bit," he carries on, while I inspect my left knee for signs of deformity. Don't get me wrong, I've been worried that today's break may result in a spot of muscular mutiny, but the thought of hitting a treadmill was as appealing as a re-heated kebab the morning after an indie disco.
I agree to a session in the sauna and jacuzzi and perhaps a light massage, but anything more strenuous, I reason, would be unnecessary self-flagellation. So, at 11.30am I'm half-naked undergoing the rhythmic action of a Swedish leg massage, but my muscles are having none of it. Ashley, who is doing a damn fine job given the state of my legs, is having about as much luck in penetrating my calves as a toothless spinster chewing an aniseed ball. It's like having two oversized walnuts strapped to the back of my legs. The good news is that for the first time in a week, I'm pain-free. I almost nod off for a minute, such is the bliss of being anywhere but an A road. I recapture my competitive spirit in the sauna by attempting to out-sweat a muscular skinhead, but he's bloody good. Twelve minutes I manage, before a head-rush sends me bolting for the door. And a quick check on the scales reveals I've leaked a stone in weight since leaving Hackney.
I emerge from the gym with a strange urge to be on the move - maybe Adam was right. Wolverhampton awaits tomorrow; it's the shortest leg, and hopefully the least painful. Thanks to Eamon Caughey at Bannatyne's gym for the free admission.
Day six - Coventry to Birmingham: Coventry didn't want us to eat last night, so we were accompanied by a rumble in our stomachs as we left our humble guest house overlooking the city's nine-lane ring road this morning. I've never known a big city with so few restaurants. The three we found turned us away, despite being half empty. I can only presume our weather-beaten look and unfamiliar accents were a turn-off. Today's 20.4-mile jaunt into the west midlands took us into the barren no-man's-land straddling west Coventry and south-east Birmingham. My pace was probably the slowest since I set off six days ago. My left knee can only hack so much pavement-pounding before it sends a piercing pain spiraling up my leg. In fact, so hampered by this was I at one point, that a girl no older than 13 bounded past me on her daily morning jog. I'm sure she smirked at me. The rest of my journey was spent popping painkillers and counting the cans of Special Brew that a farmer had flung from his tractor in the wilds between the two cities. I can only imagine he gets drunk and blasts the furry behinds of anything with four legs near his farmhouse, as the road was littered with death.
I doubt the second city has ever looked as beautiful to another's eyes as it did to mine as I climbed up past the airport and then down the grass on the central reservation of the A45 through Sheldon and Small Heath where a better collection of shop names you'll struggle to find. 'This is Wheelmania', 'Absolutely Ace' and 'Bass Junkies' stood within a few feet of one another. The only real drama we had was the shock at finding a wrecking -ball demolishing our hotel when we arrived in Birmingham. It's being made smaller and plusher apparently - and they're still open. Well, my feet look Dickensian and my legs are about to file for divorce - Adam's not in the best shape either - but we've got a rest day tomorrow and couldn't be happier. Thanks to the wonderful Crowne Plaza hotel in Birmingham city centre for the complimentary two nights' stay.
Day five, Daventry to Coventry: I could have done with jump-starting my serotonin this morning, such was my misery at realising that another 20 miles was about to shudder its ways up my shins, into my knees and finally out through a grimace on my sunburnt chops. Adam wasn't exuding the happy juice either. A combination of Warrington Wolves' defeat to St Helens (a losing streak that's lasted 13 years) and a pain in his buttocks that only a Folsom Prison inmate could understand, had seen to that. In fact, he greeted his seat like it had just stolen his last strawberry popsicle. When the chips are down though, Adam's ability to innovate has been startling. Not content with employing toilet rolls as shock-absorbers under the straps on his rucksack back in Eaton Bray, today he took the load off his battered cheeks by encasing his seat in about four layers of bubble wrap to give himself the most comfortable ride of the 100 miles we've covered.
