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).