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.
