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
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.
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.