As for today's leg, the weather was great and the scenery, if not the pavement which adorned the first 10 miles along the A45, was a delight. The village of Dunchurch was so quaint it made the fictional village of Midsomer look dystopian. My gerdy's tubercle (google it!) in my left knee was a bit moody mind, so I was grateful that the final nine miles into Coventry was spent in the dirty loveliness of the same road's hard shoulder. If anything, I ran the second half of the leg faster than at any stage of The Big Run to date. Part of it has to do with my muscles' acceptance of their daily flogging, as they no longer ache with the spiteful indignance of my joints. In fact, I'm already supping a cold lager in a pub called The Squirrel, and oh, Liverpool reserves have just equalised - there's that missing serotonin!
Day four - Stony Stratford to Daventry, Northamptonshire: When the Romans weren't busy razing a village or slaughtering an army or two, they liked nothing better than to build a damn straight road. Which is all very well if you want to avoid an ambush between Towcester and Weedon, but if, like me, you're a charity jogger with shooting pains in his shins, shortening legs and a broken big toe of five years, 15 miles of concrete on the A5 is about as welcome as Tom Hicks Jr in the Sandon pub. Not only was today's 20.1-mile route physically gruelling, but it was also about as exciting as an episode of Dawson's Creek. Two things stood out: a diner called Super Sausage (whose sign was adorned by a Lycra-clad flying sausage) near Potterspury; and the fun-sized town of Towcester, in which I felt like Gulliver striding through Lilliput. The doorways were tiny, as were the residents. It does have a racecourse, so perhaps the village is designed to boost the jockeys' egos. Another day gone done and I'm still alive. I've also crossed from the south of England into the midlands, which finally feels like progress. A message for Mouth and Bornblue: don't you think I've suffered enough already? Correspondent: The furthest Barry's ever run is the chippy and back - don't hold your breath.
Day three - Eaton Bray to Stony Stratford, Buckinghamshire: 'Nobody said it was easy,' crooned Coldplay's Chris Martin in a song so wet it dripped to No1. But it sums up perfectly my thoughts after today's 22.2-mile slog. Day three was pain. I awoke to discover my legs had lost their ability to bend. In fact, for the first two miles (in which our strangeness attracted the attention of the Eaton Bray village police), I was running like I'd had a rear-end trouser accident. And to add to the misery, we were pelted by a wrathful rain. What would Dirk Kuyt do? I asked myself. Silly question really. He'd put in a shift - and that's exactly what we did for a good 16 miles over the blissfully quiet undulating hills of Buckinghamshire.
We've got contrasting feelings towards hills. Adam, who is laden with a backpack heavier than John Arne Riise's heart, hates climbing them, whereas I hate descending them, as it exacerbates my ever more painful knee-knack. "It's just like Warrington," enthused Adam as we entered the maze of roundabouts on the outskirts of Milton Keynes. There were also no pavements, which suited me just fine, as I've discovered that a jogger's best friend is a grass verge. So, hats off to the 1960s Milton Keynes town planners who chose not to build pavements, as the soft grass that hugs the roads feels like I'm running on clouds. Four miles short of Stony Stratford (the jewel in Milton Keynes' crown, according to its sign) we were battered by hail, so we ducked into a chain pub and grabbed a burger each. I thought this might have been a mistake and I wouldn't be able to run a yard further, but if anything, it gave me the strength to hobble the final stretch.
Oh, and to the five lads in the Fiesta on Watling Street in Milton Keynes who sped past us at about 70 mph sounding their horn and giving us the Vs - that was hilarious! Thanks to Adam at The Cock Hotel for the complimentary night's stay. Thanks also, to the Fiver readers, whose response has been as amusing as it has been overwhelming.
Day two - Watford to Eaton Bray, Bedfordshire: Running through the rain up the narrow, road kill-strewn hard shoulder of the A41 from Watford to Hemel Hempstead was hardly what I had in mind when I first planned this route months ago. That's the problem with maps see - they don't tell you that there are no pavements. The only advantage to this madness was that it provoked a fear so great that I forgot about the throbbing sensation in my knees that had developed through the first few miles. I'm not sure pedestrians and cyclists are even allowed on the road, but with the alternative being an energy-sapping 10-mile detour I was happy to duck the wing-mirrors, hop the pot-holes, weave around the dead foxes and emerge unscathed. I can't think of much to say about Hemel other than it had five mini-roundabouts joined together and a concrete labyrinth of subways to negotiate, which I managed to get lost within.
