Ramblings of a Runner Been

Four-leaf Clova - 12 November 2011

2011-12-11T12:03:00.001Z

For some years, Forfar Road Runners have hosted a mid-November half-marathon around the lovely Glen Clova near Kirriemuir. The weather is usually poor. Or worse. A perfect race just to hear about as you sit with feet up watching the howling gales through the window of your warm, dry home.

So, this year, some Old Git has the mad idea to enter the Glen Clova HM as a finale to the busiest running year of his life. Mad indeed. Other Harriers have run this race before. In rain, snow, gales and other friendly attributes of the Scottish Highlands' atmospheric repertoire. The route's reasonably flat - a few undulations - and the scenery promises to be worth it. Oh yes, if the scenery can be seen of course.

Having publicly committed to the race, a few others also sign up including the Good Doctor and She Who Is Also Doing The Edinburgh Marathon next year. The Old Git has promised to run with SWIADTEM next year - at least until she tires of his pedestrian pace and goes for a proper time - so offers to run with her at Clova and practice. And take a few photos. Questionable habit, the latter. SWIADTEM has run the Clova before and knows well the terrain and the hazardous conditions the Grampian Mountains can throw at unwary foot travellers. She is stalwart in the face of possible challenges.

GD offers to transport the three of us to the race and back and we gladly accept his kind offer. With a 1200 start, the GCHM brings a civilised time to rising from our beds and eating breakfast but, since the Scottish Government neglected to include the area in its motorway programme, it will be a slow drive most of the way. The recent weather patterns entertain as we contemplate the flooded land alongside many of the stretches of road we travel along. How much more water can this land take, we wonder, before it floats off towards Norway?

Miraculously, today we see blue skies; lots of them. Well, one actually, but lots of it. And no rain. And no howling gales. What can possibly be happening to the Scottish weather? Has a Spanish import been purchased for our pleasure? We are puzzled - but happy.

But then, before we really know it, we are driving northwards up Glen Clova towards the start at the Clova Hotel. Crowds suddenly appear and we are directed towards the muddy field that is the temporary overflow car park. Disembarking, we make our way towards the administration centre to collect our essentials - race numbers and stuff. The milling throng of several people excite our senses as we contemplate our early afternoon perambulations. This should be fun.

We meet our other Harrier combatants. The GD has briefly disappeared so an 80% photo is taken in the tarmac-ed part of the car parking facilities. SWIADTEM & the Old Git get in the middle of a T&A shot. SWIADTEM is amused by this thought.

The scene just before the start shows hordes of excited runners bursting to get going - to the toilets, to their friends, anywhere really.

The Finish line is ready as newly-stolen traffic cones look forward to their moment of glory. The Triumph Arch normally present on these occasions has unfortunately been delayed along with two dozen young ladies travelling to Kirriemuir from Inverness. Their future status is reportedly in peril.

T&A stride purposefully towards the Start line as they advertise the 25 year running history of Strathearn Harriers. This proud history is in their hands and that of their SH companions. The Old Git is glad it's not in his.

The excited runners line up in close formation as the appointed hour of midday draws close. Competitors crowd into each other's personal space in a desperate attempt to get close to the line. With no chip timing, everyone is determined to claim gun time as their own. The Old Git just keeps taking pictures as though he doesn't care what time he does. He actually doesn't.

And then the Noonday Gun fires its aerosol contents and the whole amazing crowd of more than a hundred hardy souls rushes out towards Kirriemuir. There will be disappointment though at the half-way point as the route doubles back on itself, utters a squeal of pain and returns to Clova.

Soon, SWIADTEM is going strongly and the Old Git is wrestling with the dilemma of photography versus Club loyalty. Photography wins. SWIADTEM is coy and shy of the paparazzi lens as she strides onwards towards a potential PB. The Old Git is checking the pace and wondering if it is a little quick for an OAP. Probably not for OAPs with running talent but the Old Git is not amongst them. Ho-hum.

As early as ten minutes into the event, the contestants are arranged in an Indian file as the athletes rush away towards the horizon and those who spend a greater amount of serious time running are able to enjoy the scenery.

Blue skies draw the photographer's lens like an unearthly magnet as fluffy white clouds scud gently northwards on the crest of Mediterranean wafts. Shadows chase each other across the rolling sward as just about all the runners pass by not caring a toss.

So three miles are marked - or is it three kilometres? We check our watches. If that's three kilometres, breakfast is having its own back. If it's three miles, the Old Git is on for a ridiculously quick time (though SWIADTEM might be a tad disappointed).

But the eye is drawn to a dramatic scene of Nature at her watery best. The glen once boasted a babbling brook that danced its way gently down the lowest points of the land as it made its inevitable way from spring to sea. Today, all evidence of burn banks has vanished as a meandering loch defies the locals and visitors alike to stride over its life-giving liquid. It's a floody blood as far as human eyesight can reach (except for those who should've gone to Specsavers).

But to the north all is blue sky and fluffy white water droplets. The warm, gently sloping shoulders that tempt the spirit accept the white cotton wool covering that shields the hidden and secret reaches from prying eyes. And the hills have clouds on them. This point marks the moment the Old Git ran out of energy to press the camera shutter so, remarkably, no record remains of the ensuing 90 minutes or so. Probably for the best.

Time marches on. The Old Git staggers on. SWIADTEM runs in beautiful assurance that a PB is within reach. At nine miles, the Old Git gives up the unequal struggle and begs SWIADTEM to go onwards and upwards towards triumph. SWIADTEM says it was her ancestors that bought that brand of undergarments, not her generation of modernists. She departs, muttering about 'Kazakhstan' for some unfathomable reason.

And then!! It is the finish. Far ahead, the Old Git has seen SWIADTEM rush headlong into the arms of fate. Regretfully, her PB escapes by seconds into the distance but it is a plucky run nonetheless.

The Old Git staggers in a few minutes later and is rewarded with a candid shot of SWIADTEM chatting to the GD about their respective experiences. The Old Git slinks away as this is clearly a runners-only meeting.

And so another episode in the life of an Old Git draws to its end. Nature has been kind in its delivery of meteorological experiences. The GD has been kind in acting as driver - and waiting whilst his outward-bound passengers completed their odyssey so they could become inward-bound as well. SWIADTEM has demonstrated that next May's event could quickly become a solo run as she is simply in a different class to the Old Git. And he'll be a year older whilst she will probably be getting younger.

Still, 2h6m25s isn't bad for an Old Git. Definitely not a half-marathon PB (that was lost in the mists of time several generations ago) but a Course Best. Bound to be, really - for a first run on the course. Next year? It'll probably be two feet of snow. We'll see.

Official Masochism Memories - 29/30 October 2011

2011-12-11T11:35:00.001Z

Every year (itseems), large numbers of possibly-insane and impossibly-fit couples takethemselves off into part of our wonderful mountain scenery and subjectthemselves to a weekend of pain and suffering. No, this isn't OfficialMasochism Memories - it's the Original Mountain Marathon. Elsewhere, onthe Interweb and other organs of so-called literature, you will doubtless beable to read the accounts of this crazy event from half-mad participants,sadistic organisers, makers of ridiculously lightweight and gruesomelyexpensive products and other hangers-on. You may, on the other hand,struggle to find any account penned by anyone who bothered to treat this as aspectator sport and spent a cold, miserably wet time on a mountainside seeingit at close quarters. This is one of, possibly, one (or two maybe) suchaccounts.

It all startswith the news that, this year, the event was coming to Perthshire. Theorganisers always keep the details of the event a deep dark secret until thevery last minute - literally. Participants arrive at the Start notknowing where they have to go on Day 1, where they will be camping for thenight or what's in store on Day 2. Whilst there are different eventswithin the OMM for different levels of stupidity, they all have this secrecy incommon. Get there, get the details then go out onto the mountains and tryand find your way from point to point (and back again). As fast as youcan. Without killing yourself. Or anyone else. And whilststaying resolutely with your partner - failure to stick together being acapital offence resulting in instant death (well, disqualification to bestrictly accurate). What fun!

For this Old Git,it all starts with an innocent request for volunteers. From the OMMorganisers. Passed on by other members of my running club. Seen byme. I now should ignore such stuff - but somehow am swept up by theromance of it all. And the promise of a T-shirt and beany hat. Idiot. So do I have a clue what's involved? Do I jiggery. Sooff goes the email volunteering; to (I'm sure) a nice lady in Lancashire. I'm from Lancashire so that's a connection. Comes back theOK. Papers in the post.

A GordonHighlander (see 7 July 2009 blog for more about this brave person) has alsovolunteered and we trip together excitedly to the Marshalls' briefing centreset up as part of the Centre of Operations at Cultibraggan Camp just outside Comrie. Wereport as requested to one of the rusting Nissen huts wherein are Organiserslolling about and waiting just for us (possibly). Unfortunately for G,the organisers propose to send me with him onto the mountains for theweekend. This could end badly; he's heard almost all of my jokesalready. So we collect all the necessary supplies, maps so we can findwhere we're supposed to be, food from the local wildlife park catering centre(putting us therefore on the same level as a capercaillie or a wallaby),T-shirt and beanie, "Official" yellow vests, 'weatherproof'clipboards and Uncle Tom Cobley and All.

The weatherforecast is for rain. And wind. And more rain. And, on top ofeverything, more rain. And possibly lots of wetness from the sky. This promises to be fun, fun, fun. Whatever are the participantsthinking, we wonder? Possibly everything from 'Great!!' to '* ** *** *********'. We're thinking we need to get going at 0730 tomorrow. Howmuch spare clothing can one rucksack take? Not enough is sure to be theanswer. G proposes to bring a tent, a move that will prove inspired.

So Saturdaydawns. It's 0730BST; the last day of Official Summer Time. Summernormally involves a bright orange object in the sky, the sky itself at leastoccasionally drifting into the blue region of the spectrum. Today isactually borrowed partly from the Indian Monsoon (the rain), partly from acolour-blind artist (skies in multi-faceted shades of grey), partly from TVprogrammes about rogue builders (mud underfoot everywhere and rubbleobstructing almost every step) and Hollywood disaster movies involving burstdams that flood every conceivable natural channel across the landscape. And that's only the car park.

G kindly offershis 4x4 as transport so 0730 sees us drive off towards the Outdoor Centre (inthe middle of nowhere as these places usually are) where parking has beenorganised for such as we. And it rains. But we get there safelyand, confirming we are OK to park, we organise ourselves for a march up themountain. And it rains.

The first part ofour event takes us along a tourist route that is very pleasant on a warm, dry,summer's day. Today, it's a trip from quagmire to quagmire. And wehaven't even got off the path yet. Even a small burn has to be crossed bya farmer's rickety bridge. We have more serious water to cross before wereach our scheduled location - this should be fun...

All too soon, weare looking down on the raging torrent that once was a benign and gurglingScottish burn just waiting to be crossed with a skip and a hop. Noskipping or hopping today; certainly not by me with all too many kilos on myback. So up the bank we walk. And walk. And walk. As wereach a confluence, a quizzical look from my companion asks if I'm up forgetting across here. Possibly. Possibly not. Bearing in mindthat the downside of getting it wrong this weekend probably wouldn't just be abit of water in a boot but possibly bits of me floating down to Loch Tay, Igracefully decline. Let's try further up, I suggest. But then, hey- what am I here for anyway? Aren't the competitors going to have to dolots of this over many hours? What's the matter with me - am I a man or amouse? Squeak. We try further up.

And then,finally, the waters are narrow enough and my leg muscles and courage are strongenough for me to reckon it's OK. So G crosses - like a gazelle. Ifollow - like a geriatric camel. Must practice more, I hear myself (not)saying.

Safely acrossObstacle #1, G takes a compass bearing on our destination. Impressed, asI normally steer by the hairs on my wrist, we head upwards across heather andhags, squelching at every step. I work hard at using my walking poles toalert me to water traps ahead - and step regularly calf-deep intowaterholes. I am clearly incompetent. And out of practice at hillwalking; it really isn't the same as marathon running - it's definitely harder.

We squelchmanfully onwards and upwards towards the designated spot. As the lastescarpment looms and my legs resemble jelly tots, I suggest to G that heploughs on ahead to make sure we're on station on time. I struggle up behindand eventually crest the summit to see G in the process of erecting thetent. I manage to arrive on time but a joint effort to get some shelterfrom the wind and rain will pay many dividends. I add my incompetence tothe proceedings and very soon we have weather protection (sort of). G hasalso brought a small gas burner and mountain kettle so hot drinks areplanned. I brought a flask of hot coffee but that disappears in the firsthalf hour so the promise of more is very welcome. Of course, the weatherhates this idea so does its best to thwart the project. Mostly, theweather wins. We'll still be wet and cold.

Hardly have wegot ourselves (more or less) ready than the first customer turns up. Whatare these people made of? Something other-worldly clearly. Werecord the team number, check he has his companion with him plus their gear andoff they go. It rains. And the wind blows. We huddle into themouth of the tent. It's going to be a long six hours. I have put onmy best Gore-Tex jacket and trousers with suitable under-layers but it's like Ihadn't bothered. Cold and wet seems to be penetrating my skin through allthe layers. Will I be able to claim compensation for breaches of theTrades Descriptions Act? Maybe oilskins would be better. At leastthat way all my accumulated moisture would stay with me. That would beOK, I decide; I've got a cold anyway so can't smell a thing.

Teams start toarrive in dribs, drabs and lots of drips. We record faithfully. Wecontinue to get wet. And cold. We move around as best we can toalleviate the symptoms. I largely fail in this process. Two hoursin and the first bus-load arrives. The teams come thick and fast asthough they're following one another. Surely this can't be? What ifthe team at the front gets lost? Then they all get lost. I'massured by G that this is common and that the better teams avoid thistrap. I feel I am helping keep death off the hills by wearing myluminescent yellow all-weather jacket that can probably be spotted at a greatdistance. In this weather, I rather imagine that distance is about tenfeet.

The first rushsubsides. A perfect moment for severe cramp to wrack the insides of bothmy legs. It's like some-one poured acid into my veins and thenlaughed. I struggle to persuade my brain to issue louder instructions tomy legs to allow me to get to the vertical and move. I fail. I lieprostrate and flail about like a drunken duck. Slowly the acid recedesand what is possibly blood returns. I arise and move upright with all thegrace of a long-legged drunken penguin on steroids. I am wet. I amcold. I am, right now, probably even older than my birth certificate. I regroup and walk then jog around the site. Any more of this and I'll bea helicopter case. Little do I know that this isn't the low point.

Then more teamsappear and we are distracted from our conditions by our dedication to duty andthe needs of the results computer. Slowly the numbers of teams arrivingdiminishes. Slowly the hour of our scheduled departure approaches. Our tasks do not end when our position can be left. We are to collectanother piece of recording equipment and only then make our way back totransport, home and the comforts of dry clothes and hot water.

But then!! Miraculously, our hour of departure arrives and we quickly pack our belongingsready for the getaway. I manage to misunderstand and incorrectly removethe marker. I put it back equally quickly as G points out my error. I even manage to put it back into the same almost invisible hole it came outof; a small triumph out of a larger misery.

We set off forthe equipment we must find and, thanks to G's excellent navigation, find itpromptly, remove it and pack it in G's capacious rucksack. We wonder howto get back. Back the way we came? Lousy terrain and a significantdetour around the swollen burn. We opt for the other route where we cansee the alternative swollen burn but can't see any way across. We descendfor a closer look.

The burn lookseven more horrendous close up than it did from the top of the hill. Wewalk upstream. Nothing. We walk some more. Nothing. Wecan see where the burn is formed from at least two others. We walktowards them in hope. Then, it looks like we're in luck! G crossesburn #1 - elegantly. I follow - inelegantly. We approach burn#2. No way across so we must go upstream - again. Eventually, afterseemingly endless dangerous options, we find one that looks possible. Gagain crosses easily. I cross - my fingers. And just about manageto cross the burn without falling in or breaking any part of my anatomy.

We breast a riseand look down the glen. We are on the right side to get to the road butthe wrong side to get to the car. We have a long walk ahead. Andit's getting dark. We stride purposefully onwards - well, one of us does,the other stumbles and splashes his way behind as quickly as his once-crampedlegs will take him. This is familiar territory, having been here before,but that's no help if it gets dark.

As the lastglimmers of light rush off to the west, we cross the last thousand yards overfence, field and past graveyard to the final gate next to the road. Sod'sLaw dictates that a car approaches at precisely this moment causing G to stopto let it pass. He is unwittingly standing next to a large puddle thatthe car promptly shares with him as it passes. I come over the gate ontothe road in perfect time to miss the car-induced shower. As if we hadn'thad enough from the sky.

We walk towardsthe welcoming light of the lochside Hotel and I wonder aloud if G would preferto walk the last lap up the hill without his backpack. I'd have done thesame if it were my vehicle up the hill - honest. G kindly thinks this isa good idea and vanishes into the gloom to find his car. I wait outsidethe Hotel and enjoy the fact the rain has stopped, the temperature ispositively Mediterranean (well, about 11C anyway) and my legs don't hurt somuch. I even walk up and down to help keep the circulation going.

Soon, G returnssafely with car, we load the gear and away we go towards rest andrecuperation. G opines that today has been very tough. I wonder ifhe's just being kind to an OAP but apparently he means it. Tomorrow, wemust do this again. In a different place - thankfully. Withdifferent weather - hopefully. With less physical and mental distress -at least in my case.

Sunday dawnsbenignly. And we have a later start since our destination is only aboutan (easy-ish) hour from the car. We leave the vehicle in a familiar carpark and start an also-familiar walk across the sports field towards our spotfor the day. We've both been within a few hundred metres of the spot manytimes, the weather is clear and kind and, equipped as we are with maps andcompasses, we don't imagine we'll need them. The route steadily stiffensin gradient and my legs steadily stiffen in sympathy. We get to less thana mile away and G is worried we'll be late. I suggest he push on and I'llmeet him there. Good plan (possibly).

G disappears fromview and I amble onwards and upwards. Soon, it's time to leave therelative comfort of the made-for-vehicles track and head towards the Trig pointthat is our spot for the day. The plantation we'd agreed we'd walk roundactually looks less densely planted than I'd expected so I head in a directline through the first section towards what looks like a clearing beyond. It is. As I emerge and start crossing a heavily overgrown area, I hearthe sound of rushing water. Well, I did see a burn on the map. I didn'tthink. As I reach it, I can see that it's full to overflowing and lookspositively evil. I look left - no bridges there. I look right - isthat a practical bridge made from a fallen tree that I see? I headupstream for a couple of hundred yards until I can see the 'bridge'clearly. Probably sound enough to carry a small child. Possiblysound enough to carry a light adult with the skills of an acrobat and thestrength of a trained commando. Just the job.

I lean onto thenearest part and push downwards. To my surprise, I don't get a faceful ofwater. And no sounds of cracking wood. I lean with the otherhand. Still OK. I put one foot onto the end resting on the bank ofthe waterway and move a hand forwards. Still OK. Like a chameleoncaught in a headlight, I move slowly forwards one limb at a time. Onehand is now resting on wood that seems to be firmly anchored on the farbank. I put my right foot down - somewhere. The resulting sound ofwood cracking and breaking away as it falls into the water isn'tcomforting. I resume my chameleon impression and slowly get two hands anda foot somewhere onto the far bank. I throw myself forwards and scrambleungracefully onto the slope of ground that is safety. The 'bridge' is stillthere (mostly) and I'm not even damp. Unless you count where I think Iwet myself that is.

I look up and amastonished to find that, not only can I see through the trees to the opencountryside beyond, I can see G on the slope up to the Trig point only aboutthree hundred yards away. I pick myself up and reach the fence at theedge of the trees. I clamber over then find myself gently fallingbackwards at the height of my clambering. I summon up all the reservesand just about manage to recover some forward momentum and make it over thefence. Only a short climb and I'm there.

This is the pointwhen yesterday's exertions tell. The slope is littered with smallboulders through which ferns have grown. As my weariness grows, so doesmy fear of damage through slipping off one of these hard-to-see hazards. But soon enough the ground gets better even if the gradient doesn't. Itake plenty of breaks and survey the scenery which, today, is worth every wearystep. Soon, I breach the edge of what is a mini-plateau and see Gsnuggling down in the lee of the Trig point. I get there, drop thebackpack and survey the scene. Breathtaking. West into themountains, east towards Crieff and Perth, south to the Ochils with the northern prospect asweep of hills of many shades of - well, grey mostly.

We await ourfirst customer. And wait. Then wait some more. Apparently,we're an option today where we were a necessity yesterday. Sounds like mycareer. But then I spot spots on the next hill where most of the teamswill be coming from. The spots leave the summit and get spotty on thetrack leading towards our hill. Soon, it is clear we really are thetarget and two spots gradually resolve themselves into runners intent onreaching our eyrie. As the first one reaches us, we can't see thesecond. But very shortly, he also appears and all is well. Werecord them and wish them well on their way.

Soon, the nearbyhill is infected with chickenpox as spots become a rash and the rash rushestowards us. Excitement! We steadily record, exchange banter, hearof events of yesterday and enjoy the lack of rain and the comparatively balmywinds. The skies persist in limiting blueness to short glimpses -probably just to tease us and entertain themselves - but also persist in not shovellingwater down on us. We are thankful.

But then - a lonerunner! And no equipment! We point out that the rules require us toreport this breach; you may be disqualified says G. You're ****** saysI. Go get your kit and your mate or your weekend finishes here, Iresolutely declare with Official authority that I almost certainly don'thave. The young man slopes off down the slope and we expect to see him nomore. But we are mistaken!! He returns a few minutes later completewith kit and mate. We remove the Official Report Of Rule-Breaking and bidthem adieu. We are happy we have fulfilled Our Duty.

But you'd neverAdam and Eve it - another lone runner. He pleads that his companion iscream-crackered and can't make it up the hill. We are resolute. Hedeparts. We expect to see him no more. Time passes. He hasclearly taken our report badly. But then, what is this we see? Hereturns many minutes later complete with knackered companion and fullkit. We aren't sure whether congratulations or commiserations are inorder. At least they believed that they would be DQ'd by our report andstill felt the OMM was worth it. Amazing.

Soon the clockmoves towards our departure time. The spots on the hill now disappearelsewhere than in our direction. We are alone for the last hour and moreof our sojourn. But now it's time to go and we agree to leave the hill bya different route to our arrival. This route is straightforward anddoesn't involve a dodgy burn crossing. Whilst I wouldn't have missed theexcitement of the morning's journey (much), this is a welcome change from,well, everything. We cover the ground at what passes for my normalwalking pace and it seems we are very quickly at the place where another OMMOfficial is stationed. She momentarily wonders why we are emerging froman entirely wrong direction but G quickly points our that, despite our beingincognito, we are also Official Personnel. We all laugh and we passonwards towards the car park.

The finish of theevent is where the car is parked so we go and see what's happening. Weare delighted to find that some of our fellow Harriers are there to cheer onthe Harriers' teams that are competing as they finish. Our famed Doctoris overdue and his Doctor missus is concerned. A few minutes later, heturns up safe and well - if shattered. We shall see him later for thefull story. We depart to OMM HQ to report in.

