Strathearn Harriers Mince Pie Run, Sunday 13-Dec-09

9am. Taylor Park.  Cars and pedestrians convene for the annual highlight that is the Strathearn Harriers Mince Pie Run.  Our Revered Leader has identified eight or so miles of Landrover track near Harrietfield that seem to offer the right blend of punishment and picturesque scenery.  We all hope he's checked the grouse shooters aren't.

9.30am.  A lane in Perthshire.  Our Leader addresses a crowd of one with Health and Safety instructions.  Adrian is enraptured and hangs on to his every word with dutiful attention to detail.  Our Leader makes clear that questions will be asked afterwards.  Adrian's body language is eloquent and persuasive in response.

The Official Photographer decides that telling jokes to the lady runners is more fun than Health & Safety but instantly regrets the instant impact of the humour when one lady nearly leads a mass evacuation as a consequence.  Fortunately, the lady's incredible fitness and all-over muscular strength overcome in the nick of time what might have become an indelicate situation.  Fun and frolics win out over what might otherwise have been classified as inappropriately lavatorial humour.  He is suitably chastened (but largely unrepentant).

As the runners assemble in a quiet country lane, there is a moment's panic as suspicion arises of an Unlicensed White Van Man penetrating the group.  Visions of dangerous overtaking manoeuvres and tailgating out on the hills start to worry the more nervous members.  Relief if profound when Adrian reveals it is he who drives the White Van.  All are happy that such a composed and well-mannered member is behind the wheel.  All is tranquil once more.



Having completed the Health and Safety briefing, Our Leader calls out "Where's Oor Wullie?" which the runner in the orange hat mishears and replies that he's got it in his hand.  "I'm just putting my foot in it" he says revealing the running shoe he's about to wear.  "You just did" they all chortle merrily, especially Doug who's recent lack of training was beginning to show in a worried expression.  The Official Photographer waves his Bus Pass and assures Doug he won't be at the back of the field for long, if at all.


The Official Photographer catches the Official Club Doctor unnecessarily embarrassed by thinking his fleece isn't the only thing he's just unzipped.  When TOP says he was only going to ask about the old bag someone was rummaging in, TOCD explains that's his sister.  TOP leaps to the lady's defence by pointing out that the epithet 'old' could only justifiably be applied to one of the current company.  No prizes for responses (unless they're unquestionably funnier that this script).

Regrettably, a cross-dressing moron infiltrated this morning's otherwise well-orchestrated proceedings but photographic evidence has now been forwarded to Tayside Constabulary for positive identification.  Fortunately, the moron proved to have no talent for running and was later easily dropped and left to navigate his own way across the increasingly treacherous and shifting ground that lay in wait.  It transpired, however, that the moron had secreted high levels of tasteful calories about his person and, somewhat sadly, minced and stollened his way back into the group's otherwise reluctant affections.

So the run gets under way.  Men and women gallop off into the beautiful countryside and obliviously create a near-fatal break in the chain of runners that is The Mince Pie run.  The Kindly Klub remains in contact with the OAP that is TOP and, through diligent map-reading, discerns a modest departure from the Official Route.  A 'quick' detour across the heather and the Tippings (Dr, Sis & TOP) are reunited with the Kindly Klub who by this time have insisted on carrying the tasties.  This is entirely altruistic and owes nothing to the resulting certainty they will get to the mince pies first.

As the resultant chaos regrouping of runners submits quietly to being brilliantly managed by the OCD rather than the ad hoc committee that is The Rest, the Mince Pie Summit is s-pie-d on the horizon to cheers of 'Well Done Doc' and 'Huzzah, Prez'.  Knowing those Losers coming up behind will be duly chagrined, the OCD's Sis takes a moment out to reflect smugly on the remarkable talent that is The Tipping Clan.

 

As the OCD's Group search the horizon in vain for the following group, smoke is seen rising from the home of He Who Was Leading The Run At The Start.  Seems that heavenly retribution is being visited....





