It happened four days into the race – we estimated we still had at least three to go. Our team arrived at a summit in the jungle, one of our TAs (Transition Areas) where we’d switch from bike to foot. We were feeling exhausted but positive, reckoning we were only a few hours behind the race leaders. I had treated myself to some Swedish meatballs when I noticed a stray dog out of the corner of my eye. “He must have all the diseases in the world,” I thought: some pretty deep-looking wounds covered his back and I could smell him from where I sat. But I gave him a couple of meatballs none the less.

Two hours later we were fighting through deep jungle when we realised the dog was following us. We ploughed on through collapsing mud holes, across rivers, up steep trails; and although the new fifth member of our team was clearly fighting as hard as the rest of us, he kept up. I told myself it would be better if he went home, but we all agreed that Arthur – whom we named after the King – should get a share of our food too. That’s how teams work, after all.