At HQ, we hand inthe necessaries and are therefore counted as safe and well as opposed to stillapproaching death on the mountains. Food and drink are also being servedso we avail ourselves of the hot tea and seek out our fellow Harriers for somecraich. The event seems to have been both successfully completed and tohave caused drop-outs amongst our fellow Harriers. I am amazed anyonegets round at all. And the organisation is impressive. Anyonewanting to organise a big outdoor party should call these guys.

So to home. And its comforts. Wife decides to accept an offer of work and I returnonly to a dog and a dinner (which fortunately isn't inside the dog). Iclean up (myself), eat the dinner and clean up again. My bodyhurts. And I've not run. I haven't even walked very far. ButI hurt a lot. Still, I'll be fine after a good night's rest - won't I?

Monday morning. Harriers run - in Comrie from the very car park I was in last evening. Wife transports me there though I am unsure this is a wise move - being there,not the transporting. We assemble. We set off towards thehills. I get a few hundred metres down the track and realise the fuelgauge really IS on empty. I put common-sense before Male Pride andstop. My companion of the moment offers her car keys so I can await theirreturn in comfort. She is kind. I am old. I agree. Iwalk back towards the cars and meet two of the OMM organisers on their way torecover OMM material still lying scattered on the hills. We exchangebrief comments on the weekend during which I suggest they lose my contactdetails for any further trawls for volunteers. They laugh. Inside,I cry.

I take four daysto recover to anything like normality. My running is still rubbish twoweeks later - but since that's normal I'm not sure if the OMM weekend has yetleft my body. What is certain is that any admiration I harboured theoreticallyfor OMM competitors now has legs. I really DO admire them now. Ialso realise that NOT running whilst on a cold, wet and windy mountain saps thelife force. At my state of life it does anyway. So from now on,visits to mountains will be accompanied by exercise. Anyone who asks mein future to be stationary thereon for more than the time it takes to consume ajelly baby can (expletive deleted) off.

26.2 miles and still no sign of Nessie

2011-10-05T17:17:00.001+01:00

WARNING!!!! - This article may contain flash photography and is and has a loud report. Do NOT enter this site unless you are in possession of a certified sense of humour and have mislaid any taste for quality literature. No responsibility is taken for any consequences brought on by readers laughing too much (or too embarrassingly).

So, many hundreds of unsuspecting victims (numbered for the later identification of their mortal remains) are herded aboard innocent-looking buses in Inverness and driven with armed escort through the dreich and unwelcoming terrain to their uncertain futures. As the convoy turns off the main highway south onto a narrow and dangerous trackway, the victims fear the worst. The safety and security that lies beyond the stone edifice that is Adrian's may never be seen again. Local inhabitants shiver behind closed animal skins in their rough and ready shelters, not daring to see so many going to their painful destiny. Flashing lights on the escort vehicles only add to their fearfulness. How glad they are that such a fate does not lie in wait for them this Sabbath morn.

All too soon, the convoy slows as it passes the elements of the temporary camp set up to process this latest batch of victims. Guards with yellow clothing identify themselves as the cruel enforcers of The Organiser's will. At a single command, the victims are cast out into the dreich and horrible conditions to see for themselves what fate had decreed. Some attempt an immediate escape into the surrounding countryside but soon realise that the hostile terrain is only good for relieving themselves upon - so do so shamelessly, men and women alike with only despair in their hearts. Some cling to one another; some quietly queue for the blue boxes wherein lies temporary relief and the possiblility of asphyxiation to bring a swifter end to their misery. Women follow men follow women follow more women follow more women until the blue boxes themselves screech for relief. All to no avail as stomachs knot, bowels clench and bodies shiver. The Final Terror, anticipated by many during at least sixteen weeks of cruel preparation, has finally arrived. Can Death be any worse?

Then, before ears can be properly covered, the worst sound of all. Drowning out the howling and piteous cries of the victims as they seek shelter and pain relief in the tiny blue boxes, a fearsome gang of skirling storm troopers assails the air with its raucous and savage war cries. Dressed in the uniforms worn by local men and women troopers alike, this group of feared assassins, each weighing nearly 50Kgs each (that's eight stones in old money), march triumphantly through the victims to stamp their mark on each one's psyche. Terror indeed before the pain to come.

And so the victims are herded out of their blue boxes, rounded up from their attempt to escape into the surrounding countryside under the guise of a simple call of nature and pushed willy-nilly towards the start of their ordeal. Both willies and nillies shiver. The Leader of the Persecutors barks at them through a power-assisted loudhailer and explains. As a generous gesture from The Organiser, those who have paid the demanded bribe will be given the chance to escape to Freedom. A gun will be fired. Someone may be shot. But it will be a signal that the victims can make their bid for Freedom down the narrow road ahead.

Can this be a trick when reality will lead to a painful and lingering end? Mostly unbeknowns to the victims, "Freedom" is relative. Successful escapees will be required to drink thick glutenous material and consume local taste-free 'biscuits' together with material cooked inside a sheep's stomach. And drink local liquids kept in cellars for who knows how many years whilst it no doubt rots into the colour of human waste. Foreign victims, brought to the area by wicked capitalists who do not stop at forcing their victims to pay exorbitant bribes just for proferring plastic in payment, are told by local victims that such material is highly regarded both in its country of origin and around the world. And this unappetising-sounding fare is celebrated by locals and ex-patriots and admirers of such produce every year once Christmas and the New Year has been safely passed. Some dead bloke's birthday is used as the excuse to get completely frazzled again. Unimpressed by this intelligence, the victims become aware that the sound of many knees knocking has started to drown out the skirling.

As the Old Git ambles aimlessly around, he hears his name called. Who knows he's here, he wonders? Turning round as the better option to standing there trying to guess, he espies two lovelies from his gang at the Internment Camp. They await their turn at the blue boxes and are desperate for distraction. He wanders over and distracts them. Has the Old Git seen any other members of the gang? Does he have any words of elderly wise advice? Does he know if the blue boxes are all still functioning? Does he care? The answer in all cases is 'No'. They fall silent. He awaits their blue box moments and agrees not to record any aspects (as has been known elsewhere). He unusually keeps his word.

The Old Git and the two lovelies wander towards the baggage train. Here, the Organiser promises to keep the victims possessions safe until they are able to reclaim them at the site of their Freedom. The Old Git is suspicious; this has a dark and evil resemblance to promises made to others elsewhere. The lovelies laugh and tell him he is a daft old illegitimate and persuade him to part with his only warm clothing. He wonders if he will live to regret this decision. He wonders if he will live. But they are lovelies, so what could possibly go wrong when a male listens to female siren voices?

But then - the Start is delayed! Did this mean there is a stay of execution? Has the Organiser decided to return the victims whence they came? No. It is but a cruel trick to keep the victims milling around in the cold and the wet for the further amusement of the well-clothed guards. And how they laugh as small females and large males alike try to keep some small parts warm. Some have more success in this than others. Guards leer as the drenching rain provides interesting patterns on female clothing.

Then it is the dreaded countdown. The Organiser's man on the loudhailer accordingly tries to rearrange a jumble of letters into a coherent sentence - but fails. Victims try to rearrange their numbers into the secret combination - but fail. From the powerful loudhailer pours incomprehensible jabber as victim after victim is named and taunted to try his or her luck at the forthcoming escape. Oh cruelty! Carol Vorderman, where are you now?

Suddenly, it's 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1 - GO!!! Bang!! (Don't say you weren't warned that this was a loud report.)

The Great Escape is on. Victims pour out into the countryside and follow the trail of increasingly soggy and vanishing breadcrumbs left out to guide them back. The Organiser cunningly secretes his own people amongst the victims to pretend that escape is real and that pain is imagined. His people race on ahead and out of sight whilst the real victims struggle onwards through the mist. Young and old. Male and female. 48 nationalities the loudhailer proudly hails loudly. All doomed. A veritable United Nations diaster unfolds. If only those nice young men in blue helmets would appear.

Some victims will never make it. Vehicles painted in a reassuring white and red colour scheme mistakenly lead a few poor victims into thinking that relief from pain lies inside. Instead, only humiliation beckons as other victims pour past thinking they are the lucky ones. This could be a long bad Sunday.

HIdden amongst the victims is an Old Git. He knows it is he because his 'friends' have tattooed it on his back and on all his clothing. Others smirk at the name but he won't have it. He stays healthy as he surrounds himself with a no-smirking zone. And this is his chance to escape to Freedom. His chance to run and become - something. Swift of thought as always, he realises that his opportunity lies amongst the least fortunate of the victims. He cunningly hides himself amongst the laggards and the sloths as they fall away at the tail of the snake that is growing along the shores of the Beastly Lake. Tales are told of slithering creatures inhabiting the lake that come out at the bidding of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to attack and consume innocent humans. None alive has seen The Beast but many know it to be there - just waiting. We are all on guard. Some even try to take photographs. But not, this time, our Old Git (whose camera isn't waterproof).

Cruelly, the Organiser has marked up how far the victims have to travel to reach Freedom; every mile (that's 1.6km for those readers unable to cope with these last vestiges of Imperial Rule). Thankfully, as the pain increases, the realisation of the distance to Freedom diminishes until all is just a haze of chemicals. But this is for the future. The far future. For now it is just the next mile that matters.

Sadistically, the Great Escape starts downhill. Unthinking victims race onwards and burn the very fuel they will need in the hours to come. The Old Git is wiser. He ambles. He jogs. He concentrates. His amazing capacity for mental arithmetic ensures he can work out how far it is still to go at each mile marker; many cannot and race on at an unsustainable pace for which they will pay dearly as the sun sinks towards the West.

Still the rain falls. Mile One. Mile Two. Mile Three. An opinion is voiced near the Old Git that hail will surely fall. Nearby victims are cheered by this innocent stupidity and laugh loudly at the source of the opinion. She falls silent. The Old Git ponders. Others are just ponderous. As Mile Four threatens to arrive, the witch predicting hail has her incantations answered and indeed the victims find themselves in the midst of a ferocious hail storm and suffer tiny bouncing white ice balls across their already-suffering feet. Thankfully, the witch's spell is a weak one and the hail quickly gives way to cold rain. Thankfully - yeah.

By now, the bus-loads of victims has strung out to a colourful string snaking its way across the verdant area that lies atop the lake's craggy limits. Small hamlets are passed as the local inhabitants bravely overcome their fear and watch as the victims parade past. Some jeer and shout in a pretence of encouragment but the victims know the reality and largely ignore these cruel sounds. As a Master of Irony (Upper Second), the Old Git cheerfully acknowledges these cries with a hearty 'Thank you' and 'Your turn next year' as he passes. He is not fooled.

Time passes - but few other victims now pass the Old Git. He is starting to pass some of those who unwisely rushed down the early hill. He is in danger of succombing to smugness but keeps this emotion in firm check in favour of gritted teeth and gritted energy bars that he secreted about his person before leaving the Departure Camp. A short sharp incline in the road brings further misery to some - but not yet the Old Git. Those months of suffering on the hills alone, cold and miserable but determined are paying a small dividend. Very small.

Soon the second short sharp rise signals the nearness of the place where the world's cinemas and theatres have for decades sought their entrance designs and materials. Other scoff but Foyers is not French after all. But we pass by on our quest to reach Freedom, unimpressed by local achievements. We are now in the territory of The Beast. We shiver, even though the rain has now thankfully stopped. We are fearful and wonder at the bravery of those who come from far and wide to seek out The Beast. It becomes clear they are not brave - just stupid. Many purchase knick-knacks that purport to represent The Beast - the one that no living soul has seen. Who in China knows what it looks like that they can make such stuff? We are not interested in such matters; Freedom is our only goal.

Through tiny community after tiny community we struggle - but it's useless. We'll never get the pronunciation of their names right. Men with huge army rucksacks on their backs are passed as they pretend to be part of the escape plan. We do not know what might be in their sacks but we are afraid to guess. One swift burst of gunfire would bring down a whole generation of Freedom-seekers. We hold our breath (well, we don't manage this actually) and hope we're wrong. We pass safely. There is no following cascade of metal travelling at high velocity. Perhaps it waits up ahead. We press on.

Suddenly - there is the sign that says 'Half-way'! Actually, it doesn't but the Old Git's arithmetical genius realises that 13 miles is probably about there. If the sign is true. If. We grab water proferred by local missionaries (probably from China) and hope that there are no Beastly frights awaiting. As long as there is someone near me who runs more slowly than me, thinks the Old Git, I should be OK. The Beast can have them whilst I escape. Possibly.

A brief gap in the untamed undergrowth and overgrowth allows the Old Git to see what he knows to be Urquhart Castle. In the deeps nearby is rumoured to be the Lair of The Beast. We shiver again, this time in sunshine so we know we really are scared. We do our best to hurry on and reach the relative safety of Dores. It is the only one yet is more usually referred to as "a Dores" by those who love it. Locals are very strange.

Many long years ago, a road builder known by the courtesy title of 'General' came through the area and built a road. He was not qualified to do anything else. Regrettably, he also pocketed a large part of the fee he was paid that was scheduled for the building of a deep cutting (or even a tunnel) towards the north-east. This failure has resulted in there being a long hill along the road in that direction instead of comfortable flat access for horse-drawn carriages and foot travellers to the sea. His wickedness shall not be forgotten by the victims today as the dreaded Hill of Dores looms.

The Old Git smiles. He grasps the bottle of 'water' proferred by one of the missionaries but decides it may be contaminated by human waste so wisely does not partake. One of The Organiser's photo goons spots this and records the scene. Perhaps the Old Git has unwittingly gained The Organiser's approval. Perhaps Freedom awaits. Perhaps.

So to the Hill of Doom. Another victim asks "Is this the hill?". The Old Git confirms this dreaded news. The questioner falls back in despair and disarray. The Old Git plods on, maintaining what is technically known as a 'run', albeit his speed seems to suggest otherwise. He enters the nursery slopes of the Hill with determination in his soul, who-knows-what in his bottle and socks in his shoes. All is ready for the assault. He goes for it.

Around the first bend he labours; but still he runs. Up ahead, he sees many victims walking. In fact, he can't see that any of them are running but instead all are walking. Can he be alone in using this technique to conquer the hill? He concentrates on getting both feet off the ground at the same time, albeit for a fraction of a second. This will enable him to confirm to the watching goons that he is indeed 'running'. He hopes they will be pleased with him. Mid-way up the hill, one of the goons (clearly more important since he has his own vehicle and is not sharing it with anyone else) shouts out what seems like encouragement. Unfooled, the Old Git merely smiles and maintains his technique. He is determined. The false summits on this hill will not deter him from achieving a 'ran it all the way' sticker from the lovelies at Freedom's door. The thought of them spurs him on as he passes walker after walker - so many indeed that shortbread seems imminent.

The slope of the road starts to diminish. It diminishes some more. It reaches a crescendo of diminuendo. The road is flat! The Hill of Doom is conquered by an Old Git! Surely future generations will erect a small blue plaque to mark the event. The Old Git is hopeful; he likes erections and has many photographs of them from around the world.

Can Freedom now be far? Can that sound dimly heard in the far distance be the noise he has been so desperate to hear? The sound of laughing from joyous victims as they reach Freedom and cry out their joy.

He is distracted by another victim passing him. She is clearly desperate and distraught, conditions that have given wings to her feet and ugliness to her face. The Old Git plods on. He knows. Sure enough, she slows and walks. The Old Git passes her. No words of encouragement does he utter. Just that distant look that tells of a brain focussed on the achievement of a lifetime. He may be old enough to be disposable but he intends to be seriously hard to flush down the pan today. Let others be the effluent of the human race; it is only this race - to Freedom - that matters to the Old Git. Save your soluble paper for others, he seems to say - I am indissoluble.

The natural terrain gives way to the hand of man. Buildings spring up as if from nowhere and crowds surge forwards to see the Old Git as he enters the final phase of the dash for Freedom. He doesn't dash. He is patient. He keeps to his schedule and plods on. He knows he could look flash and run like a gazelle towards the bag ladies but declines this Devil's temptation in favour of modest gentleness along the riverside that leads to Freedom. He hears the ever-increasing volume of sound from Freedom Park and smiles inwardly whilst outwardly maintaining the fiction that he is on his last legs.

Running continues. He will run all the way. He will triumph. He will have his Freedom.

From the other side of the river, he sees that the Organiser has another of his photo goons stationed to capture final images of near-death. Unwilling to be a disappointment to the Organiser, he reluctantly adopts what he believes to be the correct persona for the final few hundred metres to the finish. He is relieved afterwards to find he struck just the right note between life and death - still alive but heading fast for death. He is not quite sure that the photo goon completely captures his amazing physique at its peak of photogenic excellence but accepts that life is rarely perfect. A little light retouching on the computer will cure all that.

And so Freedom is achieved. Quietly squirting a dose of fluid up his shorts, the Old Git poses for a final revealing photo before visiting the bag ladies for his bag and T-shirt that remind him he is only free on licence. He may (subject to witness statements to the contrary) have run all the way, he may have reached Freedom quicker than ever before in his life (styled a 'PB' - or 'Properly Beggared' - by his admiring friends), he may have passed many other victims whose fate is now unknown - yes, he may. We'll never know for sure.

So five hours, five minutes and 42 seconds after leaving the dreich and wind-swept uplands on his dash for Freedom, the Old Git finally walked. Then sat. Then lay down. Then slept. But sleep does not bring relief; he can't forget. The memory of the other victims who could not do as he did haunts him. He must avenge them. He must do this again. He must be chucking nuts.

No wonder his 'friends' know him as the Old Git.

Great Scottish Run - Glasgow Sunday 4th September 2011

2011-09-06T18:47:00.000+01:00

Prelims.

Last year, A Moron entered the Great Scottish Run - a half marathon event around the streets of Glasgow. His intended running companion - The Kindly Nurse first seen on 21st March 2010 (blogs passim) - was stricken of the palsy and unable to run. Being the stalwart she is, she nonetheless accompanied The Moron as his Support Team; she is everlastingly kind to the nation's Morons. In the event (ho-ho), The Moron ran 2hrs 7mins 8secs and was happy with that. In the circumstances, The Nurse agreed to do it together with The Moron in 2011.

This is the story. Some of it is close to the truth.

The Moron's eye is currently on Loch Ness - the monster that is the marathon. With that in mind, trying to get back to the mileages done in April in preparation for the Edinburgh Marathon in May (blogs passim) has proved arduous. For reasons that even an Old Git can't fathom (confirming The Moron also as an Old Git), hill-running (when running up hills is so hated) has taken precedence over road-running to build up whatever it is in the legs and other bits.

18 August. Decide to run Legs 1,2,3 & 4 of the infamous Strathearn Harriers 5x5 relay race. For those with Ordnance Survey maps and an empty diary indicating no social life, the route goes (roughly) Crieff - Knock Mary - White Drums - Turleum Hill - Auchingarrich - Comrie - up between Cluain and Braefordie - Glen Turret dam - Hosh - Crieff. Around 34 kms. The relay race adds in a circuit of Laggan Hill (Leg 5).

Since the next day was Moron/Old Git's birthday, calling up a (family) taxi after Leg 3 might be a good move. Got there, had enough so did. So ended up running just over 27 kms. And had a nice birthday. But the whole route hadn't been done. So of course had to have another go. Well, I am The Moron.

25 August. Off to Englandshire in the morning for a few days R&R at a funeral so decided that this would be a good day to have another go at Legs 1,2,3 & 4. This time, another Nurse decides to accompany me as far as Comrie in case I collapse or otherwise injure myself. This kindly lady normally brings her tendering skills to horticulture but decides I am weedy enough to qualify for her expertise.

So TKL's car is stashed at Comrie, return to Crieff and set off. TKL gallops off and is about a hundred metres ahead before she realises the Moron isn't there. A brief stop and the party is all together again. And proceeds glacially towards North Bridge, Alichmore and Knock Mary. The sheer athleticism of the pacing shows once again that, when it comes to the timing of athletic events, the stopwatch can sometimes be less useful than the calendar.

So through the woodland clearances, across the Balloch Road and onto Turleum. Upwards & upwards. MacHinery (one of the few 'Macs' you won't find in the telephone directory) has been busy turning the path beyond the TV mast into a motorway for logging trucks. Plough on. More upwards & upwards. Then finally downwards through The Maze until Auchingarrich appears. And so through the last of the countryside to emerge through Cowden into Comrie.

TKL reports Legs 1 & 2 as 'OK' and leaps into car before The Moron persuades her into Leg 3.

So off into Serious Territory and the climb to Braefordie. More a walk than a run. More of both feet on the ground at the same time than attempting to fly. Then after Proper Hill #1, NN780235 still threatens death as the marsh crossing remains a Moron's Nightmare. But all is safely negotiated with the prize of Proper Hill #2 to climb. But soon, Braefordie is below and to the right and the easterly path to Loch Turret beckons. Bliss.

Comes the dam, comes the judgement. How's the Old Git doing? OK, actually. So no taxi then today. And a nice descent to Hosh and home. There's them as hates descents like I hate ascents. Can't understand why that makes me The Moron. But it fits Old Gits. Anyway, steady does it and Home appears in just about five hours since I left. Glacial. But done.

So is The Moron ready for the Great Scottish Run? And what about the Old Git? Read on (as usual, only if you have both a sense of humour and no taste).

4 September - Race Day. Not just The Moron and The Nurse this year. Lots of Harriers are excited by the moronic experience last year and decide they also wish to share in the excitement that is the GSR. So two cars; nine Harriers. And a tenth meeting us there (supposedly). Pick up folk in Crieff and Braco and head off for The Big City.

Suggest parking near #1 daughter's flat. Handy for use of the loo and only a short walk to the Start. Arrive safely. Park. Ring bell. Use keys to enter building. Knock on door but go in anyway. Daughter wrapped only in towels announces she'd forgotten about our intended pit stop and attempts excoriation on Father. Use of facilities proceeds calmly anyway. We leave, Old Git a chastened parent.

Outside, a proposal to park nearer the Finish is approved by a show of hands. It is suggested the loos at the Finish will be quieter than those at the Start. This seems likely - and too intelligent a decision for A Moron. We leave and reach the appointed location where all normal space is occupied. We ignore this detail and park at the front and back of the line of parked cars anyway. Note that my tow bar is hovering close to double yellow lines. Then remembrance strikes. Glasgow Traffic Wardens don't do Sundays. It's against their religion (or possibly two). We should be safe.

Take whatever seems appropriate and leave the cars. We trust they're not torched in the meantime. Wander towards Glasgow Green to seek out the loos. It is not certain whether the sense of Vision or of Smell will be the more useful. The Lead Team (possibly using all senses) finds the loos unerringly and use is made of them.

This enables the group to desport themselves before a willing camera.

Nicola demonstrates the size she expects her bump to be when her forthcoming pregnancy reaches eight months. Kerry thinks trying to hide behind Alastair's humerus is humorous. The Nurse screeches in supposed pain as the Moron gently treats her to a Vulcan mind grip. The Moron practices his famous moronic grin; clearly a work in progress. A doctor tries to remember if he gave the Nurse adequate quantities of the Moron's medicine to see them both through the next three hours. The doctor wisely decides he couldn't care less.

