I keep walking evenly, as calmly as I can, trying not to distract the rhino’s attention at this moment of maximum peril, as it sets out upon its annual trek.

Behind me, I can hear the approaching patter of many more feet upon the ground, growing inexorably nearer with every second. The veneer of calm I’ve been carrying since before the break of dawn seems false and fragile now, as the adrenaline rises in my throat.

The months and weeks of single-minded preparation, the hours of planning and even this familiar landscape offer little comfort as I stand in trepidation at the beginning of the journey. Almost in a moment, the chasers are on my heels.

And yet, I keep on walking. It’s a vow I made long years ago, for here and now one rash move can destroy it all. No matter the temptation, I will not run a single step until I really have to.

A moment later, the wave of pursuers breaks over me. The rhino is trotting frantically not far ahead as a hundred fleet-footed gazelles and antelopes bound by. I furl my brow in resignation and don my cap. Then I check my laces, hitch my socks and straighten my green shirt before the pain begins.

A bright flash of sun glints closer as I take what must surely be my final walking strides. The sight that greets me next stretches all due reason. The beast is in full flight ahead, huge head lolling wildly as he sets his eyes on other prey. Two figures clad all in shining white are streaking past with that wicked horn bobbing menacingly just a single pace behind.

I allow myself a smile and take one last step across the fateful line of hope and fear. Right before my eyes, the rhino is chasing two Star Wars Imperial troopers in full battle dress, all along the road. I click my watch, and hit the tarmac running.

My 2012 London Marathon has started, and anything could happen now.

2: Patience
The empty road is filling up, and quickly. A stream of impatient, hyped-up runners is haring swiftly past me, burning excitement fast behind their heels.

I breathe gently, and ease into a cruising gear, as softly as I can. Twenty-six more miles lie up ahead, and the start line of a marathon is no time or place for hubris. You’d think it was all about endurance, but here in the Greenwich early morning, patience is really what this takes.

Long running months lie behind me. A winter of Sundays slogging south along the River Wey. Weeks of rainy Woking afternoons and chilly dusks in Aberdeen with April on my mind.

Driving to work this week I ticked off the different ways to reach the office, and found I’d run them all.

The milestone at Stoke Park where the Olympic torch will come this July defines the distance perfectly: Guildford is 26 miles from London. How could I run so far? And even as I pass the rhino, the answer’s not that clear. Just start running, and hope for the best? As plans go, it’s less fully formed than some.

At three miles I overtake two runners over ten feet tall. Charley and George Phillips have devoted their marathon to Macmillan Cancer Support – just like me – except that they’re on stilts and will break the world record today. I wish them well, and continue on my way.

The road winds north to Charlton, past hordes of high-fiving kids and raucous pubs blasting out live music. The field trots faster down the hill, and now I run with it, keen to use the slope.

By the time we cross into the Western Hemisphere around 6 miles, we’re at a steady pace. My watch is reading 10 minute miles – not slow enough, I think, but thankfully not too fast.

A family is waving from the deck of Cutty Sark – I’m not sure how they got there, since the restored tea clipper won’t reopen for another week. We loop around onto Greenwich High Street where the spectators are loudest yet and tightly packed, ten deep at the roadside.

I pass a girl whirling a hula hoop around her waist (Sasha Kenney is en route to another new world record in the making), and a bloke dribbling a hockey ball all the way.

The road is packed and there’s scarcely room to choose my pace. But our progress is consistent and a little faster than I’d hoped. That’s good.

Seven miles, eight and nine skip by in ten minutes each from Deptford into Rotherhithe. I pull a snack from my pocket and somehow force it down. By Bermondsey we’re twelve miles in and running almost effortlessly. Huge enthusiastic throngs line the streets here, but they’re really just the warm-up act for the roar which greets us round the corner.

Beneath the turrets and atop the deck of Tower Bridge, I look around and try to take it in. The wildly clapping crowds, the City skyline across the river, the Tower of London up ahead. I’d like to store this moment, but the exertion and sheer elation make a heady mix and it’s all a blur of stills.

