Jeremy Clarkson saved my life

Andy Hood
Oct 28
12 min read

9 May 2025| Race Reports

The headline was in every corner of the internet: “Jeremy Clarkson Saved My Life.” It was surreal, watching my own story explode. Websites, newspapers, YouTube channels, Reddit threads – all buzzing about my upcoming ultra-marathon to Diddly Squat Farm. Radio interviews filled my mornings, culminating in a nerve-wracking appearance on BBC News. To understand the frenzy, I guess I need to rewind. Take a moment to Google the headline, the coverage for this run has been huge.

My journey started, rather unceremoniously, with my left testicle. In 2021, at 48, I received the gut-wrenching diagnosis: testicular cancer. I was a runner, a lover of exploring the outdoors and pushing my limits, and the thought of being sidelined terrified me. The oncologist, however, was having none of my stalling tactics. My pleas to postpone surgery until after an upcoming race were met with a firm, unwavering "No."

" I can still do the nights..."

But where does Clarkson fit into this picture. The answer lies in an episode of The Grand Tour, "Sea to Unsalty Sea." A seemingly innocuous joke, a throwaway line, lodged itself in my subconscious. During a discussion about bladder control, Clarkson quipped, "I can still do the nights….but that’s prostate cancer anyway."

A few days later, I was in the shower after a particularly sweaty summer run, the image of the Grand Tour trio racing to the nearest toilet still fresh in my mind. Clarkson's throwaway line about cancer reverberated. Prostate, then testicular. I did what I should have been doing all along. I checked myself. And that's when I found it. One testicle, shrunk, hard, like a misplaced marble.

The scans confirmed my fears. The oncologist was clear: if I'd waited any longer, the outcome would have been drastically different. So, I owe Clarkson my life. Seriously. It sounds melodramatic, but it's true. The thought makes me tear up every time.

" surgery and chemotherapy "

After surgery and chemo, I threw myself into running with renewed vigor, finding solace and renewed purpose in running, creating awareness of a cancer that changed me and in supporting others navigating this awful disease. I graduated from marathons to ultra-marathons and even designed my own endurance challenges, all with the underlying goal of raising awareness and funds for cancer charities. A 50K treadmill run in a shopping mall, a grueling 24-hour treadmill run which tested body and mind to the limit, a delcious 54K jaunt through London hitting 21 Krispy Kreme stores – each event was a step towards spreading the message: men, check yourselves!

Then came Clarkson’s Farm. The show was pure gold. It resonated with the farming community I lived in, showcasing the real struggles and triumphs of rural life with a healthy dose of humor. And it sparked an idea.

What if I ran to Diddly Squat Farm?

The idea blossomed into an obsession. A 54K ultra-marathon from Oxford to the Farm Shop, fueled by the promise of a legendary Diddly Squat burger at the finish. It was a perfect distance. A perfect purpose. And a perfect way to thank the man, however indirectly, who had saved my life.

I penned a letter to Clarkson, a deeply personal expression of gratitude. I didn't expect to actually meet him. His schedule must be insane. But even the thought of handing the letter to someone at the farm shop, hoping it would eventually reach him, was enough.

I meticulously plotted the route on Komoot, visualizing every mile, every obstacle. I imagined the final stretch, the emotion and the burger, I would have earned it! What I didn’t anticipate was how much bigger this run would become. The “Jeremy Clarkson Saved My Life” headline was just the beginning. The journey itself, and the people I would meet along the way, would be the real story.

April 12th was go day a blue sky promised a warm day ahead. The date had arrived with unnerving speed, a stark reminder of the precariousness of my training. Two weeks prior, on an evening trail event my ankle buckled beneath me. Two weeks. Two weeks of enforced rest, of obsessive icing, of praying that the 'run to Diddly Squat' wasn't about to become the 'hobble to Diddly Squat'.

