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.