As we turn east along The Highway, the best club athletes are rushing by the other way. Thin men in singlets with long limbs and lean, demented looks lent by two fast hours of running. They’ve only four miles left against fourteen more for me, yet I wouldn’t trade places for a moment.

At 13 miles, I wave to a friend in pack of charity supporters across the road. The halfway mark goes by at 2 hours 11 as we pass a Macmillan cheering point. I roar my green shirt past as someone with an SLR catches my huge thumbs up and smile.

Narrow Street in Limehouse is aptly named, and from there a tunnel takes us onto Westferry Road. The stream of runners slows down just a step as the spectators push close on either side. Perhaps it’s like riding the Tour de France must feel, with a different kind of devil on your tail.

Through 15, 16 miles more walkers appear, a few now staggering across the street. It’s tempting, always, to weave and dodge the slower traffic, but it takes a lot of effort. Instead I stay with the stream and take the gaps that open. Patience, I remind myself. There’s still two hours to run.

3: Thin blue line
At Island Gardens, I pass a bottle of Hook Norton ale, loping at a guzzling pace. The thought of beer right now is not as appealing as you’d think. But it’s a welcome distraction from darker thoughts. Last time out in 2006 I fell apart at Mudchute station, with 9 miles of misery to follow.

I hang my arms to relax a while and run a systems check. After nearly three hours of running, I’m not all that fresh. My legs may not be heavy yet, but they’re stiffening up a bit.

Two eleven minute miles bring us to South Quay. 18 in 3:05, plus 8 x 11 up ahead makes … I’ve simply no idea. I forget the maths, and as I watch the Docklands trains sail by overhead I realise my mind is drifting.

I need to refuel, and so I choke on a final slab of flapjack – the last chunk of food I’m carrying. My last few winegums need wait no longer, and at the next drinks station I grab an energy drink. Then I throw a splash of water across my face and half a litre on my head.

I’m feeling brighter, if more bedraggled now, as we run towards Canary Wharf. The crowds are massive and more vocal than anywhere so far. The noise has been loud all day, but here it’s a wall of yells and screams. My name is on my Macmillan shirt, and I’m encouraged all the way.

The support makes such a difference. I can feel emotions rising as excitement filters into tired feet.

We’re on wider roads now, and for the first time I glimpse the three blue stripes painted on the blacktop, marking out the shortest path towards the finish. As I rush along the racing line into Canada Square, the pain ahead recedes. I’m passing slower runners and an unexpected notion appears inside my mind. I’m feeling pretty good.

4: Revival
Past Canary Wharf Tower we run. Rolling down the ramp on Trafalgar Way, I relax my legs for ten precious seconds. There are huge arches of balloons above the road at every mile and through the 19^th, we turn left onto Poplar High Street. The geography is simplified from here. We’ve been looping round all day, but now ‘just’ seven straight westward miles will take us to The Mall.

The blue sky of this morning is partly cloudy now and the atmosphere feels thick enough to touch. The road narrows again, and I have to skip a kerb. I run the right side of the road beside a clapping, laughing crowd, soaking up their energy and waving when I hear my name. The introvert within me is quietly appalled when I take off my hat and whirl it round.

I’m just experimenting with the first unlikely (ahem) fist pumps, when I catch up with an old friend.

Meeting amongst 37,000 runners is a miracle of sorts. James says he’s struggling. I confess that my legs are stiff, but otherwise I’m fine. We match our pace for a kilometre or two. Should I bring him home, or run on alone again?

He’s puffing heavily – understandably, at this stage – but sticking to the task. I offer some encouragement as I reach over to shake hands and smile. Then I pull away and don’t look back. At twenty-one miles, patience has had its day now. I commit to this entirely, and push the pedal down. In fact I’m only holding pace, but here and now it feels like a huge acceleration.

5: Time’s arrow
Fifty minutes are longer than they sound. Several times, I think I’ve gone too soon, but the Tower of London rushes by and enthusiastic crowds on Thames Street do their best to drench my doubts. Perhaps I can really get this done.

The Blackfriars Underpass is a dark and lonely place for demoralised runners to recast their legs unseen. I push the pace, and gasp harder through the tunnel.