Now, at 08:30, the sky a pure blue canvas, I was a cocktail of nerves and exhilaration. Doubt nipped at my heels, but determination, forged in the fires of past battles, burned brighter. I'd faced cancer, stared it down, and emerged scarred but unbroken. A twisted ankle wasn't going to defeat me.

"We are stronger together."

My running pack was more than just a convenient carrier; it was a testament. Emblazoned across its surface were the names of countless individuals touched by cancer. Names submitted by strangers, friends, and fellow warriors, each representing a story of courage, resilience, and unwavering hope. I carried them with reverence, a constant reminder that I wasn't just running for myself. We were stronger together.

Just as I was about to set off, my phone buzzed. A message from Marc Austin, presenter at The Voice radio. "Fancy a live interview in about an hour?" My heart leaped. Marc, a fantastic guy I'd had the pleasure of running with last year, was offering his support. "Absolutely!" I typed back, the message a significant boost.

The initial miles were a gentle easing-in, following the languid curve of the River Thames. The path morphed from smooth tarmac to rutted tracks, carving through fields where an inquisitive herd of cows watched my progress with bovine curiosity. Runners and walkers, all smiles and greetings, enjoying the path on this beautiful Spring morning. Here, the Thames was a far cry from its bustling London counterpart - narrow, serene, punctuated by canal locks, narrowboats, and the solitary figures of fishermen patiently casting their lines.

An hour into the run, I found myself immersed in the verdant embrace of Whytham Woods, a place immortalized by one of my favorite authors, Bill Bryson. While Bryson seemed to struggle navigating the woods in his book, I found the trails surprisingly easy to follow. Finding a decent phone signal to call Marc back at our scheduled time, however, proved more challenging.

The heat was building, a stark contrast to the crisp morning air. I was consuming fluids faster than anticipated, a worrying sign. One of the enduring effects of chemotherapy was a change in how I sweated during runs, requiring me to meticulously manage my fluid and sodium intake. This would come back to haunt me later.

My planned route took an unexpected detour when a path was closed. Glancing at my Komoot map, I charted an alternative route that led me through the heart of Witney, a pretty and vibrant town. Spotting a cafe, I decided to seize the opportunity to replenish my water bottles.

" here comes the sweaty runner "

The cafe was a hive of activity, buzzing with well-dressed patrons enjoying their brunch. I, a sweaty, dusty runner, felt acutely out of place. Yet, as I approached the counter, I was met with a warm smile from one of the staff. Without hesitation, she refilled my bottles with ice-cold water and asked if I needed anything else. It was a small act of kindness, but one that resonated deeply. This day, I was learning, would be defined by such moments.

Leaving Witney, I was quickly swallowed up by the countryside again. The route wound its way through fields, down narrow lanes, past imposing country houses, and through countless farm gates. The uneven ground kept me on high alert, my ankle still tender from its recent ordeal. A sign warned of rabbit holes in the next two miles. This I definitely didn't want to roll my ankle on again. The sign was right. The trail ahead was littered with them.

The cheers that erupted as I entered The Farmers Dog car park were a welcome surprise. The parking team and a cluster of visitors greeted me with enthusiastic applause. The pub itself was stunning, a magnificent building both inside and out. I greedily took on water, a can of fizzy apple juice, and a freshly baked sausage roll before relaxing in their garden. This, I decided, set the gold standard for ultra-marathon aid stations. The breathtaking view of the rolling countryside made it even better.

The sheer size of the Grand Tour tent in the Farmer's Dog pub garden was disorienting. It had been a familiar sight on television, but the actual scale was something else entirely. Drawn in, I wandered closer. A fully stocked Hawkstone bar beckoned, alongside a mini Diddly Squat Farm Shop overflowing with tempting goodies. Tables and chairs were arranged invitingly, and a deli counter promised culinary delights. The attention to detail was astounding.