An excited crowd gathers in George Square. A mother briefs her child about the correct techniques for avoiding being crushed under foot in the first mile. The child confirms it has understood. Two almost incognito Strathearn Harriers (The Nurse given away by her largely-irrelevant white golf visor) survey the scene as they try to work out how to cross the barriers without getting set upon by the local Jobsworths. They eventually need to be led to the Green Sector by The Moron as he boldly leaps the intervening obstructions in complete disregard for his own safety. A Moron indeed.

Soon, the safety of the Green Sector envelopes itself around our brave trio. Extremely tall people, specially bred in Glasgow on a diet of tablet, haggis and Tennent's Excuse For Lager, parade around with colourful flags denoting the various cattle pens to be used for the start. The cattle wait (im)patiently for their time at the abattoir that is the Glasgow streets. The sun still shines. The organiser's loudspeakers still blare incoherent messages.

The Nurse worries about the friends she has arranged to meet. What chance in this crowd?.... Clearly none, thinks The Moron.

The Nurse appears forlorn. Unhappy she that wears the crown.

But what is this?? Out of the clear blue sky appears The Nurse's friend!! All is smiles, sweetness and harmony. Love is restored.

So overwhelmed is The Nurse that she consents to be photographed once more with her charge. The Moron is happy. It is too long since any female was prepared to be alone with him. Being moronic, he is temporarily unaware they are not alone. He will rejoin the real world shortly.

The Nurse's mood is lifted further when a young stranger offers also to be photographed with her and The Moron. The Nurse likes fit young men. The Moron can't work out how The Nurse knows the young man is fit since she hasn't seen him run yet. The Nurse confirms he is 'fit' even if he can't run for toffee. The Moron doesn't understand but is glad The Nurse is now happy.

In the distance, the organiser's Storm Troopers force the Green Pen cattle to shuffle forwards in sight of the Start. In the distance, a reportedly famous decathlete (an athlete who takes his coffee without caffeine) is spotted being jocular. Another man with a gold chain round his neck (signifying he is an important criminal) checks whether he can leap off the bus to freedom amongst the mass of runners. It seems he has decided not. In any case, behind him his armed guard reloads the pump-action shotgun available for the prevention of such foolishness.

All is finally ready for the Green contingent to be liberated. One of the Red Stormtroopers points his red noise generator towards the rapidly-vanishing Blue Pen cattle and urges the Greens onwards and upwards. Free at last, we stagger forwards and take up our well-practised race-pace shuffle. Ten-minute miles, here we come!!

Soon the ranks of the Green unwashed thin and the 5280-foot mark appears. The Moron and The Nurse have reached here in - ten minutes!! Amazing pacing!! Amazing skill!! (OK, shut up with the self-promotion and get on with this rubbish. Ed.) Can this continue? Will this be a negative split (i.e. a gap in the seam at the back of the shorts)?

Remorselessly, the trail of puffers and panters drags its way towards the river crossing that is the Kingston Bridge. We all hope the organisers have remembered to have the road closed. There'll be trouble 't mill if not. Soon, the panorama that is South Glasgow unfolds. Bomb-sites still left unloved after 70 years are empty of the weekday parkers who fail to realise the SECC is nearly a mile away. Still, the weather allows us to (nearly) see Europe's largest windfarm so all is not lost.

As the participants reach the centre of the magnificent arch that spans the River Clyde, the Strathclyde Constabulary are on full alert should anyone already be distressed enough to consider jumping. A full cohort of brave officers stand ready for action. We are all impressed.

We pass on and are unable to stop and stare at the image of the Clyde overlooked by blue skies and fluffy white clouds. Around the City, bairns enquire of their loving parents what the orange ball in the sky means. Older, wiser Glaswegians point gently at the triangle of red on their chests just below the throat and say "That's a real Glasgow tan. You don't get many of them to the pound, ah'll tell ye." We all continue mindlessly on.

Little do we suspect that we are being watched from above. Apart from the Police snipers and drug dealers' lookouts, there is a higher power. Paisley Road West looms and La Fiorentina, an eating place recently landed as a kit of parts from Italy, hosts a golden icon of almost unparalled beauty (apart from most of Italy, France, Egypt, etc., - Ed.). We are humble in its presence and pass by in dutiful obeisance.

A little further down the road and the four-mile marker is spotted amongst architecture arguably the rival of La Fiorentina's. We consider ourselves fortunate to witness the results of generous Glaswegian entrepreneurs building lasting monuments to their own memory. Tartan Fish & Chips will repeatedly remind us of their quality. Customers enquiring "Gie us a Tartan fash 'n' chaps, will ya hen" will doubtless be informed that the emporium only supplies the food; other entertainment of a more intimate and personal nature is to be found next door.

And so to the countryside we roam. We enter Bellahouston Park where we reach 26400 feet of endeavour. Being A Moron, thoughts drift aimlessly around the word 'Bellahouston'. Is this an Italian's description of a large beautiful city in Texas, US of A? If so, he clearly left his glasses at home. Was it his mistress? Is it 'Beautiful - House - Town'? Does anyone care? Not today. We just pass through it and consider we're not even half-way yet.

The Nurse is suddenly struck. In the bladder. Find a receptical quickly. Moron suggests behind a transport container. The Nurse declines to do a 'Paula'. A row of containers is spotted! Quickly!!! Aaaaaaaah, the relief. The Moron wonders why the container suggests it to be a place where a man and a woman can have an 'Event'. He wonders what an 'Event' is. Should he join The Nurse and ask for an 'Event' demonstration? Shyness overcomes his curiosity and he contents himself with chatting to the queue outside the containers.

But then!! Out comes The Nurse with some signs of disarray. Her greeting is not of the "Lovely to see you waited; let's carry on." accompanied by a friendly and warm smile. No, indeed it is not! Her countenance reveals her inner turmoil (that she had hoped would be left in the container) and the need for The Moron to support her as she resumes her athletic endeavours. He is considerate and thoughtful as he files the photograph under "For Publication".

But The Moron is himself about to be discommoded. In the innocent act of acquiring a record of the six-mile point of the event, a young ruffian brutishly assaults the poor ignoramous causing him nearly to fall to the earth with the danger of potentially life-threatening injury. Most fortunately, his dedication to learning the techniques of the Pilots (that's 'Pilates', you Moron - Ed) enables him to quickly recover his fabled balance and quickly rejoin The Nurse as she continues ambling towards Nirvana. She is relieved for a second time, in this case because all is well.

Seven miles comes and goes in a blur. The half-way point is passed. Surely it's all downhill from here. Polloks to all that, thinks The Moron.

The Nurse suddenly becomes aware she may have inadvertently mislaid a couple of items of female apparatus. Like model trains, designed for children but mostly played with by men, this apparatus forms an essential part of many women's je ne sais quoi. Its loss can be a disaster. And the cost can't be reclaimed on the household insurance. The Moron is worried. "Have I made a boob?" he enquires. "If you have, can you make a couple?", The Nurse wittily rejoins. But the situation is rapidly rectified as The Moron unveils his everlasting support. It may have been made in China but it is a good brand.

Just a little further on, The Nurse asks "Do you know we're at eight miles now?" The One-Man Band recognises the title and immediately starts the chorus. Like the bees, The Moron doesn't know the words so just hums. As does his clothing. Increasingly. Eminem would be proud.

Then nine miles. Spectators applaud at the sight of runners leaving the Polloks and the promise that they can go round Pollok Country Park in peace very soon. Only four miles and a bit (thanks, Queen Mary) to go.

The ten-mile sign appears with rubbish underneath it. There are also a lot of discarded water bottles.

The Nurse starts to feel happy at the thought that the worst is behind her. She hasn't realised that a Jeep Cherokee is even worse than a Renault Clio.

Eleven miles is a forlorn sight with nothing interesting to say for itself. Only one more real milepost to go.

Twelve miles. The Moron is bored. Three harmless old men are gently serenading the competitors towards their last jog down the riverbank to the exciting finish. What have they done to deserve the interruption by A Moron? Nothing. They are blameless. A startled passer-by thinks this must be part of an important film about the eccentric city that is Glasgow. But no, it is only A Moron with nothing better to do on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

The Nurse moves on. The Moron dutifully follows. The musical group returns to normality (decent music on a Glasgow street is normal? - Ed). Tomorrow all will be forgotten. Especially The Moron.

And so our intrepid adventurers reach the bank of the River Clyde and battle their way through the exhausted throng to the finishing straight. The Moron bullies The Nurse into a sprint for the line so they can pass an otherwise innocent woman who has irritated The Moron. The Nurse feigns exhaustion then reveals her true level of fitness.

It is clear from The Nurse's priority to reach for her electronic gadget that The Moron has served his purpose and can now be dismissed. He slinks off with a heavy heart to collect his unnecessarily bronzed medal. The colour merely rubs in his status as the bottom row of the podium, the low level in the athletic food chain. And he's an Old Git.

The Nurse, being kindly, then relents and gets The Moron a banana. This is ostensibly to restore Potassium levels in The Moron's body but is really The Nurse pointing up what a monkey she thinks he is. The pair trudge off in search of goody bags and other Harriers. A flashing wave over the heads of the milling throng identifies a Harrier (who often moonlights as a hairdresser) wanting water. The Nurse and The Moron steal a handful or two of free water bottles and make their way towards the hairdresser. Reunification is under way.

Soon, most of the Harriers' group that together made its way to The Big City are reunited. One husband has gone missing and one Harrier who arrived separately has never been seen so is presumed dead. She later turns up safely but feels that she did end up feeling as though she was dead - so that's all right then. The husband remains unfound as the group leave the Finish but is later reunited with his distraught family. Apparently, he was off feeding dolphins and lost track of time (see the blog of June this year for more on this remarkable man).

So, in the unlikely sunshine of Glasgow, ended a Day To Remember (well, maybe for the rest of the week). The medal count was better than the British Olympic Athletics team - so that's something. Every one of us that started managed to finish. Some did brilliant times; everyone did times to be proud of. Some of us got to the finish with something we hadn't started with (like a minor photo collection) even if all of us left some weight on the course. We'll put the weight back on, of course, in the form of useful material such as curry, chips, beer, wine, whisky and other recommended dietary supplements. Then we'll go out training to lose it again.

Days like this can make it seem like everyone these days is out running (or doing some other active sport). But they're not. We're still a minority in an increasingly fat and unfit world. Sometimes we look like a mad minority. But at least it's a madness with great payback.

And The Moron and his doppleganger The Old Git got no better - in any respect. So that's all right then.

The things which I have seen I now can see no more (Billy Wordsmith)

2011-08-05T20:41:00.000+01:00

OK - this isn't a treatise on Wordsworth or rambling on about poetry (sorry, any poetry-lovers out there). It's still my ramblings about the pain and suffering of running. But poets have their place and it should be close to our hearts - if we have any sensitivity. Crooked lawyers, business leaders, journalists, police and politicians also have their place - at the bottom of a deep hole - whilst runners hold their own in a place amongst the slightly wacky and eccentric members of the Human Race where most non-runners place us. Non-runners have a point.

So what, I hear you impatiently ask.

Edinburgh, and its painful (to me) Marathon was nearly 11 weeks ago. The Loch Ness Marathon (also being run by some-one called Susan, I think) is in just over 8 weeks. I should be where I was at the end of March. At that time, however, I'd been ill for a couple of weeks and then managed to put in 4 weeks totalling around 180 miles. So I can now look forward to a schedule of 45 miles a week. This isn't eccentricity - it's outright madness and stupidity. I am a moron. Fortunately, having no brains means I can contemplate the future without remembering the past. When the pain vanishes, it leaves no trace. I don't have misshapen toes, sand-blasted ankles or bags under my eyes that could hold the tailings from the Channel Tunnel to remind that what I'm doing is definitely a BAD IDEA. All those things only happen if I finish off the wine instead of letting My Good Wife do it.

Normality (if my fellow Harriers are a measure) suggests that all this training should leave traces. It should leave damage. It should leave irregular bouts of injury accompanied by pain to remind the injured of the stupidity they have inflicted on themselves. Rhamnousia (she was Nemesis when I were a little lad) may be skulking round the corner waiting for me. Scadenfreude may be about to visit in coachloads. I don't care. Right now, all that's happening is bad planning and stupidity. I don't need any help gaining my fair share of the consequences of those two talents.

Students of my training talents may recall that I'm not always spot on with my estimate of liquid refreshment to be carried in the event the Scottish sun (the real one - not Murdoch's rag) shines brightly. So I hatched a Cunning Plan worthy of Baldrick.

In the face of unarguable mathematics, I realised that an 11km run round Monzie wasn't going to do the job. Not unless I was prepared to run it every day. Which I'm not. Which I can't. Which means something else. Like resurrecting the longer runs of April. Like 20 miles+. Sometimes + quite a lot. Fortunately, I'm a moron so can't remember how stupid it is to run such distances when your 8th Decade looms.

So mid-July, a bit warmer than previously. Plan a few longer runs. Include walking a couple of Munros for fun. Think carefully about... WHOA!! Did that sentence include the Completely Stupid proposal to walk Munros as well?? Oops. Fellow-runner and Hill-walker Julia is currently damaged (with something mysterious) and suffers bouts of stitches of the kind that can't be knitted. So naturally, the idea of doing a couple of Munros is perfect. I succomb. The weather's glorious. I haven't been hill-walking in ages and it all sounds a great idea.

Beinn Dorain (1076m) and Beinn Dothaidh (1004m) or, as the Gaels would have it, Bine Doe-erenn and Bine uh Naw-hee. No, I don't get it either. Still, a break from running (unless it's into the pub) and a new place to visit. Pretty much straight up from the car park and a fun climb to a col where the path goes its merry way right to BenD and left to the other one. We go right and, after wizard tales of other walkers falling off cliffs and seriously damaging themselves (honestly, we did get treated to such a true story by the victim), we reach the summit despite having failed to read the map properly. Lunch.

The afternoon essentially consisted of us descending to Decision Col where Col decided he'd had enough and a swift descent to the pub was called for. Naw-hee can wait - it'll still be there when we're ready. I declined the opportunity to put it a bit of running practice downhill on the grounds the grounds would probably kill me. A safe return, complete with drinks in the late afternoon sunshine beside the loveliness that is the A82, meant running could resume tomorrow.

So this is the week I can finally get back to the 20-milers! Ho-ho. A couple of days follow when I am able to experience the blissful Strathearn countryside in the company of some of my fellow Harriers. All very amiable and I don't get lost. Then Thursday beckons. A plan is announced to survey part of the Harriers' Autumn Bonanza that is the Simon Wake Comrie Hills Relay Race. I smell trouble - and my brain's nostrils rarely let me down. So I decide that I should run part of the way with my friends then peel off and run home alone. Whatever cover story I rambled on about, the fact was my legs felt absolute rubbish and I was having trouble keeping up with our 14yo dog - who's very nearly dead.

So assembled we our band of warriors and set off into the hills. Where we promptly lost three of our company who (a) got far enough behind not to see where Our Leader was going and (b) hadn't asked the route beforehand and so went a different way. Shame. Still, gave me a break. Which I thought would help. Which didn't. In spades.

So, re-assembled, we set off for the wide open spaces above Comrie. Well, most of us did. I just died - and didn't go to Heaven, just to Hell as usual. Couldn't possibly have had anything to do with stupidity above Bridge of Orchy. No, of course not. I'm just old and decrepit. Beth, one of the Edinburgh Marathon Relay Team, attempted to go slow enough to pretend I was keeping up but she couldn't make it stick. So as the gang assembled at one of the several 'tops', I staggered into view and pointed out this was where their route separated from mine. Ignoring this comment, they promptly ran off the wrong way and soon reappeared running towards me. Disconcerting as this was, we made our farewells and I was left to navigate my way across the dark and treacherous moors unaided by anything more than my native senses and terrifying fear. Well, actually it was broad daylight, the track was obvious - and I'd been this way several times. And I had a compass. And an altimeter. And I was sober.

This route also passes many places where the Ordnance Survey proclaims that "Grouse Butts". Not sure if that's good English - or accurate ornithology. I know goats butt but hadn't picked up on the head-banging proclivities of the local flying delicacy. Even so, the route took me up to nearly 370m (over 1200ft in old money) as I reached Glen Turret dam knowing that from there the route was almost all downhill - apart from the bits that weren't. Some of the views from the hills were stunning - and that wasn't just semi-naked me. I consider myself fortunate that I run so slowly I can see the views without risking life and limb. If only I didn't have to run into that wind coming down the Glen.

So over the dam, down the damn dam road to the Falls of Barvick and onwards through the Hosh, past the Whisky Palace and onto the A85. Minding my own business when cars start hooting. Only my running friends of the early part of the day just returning home. Where can they have been? (Later investigation reveals the answer - lost.) Only just over 19kms for me but very satisfying as it's the first long hill run I've done since Edinburgh. The legs recover quickly and I'm left wondering why they always refuse to operate above a crawl-speed. Oh yes - decrepitude.

So will this week be any better? Another ho-ho seems called for. Sunday sees me crawl round the Monzie Loop twice in anticipation of an easy Club run the next morning. Fortunately, I am not called upon to exert myself too much (other than finding lost dogs) so the week is looking promising.

Wednesday - another double Monzie Loop. I did wonder about doing three circuits but realised I was not going to make it so headed home. Pride saw me get straight on to the treadmill for another couple of miles but then sanity briefly gained the upper hand and I quit. That was another 25kms in the bag.

And so to Friday. That's today. I write this before the sun has gone down on my doings. Just in case I forget.

So this morning was targeted for Monzie Loop times three. Another 33kms. If I could manage it, this week would be my highest weekly mileage ever at just over 90kms. (Or is that weakly?) Check everything ready. Clothing (Edinburgh Marathon vest of course). Vaseline (should I get so much pleasure applying it to my delicates?). Mobile/MP3 player set up to cycle through my eclectic music tastes. Sports sunglasses. Step counter. Watch/Compass/Alimeter/Barometer/TV set (I made that last one up - but soon, who knows?). Water (600mls). Wine gums/jelly babies.

First loop. Go slow. Then go slower. Braes of Monzie just past 42mins. OK. Water OK. Sugar pills OK. Cars managing not to hit me. Back into Crieff along A85. Lots of traffic. Lots of cyclists heading up towards Dunkeld/Aberfeldy who all appear to be in the same Club - but spread out over about two miles. Some drivers of cars not happy. Ferntower Road timing point at 1hr14mins. OK.

Second lap starts. Water OK. Sweeties OK. Meet neighbour walking up from McCrosty Park. Exchange desultory insults (he's wary if I'm nice to him). Back on to the Comrie Road. Turn up past the Whisky Cafe. Some traffic. Most tourists very nice and courteous and give me a wide berth. OK, maybe it was the smell. Braes of Monzie at around 1hr57mins. OK. Slow down again. Water OK but running a bit low. Back to Gilmerton and the A85. Traffic less than before. Get to Ferntower Road timing point at 2hr32mins. OK.

Third lap starts. Water running out (should I have gone home and filled up?). Sweeties a-plenty still. Back to the A85 and the turn towards Monzie. Definitely feeling knackered. Water could be a problem. Get past The Hosh and feel bad. Stop for the first time and take stock. Water needed. Get it from Shaggie (Burn, that is)? Probably not wise. Monzie Castle? Possibly not feeding the peasants any more. Get past Braes of Monzie at 3hrs14mins.

OK - but for the water. Anyone I know in Monzie? No. But I do regularly see the farmer from Cuilt. Stop there and plead for water. Offer either or both of my daughters as payment. No need, he says. Just work off your debt on my farm - Saturdays and Sundays, November to March would be fine. So water is supplied and I sign up in blood. I'm often described as a Cuilt (I think that's how it's pronounced) so maybe it's fitting.

Get to the Dunkeld Road and stop to empty the last of the farmer's kindly-donated water down my throat. Again the bottle is empty. Can I reach home on the fuel in my tank? Try to eat another wine gum but my stomach rejects the offering. I spit it out before I make a complete public spectacle of myself by barfing on the nearest passing vehicle. So to Gilmerton and down the path that leads to Nirvana. I am oblivious to the passing vehicles (pretty much as usual) and suddenly realise that the footpath is now pointing more towards the Earth's core than away from it. I resist the urge to show off and sprint the last mile and casually amble in that completely-knackered style I feel I've made my own.

And then, there's the house! More importantly, it's got an outside tap by the front door so I don't even need to find the strength to get inside. I can slake my desperate thirst and enjoy the experience of looking dead whilst still moving. It is 3hrs48mins48secs since I left home.

Loch Ness seems far too close. It's only the thought of Susan's mocking laughter as she observes me crossing the finishing line three hours behind her that spurs me on. Thank you Susan. You'll be as old as me one day. But possibly better-looking.....

Strathearn Harriers' weekend in Badaguish, 3-5 June 2011

2011-06-07T18:51:00.000+01:00

2009 - Ullapool. Select gathering; selection of decent weather; good time (mostly) had by all.

2010 - Gairloch. Large gathering; excellent weather; more youngsters; voted even better than 2009.

2011 - Badaguish Outdoor Centre near Cairn Gorm. Even more adults and youngsters; cooler weather but rain-free. Would the lack of sand and sea be better - or worse? Would there be exciting events? How would this year be remembered? One (perhaps slightly distorted) view follows.

The standard caution must be repeated here - only read on if you have a well-polished sense of humour and no taste. Since this covers most youngsters, the British Board of Film Censors gives this work a '12' certificate.

The Author and his Good Lady arrive promptly hours before most of the rest. Nice lady and associated male worker show where a trailer tent can be located. Unfortunately, the House Rules require no cars on the grass. Fortunately for the avoidance of death by heart attack, Government rules on the Abuse of Pensioners override local House Rules thus enabling a Pensioner's car and trailer tent to be driven onto the precious green sward. Familiarity with the green sward that is Lord's Cricket Ground suggest that this green sward is, in fact, one of those more frequently familiar items of landscape called A Field.

Pitching carefully on The Field so as to be within hailing distance of the 'Pods' (more bus shelters familiar to our regular readers as seen at Gairloch), the Author and Good Lady's dwelling is the focus around which the Camping Fraternity develop their temporary Running Home. The car is removed to a safe distance to avoid any possibility of overnight vandalising by the disgruntled. Of course, on mature reflection, it is clear there are none such anywhere in the vicinity.

Having established Base Camp, the Author and Good Lady conduct the first exercise in exercise and amble off to explore some of the surrounding Nature in All It's Splendour. The Old Dog has mixed feelings about this - and so does the 13yo canine called Joka that is accompanying the Author and Good Lady. Nonetheless, the late afternoon weather is balmy, the conversation is similarly barmy and Joka wonders why he's not allowed off the lead to pee where he wants. It is explained to him that little fluffy cuddly birdies are having it off in the vicinity and their resulting babies need protecting from vicious canines such as himself. With virtually no teeth, Joka cannot work this out. Actually, with only three brain cells (in common with most Cavaliers), he can't work anything out. But he's happy.

A brief interlude is given to admiring the mountains to the south and to wondering - wondering why a railway was built that goes nowhere. And loses money (apparently). But the views are nice from the top - sometimes. Like today. And tourists without fully functioning legs can see the view. And that's nice. More railways then seems to be the answer. Maybe one from Crieff to Perth will be next. Or not.

We digress.

Back to Strathearn Harriers' weekend away. And what's next on the exciting, energy-filled, health-giving, mind-stimulating agenda? It's Friday Night - so the answer must be ..... A Curry!!