Then we climb onto The Embankment at last, my favourite stretch of all. A breathless mile sees me showboating past the final Macmillan supporter point with two kilometres to go.

The road curves round as the London Eye swings alongside and suddenly I’m determined to close the deal with no more messing. I try to gather all that’s left and leave nothing on the road. My lungs are heaving now, but there’s still some strength within my legs.

Turning right at Big Ben, I read the giant clock. 4:24 to here. Six minutes more, with a kilometre and change to run. I hear an enormous shout behind me in Great George Square. It’s Emma and Olivia, although I don’t see their faces.

Birdcage Walk sweeps slowly past, and I need to sprint The Mall. But my concentration fails me as the finish clock ticks on.

At first I think I’ve missed it, then my watch finds a fraction left to spare. The last mile is my second fastest of the day, slower only than my first. I’ve run every single step today, in 4:29 all told.

I wait for James at the finish, and then we stagger off our different ways. I find Emma and Olivia for a hug and another picture with that medal.

6: Reward
We’re walking on Whitehall when someone pulls my bright green shirt into the Foreign and Commonwealth Institute and a Macmillan party now underway.

Two commissionaires in blazers are standing at the door. They look up and smile a welcome, and then burst into applause.

I almost cry at that, and then inside we find cheerleaders going crazy, sandwiches, hot tea and a massage for my legs.

As I limp into the hall, an organiser comes to greet me. ‘We’re so glad you ran for Macmillan Cancer Support,’ she smiles. ‘We really do appreciate it.’

882 of us are running for Macmillan today. Together, we’ll raise £1.4 mm. Runners in this race collected £50 mm for charity last year, while my run today has raised £10,500.

I sit down on the hard stone steps as fatigue begins to hit me, and I realise that’s £400 a mile. London runs an amazing marathon, and it’s worth every single step.

Related articles:
116. London is Olympic – The London Marathon
36. The Embankment, inspiration and reality
51. London Calling
238. Guildford is Olympic – torch relay 2012
43. A sense of time – Earth history and the London Marathon
4. GO British ! Chicago Marathon 2002

You can help Macmillan via running, cycling, and fun events all year round. This 30 second clip gives a great feeling of exactly what that’s like:

Travelling home with the bike on the car roof was a comfortable way to rest weary legs after the London to Brighton Bike Ride. And then, somewhere along the bleak A23 south of Crawley, I saw them.

Lone cylists, still carrying their London to Brighton numbers, pedalling along the bleak dual carriageway and working their way through the late afternoon across Sussex. Heading north and back to London.

The idea was born — to complete the 54 miles of the London to Brighton Bike Ride, and then glide (or limp) home to Guildford afterwards. That would make a long day’s ride of perhaps 100 miles in all.

And the last four years, I’ve done that — although on different routes each time.

2008: Brighton to Guildford via the Downs Link cycle track.
This route follows the disused railway line from Shoreham-by-Sea to Guildford. The good news is that it’s largely flat, with just one steep and tricky incline at Baynards, near Cranleigh, where the Downs Link runs across the hill above a tunnel.

The bad news is that the track is gravel, and rough and uneven in parts. After 40 miles of constant vibration, my hands were suffering pneumatic drill white finger. Rejoining the A281 at Shalford for the last two miles was a huge relief.

2009: Brighton to Guildford via Partridge Green and Cowfold.
The next year I took to the roads, for a slightly longer and hillier but much smoother journey.

My Google Maps for Mobile navigation wasn’t quite up to the task — offering several adventures.

Not least of these were an encounter with 70 mph trucks on the killer A24 dual carriageway, an unmapped mountain range near Barns Green south of Horsham and a diversion along a farm track and fields to reach the serenity of Slinfold.

2010: Brighton to Guildford via Partridge Green and Horsham.
An improved road itinerary, heading north from Partridge Green to reach the A281 east of Horsham.

A better route, although a snapped gear cable on the steep climb through Maplehurst needed repairs and emergency chocolate was demanded for the final stretch on the Horsham-Guildford road. A dozen miles of monotonous undulations to the west of Roman Gate played havoc with morale and tired legs.