As Round Two of Mince Pie eating is getting into its stride amongst the Leading Group, our gallant Men's Team Leader hoves into view with a question on his lips for his wife (for the OCD's Sis is indeed she) that all male drivers know well.  "How the jolly heck did you manage to get in front of me and arrive first when I'm so much better at this than you?"  Inscrutable as ever, Sis just smiles that Giaconda smile and says (rhetorically) "Wouldn't you like to know?".  Of course, it couldn't be that the men got lost and wouldn't ask for directions.






Relenting slightly, a few moments later, Sis explains to hubby as he sits glumly next to OCD the brilliance of the manoeuvre that saw brains outclass brawn.  Another red-headed member of the group points out where exactly they went wrong and that he has spotted the person responsible.  Underneath his red headgear, his skin is equally red with rage at the indignity of an OAP arriving first.  Vows are made to ensure the return leg erases the indignity.

Gradually, the stragglers join the swelling ranks of the Mince Pie Tuck-in.  Two are sufficiently embarrassed to switch to talking geology to distract attention from their shame.  The others are not so easily fooled.




Whilst one lady member in red decides to spend the Mince Pie break with her eyes shut against the sight of so many calories not included in her diet, another tucks in regardless of the male member in front of her being self-massaged vigorously.  This massage brings the usual smile of pleasure to his lips.


Mince Pies having been consumed, a meeting is convened to check the route back and to decide at what stage to split the group up again without telling those at the back.  Sanity prevails as the terrain is clearly tricky and potentially life-threatening.  Will draws the short straw for bringing up the rear (so to speak) but he is confident he can overhaul the rest on the last lap.



Whilst discussions proceed, two members of the club suspect they have been supplied with the remains of the 2008 Mince Pie run provided as part of the Club Recycling Scheme.  The lady later protests, too late to prevent an eye-watering bodily function, that she only re-cycles on a two-wheeled velocipede.

In final preparation for the run-in to the finish and the breathlessly-awaited medal ceremony, Will explains to another tireless member the benefits of yet more fine examples of the supermarket's art.  Regrettably, these examples prove fruitless (well, fruit isn't mentioned in the list of ingredients, anyway).



Finally, the last act in the day's dramatic events sees the moron making his thankfully last appearance against an undeserving backdrop.  The Fashion Police are now anxiously trying to track him down and remove all traces before any sensitive children see the images.  The cold, calm, sunlit folds of the southernmost reaches of the Highlands sweep the last remaining dregs (for it is he) down into the receptacle that is Harrietfield.  There, the Strathearn Harriers Mince Pie Run of 2009 comes to its fulsome and fitting climax with all that were counted out, counted back in again.  Here's to next year.

Harriers 25th Anniversary Relay Race

Only yesterday it was 1984. Finally, we knew George Orwell was wrong (apart from the surveillance cameras) and the Strathearn Harriers were formed. Now 25 years have passed and celebrations are in order. 'Let us celebrate with a relay race round Le Tour de Strathearn' spoke our noble leader. With a party to follow, naturally. So we assembled ourselves in Taylor Park, Crieff, on the morning of Saturday, 22 August 2009, ready for a prompt 11am start. 'Daddy, what's Le Tour de Strathearn?' asked a curious Flint-y youngster. 'It's a running route' said Doug of that ilk. 'Are you running all the way, Daddy?' 'No, son. There'll be four others as well as me. We hand over to each other part way round.' 'So does that mean you can't do it all by yourself?'. 'No, son, I can but today I don't have to. Today I have to do the bit from Comrie to the Turret dam. That's quite a long way but I have a map so I won't get lost.' 'Are you sure, Daddy?'

Excitement at the imminent prospect of the start rose to fever pitch and Harriers were soon to be seen rushing through their preparations. Comparisons were exchanged between participants as to the best way of lacing the footwear, counter-clockwise to work with the earth's rotation seeming to be the overwhelmingly preferred option.