"Reaching near orgasm"

"Ah, you're the runner!" A friendly voice cut through my admiration. I turned to see a beaming man introduce himself as Mark, the General Manager at Hawkstone. He was instantly warm and engaging, chatting about my run with genuine enthusiasm. He then led me to Annie from Baste, who ran the catering both here at the tent and at Diddly Squat. Annie's legendary burgers were constantly in my mind as I ran. So much so that I’d nicknamed this ultra "The Burger Run," envisioning that blissful bite at the finish line. To call it a burger, though, was an insult. It deserved a title worthy of its magnificence, something like, 'The Most Incredible Tasting Beef Delight Hugged by a Lightly Toasted Moist Brioche Bun and Oozing with a Sauce That Will Have You Reaching Near Orgasm.’Annie feel free to take that name as your own!

Mark & Annie - see them on Clarkson's Farm

Mark and Annie welcomed me like an old friend, their kindness deeply touching. Annie relayed that her partner, Scott, was at Diddly Squat, anticipating my arrival with a burger ready and waiting. That was the motivation boost I desperately needed after 17 hot miles, with another 17 stretching ahead.

Shortly after leaving The Farmer's Dog, my phone buzzed. It was Mark, notifying me that he'd donated to my fundraising for the cancer charities. A lump formed in my throat, and a tear traced a path down my cheek. It was an amazing gesture, and resonated so deeply. "Thank you, Mark," I whispered to myself.

I vowed to return, bringing my family to experience the magic of this place. They needed to experience The Farmers Dog and explore the tent.

" calf cramps.."

My focus shifted back to the run. I realised I was dehydrated, already operating at a deficit.. My ultra-running nutrition strategy needed a serious overhaul, as calf muscle cramps had become a recurring issue, as was proving the case now. First the left, then the right, seized up painfully.

My gait wasn’t helping either. The earlier ankle injury made me overly cautious, subtly altering my stride and placing undue strain on other leg muscles. A brief stretching session provided temporary relief. I reached for the two cans of fizzy apple drink I carried since The Farmers Dog, desperate for hydration. My plan was to refill my bottles at Ascott-under-Wychwood, a picturesque Cotswold village. However, the small village store was closed! Frustrated, I spotted a man watering his garden. I politely asked if there was a tap nearby, a pub, church, or village hall, where I could refill my bottles. He cheerfully offered to fill them himself. As he poured, he told me he recognized me from BBC Radio Oxford. The world felt smaller, more connected.

The afternoon sun beat down as I traversed more fields of bright yellow rape, corn and wheat, navigating dusty lanes and cautiously crossing railway tracks. Then, a sign appeared: Chadlington. Diddly Squat was within reach.

Throughout the day, I had exchanged smiles and greetings with countless strangers. I remembered a lady sitting at a bus stop in Chadlington; we'd simply exchanged pleasantries, commenting on the lovely weather and wishing each other a good day. Traveling on foot fostered these small, meaningful interactions, something I treasured.

But who had decided to keep the hill a secret? The road leading up to Diddly Squat, a solid mile or more of relentless incline, was the last thing I needed after miles already run. A hill at the end of an ultra is never fun. I spotted a beautiful stone wall, likely one of Gerald’s creations, grabbed my GoPro and filmed it. Then, a cyclist overtook me, offering a hearty applause. He noticed I was running for charity, seeing all the names on my backpack, offered encouragement, and even asked if I needed water, as he had plenty to spare on this scorching day.

Kindness. It was abundant at every turn. Don’t let the media convince you otherwise. People are fundamentally good. Just lace up your shoes, get outside for a walk, run, or hike, and you'll find it everywhere.

The end of an ultra is a surrender. Not of spirit, but of sinew. Every fibre screams for respite, a plea answered by a finish line that gleams like a mirage after miles lost in the desert of self-inflicted pain. I'd worn these shoes for hours, maybe days, the relentless rhythm a hypnotic drone against the rising tide of fatigue. Weeks, months, bled into this single point, a culmination of sacrifice and sheer bloody-mindedness. My body, battered but unbowed, was ready to rest.