The Author and Good Lady are invited by Gorgeous George Carson and Lady to join them for a bountiful evening of oriental delights in Aviemore. But this offer is declined in favour of just going out for a curry. So it's off to the Spice of India for all that's best in smash-your-taste-buds cuisine. We are also joined by A Local Councillor and his Lady, their Friend and a Doctor. This is worrying. Are we likely to need the services of a Councillor? We are sure we won't need the services of a Doctor - yet. But doubtless he stands ready as ever to minister to our self-inflicted woes. This may yet be tested.....

Arriving at the emporium and spying a perfect niche for the car, the Author neatly positions his vehicle so that the adjacent campervan will have extreme difficulty leaving without doing a 15-point maneouvre. This is not a problem since the campervan owner is likewise a Strathearn Harrier and therefore careless of life's difficulties. And there's always insurance.

So we wile and while away the evening with amusing anecdotes and gay laughter. After a little while, the laughter drops two octaves as one or two of the onlooking restaurant staff seem unduly interested in the 'gay' rather than the laughter. The evening establishes a part of the forthcoming weekend - food and drink taking frequent precedence over all that fresh air and exercise stuff. Still, the fuel has to come from somewhere.

Saturday dawns. Curry and Indian beer are forgotten. Then a reminder arrives and is despatched in the usual fashion. Running to the facilities is normal for honed athletes such as ourselves.

It's the morning for The Run. Or The Runs. There is a choice; short for the Halt, Lame and Old; longer for the Fit; ridiculous for the Proper Runners. Many will start together - then separation will occur as decisions are taken about Run A or Run B or whatever. Phil asks everyone to line up for a group photo; response is instant. Gordon and Tony realise they are in the wrong group and look for a way of sliding out without being noticed. Ali thinks about heading back to her accommodation. Liz thinks all is normal.

But soon all is well, if not entirely clear. The Author will stay with his Good Lady who is running with the Harriers for the first time in over a year and a half. Her knee, carefully diagnosed by the NHS as beyond help and to be considered (in the careful jargon employed by highly-trained medics) as 'knackered for good', has responded to many hours of careful attention from Pilots [er - no, dear, that's 'Pilates']. Anyway, she's now able to run for a bit so is testing it on a 30-minute, real-world, Strathearn Harriers run. Fingers crossed.

So off we set on a south-easterly heading down towards Loch Morlich and Reindeer. Ali keeps us company as the three of us speedily create a large gap between ourselves and the rest of the group. This cunning strategem preserves the Good Lady's knee and just about everything else for Ali and the Author. After 15 minutes, Good Lady does an about-turn, indicates this is not a precursor to running the remaining distance backwards and leaves to return whence we came. The remaining duo absorb the wonderful sensations that come with being left a long way behind and enjoy the scenery, the birdsong and the thought that we have no idea where we're going.

But all too soon, we are upon our colleagues who have kindly waited. This extreme interval has allowed two groups to be formed, one to attempt a 'longer' run and the other not to. Will will lead the shortened runners. They are determined to mind their Manners.

As the 'longer' runners depart, the Author recognises one of his recent marathon relay team crew (look it up) and decides to join Kirsty. If there is to be trouble in completing this challenge, at least there will be familiar faces to look on.

The Monday Morning Moving Coffee Morning Team hold an impromptu gathering at which Susan explains that the right hand is definitely not the part of the anatomy to fall on in the event of a stumble. Tracy asks if she can suggest a couple of alternatives. Kirsty shows that the effects of relighting last night's spliff this morning have not yet worn off; but she's happy. Fiona McD is aghast at Kirsty; she could have had a fresh one from her if she'd just asked. Fiona should have been paying attention to Susan and warned her Man. Of such little things is Fate made.

After the meeting ends, further progress is made when a film crew is spotted with large microphone boom and, a little further on, a Cameraman with Camera for him to be a Man of. Seonaid and Fiona D, mysteriously, have become detached from the group and soon it is clear why. With cries of 'No pictures, no pictures', Seonaid inadvertently reveals that the film crew were there for her, prying into her personal life as a Secret Runner. Despite being pressed for an interview, Seonaid resolutely refuses to appear in the pages of 'Hello' magazine, even for the staggeringly crazy money they were offering her. We are all impressed. Fiona D also quietly reveals that she is Seonaid's Official Minder, trained as she is in Tso-Kin-Gup where she has a Deep Pink Belt and T-shirt, 4th Dan.

To bring the attention of the group back to running, and because she's jealous of the 'Hello' magazine business, Liz directs attention to the group's forthcoming arrival at the Blue Lagoon. A number of members of the group have heard of dolphin encounters at the Blue Lagoon and are excited. It is not obvious to them that the relevant Blue Lagoon is in the Bahamas; disappointment threatens.

But soon the beauty that is An Lochan Uaine (translates as 'Small Dolphin Pool') appears.

The resident Dolphin trainer appears and kindly explains that the dolphins are not here at the moment; they are having a holiday in the Bahamas. There is disappointment amongst some, scepticism amongst others. In the light of his lack of current employment however, the trainer is invited to join us for the rest of the run. He agrees, having admitted under intense female interrogation to having a 'thing' for one of the other lady Harriers. We suspect they have actually been having a 'thing' together for quite some time. Events will prove us right.

And so we reluctantly leave the beauty that is the Blue Lagoon and head ever upwards onto the wild and desolate countryside that leads to the safety of Ryvoan Bothy. Ahead of us, several of our colleagues have already reached the Bothy and, being concerned about the challenges and dangers that lie beyond in Unknown Territory, have turned round and are heading for the safety and security that is Badaguish.

First to appear is our stalwart Women's Captain and her Minder. Alerted to the presence of A Photographer, the Woman's Captain instructs her Minder to see him off with a suitably cutting remark thrown nonchalantly over her left shoulder.

True elegance cannot be disguised, however, as this revealing shot tells only too clearly.

Following quickly on behind comes a Ladies Marathon Champion accompanied by her Personal Physician. Her cries of 'My profile, my profile, my profile's my best side' shone brightly into the heart of the Photographer.

Responding at lightening speed to this cri de coeur, the results are proudly displayed here for all to admire.

Finally broaching the 400 metre contour, the brave group finally reach Ryvoan Bothy but are disappointed that the coffee machine has been disconnected. Kirsty offers her 'water' bottle but there are doubts about the purity of its contents. Gin would be welcome by the ladies but unknown chemical compounds are suspected. Kirsty is unmoved as Fiona D attempts to emulate Chad. 'Wot, no coffee?' she seems to cry.

Eventually, the group are persuaded to sit, smile and demonstrate their great pleasure in having only four miles or so to run back to their accommodation. They comply bravely.

Regrettably, moments later, the spell is broken by Liz who says 'Right, that's all that nonsense done. Let's get back.' whilst Fiona McD gives away the emotions the group is feeling under the mask of pleasure. Soon we all leave, tired of pretence.

Tracy and Kirsty make their athletic way back as Kirsty fails to disguise the shame she feels at only having water in her bottle when everyone was convinced it was something MUCH more interesting. She vows to do better next time. Tracy leans forward, for reasons unknown, as she flexes the impressive running machines that are her legs. Her athletic talent will be realised yet again before another day has passed.

The Two Fionas decide that it is easier if they stay together so that shouts of 'Fiona!' from their compatriots can be readily answered in chorus instead of from different parts of the countryside. The anticipation of the return leg is palpable.

As the group hits the level ground in the midst of the forest, there is dismay on some faces as the Photographer (Old & Ancient as he undoubtedly is) speeds past them all in order to take up a suitable position for an elegant group photo. Kirsty and Susan discuss whether Liz or Fiona McD is the more put out. It is decided that the award goes to Liz for the Facial Expression of the Day prize.

No sooner has this decision been reached, however, than Liz demonstrates that her repetoire of graceful poses is far from limited as she reveals her famous 'This is how I get into a Disabled Parking Bay without arousing suspicion' move. This item comes complete with a script drawn from the Alzheimer's Ward of Perth Royal Infirmary.

As the group approaches the six-mile point, it is generally agreed that 10k is far enough to run so why not walk a bit? Kirsty demonstrates how she normally answers a mobile phone call from George. The dolphin trainer thinks 'bottle-nosed' doesn't just apply to dolphins. Susan's fancy is tickled - but she's too polite to scratch it.

As the Photographer goes about his innocent art, Fiona D helps by adopting exquisite poses designed to show her at one with Nature. Whilst this is not entirely convincing, it does get voted 6 out of 10 for effort by the group. We all agree her cheery countenance and unflagging goodwill are, well, enough. We all express our love.

As the distance to the camp diminishes into inconsequence, there is a rush to be first to the mirror in the Ladies. Speeding past again in uncompromisingly flashy style, the Photographer captures the rapture as the anticipation of fresh hairspray spreads in a glow across three physiognomies.

Recognising that three other ladies are ahead in the race for the Ladies' Room mirror, the remaining ladies are sanguine and remain cheery nonetheless. Kirsty and Tracy try running as blind people whilst Susan shouts 'Left!', 'Right!' to keep them on track. Regrettably, her laughter only results in Tracy and Kirsty colliding and reverting to the normal use of eyes. It does, however, give them a very real feel for the perils and suffering of The Handicapped. They are glad it's not them.

At last, the group are within sight of the camp. But there is one more hazard to be negotiated. Whilst there are many good people in the group, there is the occasional nutter around. This one is almost certainly in disguise wearing a brown furry coat over his natural grey surface colour. The group is determined to report his presence to the Police. The Constabulary are certain to be grateful and to offer a reward.

So Saturday morning appears to be closing peacefully and harmlessly. Meanwhile, on a mountainside far, far away..... There is a feeling of deja vu as Fiona McD recalls Susan's stern warning earlier against using the hand to break a fall whilst running. Someone close to her may be about to succomb to the Curse of the Harriers. Unfortunately, it is Fiona's nearest and dearest, Tony, who is struck down by the Curse.

Hardly (it seems) has Susan's warning been articulated than Tony is pushed by irresistible forces unknown and is unable to avoid the sudden impact of hand on Mother Earth. Nursing his limp extremity, he also cradles his hand carefully as it is carried across the land into the tenderness that is the Harrier's Court Physician. Pronouncing that the hand is indeed damaged and, swelling to resemble part of an overinflated blow-up doll, that it should no longer be placed where more damage might result, it is carefully bandaged and placed in a shoulder sling. We are all sympathetic and glad it is Tony, not us, that is in pain. He is brave. We are impressed. Confidence is expressed that Tony's innate manly strength and fitness will restore his limb to full working order in no time at all. But probably best to go to PRI on the way home anyway.

But many of us are unaware at the time of Tony's Travails. We are having fun on our bicycles with lots of youngsters riding across the Glenmore Forest Park towards adventures and yet more fun. Graham directs us onwards and upwards once more towards the Reindeer and practice at riding on real roads with real traffic. It will be fine. We are all careful of the young and careless of any cost to ourselves from the occasional selfish sod at the wheel of his metal machine. We are cyclists today and hate motorists who impinge on our space and threaten our youngsters. Suggestions we block the road from all other traffic whilst our youngsters navigate the road safely are overruled as probably illegal. All passes safely and the wiser councils are shown to be - wiser.

Most of the party manages to negotiate the terrain to where the path crosses the confluence of Allt Ban and Allt na Ciste (translates roughly as 'Cyclists are Ban-ned'). A halt is called to allow a roll-call of the party to be taken. A couple of the smallest youngsters are missing but this is considered an acceptable loss given most of the the brood have made it. Nature can be cruel.

The Red Leader explains that the Blue Leader and the Grey Leader have gone on ahead to clear the forthcoming river crossing of hidden underwater obstacles. This will make the river crossing safe and straightforward with a smooth progress from one bank to another. The frequent exhortations to the youngsters (and adults alike) to 'just keep pedalling like crazy' raise some questions about the quality of the obstacle clearance process.

Not only are the youngsters fearless, adults with heavy backpacks consider this task a bagatelle. Feet in the water only scores 5 points away; falling in and getting the backside wet is the real damage with 50 points conceded. All manage to avoid the dreaded 50-pointer .

With stopwatch poised, the Red Leader announces that a new record of 9.36 seconds - and only 5 penalty points - has been set. This encourages the remaining competitors.

The Blue Leader gives a practical demonstration of how it should be done. Regrettably, he picks up 10 penalty points as the judges point out that the (admittedly small) helium balloon on his back did give a somewhat unfair advantage.

The Blue Leader looks thoughtfully to see if the damage caused to previous cyclists has led others to become somewhat more reluctant. He need not fear; the youngsters are fearless.

Safely negotiating the danger, all the group press on towards the second river crossing that is described as 'dead easy' by the Leaders. Some of the group wonder whether 'dead' or 'easy' will prevail. They need not worry. The crossing of Allt na Ciste is negotiated with no worries. We are all relieved.

All too soon, we arrive at the T-junction where the planned route turns upwards towards a small lochan where the trip will reach its 'turnaround' point. Female intuition (or is it just imagination) is concerned. The Good Lady suggest The Knee (a source of pain and suffering for many a long month) would benefit from a return to camp. The Author concurs. An asthmatic youngster asks permission to accompany this breakaway group; he is welcomed. So fate entwines us all in its unforeseeable grip as we all wish each other well and go our separate ways.

The Author, Good Lady and Youngster enjoy an uneventful journey, modestly paced, back to the camp where all is well. The Author uses this part of the story to include an unrequired and unsolicited picture of the Good Lady.

Not quite so elsewhere, alas, as one of the other youngsters demonstrates the fragility of human collar-bones in the circumstances of a crash landing at speed. He is in excellent hands, however, and is brought safely back with much surrounding assistance and compassion. It is quite touching. He will repair quickly is the verdict, unlike his adult fellow sufferer (Tony) who will almost certainly have to endure a protracted recovery period. Or not. As the case may be. [Look, this isn't a medical column. All this accident stuff is a pain.]

So to the events of the evening. Actually, to THE event of the evening. Fed and watered, patched up where needed, alcohol in hand where appropriate, the hardy band of Harriers gathers in The Hall for Fun and Frolics. And George's Famous Karaoke - with smoke. This will undoubtedly be a triumph as George's evenings invariably are. There will be excitement, music and..... and noise. What can that intrusive sound be, we wonder? We wonder only for 2.5 milliseconds as the all-too-familiar screech of smoke alarms assaults our delicate orifices - and our ears.

Smoke alarms. Smoke. Effect. Oh, well - we have firefighters on hand. George, anyway. So a quick burst of uncontrollable laughter and head for the alarm to switch it off and return to fun, frolics and music. So where is the alarm? Well, there's one about 15 feet above our heads. Right-oh. So where's the control panel then? No problem - the Badaguish staff who are doubtless about to arrive can soon sort it out. Dum-de-dum-de-dum-de-dum strum our fingers. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Various Harriers with engineering skills attack what can be seen. One down, one to go. Still no on-site staff appear. What can they be doing, we wonder? Oh, yes - they're in a meeting. Clearly more important than roasting flesh. Lucky there isn't any.

We occupy the time usefully. Injured Harriers have their photos taken triumphantly. Alcohol is consumed. Rascals make unnecessary 999 calls on their mobiles - possibly. Alcohol is consumed. Couples wander off to make love - possibly. Alcohol is consumed. Youngsters play; then cycle; then kick footballs; then consume alcohol - possibly. Alcohol is consumed. Yawns replace happy countenances. George looks temporarily uncertain. Will the karaoke ever get going again or will the audience have found a better gig? Of course not!!

Order is finally restored and music and festivities resume. Dancing gets under way as strange Celtic movements circle the available space. Soft, flowing clothing flows softly and then madly. Excitement gathers pace in a crescendo of adrenaline. Will diminuendo ever follow? Long-distance cyclists appear having thwarted the elements on their lung and leg-bursting endeavours. Restorative alcohol is consumed. Jokes flow. [For those that didn't hear, here's one. Scientists have discovered that the most perfectly round item in the known universe is the electron. One went into a bar with a proton for a drink. The proton says to the electron "Your round." "Are you sure" says the electron. The proton says "I'm positive".] OK - send me a better one then.

The evening draws to its gentle close as the strains of the karaoke and the strained accompanying voices fade peacefully into Sunday. Parents drift off to their slumber in the confident knowledge of about five hours sleep. Participants drift off with thoughts of tomorrow's Tortoise & Hare & Youngster Handicap in their minds. Will it be fun? Will it work out? Who will cross the line first? Will anyone fall over and break another part of the human anatomy? Will anyone care? Most of all, will anyone get lost? No, it's all OK - everything has been thought of. [Ed. But I thought this was a Harriers event?]

So to Sunday morning.

The day dawns brightly but not everyone notices. It is around 4.45 so there's an excuse. Even the canine can't be bothered to respond to daylight at this ridiculous hour. A fire alarm outside George's bus shelter would be fun - but wiser council prevails and all remains pacific and tranquil. Small youngsters stir gradually; parents stir even more gradually; George stirs his porridge. He is wise.

By 9am, the camp is a veritable hubbub of activity and excitement. The Main Event is scheduled to start at 1030 by the camp entrance. We await our orders. Good Lady is persuaded to be Official Timekeeper by the Court Physician. She is unsure of her credentials but then realises they were clean on this morning. Lists are produced. Teams have been selected. Runners are advised of their team-mates. Teeth are knashed. Elsewhere, hands are rubbed in glee. Some do both.

We are briefed by the Good Doctor. First go the Hares. Then the Tortoises. Then the Youngsters. We pretend to understand. But we are raring to go and will do as we are bidden. It is a Handicap Race so the fastest will go off first and the slowest last. Do not ask why. All will be revealed. Eventually. Careful planning has produced a predicted result whereby all the Youngsters will cross the line at the same time. Or not.

So 1030 approaches - then flies past. But we are almost ready to go and before we can say 1-2-3, the Good Doctor is off at a gallop. With a cry of "You're going the wrong way" from a competitive brother-in-law, the Good Doctor waves a hand but only manages to show two of his fingers. The message is understood. Soon more Hares are despatched and before long a solitary Aussie is left wondering if she has been forgotten. But no, eventually she is also despatched in a futile attempt to catch some-one. Is this a further humiliation to heap on Oz after The Ashes? Perhaps.

Before eyes can blink, cries of "Phil's here" ring across the forest. It is indeed our Physician, uncaught by other Hares who have so far failed valiantly. Or perhaps not. Is the Handicap working we wonder? We cannot tell for many minutes yet. Further excitement mounts as Phil and Doug appear almost together and race for the line as though it matters. Men, eh? Phil prevails despite cries of "He's behind you" from the crowd of well-wishers.

Hares hare in at intervals whilst The Author snoozes as he awaits his last-to-leave Aussie team member. There will be a long wait. When it feels as though Monday has arrived, Oz appears having strained every sinew to keep the gap to the penultimate team down to mere hours. Your Author is unleashed at last and gives chase to a 'Tortoise' with the same half marathon time as himself. Short of injury to the runner ahead, this promises be a chase in vain. Settling into his usual admittedly tortoise-like gait, your Author notes the gap as he passes measuring points. Same here. Same here. Bit less here. Bit more here. Well, well, times are going to be very similar. Just like the half marathon.

It is fun shouting at all the others as they struggle up in the opposite direction. But half-way comes at the bottom of The Hill. Youngsters high-five the Author as he goes into Overdrive for the trip Uphill. Pacing himself carefully, he adopts the same gait as on the recent marathon thus ensuring that the consequential marathon pace results. Is it worth trying for more speed? Of course!! Push, push, push, you old dog you. Catch that runner or die trying. Whoa! No dying just yet. Reach the part of the course where Youngsters are approaching. See, unsurprisingly, that many are already flying around their leg of the race. Then, almost miraculously, the line is suddenly just there so across we go and high-fives to Youngster with wings on his heels. Good Luck - you'll need something...

Check time - as if it matters... Same (near enough) as Chased Lady. She is incredulous and disbelieving. But it is true. It really was a chase in vain. But fun. Sort of. Much more fun is the last part as the Flying Youngsters start to appear with youth, vigour and determination unsullied by cynicism and failure. Talent follows talent as the results of the Handicap system are revealed. Not entirely a blanket finish but a nice thought anyway. Clearly motivated Youth undoubtedly a great addition to the proceedings.

Now as to answering Youth's questions about that handicapping calculation..... Some things in the Universe are beyond explanation. Just enjoy.

So races run, prizes won, Harriers' fun, week-end done. No question - seriously good addition to the Harriers esprit de corps. And not too far to go. And not too costly to do. And time with friends. And new friends found. And health (for most) enhanced - the others will recover.

Most important of all - I got my car on the grass, er, field. Hope I don't need a Disabled Sticker and a white stick to go with the canine to get the same next year.

If this account rings true, you're on illegal drugs. If it raised a smile (or two), that's nice. If not, the Author's actually the one in the red top in the following picture.

So How's The Marathon Training Gone?

2011-05-24T15:32:00.000+01:00

So you've read the two previous blogs. If you haven't, get on with it now. Dum-de-dum-de-dum. OK, read them now? And the result was - what exactly? Mixed. Interesting. Funny in parts. Humbling in others. Quite an experience.

Some Scottish bloke once wrote:

'The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!'

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 1. Plan. Plan. Plan. Make copies of maps. Discuss arrangements for wife to be in suitable locations for photos. Everything thought of. BUT then you leave all the paperwork at home. Brilliant. Still, it's all in my head, isn't it? And I'm articulate, aren't I? Wife worries. I'm confident. Unnecessarily.

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 2. You know how it is. Call of nature in the night. Fumble around in the dark so as not to disturb your partner. Disorientated. Duck your head under a (supposed) obstacle. Bang your head. Head bleeds. Stem the flow as best you can knowing there's going to be evidence in the morning. Ho-hum.

For last year's Edinburgh Half Marathon, we decided to camp. We like camping. Lovely site (Mortonhall), easy to get to Edinburgh City Centre and also the countryside (Pentlands). So this year, the same. Arrive Friday so we have Saturday free. Then we're not the only ones and things to arrive. First, it's sixteen Italian campervans in convoy. Nearest to us is a humungous black coach-sized campervan complete with dune buggy only slightly smaller than our car. Now we know where the Mafia go on holiday.

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 3. Then it's the wind. Then the wind's Big Brother. Then the Big Brother's Bigger Brother. Friday night gives us not enough sleep and me a bent head. What shape will I be in on Sunday morning? Pasta pasta for dinner keeps the Italian theme going.

But Saturday turns out much nicer. Walk the dog. Ancient dog (aged 14 in November) seems ready for anything so off to Howe Dean Path, an amble down Hermitage of Braid, snack at a dog-friendly bistro then back to Mortonhall. Very restful walking. And more pasta for Saturday dinner. Check the bum-bag; jelly babies, energy bars, water bottle, mobile phone, plasters, Bus Pass in case Judith has to park in Glasgow. Now for tomorrow.

Sunday dawns brightly. More protein and carbs for breakfast. Can preparation have been more thorough? The distressing answer lies blissfully unguessed. How to travel to the start - bus? car? Car wins. Less eco, more restful. Travel in confidence to the Start Area. This is how it looks. Soon this will be filled with elite athletes followed by the masses. And me. Maybe.

