The Burger Run 2025

54K self-designed ultra to thank Jeremy Clarkson for saving my life.

“Jeremy Clarkson Saved My Life” – The 500-Word Edition

You don’t expect to wake up one morning as clickbait. Yet there it was: “Jeremy Clarkson Saved My Life.”Everywhere. Newspapers, Reddit, YouTube channels with names like TractorFacts and BritishBlokeReviews. Even my neighbour asked if Jeremy had personally performed CPR on me in a field.

But the truth was stranger.

How Clarkson Accidentally Became My Health Advisor

Back in 2021, I was 48 and blissfully unaware that one of my testicles had gone rogue. Then I watched The Grand Tourepisode “Sea to Unsalty Sea.” Clarkson, while talking about bladder control, tossed off the line:

“I can still do the nights… but that’s prostate cancer anyway.”

It was a stupid, throwaway Clarksonism. But it stuck in my head.

A few days later, after a hot run, it resurfaced in the shower. Prostate… cancer… testicles… hmm. So I checked. And there it was: one testicle, shrunken and hard, like a rejected marble.

Scans confirmed cancer. The consultant told me bluntly that if I’d waited, things could’ve been “significantly worse.”So yes, Clarkson technically saved my life. Without even knowing he’d done it.

Running, Recovery & Ridiculous Ideas

After surgery and chemotherapy, I threw myself into running. Then ultra-running. Then designing my own bizarre endurance events like:

a 50 km treadmill run in a shopping mall,
a 24-hour treadmill run (pain level: biblical),
and a 54 km Krispy Kreme pilgrimage.

All for cancer awareness. Men, check your bits. That sort of thing.

Then came Clarkson’s Farm. And with it, a magnificently stupid idea:

I’d run 54 km to Diddly Squat Farm.Part thank-you. Part awareness campaign. Part desperate desire for a Diddly Squat burger.

I even wrote Clarkson a letter. Didn’t expect to meet him. But hoped it’d reach him.

Ultra-Day: Heat, Pain, & Unexpected Kindness

April 12th: blue skies, broken ankle (nearly), questionable life choices. My running pack bore the names of people affected by cancer. I carried them with me.

The countryside was glorious. My hydration strategy was not. By midday, I was sweating like a broken lawn sprinkler and cramping like a malfunctioning robot.

Then kindness struck everywhere:

A fancy café refilled my bottles without flinching at the smell.
A man watering his garden topped me up again, casually saying he’d heard me on BBC Radio Oxford.
The Farmer’s Dog pub welcomed me like a celebrity, complete with cheering staff and a Grand Tour tent.
Mark from Hawkstone and Annie from Baste (burger genius) treated me like royalty.

And then came the final hill to Diddly Squat. A mile-long incline. Who hides a mountain at the end of an ultra?

The Finish: Tears, Burgers & Clarkson’s Team

At Diddly Squat, people clapped. Niamh from the Farm Shop handed me a goody bag (best medal ever). Lucinda told me Clarkson’s team had been tracking my run. My letter would be delivered to him personally.

Then Scott from Baste placed the burger in my hands. I demolished it with the grace of a starving otter.