2011: Brighton to Guildford via Partridge Green, Ashington, Alfold.
Fourth time out, I found the perfect route — via a safe crossing beneath the A24 at Ashington, on to quiet roads leading to the south of Billingshurst, past the Limeburners’ Inn and the Onslow Arms at Loxwood, to reach the A281 at Alfold.

Here at last was a pretty and blissfully quiet way back to Guildford. The only downside was the lack of anywhere en route to pick up supplies between Shoreham and the petrol station at Bramley.

A two mile detour north to find the sleepy town of Billingshurst found it … sleepy. The whole place is closed on Sunday afternoons, defining the central 30 mile section as a thirsty ride indeed.

This is the best and fastest cycle route from Brighton to Guildford, but I’ll tackle it with much more chocolate and orange drink on board, next time.

Related articles:
228. Twin peaks in the Surrey Hills – two classic cycle climbs to Winterfold Heath
223. Cycling on Surrey and Sussex hills – from White Down to Ditchling Beacon
153. The green monster – Ditchling Beacon and the London to Brighton bike ride
225. Running on Roman Road 2 – from Stane Street to Guildford
149. In at the deep end – Stratford 220 Sprint Triathlon
155. Le grand départ – the Tour de France in London 2007
113. The Pilgrim’s Progress – Surrey Hills 2

One day in November 2011. Two views of the City of London.

1) St Paul’s Cathedral, from the top floor of a major European bank;

2) The Occupy London protest. Down to Earth, in St Paul’s Churchyard.

Truly, we live in interesting, fascinating times. When distance and detail each yields its own perspective.

Related articles:
213. The price of risk – a City of London view
193. Through the Gherkin’s glass darkly – nightfall and fear in the City of London
36. The Embankment, inspiration and reality
85. A homage to London’s Gherkin
95. Going underground – the 7/7 attacks on London

But this narrow street hides a wider view. Because just across the road stands one of the great ancient cathedrals of Christendom. The Agia Sofia spans the history of the Holy Roman Empire.

The first church here was founded in 360 AD whilst the present structure dates back to 532 AD — and for almost a thousand years formed the largest cathedral in the world.

Contrasts run through this city, at every level. We landed here in Asia, but we’re staying in Europe.

Last week, this place felt bafflingly exotic and full of oriental mystery. Yet returning now from central Turkey, Istanbul’s efficient trams and city bustle seem much more familiarly European, almost recalling Zürich rather than the Middle East.

I wend southwards through winding streets to reach the city wall. High above it run the last few kilometres of the mighty railway line which carried the Orient Express towards its European terminus at Sirkeci.

From there, the ferry across the Bosphorus sails to Kadıköy, the town which gave the quartz mineral chaldedony its name, where another line begins at Haydarpaşa station for the onward journey to Baghdad.

The long odyssey from Western Europe into Asia is divided in two by just this narrow stretch of water which lies ahead of me now.

I cross the road beneath the city wall and head east beside the Sea of Marmara, looking out towards the Fenerbahçe lighthouse on the Asian side.

On different days, in fair weather and in foul, I run through the promenade’s moods, stepping from warm blue Mediterranean sunshine into the puddles left by lashing Balkan rains.

To my left, the Topkapi Palace lies part-hidden amongst the trees, the historic heart of the Ottoman Empire looking from Europe across the gateway into Asia.

On the headland stands a fine statue of Atatürk, founder of the secular Turkish state, looking out to sea. It is thanks to Atatürk’s vision that Turkey is a modern republic but not a religious state.

With her Asian borders facing onto Iraq, Syria and Iran, Turkey’s oft-rebuffed efforts to join the European Union appear from here as critical to the future security of the region and the wider world as any initiative imaginable.

Just a moment’s indiscretion is surely all it would take for this most strategically situated of our near neighbours to back away from disappointment and turn towards the East.

The gravimetric pull of different worlds and different faiths has pulled across these straits for two millennia and more, and that’s not going to change soon.