In the excitement and competitive spirit of the event, occasional moments could be observed of perhaps less than truly sporting behaviour. A blind runner was left by his helper and led trustingly towards a deep fault in the earth's surface where foot damage might well have resulted. Fortunately, a late call of 'Watch your feet, your blind sod.' restored the moment to safety, if not to political correctness.

Eventually, the National Press assembled for this momentous event persuaded the hot favourites for the title to pose for a sponsor's photo-shoot. Model agencies fought behind the camera to secure the signatures of these giants of the local athletic scene. Regrettably, the amateur status of these talented individuals prevented them accepting all that was about to be thrust upon them.

During these preliminaries, a number of participants had questions. One lady runner wondered if running all the way on tiptoes would be best. One of the mature members wondered if mobile phones should be carried though a younger member could only laugh at the idea of ever being separated from one's mobile.

At this point, impatient with the Press delays, the Organiser felt he was being crucified by the disorganisation and expressed his displeasure dramatically. An Irish peacemaker, long experienced in defusing explosive situations, offered his services in bringing matters to a calm and agreeable conclusion. The Armed Wing of the local Women's Institute offered to put their 'weapons' beyond use if this would help. After brief but successful negotiations, all six of the warring parties (disarmingly called 'running teams') assembled for a fraternal chat and more photo opportunities.

So, at the appointed hour, the first group of six runners assembled for Press shoots and, for five, forthcoming adverts for the local dental practice; for the sixth, adverts for the local solicitor's practice. One team shows its failure at Physics by equating its potential acceleration, braking and cornering ability to that of a Formula 1 racing car. Another shows it failure at Marketing & Sales with a 'size doesn't matter' approach to labelling. The others show they just don't care.

Finally, Mr Starter gets them set after some literary confusion caused by asking the runners to get on their Marx. A certain difference in style can be observed as the favourites vie with each other to get the best position for the first bend. A failure to see that this is half a mile away was rectified shortly after this picture was taken.




At the first tricky corner where the runners head off Crieff's exquisitely built and decorated pavements, a lady runner is happy that, this time, the man following her into an alleyway is the one who is soliciting. She is quietly confident that she can shake him off up the forthcoming hill or, if not, her specially spiked shoes should come in handy. As she climbs, her mind wanders into that blissful state only runners know with the knowledge she will see no spectators until the end of this leg of the run.

However. Emerging from a muddy track briefly into daylight, our lady was distressed to find that not only were the papparazzi present but someone was apparently doing unspeakable things into a bush. Protestations that this was completely innocent and solely the result of a bad attack of asthma did not impress our lady - as her expression shows.

A short time later, a respected and experienced Crieff solicitor appears, determined to show that anything a doctor's sister can do, a solicitor can do better.  Knock Mary beckons with her welcoming arms.

But the relay is hotting up elsewhere.  At the changeover from Leg 1 to Leg 2 (a long-standing problem), one of the favourites pours herself at devasting speed down the hill towards the changeover.  In her hand she carries that most precious of papers, the shopping list for her husband to deal with.

Distressingly, she suddenly realises that the running chemicals have blinded her to the memory that her husband cannot read shopping lists or maps.  This finally snaps her resolve and she slumps on the grass whilst she composes herself for the inevitable - she will have to do the shopping after all and her husband will probably lose his way on the next but one Leg. Women's intuition is later to prove infallible.

On his way to proving that Founders don't flounder and grey is the new 'in' colour with 21st Century women, our legal eagle flies in on the kind of fast-action wings you'll never see in a KFC bucket.

Leg 2, traversing as it did Auchingarrich Wild Life Park, held many dangers. And not just the Capercaillie. A number of souls have been lost in its confines, condemned to forever wander its endless pathways, forced to wander round the carpark looking for the exit. But long experience and a fearless pair of eyebrows gave one a clear advantage, emerging from the danger zone with fierce determination and an ever-ready quip. So it was that the leaders at the end of Leg 1 remained defiantly leading into the closing stretch of Leg 2.