Many are gathered. Many queue for the facilities. But there appears to be something wrong. My number is coloured sky-blue. No sky-blue pen here. My number is 10385. The baggage trucks have no such number. Memory kicks in. MY start is elsewhere.

Check with sensible-looking helper who confirms I should be up the road. Leg it up the road (well, I am supposed to be able to run 26 miles - how can 800 yards hurt?). Then I become concious of something else.

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 4. Pasta can't run. It crawls through the Alimentary Canal like an overweight elephant. The normal (non-marathon days) breakfast to my body, however, consists of ingredients designed for high-speed sprinting. They regularly chase each other through my system in a desperate bid to win their own Olympic Gold Medal for the shortest time from Entrance to Exit. Healthy, the medics call it. Stupid, my brain calls it on Marathon Weekend. Didn't I know to consign the Alimentary Sprinters to the cupboard at home and only bring the turgid slowcoaches?.

Too late. The sprinters realise the ancient exit system is a pushover. But then what are the Portacabins for, if not to deal with such matters? In the heat of battle, however, the normally well-functioning brain fails to compute and ignores the developing disaster. This will end in tears. If only the owner of this body had any modesty. Or bashfulness. Or desperately low self-confidence. In the absence of these admirable virtues, all that is left is complete absence of shame. And a bad odour.

But the focus now is on The Race; worries will come later. In quickly increasing numbers, the assembling runners are threatening to make impossible the meeting of Strathearn Harriers Relay Team Leg 1 runner - Beth - with the now-compromised author. It seems they don't care. Should I shout? Should I make an exhibition of myself? Too late - already done that.

The milling throng mills and still no Beth. Desperately, the author climbs onto (hopefully) sturdy railings and awaits developments. As the clock ticks inexorably towards 10am, suddenly, there is Beth waving frantically as she recognises the moron in the Strathearn Harriers vest. Phew! Made it in time.

A quick embrace (has this woman no sense of smell?) and then photographic evidence that white hat and sunglasses do not necessarily a fashionable man make. The looks from nearby runners confirm this opinion.

So 10am arrives. We're off! Oh - no actually, we're not. We shuffle forwards. We stop. We shuffle some more. This is a pace I feel I can keep up for 26 miles; the finish though might be on Monday. At last the Starting Arch appears and we leap forwards from a shuffle to a turgid amble. That's better; running pace at last.

The Edinburgh Marathon is billed (partly) as The Fastest Marathon In The UK (by whom, I think?). That's on a meteorologically calm day - which this ain't. Still, the opening section is mostly downhill so I can sort of see what they mean. We wind through unknown streets until we spy Holyrood Palace and the now-familiar sight of the strange Scottish Parliament building hoves into view. Time for a quick on-the-move photo. The edifice has never looked lovlier as is does when photographed artfully to look completely irregular. Oh, but then it is completely irregular.

Cheering crowds have so far lined our route and uplifting they are indeed. Beth has a friend who promises to cheer from a vantage point near to Holyrood. Beth looks in vain. Friend clearly doesn't know how to be distinctive amongst the throng. Still, nice thought.

On we perambulate and pass an athletics stadium. But we aren't athletes so we aren't allowed in. One day Meadowbank will be ours. But not today. But as the concrete big stuff fades away, we are greeted by a glimpse of the sea - well, the Firth of Forth anyway. Blessedly avoiding the Sewage Works (though my costume smells like one), we gallop ever onwards towards Portobello and The Path By The Water.

The view is splendid. So we spoil it.

Well, one of us does, anyway.

We also get our first glimpse of the changeover from Leg 1 to Leg 2 and the exciting prospect of running with Mr George Carson - YES, THAT George Carson. My cup runneth over.

Actually, that wasn't the only thing running over. I try to effect improvement to my Alimentary consequences by pouring water down the back of my shorts. This has the apparently comic effect of turning my legs into a bad case of poorly applied fake tan. My naturally bronzed and stunning legs are transformed into works of art normally seen only on statues thousands of years old. I am unaware of this sad and pathetic effect. Only later do I realise that I am so unabashed, I don't care anyway. Old age and very young age may have nappies in common but they also have blissful lack of care for image. No wonder the runners who passed me speeded up as they got downwind.

During Leg #1, the kindly organisers had placed a timing mat at 10kms. I later learned that Beth & I crossed it at 1hr 4mins 24secs. 6.44 mins/km or 10.36 mins/mile. A bit quick compared to my expectation - but then we did have the wind behind us.

And it came upon us suddenly!! Here is Changeover #1 and the arrival of George. So farewell then, Beth. You have guided me through the first third and been kind enough not to mention my new style of scatalogical experimentation. Good luck with your daughter's ballet rehearsal later today and the exam tomorrow.

And here's the splendid George (who's idea this Relay Team was in the first place) ready for the fray. Except there isn't one. George is an old hand at this marathon business having completed the Edinburgh two years ago. When the water ran out. George has endured. And is a honed athlete. Clearly. I am fortunate indeed to know him, let alone have his company. I feel I am not worthy.

George's greeting is typical of the man's caring, considerate and diplomatic nature. "Had an accident, then?" No, it wasn't accidental, George; my body did it deliberately. Still, it did persuade me that at the next water stop I should make some attempt to sluice my lower half. Just down the road, came the opportunity. Several minutes, and a few dozen litres, later I went from unacceptably awful to just merely anti-social. "Don't worry about it" says George. "I'm not" say I - and mean it.

Shortly, we espy the telling signal that is the Police motorcycle escort. For the leading runner coming the other way at a lick. Why is there no wind on that side of the road, I wonder? Clearly there can't be for him to run at that speed. And we're not even half-way. It's OK for them that only run for three hours or less. What about the endurance athletes such as George & I that toil round for many more hours than that?

We seem to have gone no distance at all when - what's that noise? Surely not some-one's mobile ringing? But yes - it is. It's George's phone - and my wife on the other end. Does she imagine I'm dead? Or worse - my phone not working? Turns out she's just arrived at Changeover #2 and is anxious to know that she's not brought the camera in vain. George reassures her.

And so the change from George to Kirsty and more statistics at the half-marathon point. Here's the more interesting part of that. Kirsty pretends she's cold in the biting westerly. I pretend that taking photographs for posterity is the only reason I've made a temporary stop.

And proof that running a half-marathon does nothing for glamour.

Or the inhibitions of the exhibitionist.

For the statisticians, half-marathon reached in 2hrs 22mins 11secs. This is 6.74 mins/km or 10.84 mins/mile overall. It also means that the last 11kms or so have been run at around 7 mins/km or 11.28 mins/mile. Slowing down, obviously.

So Kirsty joins me for what I don't expect to be the easiest Leg (for me). From Changeover #2, we run for about four miles with the wind behind us then turn round and hope the wind's changed direction. The turn-round point should come as an incentive; only nine more miles to go. It isn't any incentive; the wind sees to that. I feel like I've suddenly slowed to the point where athletic tortoises will pass me. But then what's this I see before me? We are turned left into the grounds of Gosford House where the trees give relief from the rushing air. But the road surface is rutted and uneven. My feet suddenly hurt. My body sends urgent signals to my brain to stop this madness, sit down, massage feet and legs and then get a taxi home.

But then there's Kirsty. What will she say if I give up now? "Get up, you lazy good-for-nothing pensioner. Don't you know we workers are keeping you in your Old Age Pension and Free Bus Pass? Can't you show some gratitude and just keep going? How hard can it be for heaven's sake?" No, there's no question. I have to keep going. As the newspaper headline once said "More snow coming: grit your teeth" So I grit what's left of my knashers, tell my extremities they should think themselves lucky to belong to such a fine upstanding athlete as myself, and emerge from the trees into the wind proper. And the road surface just gets worse. Don't Gosford House know how to maintain proper roads? Scandalous.

30 km timing mat passes under my feet almost unnoticed. It records exactly 3hrs 30mins. So that's exactly 7 mins/km or 11.27 mins/mile. Distance since the half-marathon point run at 7.62 mins/km or 12.26 mins/mile. Still slowing down - unsurprisingly, the post-race arrival of the actual numbers confirms the feelings in the legs at the time.

So I stagger, and Kirsty runs, into the wind and back towards the Changeover Point, this time to become Changeover #3 from Kirsty to Charlie. I would wonder how Charlie's feeling but, at this point, I frankly couldn't care less. I've run over 20 miles in training several times but Mile 22 in the Edinburgh Marathon with a serious headwind feels like Mile 32. Or 42. Maybe they've measured it wrongly my crazed brain wonders.

But what's this? A familiar bit of road. Surely this isn't the bit leading to the Changeover Point? But YES, it is! Kirsty confirms this by waving at me disconsolately. She was clearly wanting to run a lot further. Or was that just my imagination? I am now going so slowly that I see not only Charlie but also George and a woman looking exceedingly like my wife with a camera. They are not mirages or the product of my fevered brain.

George and Kirsty join me on my left as Charlie walks beside me on my right. Yes, I am finally walking - at least along the road by the Changeover Area. Will I be able to resume running, I wonder?

My wife calls out "GIve us a wave then, you miserable git". I reproach her for speaking of Charlie this way and we both affect a smile and give her the required wave. I decide that walking is sad and get back to the running. Well, I think, I only walked a couple of hundred metres. Not far now.

And so past the 23 mile marker and less than 5kms to go. Should be easy. Should be. But it isn't. My legs finally let go at around 24 miles (not enough jelly babies, I wonder?). So I walk, a bit. Then I run, a bit. Then I walk again, a bit. Then I run again, a bit. Then the crowds start to swell. Pride steps in; surely I can run to the finish from here? So I do. In the way of these things, I even manage to summon up one last bit of energy and pass a couple of other participants just before the line. Oh, the thrill of the win!

This year, the Finish is different from last year's half marathon that I ran so I am momentarily uncertain. "I need to sit down on that wall there, Charlie, if that's OK" I murmur. So I slump onto some unsuspecting householder's pride and joy and trust I don't leave my mark. A minute or two's recovery and I feel I can make it onwards. I am too knackered to summon up graciousness and feel in retrospect that I am insufficiently grateful to Charlie for seeing me through Hell. We raise ourselves from the seated position, round the corner of the next street and there are all the finishing arrangements. First Aid tent (shall I? shan't I? No). Winner's medals (of a colour I still associate with cheap 'Made in Taiwan' items of my youth). And goody bags. And bananas. And Lucozade. And water. I take them all, some more than once.

And photographers - not the kind that Hollywood stars get. These papparazzi line runners up against a wall and shoot them. I feel this is appropriate - They Shoot Horses Don't They? "Website pictures here" the young man shouts, as though the website in question will end up with attractive pictures of healthy young people in various stages of deshabille. Actually, that's almost correct - only the 'attractive' bit doesn't work somehow.

Charlie has the logistical problem of collecting presents for Beth, George and Kirsty as well as himself. His talent for holding quantities of slippery plastic bags is impressive as well as unsuspected. He points out that he has no mobile with him and is therefore reliant on me to communicate with the others to make sure we meet safely. I am humbled by his trust. And not confident it is placed wisely.

The Baggage Truck coughs up my bag with ancient Nike tracksuit and I stumble into it as I start to feel the cold. We make our way through the throng a distance that seems to me about another five miles to the Reunion Area. Once safely onto a clear bit of grass, I slump and almost immediately nearly succomb to cramp - in both legs. I hastily stretch out and lie down. I shiver. I shiver a lot.

I then realise it's my job to call Judith. Or George. Three calls later to each, I'm still no nearer - they don't reply.

There's a Coffee kiosk nearby so I stagger towards it whilst still trying the mobile. I'm in the queue wondering which will arrive first, the coffee or my imminent collapse, when the mobile rings. Through my haze, I finally work out that it's Judith who's with Charlie! I leave the coffee to its own devices and stumble back to The Team. George & Kirsty emerge from a crowd and suddenly we are complete. I shiver. I shiver a lot. I am given my fleece, my jacket, the dog and two cups of sweet tea.

The Team look on, discussing how many other pall-bearers they might need when the clearly imminent death arrives. I proceed to issue Disappointment Notices (again) by very quickly making a complete recovery and proving it by standing up. The dog is happy.

So once more I thank the brave and stalwart Relay Team and also encourage Charlie to say my further thanks to Beth. We part company to make our way to our respective vehicles parked at some distant point with the promise we must do this again one day. But not tomorrow. Or anytime soon.

Judith having had to park the car two parishes away, the delightful extended walk to our car keeps my legs from seizing up. I am proud to find that 26.2 miles is not my limit for the day. I'm then treated to a ride back to the campsite without doing anything more than admire my wife's driving skill. And she gets back unerringly. The SatNav has nothing to do with it; probably.

So, restored to humanity and polite company through the kind offices of a hot shower and fresh clothes, I assist my good lady as we finally decamp (encouraged by George's advice that even worse weather is on its way) and head back to sunny Crieff for an evening involving wine and rest. I reflect on all the messages of encouragement I've had before the event. I'm then more than taken aback by the mass of (mainly electronically delivered) messages of congratulation that flood in.

I am humbled. All I've done is follow what (probably) more than a million human beings have now done - run their first marathon. Whilst most of them weren't into their 67th year when they did it, I haven't felt that my age was any distinction. Certainly my time wasn't! (The winner in my age category recorded a time of 2:58:32 - now that's talent.).

So - would I do it again?

Even before Sunday, I entered the Loch Ness Marathon in October. I thought "If Edinburgh's a disaster, I want another commitment to keep me going. If it's not, I've proved to myself I can get round so why not see what happens next time?". Of course, at Loch Ness I'll have to run without the psychological support and physical presence of Sunday's wonderful Relay Team. That's OK. I still don't care about times; I just want to get round and not be destroyed for weeks (or months).

As I complete this blog less than 48 hours after I finished in Edinburgh, I'm feeling fine. I did go out for a short run with some of my Strathearn Harriers clubmates in the wind & rain yesterday morning (I think they were a mite surprised to see me) and whilst the legs are still feeling it a bit and the pain in the neck has still to finally vanish, the bump on the head is healing nicely, I seem to have a cold (or hay fever) but I really do feel very well. If the training is anything to go by, I should continue to be OK.

So, the ravages of the years to come allowing, and assuming that race organisers continue to admit geriatrics, I'll keep going for a bit yet. Of course, if anyone in future asks what I think of the runs, I now have a choice of scatalogical, physiological or athletical answers to choose from.... Hopefully, if their taste may be questionable, the answers will at least be funny.

Thank you for bothering to read this far. If it brought the odd smile to your lips, I'm happy. If it didn't, you're clearly a miserable git - so lighten up.

And just in case you need it to be said - if I can do it, so can you.

So How's The Marathon Training Going (Part 2)?

2011-04-23T11:39:00.000+01:00

You know how it is. You dream of doing something really wicked - and in your dream there's no hurtful consequences. Like overtaking a police car in a 30 mph area - and they just wave you on with a smile and a "Good Morning, Sir". Like telling your mother-in-law her favourite dish that she serves when you visit tastes like wombat's doo - and she thanks you for the compliment. Like telling your boss he's useless and should get a job as a Council Cleansing Operative and you're thanked for the career advice.

I dreamed - as usual, the reality DID hurt.

A (calendar) month to go to The Big Day and the writer of the Marathon Training Guide I'm (sort of) following recommends a run of 29kms this week - and one of 33kms next week before the 'tapering down' starts. Wimp! If 29kms, why not 39kms? If 39kms, who not go The Whole Hog and do 42kms? Nothing like feeling the pain when there's no-one to observe the embarrassing consequences.

Maunday Thursday. The Monarch gives succour to the poor. This year, 85p in Maunday money. A good day to remember those who suffer. Me included. But is self-induced suffering worthy of succour? Probably not.

Is petroleum jelly what you give at children's parties to fire them up? I'd come across runners addicted to the stuff but wasn't quite sure if they ate it or rubbed it where the sun doesn't shine. Turns out to be the latter. So why not try it, I ask? So, seduced by Boots 3 for 2 offer, I acquire three pots of the stuff. Not sure where it shouldn't go so rub it in liberally everywhere that clothes touch. If Judith takes it in her head to grab me now, I'll probably slide off at warp speed like the petroleum really has been lit.

0830. Two water bottles - full. Hat - in case sun comes out (again). Plasters for any damage occasioned en route. Jelly babies. Energy bars. Fully charged mobile phone and headphones with MP3 player operational. Housekey. Now replace sensible head with stupid head. Leave.

See all the children going to school. Recognise the looks of pity for shuffling old person clearly headed for the Knackers Yard. Resist temptation to look like a proper runner and burn out in the first mile and continue the Old Man Shuffle until out of sight up the Balloch Road. Bliss. Solitude. Except for the Z4 sports car coming up behind and causing the first of the morning's Jump Onto The Verge To Avoid Bodily Injury events. Then a car appears ahead coming this way. Then another. Don't these people have any respect?

So through Balloch and up the only serious hill to the Drummond Castle Plateau. Tractor and trailer approach from behind. Not so much the noise of the tractor engine that alerts me as the smell from the trailer. Why does animal feed smell of molasses? Does it have to so the animals will eat it? Or do they spread it on toast made from Farmer's Wife home-made bread? Better the smell of molasses than that of pig excrement, I suppose.

Target time to the Blairinroar Road, 55 minutes; actual time, 55 minutes 6seconds. So far, so good.

Water to be sipped regularly, not gulped spasmodically. (Maybe I didn't fit the stupid head properly.) Jelly babies regularly. Energy bars from ten miles. It's a Plan!

Travel on steadily then hear a quad-bike approaching from behind; it's the farmer and dog I met the other day herding sheep down the road. Recognition and, surprisingly, a cheery greeting from him. Nice to meet friends unexpectedly - if briefly.

Approaching the Comrie-Braco road; target time, 1 hour 40 minutes; actual time 1 hour 41 minutes 40 seconds. Not overdoing then. Across the road to enjoy the benefits of road surfacing not yet recognised as in need of post-winter repair by PKC. The advertised 'gel' element of my running shoes are put to the test and found wanting. I can still feel the loose stones through my soles. And my soul. In both cases, uncomfortably. This could end badly.

So to the junction that is Wester Meiggar; and south-west down Glen Artney and the Highland Boundary Fault line (Wikipedia explains all - if you don't already know). Target time, 2 hours or so; actual time, 2 hours 4 minutes. Slowing down it seems; probably wise. Last time in Glen Artney, I was caught napping by a car from behind so keep glancing behind like a Paranoid Android with a nervous tic. Approaching last time's literal turning point, I'm feeling OK so press on. Before I know it, the road is going downhill and I know I'm approaching the Old Dalchruin School House. Target time, not less than 2 hours 30 minutes; actual time, 2 hours 38 minutes 25 seconds.

Is this good, that I'm quite a bit slower to half-way and therefore conserving energy; or is it bad that I'm knackered already? Take on water, consume energy bar, admire view of Glen Artney I'd not seen before. Promise myself I should walk here one day - ideally with my wife complete with mended knee. Enough. I'm not a tourist and there's no transport waiting for me. Except a pony; shanks' pony.

So to the return. As I reclimb the incline, it dawns on me that I'm headed into a gentle breeze, the presence of which had eluded me before. It must be coming from the north-east in complete contradiction of all that's normal. Still, it's not strong and quite pleasant really. I try to stop myself computing how much extra effort I'll have to expend to defeat it on the way back. Just enjoy, I hear some madman saying in my head.

It's turning into a day for meeting old friends of the road. As I near Wester Meiggar, I realise I have a car behind. Lo and behold it's the very same lady who surprised me from behind (so to speak) on an earlier visit. Waving her on cheerily, I expect this to be the last time our paths will cross. The Fates have more of a sense of humour. Not two minutes later, there is her car stationary at the junction. It's either parked (well, it's no more than five feet from the road edge), abandoned or the lady's become invisible. Suddenly, she re-appears upright in the driving seat having presumably been fishing around on the floor or the glovebox for something.

As I draw level, all becomes clear. She is talking in animated fashion on a mobile phone to what I can only presume is another woman (or is it a gay man?). I run past; she ignores me. I travel on wondering if I'm going to be approached from the rear by her again in a few minutes. I am not excited by the prospect.

In the midst of all this excitement, I realise the time is now 3 hours 14 minutes. I am still slowing down; or is it the breeze and climbing back up the hill? I decide I don't care and focus on more water, another jelly baby and my increasingly painful feet. And that damaged and unrepaired road that's doing those feet no favours. Head for the Coilcambus crossroads and that tempting seat with the fine views. Ease down to a walk as I approach the road; how ironic to run so far and get mown down in the middle of nowhere by a motoring moron. OK, no traffic so jog confidently back into the Blairinroar road and only 9 miles to get home.

Bravely ignoring the seat, I get out of sight of the main road and realise I need a break. Relapsing into submission, I take a comfy seat on a wall, inspect my toes and declare them fit for purpose. More food and drink then off up the slope. The next mile is not fun; in fact, it's The Mile I Wouldn't Run If Someone Came Along And Offered Me A Lift. But of course no-one does. So I carry on. Rather to my surprise, I don't actually die and another mile or so further, my body stops fooling about and releases a minute shred of energy back into my legs again. Weird.

Remembering I have another energy bar, I'm forced to stop to retrieve it having failed to work out how to do so on the move. As I stand there having a chew, the one vehicle to pass me in the four miles of this leg goes by. It is a long, low, expensive Mercedes estate car driven by a long, low, expensive woman; probably an estate woman at that. She gives me a disdainful look. Fortunately she's going in the wrong direction or I might have lain down in front of her car in desperation for a lift. Or not.

Whatever passes for a second wind is now in my sails and I jog onwards to the point where it is, quite literally, downhill (almost) all the way to Crieff. As I hum along to the music in my ears, I am interrupted in my reverie by what sounds like a telephone ringing. Realising quickly that it IS a telephone ringing, I quickly fish out the mobile, hastily press something or other and hope the caller hasn't gone (unless it's a sales call). It's my wife, enquiring about my health and safety before she goes off to lunch with a friend. I reassure her that my Current Energy Crisis is one readily solved if only I can reduce my emissions and increase my miles per litre. Refreshed emotionally by this caring call, I ignore the fact that I'm still just as knackered and keep going.

So the turn by Drummond Castle wall where the outward leg took 55 minutes. Going back is largely downhill so surely can't be longer? So only 55 minutes to home. And 4 hours 15 minutes running (plus a few minutes rest) since I left. I now rediscover the controversial fact that running downhill can be slower than running uphill. This conflict with the Laws of Gravity and Einsteinian Physics operates largely with The Old and the Timid; it appears not to afflict the Young and the Brave. Einstein never mentioned this so far as I know.

I mentally divide up the remaining miles into 'laps' in my head. This way, I know the distance will pass easily and readily and I will arrive home in fine shape. Ho-*******-ho. First lap, to Balloch. The rain gently starts to fall. Actually, doing OK so far; and the rain helps. Second lap, to North Bridge. Get to Stuart Crystal and Graham Martin remarkably fails to appear. And there was me thinking he had nothing better to do. Crawl over the bridge and ignore all other humans. Pretend I'm a new species that always travels like this.

Round into Duchlage Road and onto the Market Park. Less than a mile to go. Take a young couple by surprise as they step back hastily to let an aged person shuffle by. Spot another young couple ahead pushing a pram; use them as a target to catch to get me home. Fail; they're going at normal walking pace which is clearly much too fast for me. I rally and catch up to them at the bottom of my road. Climb the hill and tell myself I should always be able to sprint the last 100 metres. I continue to shuffle.