The golden figure of Atatürk beams proudly upon a poster for the Marmaray project, which will soon link the transit systems of this congested city across the Bosphorus. A metro threaded across an acutely earthquake-prone seafloor calls for advanced engineering on an epic and courageous scale.

Until the line opens, it’s the ferries plying the Bosphorus which must link Europe with Asia, their daily intercontinental travellers surely sharing with Staten Island, Sydney and Kowloon commuters the joy of a ride to work across one of the most dramatic seascapes in the world.

Until recently the island ferries working here included the MV Mavi Marmara, welcomed back to Istanbul by joyful crowds only last December after her heroic attemps to break the seige of Gaza against the armed might of Israel.

Did I say that winning Turkish hearts and minds was important to our world?

This morning, the ferry terminus is bustling and frenetic, full even at this early hour with seemingly half of Istanbul’s 15 million inhabitants. This would easily be Europe’s largest metropolis, if only part of the city weren’t in Asia.

Atop the Galata Bridge at the Golden Horn, several hundred fishermen stand eagerly seeking a catch from these waters beside two continents.

High on the skyline stands the Galata Tower, built by the Genoese almost seven hundred years ago, and still standing tall above Taksim Square today. Last night we met our Turkish friends there, as we were welcomed into the very heart of Istanbul.

It was ten years ago, in the dark weeks after 9/11, when we welcomed the first of four young students from this city to stay with us in England. Now, a decade later, it’s time to pay a return visit to the little family we’ve gathered here.

Tensions have eased since those uneasy days in late 2001 when it was sometimes scary for a Muslim on the streets of London. And yet, with each year that passed it has grown ever harder (and now effectively impossible) for visitors from Turkey to gain a study visa.

Turkey has trodden her own path across those years, electing an Islamic government which seemingly questioned but, so far at least, has not succeeded in dismantling Atatürk’s secular nation-state.

The risks encircling this country’s future remain clear, and yet Europe’s leaders do their best to keep Turkey at arm’s length — misunderstood, feared and above all, surely, regarded as too different, too Islamic, to join the great European project.

We could blame racism, ignorance or blind stupidity for that shrunken view, but finally there are opportunities lost all round as we deny Europe’s brightest young people the right to learn with us.

I retrace my steps across the bridge and work my way back across the city and through narrower streets to Sultan Ahmed, past the Topkapi Palace to find the Agia Sofia and the Blue Mosque once more.

And as I run, I wonder. What cause do we really have for holding this nation back from Europe, and what do we really have to fear from Turkey?

Because here in Istanbul at the ancient crossroads of civilisation, I know we have so much more to gain.

Related articles:
237. Travels in Asia Minor – Cappadocia, Turkey
98. Off the shoulder of Orion – Costa de la Luz
103. Atlas shrugged – in the mountains of Morocco
46. On the front line – Crawley’s echoes of Madrid
215. Waltz with Bashir – from Lebanon to Gaza
235. Libya and the Arab Spring

A major tournament – contested on the best links I’ve played, and won by the gutsiest golfer I know. There could scarcely have been a better result to this year’s Open Championship.

Amongst the courses on the British Open rota, Royal St George’s is the toughest and biggest one out there. And those are qualifications which could apply perfectly to Darren Clarke, as well.

It’s 30 years since I first played at Sandwich. Looking back across all those rounds, the links has offered pain and elation in almost equal measure.

Suffering through the times when the difficulty of the test simply wore me down. And joy when I found a way to hack a string of pars together somewhere, or when the elements really descended and I finished the course in less disarray than expected.

The more I’ve played at Royal St George’s, the more I’ve realised that no one conquers this course. The key to a good score at Sandwich isn’t so much the great shots that you hit, but rather the bad ones you don’t.

And perhaps there was no single outstanding shot which won this year’s Open. Darren Clarke won through scoring solidly through tough conditions and by avoiding the bad shots which ended his rivals’ chances.

That’s no mean achievement. Royal St George’s offers many more problems than opportunities.

On a windy day, there’s not a shot on the course which appears remotely straightforward.

