The taunts are everywhere...

On Sunday...

after the repair bloke had shook his head and cast me into the abyss without even getting off his motorbike, I started walking back down the road with the vague aim of walking back to Pitlochry.

A few minutes after the person who was plum last had stopped for a brief natter - presumably to make themselves feel better - the sag wagon rolled to a stop. The driver stepped down and, on reflection quite gently and considerately, asked me if that was me done for the day.

I wasn't even in a place to spew out vitriolic sarcasm at this point (Look at the clues mister...look at the clues). I may have just nodded dumbly.

He then removed my timing chip - formally eradicating me from the race - and I nearly cried. My symbolic castration.

But I still have my number.... I still have my numb...