So at last I can stop the watch as I get to the house. I daren't look at the time it records. Just get in and recover, I tell myself. So in, drink, shower and crash. Two hours later, Judith finds me still crashed and unaware I've lost two hours to slumber. I arise and wonder how much my body will make me pay for my madness.

Good Friday. And it is quite good. Remarkably, no pain; hardly any stiffness; no damage to toes or other extremities. 5 hours 29 minutes 25 seconds I was out (of the house) and running for 5 hours and 15 minutes. 42.38kms. 685.6 metres of ascent and descent; over 2000 feet in old money - no wonder I got home a knackered Old Bloke. Never again. Well, not until the next time. When it'll be flatter. And busier. And in Edinburgh on May 22nd. I must be mad.

It WAS a wicked idea. But I didn't dream it. It hurt at the time but I got away with it. All the same, I don't think it means I can overtake a police car in a 30mph area and get away with it.

So How's The Marathon Training Going?

2011-04-11T15:29:00.000+01:00

Did I mention I entered the Edinburgh Marathon on 22nd May? Probably not.

It's all that baby's fault - possibly. Fellow Strathearn Harriers Al & Kaz were about to have Kaz deliver what turned out to be Murray. A bottle of bubbly was offered by another Harrier to the person who got closest to day and time of birth plus birthweight and boy/girl prediction.

If there were two tickets in a lottery, I'd pick the wrong one. So, confident as ever of failure, I promised I'd run the 2011 Edinburgh Marathon if I won.

Oh, the sense of humour of the Gods.

And so it transpired that 'For tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his owne petar'. Blown up by my own gunpowder. A delayed action fuse even, since I'll probably 'blow up' somewhere around 16-20 miles, or sooner.

This is not so fanciful or even guesswork; last Friday says so. The latest instalment of training involved a run from home into the glory that is Glen Artney, south-west of Comrie, Perthshire.

Friday 8th April was glorious, if breezy. The target was The Schoolhouse in Glen Artney, some 20kms or so from home. A round trip approaching marathon distance, albeit I expected to stop a few times en route. Packed water (600ml), jelly babies and mobile phone. Wife working (without mobile phone) for most of the time I'd be running but, hey, I'm not going to need rescuing, am I? Use the MP3 player on the mobile to while away the miles, not something I usually do. Silence - or more correctly the sounds of the countryside - is usually preferable to me. But I do like a slug of Sandy Dennis, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Kirsty McCall and so on mingled with Bruch, Tchaikovsky and Leoncavallo. Eclectic, I think that's called. Or mad.

So off into the teeth of the breeze and the first leg (8kms) that included most of the climbing I'd be doing. Into Balloch (is Scotland just a load of Ballochs?) where a 20mph driver passes considerately. Out again and round the back of Drummond Castle to head for Blar an Rodhar (Blairinroar). Wind now hitting from the left as I head West past farms and the Scout & Guide campsite. Intermittent shelter from the wind but find I actually like the feel of the fast-flowing, oxygen-laden breath of Mother Nature on my shoulder.

So across the B827 as vehicles scurry by to Comrie or Braco to the renewed peace of my westerly trek. But then reality breaks into the poetic imaginings; my toes are hurting.

Since it's not a good idea to break in a new pair of running shoes on a marathon, I changed to one of my stored pairs a few weeks ago. When I find shoes that suit me, I buy two or three pairs and put them away for later. My feet aren't going to change, are they?....

So my toes are hurting and I don't feel like pretending this is the real thing so I stop, remove the shoes and get massaging. Having only seen one vehicle on my bit of tarmac for nearly 10 miles, of course this is the perfect moment for vehicle #2 to pass. A utility company 'white' van - driven not by White Van Man but by White Van Woman. Equality reigns.

Glen Artney beckons so on with the shoes and down to Wester Meiggar and into South-West mode. Check watch. Just two hours so close enough to schedule. Head for The Turning Point. Hum-de-hum goes the MP3 player and its library of entertaining tunes. The sun shines brightly on Beinn Dearg. The hills are alive with the sound of music.

PARP!! I leap skywards Apollo-like for at least 10cms and lurch sideways onto the grass verge. Has Toad been reincarnated? No. Gently, a very nice lady driver in her 4x4 draws level from where she was following me and says through the open window "I'm SO sorry. I didn't mean to startle you but with those.. " - she points at the MP3 ear-pieces now dangling from my neck - "I realised you couldn't hear me." "Quite all right. In a world of my own with all this.." - I gesture at Nature In All Her Glory - "as well as the music." We part good friends.

So onwards and (mostly) downwards towards the end of Glen Artney. But the miles are starting to tell their own story and it seems sensible to consider turning a little earlier than planned. So I do, about 3 kms shy of the Car Park.

So back up Glen Artney, back to Wester Meiggar where the clock shows around 43 minutes for the round trip. Plan A was to return via Cultibraggan and the Glascorrie Road. This also involves several miles of the Strowan Road (back road Crieff-Comrie) that I don't care for much. So I invoke Plan B and return the way I came.

27kms and the water's gone. And it's got warmer. And the breeze has receded. And I'm tired. Still, pop a couple more jelly babies into the mouth, get the energy in and see how we go. Nature torments me with the sound of babbling brooks alongside the road but I'm not yet desparate enough to drink pond-life. But what's that? Can it really be a miniature waterfall emerging through a mossy enclosure next to the road? Indeed it can. Caution to the winds, fill water-bottle and drink icy-cold liquid in gulps. Is this wise? Possibly not....

Another kilometre and minor pain in the gut. OH NO!!!! The water was poisoned..... Another kilometre and - the pain's gone. More water, less pain. WHEW!! Good call after all.

Get to 30kms and it's (mostly) all downhill from here. Back through Balloch and up the long drag to the A85. A couple + dog emerge ahead about 150 metres ahead of me, the couple oblivious to me, the dog not. Dog approaches; he knows I'm a Dogman, I know he's not a problem. We run along together and, just as we are a few metres behing the couple, they realise they have no dog but that An Apparition has it. I return their dog and very soon am standing on the edge of the A85 waiting for the traffic to go by. I am oblivious to their nature.

So across the road onto the hundred or so metres of grass verge before the pavement starts near Stuart Crystal. I walk, partly so I don't fall over into the traffic, partly for a breather. I become aware that a man is walking towards me. This is strange because this short pavement goes nowhere. Then I realise - it's fellow Harrier Graham Martin. How coincidental! Well, not entirely.

Being a kindly soul and passing in his car a fellow Harrier in apparent distress, he rides to the rescue with the offer of a lift home. He should be a doctor - diagnosis 100%. (I THINK I'd have got home OK - about 2kms further - but you never know). And he provides me with an unopened 500ml bottle of water to boot. What a gent. The water doesn't last a mile - could it be I was a trifle dehydrated?....

Safely delivered home, I restore what's left of me in the usual fashion under a deluge of water in the bathroom and also restore my depleted internal water supply - about 2 litres-worth. The shower also provides evidence that my bald spot got slightly sunburned. Smacked wrists for no hat - as well as not enough water. Ho-hum. Experience can be had at any age - even my advanced one.

Next morning, I go out for an 11km run 'round the block' on my regular routine run. Slowest ever in 12 years of doing that route - but I don't care. By the following morning, I wake up and walk downstairs without any pain and scarcely any stiffness. That 11kms was a struggle but an investment well-worthwhile.

So will the Edinburgh Marathon be within my compass? Possibly. Probably. Definitely. One of them anyway.

But my kindly fellow Harriers, possibly motivated by fear of my succombing to the event, have formed a Relay Team (of four) to accompany me. How can I possibly let them down? It promises to be interesting - possibly - and (hopefully) even entertaining. It will certainly be a challenge. Many have now met that challenge, including my heroes George Carson and Fiona Lyle. George will be there on the starting line and with me through Leg 1. Beth, Liz and Charlie will follow on the next three Legs (Liz threatening to do Legs 3 AND 4). I just hope I'll be there - on both legs - as Leg 4 comes to its glorious conclusion in the company of Charlie and Liz.

Watch this space.

Strathearn Harriers' Mince Pie Run - 18 December 2010

2010-12-20T18:36:00.000Z

Freezing cold. Ice on the ground. Clearly dangerous conditions for two-legged creatures with a high centre of mass to perambulate. Naturally, perfect conditions in which Strathearn Harriers members can run whilst carrying mince pies and dodgy drinks and wearing apparel unlikely to win fashion plaudits for anything other than sheer practicality. Skater Boys and Girls indeed. So the Annual Mince Pie run starts at NN76267 20049 - a frozen car park outside Comrie in Perthshire. Smug from 4x4 owners; triumph from 2x0 rallycross champions.

Naturally enough, the event requires photographic evidence that it does indeed take place and that the culprits really are around 20 in number. Running madness is an infection (though thankfully not so nearly fatal as sub-zero swimming). Here, two infected females (we have to provide this identification since all the usual evidence is hidden under umpteen thermal layers) pose for history. At this stage it is not revealed that some female footwear is not equipped with those spiky things that (mostly) prevent apex and base exchanging coordinates. Ho-ho as someone seasonal might say.

We are advised to warm up with appropriate callisthenics. One male runner combines following this advice with capturing a scene of exquisite beauty in the stillness of breathless white. He also photographs a couple of female runners (see previous illustration).

An injured member is attended to by a Doctor.

As the injured member is rubbed with embrocation, The Three Stooges display (a) caught-in-the-headlights fascination, (b) embarrassed attention to the snow and (c) uncontrollable mirth causing Third Stooge to double up in pain. The moment will later be captured forever in their acclaimed stage show.

One of the group waggishly tells a new mother that the route has been changed to incorporate the path that runs under a giant waterfall. She ia assured that she won't get very wet but she is aghast at this ghastly thought. Cold showers are for monks and other naughty men she reasons reasonably. A more kindly member corrects the information by explaining the path goes over the water, not the other way round. We shall see who is right later.

Arriving on time some fifteen minutes late, a farmer's wife with 4x4 Dog Wagon has no time to reach the designated parking location and hastily parks her car across another farmer's gate. It's OK, she says, as she explains about the rules of The Farmer's Mafia. We only shoot The Public's dogs and the occasional Lone Rambler is her disquieting explanation. We are thankfully en masse and moving faster than a speeding bullet. A red top worn in contradiction of the advice to only wear ice blue, however, provides a tempting target.

Despite evidence that a recently pregnant bitch has discharged all of her cargo, an amateur veterinarian insists on a quick health check. An accompanying dog slinks away in case he too is subject to unsought female fondling. Men line up out of camera shot with the usual unfounded optimism.

After as much as 800 metres, the usual excellent Strathearn Harriers organisation sees the group all set off together from the site of the farmer's wife arrival. Clearly the morning is going to go well. The suggestion of a little light added Christmas decoration to the normal running apparel has also produced its usual overwhelming response amongst the enthusiastic members.

When one member realises the folly of the red top and the absence of foot grippers, tears well up. Her companions respond with sympathetic laughter and the assurance that the bruises to come will heal quickly. She is restored to happiness instantly.

At an early reunion point, members variously seek to be prominent in the camera shot, seek anonymity, or pretend to keep warm whilst secretly showing off their remarkable flexibility of limb. Adjustment to running gear will later fail to achieve its purpose of raising the average across-the-ground speed.

When realisation bursts out that the owner of the estate upon which the runners exercise is Russian, the wearer of the red top is immediately happy. History may show that modern Russians are not necessarily Reds and that her happiness may be ill-founded. Let us wish her well regardless.

As The Official Photographer attempts some arty-farty shots of the talented sheepdog, a grumpy female runner wonders why more pictures aren't taken of the beautiful women in the party. Being aged and unwilling to admit that he is hard of hearing, the photographer mistakenly responds that dog shots are in short supply; he has plenty of shots of bitches. On realising his truly awful mistake, he is instantly contrite and corrects the situation with this shot of a beautiful woman. She is happy the picture shows her best side. Peace is restored.

So the happy band goes full pelt up the hill showing that brand of fearless athleticism for which the Strathearn Harriers are rightly famous. Happiness shows on every ruddy face. Confusingly, remarks are also heard about the ruddy hill when it is clearly predominantly white not red.

Realising that opportunities for a group photo may melt away whilst the snow doesn't, The Official Photographer persuades the runners to adopt a suitable pose. Some respond, some become camera-shy, some are just silly. A retake is called for.

There's always one; or four. Abandoning the attempt to get all heads pointing in the same direction at once, The Official Photographer settles for ten out of fourteen. Important moments in history are meaningless to some people.

Men exchange opinions on whose grippers are best. A specially steep hillside is selected where an impressive display of Angular Walking On Grippers takes place. Gravity is defied breathlessly whilst muscles tuned to perfection hold gracefully athletic males at seemingly impossible angles.

Tony's Great White Shark brand grippers are voted as having the most teeth. It is agreed however that Grippers cannot be judged solely by who has got the ones with the biggest teeth; 'It's not size that matters but how you use what you've got' is the unanimous verdict. The ladies concur.

In a quiet corner of the Mince Pie & Dodgy Drinks Eatery, a cunning member extracts a secret stash of goodies left on an earlier visit. Dubious folk concerned about the offerings are reminded that Tayside Constabulary are frozen in and that in any case breath testing kits don't work below -5C (or so it is reliably said on that fount of all guaranteed human knowledge, WikiFaceTwitBook). Merriment follows.

Whilst one of the ladies tries to discreetly pass a flask of 40% Proof, the intended recipient shows that other sources have already reached her. Her husband looks on with his usual long-suffering patience.

In Comely Corner, one runner desperately shows her cup does not runneth over and eagerly solicits a refill. She puts her extra-special thirst down to having to look after all her new babies. it is thought that the small canine that actually gave birth to them is more in need but help arrives promptly nonetheless. She is happy and shows it.

The Official Photographer demonstrates why his place is rightly behind the camera. Passing by swiftly, another runner practices his Saturday Night Fever moves; he may be disappointed.

Reluctantly, a new mother looks on as a new mother is tested yet again for full fitness. Gratitude is expressed that not all mammals are fitted with six nipples.

After waving off five of the crew to attempt a previously unclimbed path down Glen Artney, it seems that just a short run brings the others to The Waterfall. This is because it is just a short run.

Captivated by the stunning creation of Nature that is frozen water, and wondering how the local pub can offer such an uninteresting variant, runners pose. They then pose for a photo.

Once the uninteresting have passed by, the interesting is available for recording by the interested. Lots of folds and clouds grace the crevice that Nature has unwittingly provided for lots of human gawping. Poets gasp at the opportunity. Cliché writers are in their element. So soon will it all melt away and we shall have to make do with our memories; and our photo collection.

Picture postcard from Scotland for enjoyment in Russia. Already Scotland is being spoken of as the Siberian Riviera where winter temperatures fall to a mere -17C. Doubtless Geordies will also soon arrive with their skimpy tops and micro-skirts to enjoy the balmy scenes. Barmy indeed.

A solicitor with a secret second life as a journalist fails to realise his secret is revealed in his car's number-plate. He makes ready to practice his multi-talents by driving on snow with no hands as he casts his eyes through the daily paper. His longevity testifies to his extreme talents in this and other directions. His tasty coffee has refreshed the parts other weaker liquids cannot reach and his skin glows with the twin benefits of the warmth of this coffee and of the (very) fresh air. We are all impressed (again).

As the event comes to its happy conclusion, the already multi-national group is joined by a Pole. Graciously supporting a Doctor on this occasion, our new Pole friend assures us that its support can be relied on for many years to come. We are grateful.

Next year's Mince Pie run can hardly come soon enough.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all our readers.

Kilomathon, Edinburgh - Sunday, 3 October 2010

2010-10-09T15:19:00.000+01:00

Someone, somewhere thought "26 miles is a long way to run; how about 26 metres? No - too easy. 2,600 metres? Better - but not quite a serious challenge to many. 26,000 metres? Now you're talking." So it was (sort of) that an event was born covering 26 kms rather than 26 miles. What else would it be called but a 'kilo-mathon'? But pronounce it 'kilom-athon' just to confuse and be linguistically idle. Ho-hum.

Thus on 14 March 2010 in Derby, Englandshire - the first ever. Was it deliberately held on Mothering Sunday morning or were the organisers oblivious? Thence to 8am on Sunday 3 October 2010 in Edinburgh - the second ever. More to come around Europe, North America, etc. (provided they make money for the organisers, of course).

So to Scotland. So to the Strathearn Harriers and the four pioneers who decide to have a go. 8am start. Three leave Crieff at 5.30am and reach Cow Farm at 6am. Travel en masse in Fiona's Cow Truck, thus saving the planet, to the Edinburgh Showground to be part of what turns out to be a relatively modest field of around 1700 runners. Cow Truck is parked near the entrance to the Start/Finish arena. All are grateful it will be easy and quick to find as they expect to be staggering back to it exhausted. Or worse.

Nicola and James are going to mix it with the other 'proper' runners; Fiona and her friend, the Club Moron, are going to have fun. They think. Using the loos where the organisers are also saving the planet by not supplying electricity for the lights is the first excitement. Or is it spelled excrement? Since no-one can see, no-one will ever know. Nonetheless, the crowds gather, svelte of figure and attractively dressed one and all. Some seem to have confused a road run with a hill walk and come armed with walking boots and heavy rucksack. This may end in tears. In the foreground, the crowd is delighted to welcome Chris Moyles though they wonder at his training regime.

In the highly organised start area, runners are arranged by the colours on their race numbers. The handy scoffolding is to be used to flog or, if needed, hang any runner not in the right compound through the use of blue rope handed to all guards (or 'helpers' as they are misleadingly described). With his Yellow number carefully concealed, the Club Moron hides in the Blue compound with Fiona and her bold Blue number and shivers. Is it the cold or the fear of discovery?

As the start time of 8am approaches, crowds throng the Showground desperate to get a glimpse of their favourites. The many 'helpers' at the event are hard-pressed to hold the throng in check. It may be many years before such a ratio of onlookers to participants is seen here again.

Fiona is beside herself with excitement at the prospect of running across the Forth Bridge but conceals her nerves beneath designer overwear specially acquired for the event. Evidently, she is fearless at the prospect of cold concrete affecting her bodily functions.

The Club Moron, of course, remains debonair and stylish throughout the preliminaries. His arm-pouch containing anti-stupid grin medication is safely in place. The effects already seem to be wearing off already, however, and he may forget to take more. We shall see. At least his emergency alarm system is safely secured to his waist.

And then, suddenly, they're off! In a blur of action, the runners race off to see who can be first to burn out and slow down to a walk. The Moron believes he has to capture the images of the kilometre distance signs and stick them to his race card. He's been told that a complete set wins a medallion though more than twenty still qualifies for a bag containing otherwise unsaleable artifacts made in China. He is excited at the prospect.

The '1km' and '2km' signs pass in a flash. '3km' seems impossibly soon and then '4km' is exactly at a bus stop! Astonishing! Determined to keep to 10 minutes per mile, the Moron is kept out of too much mischief by trying to work out what this means in kilometres. Since one mile is 1.6093 kilometres, he runs out of fingers doing the sums. He recruits other runners around him to help. They are, of course, delighted to do so.

One of the nearby runners suggests the Moron fudges his answers to these complex mental calculations as nearby construction workers call out to the female runners. "Jolly Good Show", they cry. "You girls look absolutely spiffing", they remark. "Your attire does you credit" they admire. [This section has necessarily been ever-so-slightly amended for reasons of avoidance of litigation.]

The '5km' sign is spotted as the race approaches the 'Hill & Tunnel' section so dreaded by those negotiating it on foot.

Some question if the Moron is serious about the event if he's only collecting pictures. He doesn't understand.

He shows this lack of understanding by posing at the '6km' marker whilst an innocent passer-by wields his camera.

Shortly before 'The Bridge', '7km' is captured then its rush, rush, rush through '8km' where wallpaper paste and sugar (known as 'gel') is dispensed and ingested. And so to the famous Forth Road Bridge. [Ed. Isn't it the Forth Railway Bridge that's famous? I think pictures of that would be better.]

As the runners step foot on to the bridge, Fiona is momentarily confused as she starts to race backwards against the traffic. A fellow runner hopes the now-strongly blowing wind will waft away the accumulated anti-social detritus that are her under-arms. All hope likewise.

And so the participants see the world-famous Forth Railway Bridge [Ed. That's better!] and marvel that it is only made of Lego. Thank goodness Scottish children down the years haven't realised. [Prospective Scottish Tory Party candidates are not invited to comment on why this might be so.] At this stage, the Moron doesn't take in the fact that the wind is behind him.

Posing (badly) as grateful runners rush past him, an image of the Moron that Posterity may regret is captured. Yet again, Strathearn Harriers are to be congratulated for their contributions to geriatric charitable causes.

Up ahead, Fiona pretends that the '9km' sign is about to fall down and that she must rescue it. The reality of her impending collapse from exhaustion (at being forced to listen to the jabberings of the Moron) is hidden.

Succumbing to the siren temptations of a warm and well-padded shoulder, Fiona rests her weary body as she reaches double-figures; her figure and his figure could be doubles. With a gentle and understanding growl of "Awa wi ye, ye brazen hussy" from her erstwhile rescuer, Fiona despondently returns to her task of escorting the Moron safely round the course.

She is momentarily depressed but then uplifted as she contemplates the Moron vanishing over the parapet to a watery grave below. However, the sight of North Queensferry banishes such negativity from her mind as the wind carries her excitedly towards the turn and back towards Home.

And lo! As the route falls downwards into the Kingdom of Fife, '12km' is seen and a quick turn brings all back towards the Lothians - and into the wind and rain...

As the Moron and his Nurse forge on, Fiona points out that '13km' is not an unlucky number as it signifies half-way.

The Moron cunningly points out that, actually, 'Half-way' is where the 'HALF WAY' sign has been placed. The Nurse slaps him, gives him another pill (cunningly concealed inside a jelly baby specially prepared for just this circumstance) and they plod onwards.

Surprisingly soon, '14km' is collected and everyone on this side of the bridge laughs at the woman on the other side who is being escorted by the Ambulance and the Sweeper Wagon. Clearly this slow-coach is just an attention-seeker wanting all the publicity that surrounds the last runner in such events. She is clearly a sad person. As '15km' is captured and we race on to the end of the bridge, though, we all secretly wonder if we're just jealous.

So off the bridge the brave runners gallop and into South Queensferry where '16km' is spotted. Only 10kms to go! Only once round Laggan Hill! Only six miles! If only the legs were fresher...

So Fiona, enthralled by the beauty and quaintness that is South Queensferry, takes to the pavements to save her tootsies from the cobbles. Or are they setts? Whatever - the surface is about as smooth as Crieff High Street after last winter's weather. Beyond the tourists' sight, abseilers beckon.

Yet another helpful coincidence as the 17km point exactly matches the location of a lamp-post. But whom of the runners cares about the number 17? Unloved, this number in its prime condition brings nought but wistful memories of Provisional Licences and furtive slurps of illicit beverages. How much more loved are '18' and '21' and - today - '26'. Not even relieved by picturesque scenes of flowing beauty,.... [Ed. OK, shut up with the faux lyricism and get on with the story.]