The first hole might look simple enough, but as a 450-yard par four, it’s not exactly easy. With three deep bunkers just short of the green, and a downhill green beyond, most second shots are destined for the back of the green.

Clarke found himself there on Sunday. Leaving his monster first putt short, somehow he drained a scarily fast second from 15 feet. And in that one moment, the pathway to an Open Championship was laid.

Level par on the seventh tee, Clarke boomed a long drive over the sandhills, and then found the green with his second and the cup for an eagle. A two shot lead with eleven holes remaining.

That’s where the fireworks ended. Clarke found no more birdies, and bogeyed the final two holes. Yet he still won by three shots. So how was that possible?

The key lay in Clarke’s nine straight pars cut though the heart of the links in stiff unforgiving winds.

If Mickelson, Johnson, or Bjorn had closed out in pars, the result could have been different. When they fell away, Clarke was the last man left standing.

Royal St George’s is famous for the severity of its finish. The 15th and 18th are two of the toughest holes anywhere, while the 16th and 17th are nearly as hard. But in truth, the battle with the course is often over long before then. There are no easy holes after the seventh, and far too many places to ruin a good score.

Darren Clarke won the Open by not missing a sloping three footer on the 11th like Phil Mickelson. By not slashing a long iron out of bounds on the 14th like Dustin Johnson. And by not letting bogeys leak onto his card like Thomas Bjorn.

The trick at Royal St George’s is simply to get round the course safely and to limit the damage. Darren Clarke found the great secret of Sandwich. And no one ever deserved to win more.

Related articles:
125. The green and the gold – 2006 Ryder Cup
240. Rory McIlroy – US Open Champion and UNICEF Ambassador
229. Ryder Cup 2010 – the perfect blue day
188. The eagle and The Shark: British Open 2008
192. Ending the streak – America wins the 2008 Ryder Cup
66. A dream from Detroit – 2004 Ryder Cup
99. One over Strath

Daybreak, 250 km east of Havana.

The sun is rising languidly above Cienfuegos as I take in the view of architectural wonders from the hotel roof.

Far below me in the city’s famed central square, Plaza de Armas, stands a fine statue of José Martí, most inspirational of Cuba’s great nationalist heroes.

The square is, quite simply, stunning.

Alongside the classical lines of its cathedral, theatre and town hall — all adorned in white — stands a billboard to Martí’s spiritual successor, Che Guevara.

Tu ejemplo vive — tus ideas perduran:
Your example lives — your ideas endure.

The colonnaded streets of Cienfuegos would thrill any aficionado of Hispanic architecture.

How rare it is to enjoy a World Heritage Site without any other tourists — and with just a few ageing Ladas and Polski Fiats for company, I run easily down the long boulevard stretching out towards the water.

Just before the causeway, I find another poster — urging the youth of Cuba to stand united for the cause. Further on, a billboard proudly describes Cienfuegos as La Perla del Sur, the Pearl of the South.

The ornate and sumptuous villas lining the bay road to Punta Gorda tell of this town’s affluent past, reflecting Cuba’s riches a century or so ago.

The city is still a centre for sugar, coffee and tobacco. And Fidel Castro has a house in this city, down on the waterfront in one of the finest villas of them all.

Story has it that El líder maintains a residence in Havana and in each of Cuba’s 15 provinces, so that he can be at home wherever he spreads the word of this most enduring of all socialist revolutions.

The heart of Cienfuegos is spectacular and iconic. Yet the shops here are almost empty, and away from the main streets it’s a much more modest and earnestly struggling lifestyle which endures.

Since the financial crash bled the life out of tourism, the Cuban economy has been suffering.

The people suffer through isolation and restrictions as best they can.

There are riches in this country, make no mistake. They just don’t filter down.

That’s a universal observation, of course, and there’s less inequality here than in most developed nations. But even in Cuba, some are more equal than others.

Because ideas may endure and principles stand firm, yet the essential problems remain unsolved.

Related articles:
222. Cuba 2 – Viñales: Talking ’bout a revolution
212. Cuba 1: Just imagine
5. La vida latina – from Houston to Mexico
232: Cuba 3 – Havana
235. Libya and the Arab Spring

Yet the new US Open champion had already learnt humility the hard way.

