Alloa Half Marathon - Sunday 21 March 2010 - The Moron & The Nurse

This is the uplifting story of how a kindly nurse showed an intellectually and emotionally challenged old man the way round 13 or so miles of stunning Scottish scenery; proof (were it needed) that The Wee County can hold its head up against the best the world can offer - Soweto, Yangquan, Paraisopolis and (of course) Middlesbrough.

Readers are warned that this article contains images that some may find distressing.

By command of The Board of Stathearn Harriers, sundry members of said running club registered to run the Alloa HM - and most of them actually managed to turn up on time in the right place.  There was a minor frisson of wholly unnecessary punctuality-fetishism from The Moron but this was passed off with a suitable amount of politically incorrect moron-bashing.

Suffice to say, The Moron & His Nurse made it to the start line.  The Nurse confirmed to The Official Photographer that The Moron's Mogadon was safely dissolved in her water bottle and she would make sure that he was suitably pacified with it so as not to make a spectacle of himself.  TOP therefore handed over an idiot-proof camera so that a record could be made of this unique project.  The results unfold below.

In a unique development, the organisers of the Alloa HM arranged for the Start to be labelled 'Finish'.  Once the half of the field that was pointing the wrong way was re-orientated, the crowd settled down to chatting amongst themselves about running matters.  What amount of cream should be applied to a male nipple?  Which ankle does the timing chip go on?  Is it ponytail or headband?  Does shaving your head improve aerodynamics significantly?  Is finishing in Alloa a step up socially from starting in Alloa or vice versa?

Suddenly, out of the blue, a familiar figure appears and very nearly gets a drumstick in his shorts - or has he got one already?  No-one knows.  Hastening to his correct position at the front of the throng, this familiar figure prepares to lay his body on the line for the greater good of his club.  Pain has no meaning for this man as he sets that Hollywood jaw ready to beat the living daylights out of 90 minutes.  Only the next 5400 seconds will show if that beating will work its powerful magic.

As the moment of release approaches, The Nurse turns her powerful mind to beaming her thoughts via the nearby satellite dish to the world.  We shall prevail, her thoughts transmit.  I shall get this Moron round 13 miles without mishap.  I shall manage with no more than one loo break.  All is well.

And so Mr Carter the Starter gets his son on the gun, the running gang up for the bang, takes his flag from the bag, in the mike makes a cough and we're off.  Well, those at the front hear something and The Nurse and The Moron follow dutifully.

The first mile passes in a flash (8m15s) and somehow the camera fails to capture the moment this first milestone (geddit?) is reached.  Seemingly, before another flash has flashed, two miles appear (17m30s).  A spectator gives an altogether unwise supercilious look at the runners.  "Who ate all the pies then, fatty?" the runners scream at her in a concious attempt to gently raise her self-esteem and get her out jogging.

Just as three miles loom, The Nurse and The Moron team up with Kenny who, running expertly to exactly 9-minute miles throughout, expresses his view that The Moron should practice running with the camera in a bodily orifice rather than his hand.  The Nurse checks The Moron is not about to heed this well-intentioned advice.  A female runner just ahead thinks the sight of A Moron out in daylight is amusing.  The Nurse chastises this runner immediately whilst Kenny offers to discipline her.  The offer is withdrawn when the runner replies "Ooh, yes please, big boy!".

Three miles and The Moron, not understanding the lack of a preceding "1" means this isn't The Finish, celebrates by telling The Nurse "Didn't we do well?".

Near the end of the first downhill, runner number 1005 sees the funny side of A Moron in the middle of the road pointing a camera backwards.  Other female runners do not share this emotion.

At four miles (37m50s), The Nurse acknowledges that she probably didn't need the Factor55 sunscreen.  The music from her mini-iPod is now effectively blocking out the worst of The Moron's ramblings leaving her to contemplate her forthcoming leisure break in Scourie.  Five driving hours sitting down this afternoon and evening will compare favourably to two running ones this fine morning.

In a pre-planned interlude, The Nurse interrupts her duties to undertake a brief examination of the local plumbing facilities.  Bravely leaving The Moron to roam at large with the camera, Kenny is snapped in cheery mood asking 'How's the orifice doing, Moron?'.  The Nurse emerges in time to apply her expertise to Helen's suffering body.

Five miles flash by unnoticed but the six mile marker (57m25s) again brings out the worst in The Moron as he insists on yet another ridiculous pose.  Other runners vote on their interest in such goings-on with their feet.

At the half-way mark, the Official Club Doctor offers his expertise to The Nurse and The Moron, expertise that he confines to photography rather than the medicine that might have been more useful.  The Nurse nonetheless administers more Mogadon to The Moron.

At seven miles (1h7m10s), a team of Funeral Directors is spotted running in formation.  The Nurse feels this may be useful if she's (inadvertently) overdone the Mogadon.

As a reward for The Moron's (perhaps temporary) quiessence, The Nurse allows him to photograph her as she shyly accedes to his request.  The group of Pukka Pie tasters behind try to work out what's going on.

The Nurse finds cause to regret her previous concession as the Moron reverts to type at eight miles (1h16m15s).  An unsuspecting passer-by assists by acting as temporary photojournalist.  Fortunately, this event reminded The Nurse that she had remembered to ask The Moron's wife to fit The Moron with his incontinence pads.

Nine miles arrive at 1h25m55s.  The Mogadon seems to be working again...

The Nurse celebrates reaching double figures in 1h36m45s.  Ahead lies The Dreaded Hill where hearts have been broken and bodies scattered like confetti.  Undeterred, The Nurse urges The Moron ever upwards towards The Summit That Is Heaven.  He suspects some evil double meaning but gamely plods on towards the roundabout that is the B9140 and the Heaven that is the B9096 to The Finish..

As ten miles appear with the roundabout tantalisingly close, The Moron again risks conversion to a pillar of NaCl and looks backwards down The Electric Brae.  This apparently flat road actually causes vehicles to roll towards a magnetic attraction in the nearby Ochil Range.  This attraction is not, apparently, George Carson.

Thus is the eleven-mile mark is reached in the centre of the Tullibody Triangle where a number of runners have mysteriously disappeared towards the Forth instead of down the B9096 to Alloa.

So to the last mile (or so) and The Moron yet again shows his intellectual stature by thinking 12 miles (1h57m05s) is the finish.  The Nurse cajoles him onwards by implying the Finish is in the bar at The Dog & Duck.

Finally, The Nurse escorts The Moron over the Finishing Line where a rapturous welcome from their fellow Strathearn Harriers awaits.  This welcome is admittedly difficult to spot, being non-existent, but The Nurse assures The Moron they mean well.  Finally, the rest are persuaded to put their unfounded prejudices aside and let themselves be photographed with the deserving Nurse and the undeserving Moron.

So concludes our report of yet another magnificent contribution to the better understanding of those who are less fortunate than ourselves and to the unstinting love that all Strathearn Harriers have for morons nurses.