On Day Three my feet wouldn't go into my boots. The back of the skin had come off my heels, and despite my plasters, bandages and two pairs of socks I couldn't get my feet to go in without being in ridiculous pain.

So I put my trainers on. My old, battered Vans trainers that had seen better days and had almost no grip on the soles - perfect choice for cross country travel.

The mornings were the worst for me. Karim would wake up before me, shout at me for a while, and then stick a cigarette in my mouth and light it. This final action would finally get me to move, at least as far as the opening to the tent to remove my ash. In my defence though, he snored.

Karim would start to snore within three seconds of falling asleep. And it wasn't just your common garden snoring either. Not just someone breathing loudly in his sleep. This was snoring at competition level. At one point the tent started to vibrate. It had never been this bad when we were in Europe. He told me that if he started to snore, all I had to do was kick him and he'd stop. And he was right, sort of.

Karim: Zzzzzzzzzzzz

Me: f***ing wake up.

Karim: What?

Me: You were snoring.

Karim: Was I?

Me: Yes.

Karim: Sorry.

Me: Just shut up.

Karim: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

And that was how it went. The only way I could stop him from snoring was to stay awake the entire night kicking him. It just wasn't practical.