In April, Rory McIlroy led a major championship for the third time in a row, starting the last day of the US Masters with a four-stroke lead. That was before a spectacular Amen Corner collapse raised doubts if Rory could ever win a major.

After all, his final round at Augusta only matched the score he had made in a gale at St Andrews last July, after opening up with a 63.

Scoring 80 twice when leading majors seemed to ask serious questions about Rory’s appetite for the fight.

Yet really, his fortitude should never have been in doubt.

Because after such a disappointing second round, McIlroy quietly closed out the 2010 British Open with a 69 and 68 to finish third — the same position he finished in the US PGA last August, where he’d also led along the way.

After the Ryder Cup in Wales last autumn, the sports pages led with the decisive victory scored by his friend and predecessor as US Open Champion, Graeme McDowell.

But Rory’s tussle with Stewart Cink was even closer. Missing the final green in two, McIlroy contrived to leave his third in the bunker — yet somehow he gathered his composure to recover with a brilliant sand save to halve his match.

That took resilience — a quality Rory underlined hugely in Maryland this week.

But back to humility.

Perhaps it wasn’t McIlroy’s calm at Celtic Manor or Congressional, or even the stellar quality of his golf all year, which said most about the man himself.

Because just last week, only days before the US Open, Rory McIlroy visited Haiti as the Ireland Ambassador for UNICEF.

How many other recent major contenders have given freely of their time for others much less privileged than themselves?

The man has resilience, humility, charm and compassion. And those are the gifts of a worthy champion, in any age.

Related articles:
229. Ryder Cup 2010 – the perfect blue day
179. Kenya 6: Africa – how can we help?
188. The eagle and The Shark: British Open 2008
192. Ending the streak – America wins the 2008 Ryder Cup
66. A dream from Detroit – 2004 Ryder Cup
99. One over Strath

Outside the sky is clear and blue, the lawns still dew-swept and the rhododendron in full flower.

At the end of the driveway, I turn right, and set course hard along the kerb. Any Aberdonian knows that the lethally fast South Deeside road is no place to play in traffic, but for now it’s quiet and a gentle mile is all I need.

A few minutes go by as I ponder the wonders of travel and the rewards of rising early. A long day in meeting rooms will pass more swiftly with an hour of energy spent before the taxi calls to find me.

On the other side of the road, the trees are opening up a longer view, and I step gingerly across the highway to take in the morning glory of the River Dee and the open farmland stretching far beyond.

The river is tranquil here, in the later reaches of its 87-mile journey from the Cairngorm Mountains to reach the sea at Footdee beside Aberdeen harbour.

The Celts worshipped the Dee as a goddess, and today she is blessed with diverse riches. Upstream from here lie some of the most scenic salmon fishing grounds in Britain, whilst downstream the waters flow into the busiest oil port in Europe.

This peaceful view alone has more than repaid my early alarm call, but the fast cars won’t be long in coming, and so I hit the road again and gratefully turn right, uphill and full on into the face of rural Aberdeenshire.

The slope ahead is rising uncomfortably now, demanding fuller effort and concentration, but eventually I look back on a perfect vista of green hills and yellow gorse, with the tower blocks on Aberdeen’s Anderson Drive floating faintly in the distance.

Here I am, just five miles from Scotland’s third city, and the rural idyll is still, unbroken.

A friend of mine lives nearby, and as I pass his house on this splendid springtime morning, a small and unexpected flutter of regret flickers across my mind, for these unappreciated gifts of the Aberdeen lifetime I never made my own.

A few reflective thoughts are enough to distract me from one final breathless rise ahead, and then I turn gratefully back downhill to greet my day ahead.

Blue sky, gorse, long grass and easy strides will bring me to the South Deeside Road for a final mile now frautly shared with SUV commuters speeding to the Granite City.

Before long I’ll join them, but in place of their white-knuckled weary tension, I’ll trade a morning’s clarity of thought and fresh Scottish calm within my mind.