So at the end of Leg 2, the leader at the end of Leg 1 consults his watch as his fearless leader heads off on Leg 3. "I wonder if he remembered the map", he muses. The lad in red points out that the fearless leader was mumbling about how to find Braefordie but no-one pays him any attention. A member of another team fails to realise that the document he's just picked up and placed under his left armpit may be vital to an opposing team captain. A suspicious observer in a tracksuit wonders if he should report the incident to the police.

During Leg 2, rumours circulate that some female participants are using unfair tactics, such as excessive decolletage, to distract male rivals. Occasional glimpses are spotted that suggest there may be a small truth or two in this rumour.

At the end of Leg 3, the new leader reports no sight of the apparently mapless former leader. Concern arises that he may be condemned to forever wander the braes of Glen Turret in search of that dam handover point.

 Happily, a short time later, with a directness of route-finding that belies his earlier difficulties, spectators witness a Flint stone-wall handover to Barnie Rubble for the exciting downhill Leg 4.

"It's only a Monday morning woman runner to have to catch" yell the male spectators. "Break your ankle, you beastly person" yell the assembled outraged ladies in reponse.

Before the rising passions can break out into unseemly handbag swinging, a member of the local constabulary makes a timely appearance complete with the new wrist-sized anti-vandal baton. Clutching the document so gallantly retrieved at the last changeover, he warms all our hearts at the thought of such stalwarts protecting us night and day.

So in the almost unbearable excitent that is the final changeover. Barnie smacks hands with Ginger as the Carrs son breathes his last down their necks. An unlicensed pacemaker illegally drags Ginger round Leg 5 necessitating urgent medical attention to the poor youngster.  The experience is thought to have traumatised him for life. The culprit is still being sought and can be identified by a tattoo on his left buttock in the shape of a set of rugby studs.

In desperation, Team CJGGC field an old-age pensioner clearly unsuitable for such a challenging event. As he disappears from view in a vain chase after Ginger, spectators exchange money as to where exactly the heart attack will finish him off. Smart money is on the summit of Laggan Hill.

In an almost impossible position, the doyen of the mature group in the Harriers sets off in pursuit of - everybody. Unfazed by the herculean efforts needed to avoid adding to his collection of wooden spoons, Doyen gives it all he has. This should not be a problem since he intends to avoid the disco in the evening.

After an agonising wait, and an agonising run, the OAP finally emerges having taken advantage of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from a group of nurses on a country walk. On seeing the photographer, he offers a serious entry for the forthcoming Latvian Ugly Face of 2009 competition. He later learns the judges awarded a Most Commended.

So it was on this most happy of days. Oh! - so miserable those who laid abed whilst battle was drawn by all these stalwart competitors (and the rubbish ones).

Glen Tilt awayday

So, arrangements made to meet at Taylor Park at 0945 so as to be at Glen Tilt for an 1100 start. Tell Judith that we're meeting at 0930 ( to ensure promptness) and then Alzheimers strikes. Get to 0940 and conviction descends that no-one else is coming after all. So off we drive, leaving others who arrive properly at 0945 to puzzle out where we are. The joys of old age. And I didn't even need to climb any stairs.

After a pleasant, gentle amble through the Perthshire countryside holding up lots of cars and caravans along the single-carriageway sections of the A9, we finally reach the Tilt Hotel where the satnav tells us we've arrived at our destination. Oh no we haven't, oh yes we have - real pantomime. Fortunately, me having been to our destination before, the satnav is actually redundant - just fun to find out how rubbish it is sometimes. So into the Old Bridge of Tilt car park where walkers about to do something sensible can't help staring at the couple who are clearly intent on doing something not sensible.