There at last rises the latticework ribbon that is the start (and end) of the Forth Railway Bridge. And there are the brave souls abseiling down (for charity - otherwise it's pointless) and getting a bird's-eye view of 1700 passers-by who don't even stop to throw a coin in the charity bucket. Some of the 1700 have the glow of their own charity fund-raising; most of the rest pass by with heads bent in guilt (or pain, or something).

Some spectators arrive in vehicles so old they intimate poverty. "Wazzamarrer? Can't even afford a Proton?" Little does ignorant youth suspect the value of age. The owners just smile and revel in the whirr of a rotor arm and the £0 Tax Disc.

With a last seeming glimpse of flies struggling to escape the spider's web that hangs from the bridge in mocking defiance of Scottish wind power, the unsuspecting turn the corner and face the monster that is Hawes Brae.

Seeming to lean into the remorseless wind, lamp-posts and bus-stops alike resist gravity's call on Hawes Brae. '18km' means a mere five miles to go to victory over adversity. The angle of dangle here means high ground beckons. Bravely, Fiona masks her pain and merely points out she'll kill the cameraman if pictures of her here are released into the wild. Compliance reigns.

A quick burst through Dalmeny and Standingstane Road and its promise of friendly gravity beckons. '19km' already|! (Or is it more? Or less? Or do we care anymore?).

And - wonder of wonders - smiles, cheers and clapping greet the weary as '20km' is spotted. On its own pedestal, '20km' stands proud and accurate (?) accompanied by its minders and paid cheer-leaders. 'Only just over six million millimetres to go' they cry in a desperate attempt to cheer everyone on to greater efforts. They fail.

At last, the open vista not stolen by Microsoft and friendly gravity now beckon their warming arms. Fiona is excited at the sight of the airport control tower and changes up a gear into 2nd as she attacks the final stage.

The Moron still complains. 'Why can't I have another slug of Colombian?' he queries. 'You know the caffeine helps straighten my stooping back.' 'Yes', replies his Nurse. 'If only your Colombian was brown and wet, not white and powdery'. 'So find me a warm, wet, brown Colombienne then' he quips - more merrily.

And as Kirkliston looms in the distance, '21km' ambles slowly past as the Moron and his Nurse contemplate how they've managed to stay on schedule. Inexplicable.

'22km' somehow evades capture whilst '23km' bashfully snuggles into the sky above camera-range as Fiona absorbs the breathlessly beautiful area that is outer Kirkliston.

Then it's into Lochend Road! And there's the antepenultimate beribboned signature of impossible dreams! Only two million millimetres (or so) to go! Should be a doddle. Doddling on, eyes search longingly for the quarter-century of achievement that is '25km'.

And there!! On the fence where just about all the runners will miss it!! Kindly to the last, the organisers clearly don't want to torture the competitors with thrusting the not-the-last-one in their faces. It works.

Entering the exquisite wrought-iron gates that separate the winners and losers, Fiona and New Friend are pursued by a Red Number (supposedly best runners) despite being Sisters in Blue (supposedly not best runners). Life is in turmoil. Clocks run backwards. Bobble hats lose to sports bras. Whatever next? Pensioners creating mischief? Surely not.

And there's the last! At last! Only a few happy metres to go. And only then because of some Old Queen. (Little did she know the energy crises she'd create.)

So the Moron and his Nurse throw themselves happily across the finishing line after which the Nurse continues to throw to prove she still has it in her. Not for long though. 2hrs 43mins 35secs of running have convinced Fiona that the phrase 'never again' has a warm and satisfying ring to it.

Recovering swiftly following a quick massage from a passing group of eight strapping young men, the Nurse agrees to pose for a final photo with the Moron who carries his stupid grin safely round the whole course in order to show it off at the end. Collecting their goody bags appreciatively, our brave duo rapidly take on extra calories in order to cope with the weight of the substantial medals now hanging round their necks.

Awaiting our two in the Winner's Enclosure, Nicola (2h11m19s) and James (2h11m45s) try hard at not looking too smug and pityingly at their clubmates. It is, after all, the taking part that matters - not the winning. Well, it certainly is if you don't win.

Next year? Possibly. Or is it probably not? No-one knows. Time will tell.

Club 5x5 Relay Race & Barbecue - Saturday 24th July

2010-08-02T13:15:00.000+01:00

Last year's 25th Anniversary celebrations proved so irresistible that a clamour was raised for a repeat performance every year. Does this mean the Club will remain for ever 25 years old? Perhaps not.

So our esteemed Doctor organises a bunch of (probably) willing volunteers into teams of five to run five legs around the beautiful area that is Strathearn. Not that any of us were likely to be looking at any more of the scenery than the ten metres or so of ground in front of us. As the crowds gather, the excitement is obvious on the faces of all. The choice of running shoes by some might give cause for regret later, however.

After last year's address by a Phil, another Phil tries to do better. An explanation drawn from Gray's Anatomy of the effects of tripping upsets a youngster; a nearby adult explains that some trips are mind-blowing and fun - even without travelling further than the friendly street-corner purveyor of powdered happiness. The Good Doctor wishes everyone well and hands out his business card in case anyone doesn't know the address of his surgery.

As the Good Doctor speaks, a Tiger's attention is wrapt; a Solicitor finds the contents of his fingernails marginally more demanding; children obey their father and pay attention; a runner in the back row gently nods off whilst a second Tiger practices the knees-up for the Knees-Up later. Opening remarks are once more not wasted on the breathlessly-waiting participants.

Recruitment levels to the Club having slowed down recently, one couple show their devotion to the Club by breeding future members. This one will probably not bother to go through the boring walking stage but just go straight from crawling to running. An incognito member of the Armed Wing of the Mother's Union practices the "I'll have your eyes out with this car key if you say that again" look. We are all grateful she is there to protect us.

So to the expensively-created Start area complete with timing mats, cameras and Press Corps to capture the scene. [Ed. Fire whoever should have organised all that lot.] One team decide to sport support items implying that they are injured. This fools the opposition who badly underestimate this cunning stunt.

At the first changeover point, transport arrangements based on the car-sharing scheme so efficiently arranged by the Club allow plenty of space for other users of this part of Strathearn. Incoming runners can also readily reach their changeover partners at the signposted gate as they are gently marshalled past the thronging spectators.

As the throngs await, a smaller onlooker finds a camera more entertaining than the exciting discussion before him about the latest brand of depilatories. Amongst the group immediately concerned, it is the consensus by three votes to one that men have it easy. A small female sits on the ground and examines the dirt as she has yet to discover what the word means - 'men' that is.

Meanwhile, the remainder of the throngers discuss. New Mother discusses breast-feeding with the carry-cot whilst the baby is off carousing elsewhere. The leader of Tony's Tigers wonders if the beer he's drinking is over 7% or not. His sadly-injured non-running companion states that, after only four, man-with-bottle is in no position yet to tell. In front of Leader T, another runner remarks that 'They were this far apart, honest!'. HIs companion can't believe it. A group of four laugh uproariously as one of their number recounts the results of her recent hairdressing visit. This is unkind as we all think her hair is always lovely.

Meanwhile, a little runner returns to the bedroom where a 'Little Bear' removes any opportunity for double meanings. He sleeps peacefully on, oblivous of the slightly unhinged group with whom his parents consort. A long-term series of bets is laid as to his age when first he outpaces his parents.

But then!! Our majestic Leg 1 winner hoves into sight and indeed...!! It is our brave injured (or is he?) companion who gallops into the changeover area with clear daylight between himself and the competing four team members. A stalwart performance showing the return to form of one sadly absent too often recently. Perhaps those extract of monkey glands are working after all.

Perhaps our Leg winner's speed was partly hastened by being chased by a Tiger. Our Club's New Father was evidently keen to check on New Mother and Baby; surely he can't have come second on Leg 1 purely for the sake of his fellow Tigers? But then, this is the most important race of his year so perhaps....

Following swiftly behind, and without the broomstick with which she is normally associated, our Leg 1 'Harrier Potterer' flies down the road with her feet refusing to touch the ground. This part-contradiction and part-affirmation of her team's amusing epithet gives heart to her Leg 2 team-mate.

'Fly, fly' cries Leg 1 and so Leg 2 Potterer, without her broomstick unable to comply literally, tears off along the dotted line intent on creaming Leg 2 with a new Club record. Two teams have a serious head start on her. We shall see.

Leg 1 Potterer agrees to pose alone for the camera as a record of achievement but is unable to throw off a pursuing admirer. In the end, she agrees to share the glory with him as long as he pushes off once he's got the autograph.

So Teams 4 & 5 rush in behind the Potterers, such being the pace that records only exist of Team 5's solicitous gentleman's arrival to thunderous applause from all concerned. We are all in awe of the legal remedies this stalwart of the Club has at his fingertips should we step out of line.

It can be a matter of genuine sympathy when exertions beyond the call of duty cause our members to suffer. Here we all suffer at the sight of the Leg 1 winner as he attempts to recover at the end of Leg 2. It becomes clear the clear liquid may not be pure Highland Spring. Several members ask about the 'peep-hole' kneewear our colleague sports and wonder if the same style is available for other parts of the body. It is not clear if the men are asking on their own behalf or that of their companions.

Whilst awaiting the arrival of our brave Leg 2 runners, three musketeers of the Club exchange pleasantries. One does a 'Raphael Nadal' with his shorts whilst another is amused to see that the Tiger's leader likes to look down at his logo whilst running. It is to be hoped American breakfast cereal manufacturers are relaxed about where their characters end up. The next Leg is out on the hills where anything might happen....

Our Knee-hole companion is asked the secret of his recovery process. He reveals the secret compartment in his running shoes where he keeps the herbs that have speeded his return to health. He proffers samples to the ladies, assuring them that their attractiveness can only be enhanced. Misunderstanding this, the ladies' amour-propre is restored by all men present assuring them of their beauty both external and internal. Warmth and love are restored.

As a symbol of this restored atmosphere, one of our number 'borrows' a cuddly bundle from an older, helpless couple passing by. Once the usual quota of cuddles (or, in one lady's case, shudders) has been exhausted, the animal is returned whence it came and the owners are shuffled harmlessly off towards the pub.

Then commotion!! Flash of light!! Blur of speed!! The Amazing Leg 2 Potterer has swiftly flown past the two teams leading at the end of Leg 1 and, defeating even a modern camera's high shutter speed, blurrily handed over to The Wizard of Leg 3. This remarkable performance, unprecedented in the Club's history, now has a team containing the Club Moron in a winning position. Unbelievable. Surely this will end badly.

As our ever-present giver of comfort and succour provides words of soothing wisdom, an exhausted Leg 2 runner tries to stay a Wake as he rest on a giant Toad's Tool. [Ed. this is a typo, surely?] His remembrance of being overtaken by a flying female Harrier Potterer blurs his mind and he becomes convinced a broomstick and unnatural practices were involved. Surely this can be the only reason his arrival was after hers?

Yet only a few metres away, the lady in question has that Giaconda look so beloved of the ladies when they know something we men can only guess at. A nearby spectator though has caught the whiff of brimstone and holds his nose so as not to be contaminated. The rest of the ladies laugh as they discuss recipes involving arcane and unexpected ingredients from endangered species (such as cod and kippers).

But our story must hasten on to the end of Leg 3. Handed the leading baton by the fantastically flying female that was the Harrier Potterers Leg 2 Queen, our Wizard of the Wilds appears. Fighting off the unwelcome attentions of a man armed with a loaded stethoscope, our brave Champion streaks (clothed) across the green sward to maintain the unexpected lead he was remarkably given. Unfortunately, it is to the Club's Moron that the baton must now be passed. All is lost, surely. [Ed. Don't call me Shirley - I have the manly name of Lesley.]

Regrettably, a veil must be drawn over the sad sight of the Moron in full flight on Leg 4. Suffice it to say that this largely downhill leg was a far cry from his normal experience of a testing descent - this being his stairs at home first thing in the morning. Reaching the finish, he proceeds to reach - to the faint embarrassment of the assembled company. A record was made, however, of his pathetic attempts at recovery; this posture was considered faintly inappropriate by certain of the ladies present.

As the Moron recovered, his long-suffering wife recounts endless tales of his similar behaviour; her companion's eyes and body language conveys clearly how she was enthralled by this. It is pointed out, however, that the Moron has managed (by some unknown means) to preserve - even increase - the lead of the Potterers. Could cheating (or, worse, magic) have been involved? No one knows.

Whilst excitement gathers as the final Leg (5) unfolds, a small runner masquerading as a 13 year-old (but with the leg muscles of a championship contender) completes Leg 4. One of the Potterers quickly transforms into a mishievous dog aiming to upset the fast-flying miniature. Thankfully, this magical ruse fails to upset the professional performance of the runner as he finishes magnificently.

Moments later, a Tony's Tiger - thirsty Kirsty - hands over her high-five (but not her iPod) to Laughing Liz who will attempt to overcome all odds as she pursues the flying Doctor Potterer. It will be in vain, but we all love a gallant loser.

And so at last, accompanied by his wizardly chums, our flying Doctor Potterer assumes the secret workwear that is no secret any more and flies across the line for a deserved but, at times, unlikely winning performance. Hats off to him!

And so, magically, the final scene is captured as Leg 3, Leg2 , Leg 5, Leg 4 & Leg 1 parade in debonair triumph, overcoming serious odds - a team with a Moron, devastatingly beautiful terrain and opponents who would stoop at nothing to deny the Harrier Potterers their due reward - on their way to a dance in a Barn. What a day already....

The kindliness of the owners of the Barn wherein the evenings entertainments occur is called into question later. As all the available children are lined up, there are mutterings about the increasing cost of farm labour these days. Some farmers are being driven to desperate measures. One child is singled out and the Farmer points out the direction of the Naughty Chair where she will have to sit for asking why it's only boys who get to drive the tractor.

The young people's demeanour starts to become increasingly concerned as the Farmer discusses whether milking can be entrusted to those with red hair. One child brightly realises what is coming and laces his shoes ready to run for it.

One child, being adjudged too small to handle the baler, is put in charge of the Pit Bulls where he wonders if they'll lick his fingers through the wire. His mother questions this approach but reflects that, in the event his judgement is not sound, he's ambidextrous anyway.

Eventually, it is agreed that the combined talents of the Strathearn Harriers are probably only qualified enough to organise a running race. The older children have mixed feelings about this; the younger ones go willingly and unknowingly into the cauldron that is A Footrace. Mothers gather together and exchange recipes; Fathers gather together and exchange car keys; Children gather together and exchange Facebook information. All is ready.

And suddenly - all is over. The races flash past; the winners flash smiles; the losers are told their characters have been built, whatever that means. A Farmer scratches his head as he ponders the imponderable (next year's subsidy payments), a Mother laughs uproariously as her companion (Bud the Wiser) points out that the race results are invalid in the absence of proper timing mats and chips.

Proudly the winners kick the losers out of camera shot as the children are photographed in contravention of legislation banning parents taking photos of their own children at school sports events. Proud parents discuss when the next opportunity for a revenge rematch will be. Child with stick swears he is about to conduct a rousing chorus of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' for the Race Organiser rather than testing the stick's circumference against some available orifice. Harmony prevails as ever at our happy gatherings.

As darkness falls gently over Perthshire's inestimable countryside, crowds gather inside The Barn for the excitement that is Fun & Frolics. The assembled throng is invited to 'Play Your Cards Right' by our brilliant DJ, a man known far and wide across Dalginross for his skill and daring behind the sound mixer. As Cavorting & Cards continue, children nod off, parents gently drift away towards their happy homes and quietude returns to Barn & Beast alike. Calm Charolais chew cud contentedly.

Pain may return to running bodies anon but, for now, all agree the day has been spiffing.

End of Term run 28 June 2010

2010-07-02T14:13:00.000+01:00

So it was agreed that the Harriers End of Term run would again grace the Comrie countryside after a number of previously successful forays into this veritable Garden of Eden. The only snake observed, however, carries a camera as well as offering temptation to women.

So those from Crieff make the shirt trip to Laggan Park in Comrie where the Comrie Section of the Harriers awaits with scarcely-concealed excitement. Or is that excrement?

Completing his shift as part of the Comrie Volunteer Dog Warden Team, a stalwart of the Club demonstrates the correct technique for disposing of dog poo. The correct positioning of the left hand on left hip whilst holding the bag with limp right wrist is regarded by experts in the field as all-important in achieving a 10/10 score from the world-renowned Dog Poo Disposal judges. The National Dog Poo Championships surely beckon.

In the nearby car park, a callow youth expresses his feelings at being in the company of a renowned paramedic - one credited with saving countless lives through her bravery, daring and skilled hands. The youth secretly pines for a non-fatal accident so he might also be rescued.

In his eagerness to achieve, our energetic Dog Warden fails to spot he has entered his car in the wrong category at the nearby Commercial Vehicles Show. Having a Jaguar, he misunderstood when he entered this section labelled 'CAT' for the US Company Caterpillar and its products. No matter, his vehicle won 'Best Executive Tractor' category anyway.

Another Harriers' member makes an even more potentially disastrous error when snatching the parking place normally reserved for the Road Roller. As the driver of the RR returns to reclaim his space, the Harrier narrowly averts a crushing defeat by speeding off across the grass to safety. Her driving in this trying situation however is, as always, impeccable. We are indeed fortunate to count her amongst our willing Club taxi drivers.

Demonstrating that perhaps the Ladies have something to learn from our prospective Champion Dog Warden, one shows off her prowess at dog poo picking. 'Room for improvement' is the general view though the judges warmly commend the lady for her efforts and comment favourably on the delicacy of the toe use.

So the masses gather. The host of runners seen off by the Halt and the Lame. The healthy ones mingle freely with the injured, oblivious of the virus that is The Harriers' Curse. Let us hope that none of the fit succumb to THC before the day is out. Our Dog Warden expresses his concern whilst his dog doesn't.

So the run begins. In no time at all, young men and elite women gather at a vantage point to swap bets on the time it will take the laggards to complete The Devil's Staircase up to their location. One knowledgable Dog Warden shows his superiority by taking a short cut.

Finally, the others heave into view, convinced the Devil did indeed build the torture that is The Staircase. No matter; the Dog Warden awaits smugly at the Junction.

Joining together again, the sheepdog ensures that all the animals are safely shepherded up the hill towards the glorious vistas that are Glen Lednock. And the next hill that our Beloved Leader speaks of as miniscule and of no account. Ho hum.

So our merry band traverses the first hilltop, swathed in trees, and makes the treacherous descent into the Glen proper will skill and aplomb. Our paramedic is delighted there is (so far) no call on her myriad of skills.

Our Beloved Leader, sister to Dr Hill Fairy of renown, shows she is modest in her view of her own downhilling skills by floating effortlessly through the air towards the gate. No-one felt it wise to say that the gate is nicknamed 'Oblivion'.

Last, but by no stretch of the imagination the least, our resolute Dog Warden strides effortlessly down towards 'Oblivion'. He knows that beyond 'Oblivion' lies the milk-and-honey land that is (for a while anyway) - flat.

As the happy band progresses onwards, the dogs encounter the bridge where, legend has it, the original Troll lives. The smaller dog is not seen after this point for some time, causing some anxiety that the story might have a smidgen of truth after all.

Bringing up the rear of the group (so to speak), Our Beloved Leader wonders if our Dog Warden might be rambling a little. She uses sign language to alert the rest of the group. The object of her signal merely casts his eyes down and tries to hide the woman's knickers he holds. No-one dares ask where they originated.

Having conquered the world-renowned Glen Lednock Shaky Bridge, the group is puzzled by the sudden absence of the Dog Warden. Even Our Glorious leader is perplexed. Eventually the group decides it couldn't care less where he is really and continue their implacable course towards Maam and all who sail in her.

The group then fearlessly tackle the obstacle that stands between them and more hill running. The youth grimaces in pain at the effort he made climbing three stairs whilst the paramedic double checks the edifice for the ladies using her comprehensive Health & Safety Guidelines knowledge. As copies of this moment circulate throught the world's press, questions are being asked about the identity of this fearless contributor to health and efficiency.

Finally, all is pronounced safe and well and the remaining ladies make their trepidacious way forwards. The dog realises its job is done for the moment though the youngster in the party seems not best pleased at this apparent canine desertion from duty.

So the party makes it way through the tick-infested jungle that is Glen Lednock and onto the broad highway that leads to Maam. At a convenient point where our Leader can make a head count, the small dog reappears, the youngster confesses himself knackered, our paramedic demonstrates mid-point stretching exercises, the youth pluckily follows these and the Bag Lady arrives with bags intact. Our Leader briefly shows the strain that leadership entails. She will come through it skilfully however.

As the group heads back towards lunch, there is uncertainty that the supposed road that is Maam is where the group actually is. Nonetheless, the lack of four lanes of tarmac does not deter the happy band from posing happily in front of nature. The dogs show respectively impatience to get going and a willingness to bite the legs of the laggards.

Across an almost impenetrable barrier, our paramedic and our youngster awaited the remaining runners. It seems easy to completely misunderstand the youngster's pose so we encourage our readers not do so, of course.

And so our happy band returned down the real road that traverses Glen Lednock and were reunited at Laggan Park. The sight of a heavy load-carrying unit greeted the runners, as well as a lorry and a dog. All was well at last.

Finally, to a well-earned lunch at Comrie Golf Club where the runners were joined by the non-runners, including a member planning to become a mother - apparently in about the next five minutes. (In the event, the happy event was nearly three days later so we need not have worried). A jolly time was had by all and, replete with the all best comestibles that Comrie Golf Club could offer, the group vowed to do it all again next Term. Maybe....

Strathearn Harriers weekend in Gairloch 4-6 June 2010

2010-06-14T16:17:00.000+01:00

Can it really have been more than a year since the wonderful weekend away in Ullapool? Could this year's event surpass last year's in wonderfulness? On a day when blue skies promised much, two parties made their way to Gairloch a day early.

After some initial confusion as to whether Strathearn Harriers were registered as a group licensed to cohabit on site, wooden bus shelters (described erroneously - by shamelessly stealing North American native culture - as 'wigwams') were allocated to those unable to put up a tent. Whilst the bus timetable from the shelters seemed somewhat sparse, there was at least the consolation of a sea view. The technically competent campers were conversely allocated to a beautiful field close to the beach blessedly out of sight of the the bus traffic.

Settling in well, our two early-day ladies reacted positively when asked by an aged passing paparazzi if they were up for a bit of canoe-dling. One lady thought that a multiple two-fingered gesture was adequate respost whilst the other merely clenched her fists and teeth at the thought. Already the excitement is apparent.

With the sun gently heading for the hills, the last Thursday arrivals pitch up and demonstrate how one vehicle can spread canvas across the landscape in no time at all. An old dog welcomes young friends from last year as he gently nodded off to sleep. They encourage him to shake the sand from his coat and prove he can still run like a good 'un. All present are encouraged that the dog's owners are comfortable about the possibility of him dying whilst enjoying his last run; he's had a dog's life.