The nine miles from Hemel to Eaton Bray were notable for two things: the village of Great Gaddesden (about four cottages and a pub) is loving St George's Day; and a kid near Dagnall hung out of his car window and shouted one of two things at me: 'rancid' or 'run Sid'. I'd quite like to think that I resemble some heroic Bedfordshire long-distance runner called Sid, but I imagine that my sweaty, dishevelled appearance after 20 miles of plodding through the rain had made me look and smell like a sewer rat. Ah well, tomorrow's a new day.
Thanks to Rachael at the delightfully tranquil Bellows Mill for the complimentary night's stay and fresh bread.
Afternoon of day one: I'm sat on the hotel bed staring at a blister the size of Iceland that's developed under the little toe on my left foot; my knees are less flexible than a credit crunch-hit mortgage-lender; I'm shorter than I was at 10 o'clock this morning - and this is only day one.
If this run represented a mountain, I'd have probably just about made it out of the camper's car park. The run itself was pretty enjoyable once I'd coughed and spluttered my way past the parade of fume-happy buses and white vans on Holloway Road and tackled the steady climb up to Archway and then into suburban Finchley. But why do people who give out free newspapers, menus or phone-cards think that a sweaty jogger's going to be interested? I found myself having to impersonate a Cristiano Ronaldo feint to avoid them. There were no directional dramas, thanks to Adam's pizza delivery boy stick-on clipboard, but to be honest, only two roads lead to Watford from London, and if we couldn't choose the right one, we'd need lobotomising, as the other's the M1.
I'd just like to thank the anonymous people outside Hackney Town Hall who donated almost £30 between them as we prepared to set off, it was unexpected and greatly appreciated. Also, thanks to the Ramada Jarvis hotel in Watford for the complimentary night's stay. Right, I'm off to watch Liverpool v Chelsea - and I'll be wearing something red.
Morning of day one: So it's here at last. The months of training came to an abrupt end last week when my right knee made an indignant clunking sound, prompting the realisation that rest may also be good preparation. All that stands in my way now is 223 miles of Britain between Hackney and Liverpool. Think of it as a poor man's Long Way Round with more sweat, fewer Russians and even fewer Charley Boormans. I have got a bike-riding sidekick mind - his name's Adam Yates. He works in a Warrington call centre, so he's arguably more famous than Charley Boorman.
Pre-run thoughts: I recently made the huge error of reading an article in G2 about marathons which included a knee-knockingly nuclear nugget of information: the average marathon runner exerts three times their own bodyweight on their joints with each of the 40,000 steps they take. The result of which is the loss of 2cm in height! Now by my reckoning, standing barely 5ft 8 1/2in tall (on a good day), my 223-mile jaunt to Liverpool will burden my knees with 13.5 million stones of weight and, if the 2cm rule was applied across my 11 days of running, shorten my stature to a jockey-like 5ft 2in. If this run wasn't for such a damn good cause, I might have given the logistics a little more thought when I drunkenly dreamed it up in a Hackney restaurant in December. Ah well, I can always get a well-paid job on the gee-gees.
For the record: I have never been a serious runner, just a six-miles-a-couple-of-nights-a-week kinda' guy. The furthest I've ever run is 20 miles, during my preparation for this run, which has hardly been routine; for eight weeks through January and February I was banished to the gym while I recovered from shin splints (a nasty swelling of the tendons below the shin bones - health ed). And by mid-April, after I'd stepped up my pavement-plodding to around three 17-mile runs per week, my joints felt as rusty as Harry Kewell on one of his many failed Liverpool comebacks.
You can follow each day's progress on this page and offer me your running tips, local wisdom, snide remarks, encouragement and sponsorship too. To view the full schedule, or to sponsor me, click here.