11 o'clock approaches and we're still alone. Great. We can choose the route and the speed. Then 1058 arrives with a car full of four Harriers bemused to find they're not alone. Joy. Someone else to take decisions. But which way to go? Up into the hills and find the rough track along the glen. And there was I thinking alongside the river wasn't a bad option. Still, very nice to have the company and a bit of route-finding to boot.



So down the road then, oops, up the road. And up. And up. Nice views though. Perfect location for howitzers to shell Blair Castle. As the view is embraced, four of the company think it's really amusing when Judith says she's forgotten her water bottle. Gordon admits he makes that mistake himself sometimes too while Fiona smugly mentions her Camelbak. Judith returns her hat to its proper place and realises where she left the water bottle.



Unexpectedly, whilst Kona was apparently watering a horse no-one had seen her bring, Gordon offered to share a little of his expert knowledge of Malaysian love dancing. Judith attempted to try the "ahs a-baht it" position whilst Gordon explained about the importance of flexible hip movements. The audience were enraptured and could only utter low coos of appreciation.



As a closing gesture on this phase of our adventure, Gordon kindly demonstrates the gate-closing and knee-lift elements of his vast armoury of knowledge of Far Eastern mystical exercises for body and mind. We are all grateful.







And so the party runs on towards the North and their rendezvous with destiny unaware that across the valley, the Rifle Club is seeking out practice targets with the upcoming Deer-hunting season about to get under way. Judith's frequent references to some-one who can be a real pain in the **** seem about to be confirmed in dramatic fashion.


As it becomes clear that danger may lie ahead, two of the ladies in the group rush forwards to warn Judith of impending dis-arse-ter. Putting completely aside all thoughts of a competitive sprint for the line, the two throw themselves at high speed into the rescue mission which Fiona wins entirely accidentally by a quick body dip at the camera point.




As shooting continues to echo threateningly down the glen and just when it seems that all the efforts of the team may be in vain, as if by magic the Three Champions suddenly appear on the opposite bank of the river.




Gesturing wildly at each other with their fingers in what seems to indicate the number of hundred metres to the river bridge - namely two - the Champions and the group of once-apprehensive runners meet in wild celebration at the Marble Bridge. The Cool Dude with the ultra-dudey footwear in racing puce, when asked his moniker, replies in the fashion that has women around the world swooning "I'm The Doctor, just The Doctor. And don't ask Who."




So the Ordinary and the Extra-ordinary set off to return whence they came and find sustenance. On the way, Gordon gives further examples of the Malaysian Horse position; great for extra suppleness and strength.

Seonaid decides that the dead sheep further up the burn will probably have added much needed flavour to the otherwise tasteless Scottish water. Since returning from the run, however, no information is currently available on Seonaid's whereabouts.













And so the stalwart group, shorn of Kona's company as she races off with one of the Champions so as to get the best seat for lunch, runs briskly towards the bealach and onwards to rest, recuperation, (bread) rolls & soup and recreational conversation. Gordon demonstrates the value of ready-sunburned elbows to go with a very manly hip swing whilst Seonaid starts to wonder about the effect of that burn water on her shorts. Judith is encouraged to lead the way by the slightly leg-weary group who know she will not lead them into premature exhaustion.

When the group came within shooting distance of the stagmen, discretion (not to mention red flags, taped-off tracks and dire warnings) decided that the route should swing over Gilbert's Bridge and the gentle, tree-lined route by the side of the Tilt River. Despite careful scrutiny, no sign is detected that the river did, indeed, show any sign of a tilt. Must have been tiredness. Here the author is persuaded to pose on said bridge with his wife (far right of picture) and two proper runners.

So to lunch at The House of Bruar where groups of often unpleasantly-smelling and sweaty individuals intent on restoring their lack of calories at the lunch counter mingled freely with the arriving fragrant Strathearn Harriers. Having parted with funds that implied a foreign exchange rate of approximately two pounds Sterling to one pound Bruar, the group promised to 'do this again' one day and went their several ways. Oh happy they that did partake this day and unhappy those who laid abed.

Colin