And so to Friday morning. A run is proposed; this is a Harriers weekend after all so what more appropriate? Any reluctance is swiftly cast aside as three keen energetic young cyclists are joined by two fit and energetic sets of parents. This group kindly offers to escort an OAP across the road then reveal their true intent by forcing this invalid carriage-less senior citizen up a painful and (apparently) picturesque hilly road. This cruel and unusual practice, normally banned in civilised countries, inevitably results in the OAP suffering embarrassing bodily breakdown necessitating the administration of potentially life-giving herbs to his afflicted body parts. Rescuing his health by the medicinal waters flowing swiftly towards the nearby community, it is to be hoped the locals boil their drinking water.

And the sun shone. So, running and torturing OAPs over, it's off to the beach for fun and frolics on the sand. A game of beach cricket was swiftly established and the youngest member of the group given first innings. Unsuspected, this youngster is the reincarnation of W G Grace and promptly despatches a carelessly bowled loosener into The Yonder. Fortunately, the peak fitness that epitomises all Harriers is brought into play and the ball is returned before it reaches Skye.

Relaxing later after a gourmet lunch, the Beach Chef observes the quality of the sport on offer with all the natural seriousness, intensity and technical appreciation that women normally bring to watching cricket. A slight doubt nonetheless arises as she wonders about her daughter's whereabouts after the feverish digging by other children earlier.

As the cricket progresses, the team decides to enter this fine example of the photographer's art into the Club 'Spot The Ball' competition. It is hoped the resulting income (and the fact no-one's got any chance of winning) will boost Club funds significantly.

Inevitably, though, the cricket match starts to turn a little sour as one of the fathers starts his innings. First ball, his wife takes a startlingly brilliant catch at short mid-on. It is then pointed out to her that the rules of Beach Cricket clearly state that "A man can't be out first ball." Secondly "No man can be out to a catch taken by a female." Thirdly, "I've got the bat, so there!"

With the friendly end to the cricket game, exhaustion from prolonged summer exposure to parents causes one youngster to collapse. His apparently unsympathetic parent simply uses him to wipe the sand off his feet whilst confirming the winner of The Most Hideous Running Race T-shirt competition is indeed the Alloa half marathon handout. The youngster is about to be given a lesson in 'How to use your calories creatively'.

Tiring of foot-wiping (and, perhaps, of life), Alloa HM father decides to make an attempt on the hitherto vacant 'First to Canoe Round Skye' title. Sensibly, he co-opts a qualified doctor (well, he says he's qualified) and they set off. Typically, perhaps, he mistakes the much smaller and nearer Longa Island for the longer island and, braving the completely calm and peaceful waters of Caolas Beag, the two intrepid mariners slowly vanish into the distance.

As a breathless and almost entirely oblivious world takes no notice, a heavenly sunburst seems to bring an other-worldly blessing on the venture. The extent of this brave and possibly foolhardy venture, following as it does in the footsteps (so to speak) of countless generations of other brave mariners, is difficult to comprehend.

Even the dog shows his concern.

But lo! The bravest of the brave return unscathed and undamaged in mind, body and spirit - replete with tales of adventure, strange creatures with whiskers and gleaming tails, the cries of unknown wheeling seabirds and how The Other Side of the island, hidden from the eyes of land-locked humans for all time, looks exactly the same as the side we see every day!! Mysteries unravelled, indeed. One child is given the latest news from The Sea; Good News, mermaids are real; Bad News, they're all dead.

So to Friday evening. One couple are spotted who clearly have absolutely no idea how to set up their trailer tent so it's level. When their error is pointed out to them, the wife realises why she keeps waking up lying on top of her husband. The husband just smiles and drinks more wine.

Back to the beach. Crowds gather for the Friday evening event that will launch the Harriers' weekend. The atmosphere is electric.

As the serious party animals arrive, one explains how the blue tumbler is the normal receptacle he uses when caught short on the beach but that really he prefers the clear wineglass design. One lady covers her mouth in horror as she thought he was drinking whisky. The other two ladies rest content in the knowledge that their drink of choice is coloured red, though each wonders if the colour in the other's glass is from grapes or haemoglobin.

In the creche, a mother introduces her daughter to a packet of helpful white powder as she explains about the current source of the family's financial security. The daughter is clearly more concerned about the transaction being captured on camera; she need not fear as the photographer will be receiving an appropriate reward later. Another youngster demonstrates the latest moves spotted on Britain's Got Talent, albeit to a largely indifferent audience of opera lovers.

In an outlying section of the creche, a youngster with extraordinarily long legs enjoys covering those limbs with sand. He will surely grow up to become a basketball star - or a champion Munro marathon runner like his father.

Meanwhile, the males in the group have crowded round one of the fathers who is explaining how heat may be generated by rubbing two sticks together. The older boys ask if this is a metaphor.

Realising that this is not perhaps going as well as planned, the would-be fire-raiser suggests that it may help if the group put hands to faces as a supplication to the Fire God.

Minutes later, after the men abandon their futile attempts, a group of females takes over to show a lone male child how it should be done. Female group dynamics require careful discussion before any action is attempted. The female children listen and learn.

Whilst men fail with fire, a group of women discuss the latest Pilates moves. One demonstrates, one gets ready for her part as Little Red Riding Hood in the forthcoming Harriers' pantomime, one is even more confused than usual, one is distracted and one requests clarification. Normal women's group dynamics obviously apply.

Meanwhile, a lady unaware of her wineglass's earlier contents asks if she should be concerned by the approaching tide. Her immediate companion, who has already wisely removed her shoes, thinks not, but is ready anyway for a quick retreat. The only man present recognises that looking confident and unconcerned is always a good posture for a doctor, even when the future is unknown. The ladies wisely ignore him. The shy lady who averts her gaze from the camera's ever-revealing lens knows however that the good doctor is about to be floored by two charging and out-of-control children. Thank goodness they're not hers (as if).

In the group next door, two men try to puzzle out why dogs always sniff other dogs' bottoms and, where available, men's unmentionables. The object of their puzzlement merely continues its role as Guide Dog to the local alkies, a number of whom insist on accosting the cameraman for more booze. He is unmoved, however. Four others in the group are certain they've spotted a midge, causing one to think a hood is guaranteed protection. His female companion mishears and suggest that other forms of protection are superior - and available to him at a later hour.

After the wild party that was Friday's beach event, Saturday sees the serious business of extreme exercise on the agenda. The Big Guns are to remain on guard at the camp whilst The Monday Crowd (and Guests) enjoy an early run along the road from Badachro. After the usual uncertainty about detailed arrangements for transport, all is happy as a healthy contingent of a dog and 14 runners (including two stalwarts who cycle to the start) assemble ready for a gentle amble towards Redpoint.

The group sets off in fine form but this soon stresses our brave and plucky (somewhat injured) lady cyclist who is promptly rescued by a pretend golfer and her Guide Dog. The warmth of the northern sun soon helps restore comfort to the cyclist's aching limbs.

Her male companion meanwhile runs on in blissful ignorance of his partner's impending distress. A return to practice for Leg 3 of the triathlon finds that freewheeling on foot doesn't really work well.

At a pre-planned break by the local bathing pool, the group is about to pose for another historic photo-shoot when the OAP in the party becomes unnecessarily excited by a suggestion of skinny-dipping from four ladies keen to see what George is really made of. Thankfully, his partner declines on his behalf on the grounds of taste.

As the road makes its gentle way uphill, a group of three ladies is caught short and they decide to make a race of it after their ablutions. This moment is remarkably caught on camera as it is a pose normally involving bathroom sanitory fittings.

The ladies eventually catch up with most of the others as the gentleman cyclist makes it very clear that 'we're waiting here for them and that's final!' All the ladies are impressed by his masculine determination, firm jaw and bald head. They obey him shyly and obligingly.

Happy at this turn of events, two of the latecomers beam happily at the camera and ask to be included in the show of complete admiration for male power and domination.

Through the desert-like conditions continue the brave runners when a change in the weather threatens as it takes a funny turn - haar, haar, haar. Luckily the shepherd and the dog keep the flock on the run.

Thinking the location of the camera is where lunch will be provided, the three ladies raise their arms in Olympian triumph - though one apparently isn't quite sure she lady-shaved this morning.

So, to the sounds of Johnny Mercer's Cheek to Cheek, four fine examples of the tailor's art are recorded on the final leg towards the turn for home. Can a fashion award be much delayed?

With five of the party taking more extravagant routes back, the remainder enjoy a lull in the proceedings at the top of the hill overlooking Opinan as George demonstrates the right way to relax and enjoy the scenery instead of just rushing past it unappreciatively. Kirsty takes the 'hands-on-hips' posture of the somewhat concerned companion so beloved of men the world over.

So to the final leg back towards the beautiful site that is Little Sands, seen here across the Mediterranean azure sea that pretends - pretends not to be freezing cold. Shoulders back, posture upright, the ladies are a credit to the keep-fit activities of Strathearn.

At the insistense of some, regrettably this report forcibly contains a number of images that may shock. For this we apologise. Nonetheless, this edited version of an infinitely more shocking original does at least excise body parts that could cause heart palpitations amongst the less robust members of the female population. Modesty prevails at last.

Having stopped briefly to record the beauties of the area, the photographer spots two members of the group ahead through his telescopic lens. Training his directional microphone onto them, he overhears the following.
"Shall we run the rest of the way?" "Who cares? No-one's watching. Let's just say we ran it all." "Good idea. We can run from the corner before we come into view then go hell for leather."
The photographer contemplates if his silence has a price they'll pay. Probably not, he realises.

Nonetheless his mood is mellow as he contemplates nature in all its majesty.

Later on, he might even push the boat out a bit.

Safely back in the Harriers' camp, the group are able to let the Big Guns set off on their foray to conquer the Munro (980m) that is the Slioch. All is the usual peace, calm and effortless efficiency as the BGs assemble, leap into their waiting chariots and take the High Road to Kinlochewe. Tales of faultless derring-do will doubtless emerge in due time.

With (most of) the men away, the ladies set about the day's tasks. Another day of unavoidable toil and drundgery whilst the men go off and blamelessly enjoy themselves doing nothing very useful. The ladies meanwhile complete a long list of outstanding and inevitably time-consuming health and welfare tasks.

Stirred and motivated by the amazing circumnavigation of Longa Island by the two Phillies, three of the brave men remaining with the ladies embark on an equally dangerous and thrilling adventure on the dangerous waters. This shot was taken with an ultra-long distance lens whilst the group manoeuvred in deep and shark-infested waters.

Well, despite being paid to say that, veracity demands that actually....

Stung by comments from the shore, one crew member abandons ship but the other two resolutely return to sea

whilst the beach party looks on in excitement.

One of the ladies turns bookmaker as she takes bets on how far they'll get before they (a) capsize, (b) get seasick, (c) drift out of sight, (d) lose a paddle, (e) return triumphantly with a boatload of fish. No odds are offered on a sad, slow return without fish as this is regarded as a certainty.

Turning to more worthwhile pastimes, a mother and child are persuaded to pose for a fresh Harriers' Spot The Ball competition picture. After hours of preparation, the ball is finally secured in place using amazingly thin wire fastened both to the youngster's hat and the mother's bat. The watching beach group are forbidden from entering the competition. The prize was eventually won by an underage entrant so no prize payout was made.

After the BGs return from their exploits up Slioch (about which we perhaps remain to hear the full story), discussion turns to the events of the evening. A barbecue is agree near to the bus shelters on the grounds that midges will be less pesky. Yeh, right.

The Barbecue. Saturday evening. Almost the Summer Solstice. Almost at the Arctic Circle. Long hours of daylight. Hardly gets dark before it's getting light again. As if there weren't enough reasons for youngsters to deny its bedtime... One older youngster risks an early direction to his room as he contemplates a modest slap on his mother's whatsit. Thankfully, sense prevails and his parent blissfully continues to prepare his supper of parcelled pheasant and badger burgers. The watching girls, however, find the lark's wing and hedgehog road-kill-in-a-bun of questionable taste.

Attempting to thwart the persistent midges, one group settles downwind of the barbecue fires and breathes deeply. A fire-fighter of local renown wonders if the fire has got out of hand and if he should apply his know-how. His sunglasses-wearing partner is confident though that he really does know how and may demonstrate later.

A loving couple are momentarily distracted from each other by their fellows as a lady Harrier wrestles with the tightening camera crotch strap that seems to have got caught on a zip somewhere. Children continue blissfully with arm-throwing and so on.

As the evening wears on, the mirth and merriment are evident on the faces of all concerned. An enquiring youngster asks his behatted mother "Why is this all so boring, mum? Can't we do what we do at home and go into town and drink Buckfast?". Mother explains that Father is only part way through his required 5000 calories for the day and needs to concentrate. Son #2 snores.

In the world that is the emergency services, fire-fighters are The Elite. In the presence of lesser mortals, a lady fire-fighter examines the end of her nose in expressive distaste for the hoi polloi who surround her. A red-jacketed ex-Army paragon clearly finds this attitude distasteful. Moments later, an ugly scene is barely averted by the tasteful intervention of the Elder Statesman of the party with an "Eh oop, chuck, wazzer marrer then? Not slid down the old pole for a while have we?".

With this, all is immediately restored to peace and calm save for a lingering possibility that the ex-Army man has his old bowel problem again.

With the last embers of a glowing sun fading into peaceful somnolence, the midges mount one last attack but are repelled by the sight of one of the group's new Ascot creation. Some difference of opinion emerges amongst onlookers as to the need for the wearer to see out of the creation. On balance, the majority prefer the style whereby the lady's face is hidden from general view.

After a searching question and answer session amongst all members of the group, it is agreed that the lady's headgear is outclassed as the most vile clothing on view by this 1980s tribute to the Goddess of Victory. Several ladies volunteer to rip this awful ensemble off the wearer's body and he was later seen being pursued half-naked by several hopefuls into the sand dunes where no doubt unseemly behaviour was undertaken. [Editor's Note: The number of hopefuls was later certified as zero.]

Sunday morning. The end of the event. Well, not quite. Our Blessed Organiser has one last entertainment for those ready for it. To Melvaig where a Hare & Tortoise relay race would run. One Hare, one Tortoise per team. Assemble at Melvaig Inn then start from the parking place up the road. Tortoises start, then Hares. Or is it the other way round? Or is it both at once? Where do we meet? Whatever. Another triumph of Strathearn Harriers planning and communication.

Anyway, eventually almost everyone assembles, the Hares hare off and the medical attendants make the blood transfusion service available. Here a kindly nurse carries refridgerated blood packs to the waiting ambulance ready for George's arrival. Women pray. Men watch.

Slowly, the Tortoises meander together for some sort of start. Then they're off!! Cathy & Liz amble off into the yonder as they natter about the latest in comfort Lycra. Fiona and a child interloper form a second natter squad. An OAP quickly vanishes as though he is running backwards whilst a senior fire-fighter is distracted fighting fires.

Suddenly and startlingly, runners appear coming the other way. The Hares have completed their excursion into The Beyond and are racing towards potential triumph at the finish. Soon all the Hares but one are safely home. Worry furrows the brows of those who don't moisturise. Then smiles light up the fizzogs of those just happy their efforts are at an end.

But lo - what have we here? The last Hare! Injury has afflicted the poor runner and women gather round in a concerned and possibly genuine fashion. Applications are applied, poultices are poulticed, plasters are plastered but the brave man will hear none of it. He will face his torments bravely and still drive to the pub for a beer. No sacrifice is greater.

But where oh where is our last Tortoise. Fire-fighter that he is, his friends nonetheless are given to imagining bad things may have happened. He may have walked - oh, the shame. He may have accepted a lift from one of the many passing vehicles (but then, there aren't any). Maybe he's still running in the wrong direction having missed the turning point.

Then - miracle of miracles - he appears! Demonstrating the physique that has made him the envy of the Turkish Professional Wrestling circuit and the doyen of Sumo everywhere, our fire-fighting hero grasps the triumph that is the coveted and treasured Wooden Spoon. We are all stirred.

When the emotions have started to subside, the reality of achievement sinks in. Despite having lost one shoe in the bogs and run three miles semi-barefoot, our brilliant winning Hare playfully gooses his partner Tortoise. They do not win the overall trophy but are bonded brothers-in-bravery together for all time.

Resisting the pressure to make a boring speech, the winning Hare-Tortoise pairing pose shyly for the paparazzi and promise to donate their winnings to charity. It is pointed out to them the race carries no pecuniary advantage and that, in contrast, the first round at the pub is on them.

So to the pub for lunch where some-one claiming to have had some connection to Pink Floyd provides succour. It is thought that mention of Pink Floyd is reference to some piper at the gates of dawn or maybe building a wall but perhaps that's just a momentary lapse of reason. Whatever, the food and drink were very pleasant.

But one family happily scoffing did mislay a wife/mother, though their countenances failed to display distress such was their collective iron self-control. Perhaps searching for work, as advised by Norman Tebbit so many years ago, to support what seems to be an increasingly feckless husband prone to such japes as riding a child's bike at unnecessarily high speed on a public road.

During the afternoon, however, a female cyclist bearing an uncanny resemblance to the missing woman was spotted on the A832. It is thought that the white van following her has some connection with the trafficking of illegal English immigrants and may be connected to this woman. Police have been alerted. More may come to light in due course of time. Watch this space for further developments.

So ends one more brilliant Strathearn Harriers social event. Can those who yet again missed out continue to stay away next year? Find out in about twelve months......

End of Term run 22 March 2010

2010-03-23T11:11:00.000Z

It's raining, it's pouring,

The members are snoring.

They went to bed with a cold in the head

And couldn't get up in the morning.

OK, OK. But then satire is not meant to be accurate....

Lunchtime at Comrie Golf Club generated a dozen ladies and one not-lady. But the preceding Run In The Pouring Rain could only muster five ladies plus the obligatory Moron. Maybe it was a reluctance to take up one of the available parts in the following playlet. Maybe it was a smart move after all....

As the 'run' gets into its first flamboyant stride, the rain takes its toll as the nature walk takes precedence. The steamy jungle heat already causes some to regret the eight layers of clothing adopted at the start.

The Fearless Guide explains to three of the company the average height of the wolves recently released into the Comrie Forest. The Resident Poet is apprehensive her recent training may be insufficient to outrun them so she mentally composes an ode to sooth The Savage Beast. The group fails to notice the mysterious lights playing with their clothing.

The Guide reveals her little joke about the wolves and everyone is amused. Tracy is glad she went before they left as an accident brought on by excessive mirth threatens. The mystery lights continue to elude the group's attention. This may turn out badly.

Kona & Ali exchange experiences about helping blind runners. 'It's much easier for them', they say as they demonstrate their point by showing an uncanny ability to run with their eyes shut.

Our Guide points out another interesting Nature Fact. Not everyone is riveted with undivided attention. This could be a mistake as questions will undoubtedly be asked later over lunch.

I know this hole here is only meant for pheasants', says Ali, 'but since I went on that Cabbage Soup Diet thingy, I'll bet I can get through it.' This causes much mirth as everyone knows the Cabbage Soup Diet is just a lot of hot air. Ali will not be denied, however.

Despite 'assistance' from The Resident Poet, Ali is defeated in her attempts to resemble a pheasant. She is consoled by the observation that she could become a magician's assistant through using her new-found ability to fit comfortably into a large matchbox. Ford stand ready to recruit her to demonstrate that you really can get 87 adults into their Galaxy model.

The Guide trudges off disconsolately at these childish high jinks but is later rewarded by a return to adult behaviour. Regrettably, perhaps, this refers partly to the post-Watershed nature of some of the banter.

'Just like this', says The Guide. 'But I'll need to stand on one bar higher', says Tracy; 'And even then I might get splinters'. Ali makes a face. 'Whenever I get splinters in my thighs from climbing over gates', she says, 'Will just takes them out with his teeth.' 'If I get a splinter as I get over this gate, will he take mine out too?, asks Tracy.

'After that', laughs Ali, 'you deserve a rocket.' She then proceeds to demonstrate the correct technique for positioning a rocket to provide maximum lift-off. The Cabbage Soup regrettably fails to provide enough fuel to Ali's muscles to boost the payload into space though the gas emission and acceleration assistance does almost do it. The accompanying sound effects also provide much needed amusement.

A cry goes up. 'Look at that ugly old toad!' All the ladies agree it is ugly. Turning away from The Moron, however, they transfer their attention to the amphibian they see in the grass with murmers of 'Gosh, how cute' and 'Aaaaw, what a sweet little thing'. Clearly The Moron's investment in Dove For Men has failed to pay off.

As our Guide practises a sharp intake of breath followed by 'Welllllll...', Ali reprises her exploits as a pretend blind runner - winning best in category - causing Kona to exclaim 'Well I'll be a wombat's auntie - I didn't see that coming. And I'll bet you didn't either!!'

As Ali's story unfolds, the other members of the party are enthralled and show their rapt attention on their glowing cheeks. As usual, however, Sisterly Love and Unity transcends momentary boredom and hugs and kisses are later exchanged.

A little way on, our Guide is reminded of the lifetime of self-sacrifice she has made to her aching and troublesome back - her companions assure her that laughing it off is the best medicine. Our Guide suggests she prefers paracetemol - or nitrous oxide at a pinch. Ali and Kona still couldn't care less.

Resting her weary and crushingly painful back, our Guide poses smilingly with the Harriers soon-to-be-revealed modelling line-up showing the new 'Sweat-ready' range of outdoor wear. This astonishly avant-garde range comes already impregnated with the sweat of Chinese factory workers to provide the 'instantly exercised' look so beloved of hill runners. A road runner range with the marks of lorry tyres already printed across the backs will also be available soon.

As an antidote to the magazine-quality modelling shots sampled above, the group takes pity on The Moron but then cruelly subjects him to the infamous 'bunny ears' humiliation as he attempts to demonstrate his hitch-hiking technique. Representatives of the charity that specialises in rehabilitating morons are sure to protest at the publication of this undeserving and mindless act of ritual retaliation by Woman on Man.

The event having by now exceeded the normal female 'Go To The Loo Excessively' time, a perfect location for bodily relief is simultaneously spotted by Ali and Kona causing them to rush headlong in a wild competition to secure first use. In a dead heat fortunately not captured on nearby 'Woodpecker Live' CCTV cameras, sisterly comradeship is restored with shared leaf litter.

The group makes a final stop as our Guide once more readjusts her vertebrae and counsels the assembled to look at and listen to Nature in her impressive majesty. Tracy asks if that's a 'pecker she can hear but our Guide thinks motherhood should by now have taught Tracy the difference between that and the sound of a bird hammering on wood. Kona shuffles carefully and asks Ali if she's also aware of lingering leaf litter; Ali becomes statuesque as she flexes everything to test. All is well however.

So the merry band makes the final crossing of the A85 in sight of their destination as two bravely ignore the oncoming juggernaut whilst three feel discretion may be wiser. Our Guide confirms on her miniature Bluetooth earpiece that lunch will be ready at the Golf Clubhouse and that other colleagues are already well stuck into the caffeine.

So ends yet another triumphant End of Term run. This may have been a wet one. It may have been abandoned by others who could yet come to regret their absence. It may have been peppered with unsought double entendres. It may have brought reminders of bodies beyond their first youthful flush. It may have brought wishes that flush facilities were available in the woods. But it was magnificent. It was breathtaking (at least uphill, it was). It was an experience to be savoured and saved in the deep recesses of the mind ready to spring out on unsuspecting friends. We were there. Don't you wish you had been, too?