Strathearn Harriers' Mince Pie Run - 18 December 2010

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

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.