The granite mass of Ardoe House stands firm and fortress-like ahead of me amidst the gardens.

And as my day begins, I’ve already seen Aberdeen from a different place this morning.

Related articles:
132. Newburgh – an Aberdeenshire morning
150. Chapel of Garioch, Inverurie – another Aberdeenshire morning
224. Leviathans of the deep – oil rigs in the Cromarty Firth, Scotland
106. A Highland reel – Pitlochry, Perthshire
186. Firth of stone and fire – North Berwick, Scotland
6. Edinburgh – Scotland’s finest
135. Backs against the wall – Footdee, Aberdeen

The grass running track in Stoke Park was laid out again recently. It’s from here in Guildford that the Olympic torch will begin the the final leg of its journey into London for the 2012 games.

There’ll be an evening celebration in Stoke Park on Friday, 20th July next year.

The International Olympic Committee has announced that the global torch relays of previous Olympiads are a thing of the past. In 2012, as in future, there’ll only be a relay within the country hosting the games.

So it’s certain that the torch won’t return to Guildford for many years to come.

But what better place to begin the final stage of the 2012 Olympic torch relay? Because not far away, there’s an ancient milestone hidden beside London Road which shows the distance (along the old roads) as 26 miles to Hyde Park Corner.

Guildford’s Stoke Park is exactly a marathon distance from central London.

Who will run the torch through Guildford? My vote goes to Atlanta 400 m silver medallist Roger Black, who used to train on the tartan track at Spectrum nearby.

I’ll be running through the park to Spectrum again shortly, as I’ve a marathon of my own to run in  2012.

Another 26 mile journey will start in Guildford very soon.

Related articles:
94. London Olympics 2012
40. Running with Roger Black
189. Olympic laurels 2 – Beijing 2008
116. London is Olympic – The London Marathon
64. Olympic laurels – Athens 2004
34. Lines from the Battle of Guildford

Cut up to 85 m deep in soft volcanic layers within Miocene to Holocene tuffs and ignimbrites, the underground cities of Cappadocia serve testament to how difficult life was for early Christians on these high and open plains.

Dangerous enough for whole communities of fifty thousand souls to seek refuge beneath the earth — at several places scattered around this part of northern central Turkey.

Life here is easier now than it was back then, but maybe not that much.

Avanos is a one horse town if ever I’ve seen one, and it’s clear the horse left quite some time ago.

It was still summer in Istanbul earlier this week, but as the late October afternoon begins to fade, it feels like winter is hanging low beneath the clouds.

In a dry creek beside the hotel, an old woman in a headscarf is rooting through some rubbish as I run past. She doesn’t look up.

It’s just a mile to reach the Red River, through quiet and empty streets. A half-deserted supermarket and a photocopy shop stand in the square before the bridge — the new town’s commercial heart in need of some defibrillation, clearly.

Across the river, the old town of Avanos stands dilapidated and neglected. There’s an unlikely kind of gritty charm in the seventies blocks beside the bridge and in the beaten-up cottages along the road rising beyond it to the west.

Higher up the hill, I climb steadily past derelict dwellings to reach a graveyard on the slopes above the edge of town. Row after row of memorials to generations who have lived a different life from mine.

The dusk is slowly falling by the time the call to evening prayer begins. As ever, it’s magnificent and mesmerising — there’s no better sound I know to define the pure translation and mystery of the East.

There’s a view from here across the wide plains of Asia Minor, while far below and beside the river, the streetlights are shining more brightly now against the autumn evening gloom.

Just ten minutes remain to relocate the shop for that perfect rug I failed to buy earlier on today. I put my head down and set tracks determinedly for the square. A short while later, I cross the Red River for one final time again.

It’s fully dark now, and the precious, secret parcel is safely wrapped and tucked beneath my arm — one small but magic carpet to transport us here to the plains of Cappadocia, over many years to come.

Related articles:
103. Atlas shrugged – in the mountains of Morocco
161. Kenya 1: The road to Mombasa
235. Libya and the Arab Spring
102. Moroccan red – Marrakech
164. Kenya 2: The dusk behind the beach