Cresting the final hill, the road stretched out, a welcome ribbon of asphalt. In the distance, the chaotic energy of Diddly Squat Farm was a buzzing hive – cars coming and going, visitors milling, the air thick with excitement as people turned a TV show into reality.. A figure in hi-vis stood sentinel at the gravel entrance, offering a warm smile and a "Hello!" as I approached. In a minute, perhaps less, it would be over.

"Clarkson's Farm"

There was no official finish line, no fanfare. This was my finish line, chosen with deliberate intention. This was where I would offer my silent, heartfelt thanks to a man I'd never met, a man whose actions, however indirectly, had saved my life. Through his throw away comment, I'd learned about the importance of checking for testicular cancer. The information had been timely. My cancer had already begun to spread, and without that knowledge, the outcome would have been drastically different. I knew Clarkson wasn't there; a message a few days prior had confirmed his absence. But that didn't matter. I'd run to his place, a place familiar and comforting from the often-hilarious "Clarkson's Farm." I carried a letter, a deeply personal letter explaining the genesis and purpose of this arduous journey. My hope was to entrust it to someone at the farm shop, with the faintest prayer that it might find its way to his desk.

The final few yards dissolved into a blur of cheers and applause. It was unexpected, overwhelming. I knew Nick, an Instagram connection, was visiting the shop with a friend, Mark. I carried Nick's mother's name, Jane Scott, on my backpack - a tribute to a wonderful woman lost to cancer. Seeing them there, offering an amazing welcome, touched me deeply. They'd dedicated their day to witness this strange, self-imposed feat.

Best running medal ever, thank you Team Diddly Squat.

Then I noticed two more people. One, wearing a Diddly Squat Farm Shop t-shirt, beamed a radiant smile. Niamh, it turned out, worked at the shop. She presented me with a Diddly Squat Farm Shop bag, overflowing with Diddly Squat goodies. The dam broke. I welled up. Niamh, sensing the emotion, asked if I needed a hug. I gratefully accepted. It was a sanctuary in the storm.

Lucinda introduced herself as someone from Jeremy's team. She told me Jeremy knew about the run, knew the 'why' behind it. They'd been tracking my progress, anticipating my arrival. This was more, far more than I could have imagined. Another wave washed over me, leaving me shaky but strangely buoyant.

We spent time taking photos – Niamh presenting me with the farm shop goodies, by far the best running medal I'd ever received, and me handing her the letter. Lucinda assured me it would be personally delivered to Jeremy. The run had ended in a way I never dreamed possible. Looking back, I felt like a kaleidoscope of emotions, a tangled mess of feelings.

Next, I was introduced to Scott from Baste, who presented me with the legendary beef delight, so often talked about. I tried to devour it with some semblance of dignity, but failed miserably. I was ravenous, and had been looking forward to this moment for months.

We all sat and chatted for a while, Niamh sharing stories of her life. "Niamh," I told her then, and I'll say it again, "You are amazing and inspirational.", I took much from the time we spent chatting. During the week leading up to the run, I'd posted a video a day on Instagram, and the team at Diddly Squat had been watching them all. It was a delight to finally enter the shop and meet some of the team, though I regretted not having had the composure to take a photo with them all.

Several visitors approached me, curious about the run. Word had spread, and they offered generous donations.

No ultra I've done before, and likely no ultra to come, will be quite like this one. The finish was so much more than I ever expected. I was met with such warmth, such kindness, and I've met people whose paths I sincerely hope will cross mine again. I sat on the train home a crying wreck, overwhelmed and profoundly grateful. You made my run so incredibly special. I can never thank you enough.

The run was about saying thank you, and raising awareness of testicular cancer, as well as raising money for two cancer charities, Macmillan and ChemoHero. With all the press coverage, including an interview on BBC News, who visited me to record the interview and had me running again on legs that were emphatically not playing ball, I think we've reached over a million pairs of eyes. And if some of those pairs of eyes go on to check themselves for the signs of testicular cancer, then the hundreds of hours of training, the cramp in the calves, and that pesky hill at the end, are all worth it. Clarkson saved my life; I now pay that forward.