Four-leaf Clova - 12 November 2011

For some years, Forfar Road Runners have hosted a mid-November half-marathon around the lovely Glen Clova near Kirriemuir.  The weather is usually poor.  Or worse.  A perfect race just to hear about as you sit with feet up watching the howling gales through the window of your warm, dry home.

So, this year, some Old Git has the mad idea to enter the Glen Clova HM as a finale to the busiest running year of his life.  Mad indeed.  Other Harriers have run this race before.  In rain, snow, gales and other friendly attributes of the Scottish Highlands' atmospheric repertoire.  The route's reasonably flat - a few undulations - and the scenery promises to be worth it.  Oh yes, if the scenery can be seen of course.

Having publicly committed to the race, a few others also sign up including the Good Doctor and She Who Is Also Doing The Edinburgh Marathon next year.  The Old Git has promised to run with SWIADTEM next year - at least until she tires of his pedestrian pace and goes for a proper time - so offers to run with her at Clova and practice.  And take a few photos.  Questionable habit, the latter.  SWIADTEM has run the Clova before and knows well the terrain and the hazardous conditions the Grampian Mountains can throw at unwary foot travellers.  She is stalwart in the face of possible challenges.

GD offers to transport the three of us to the race and back and we gladly accept his kind offer.  With a 1200 start, the GCHM brings a civilised time to rising from our beds and eating breakfast but, since the Scottish Government neglected to include the area in its motorway programme, it will be a slow drive most of the way.  The recent weather patterns entertain as we contemplate the flooded land alongside many of the stretches of road we travel along.  How much more water can this land take, we wonder, before it floats off towards Norway?

Miraculously, today we see blue skies; lots of them.  Well, one actually, but lots of it.  And no rain.  And no howling gales.  What can possibly be happening to the Scottish weather?  Has a Spanish import been purchased for our pleasure?  We are puzzled - but happy.

But then, before we really know it, we are driving northwards up Glen Clova towards the start at the Clova Hotel.  Crowds suddenly appear and we are directed towards the muddy field that is the temporary overflow car park.  Disembarking, we make our way towards the administration centre to collect our essentials - race numbers and stuff.  The milling throng of several people excite our senses as we contemplate our early afternoon perambulations.  This should be fun.

We meet our other Harrier combatants.  The GD has briefly disappeared so an 80% photo is taken in the tarmac-ed part of the car parking facilities.  SWIADTEM & the Old Git get in the middle of a T&A shot.  SWIADTEM is amused by this thought.

The scene just before the start shows hordes of excited runners bursting to get going - to the toilets, to their friends, anywhere really.

The Finish line is ready as newly-stolen traffic cones look forward to their moment of glory.  The Triumph Arch normally present on these occasions has unfortunately been delayed along with two dozen young ladies travelling to Kirriemuir from Inverness.  Their future status is reportedly in peril.

T&A stride purposefully towards the Start line as they advertise the 25 year running history of Strathearn Harriers.  This proud history is in their hands and that of their SH companions.  The Old Git is glad it's not in his.

The excited runners line up in close formation as the appointed hour of midday draws close.  Competitors crowd into each other's personal space in a desperate attempt to get close to the line.  With no chip timing, everyone is determined to claim gun time as their own.  The Old Git just keeps taking pictures as though he doesn't care what time he does.  He actually doesn't.

 And then the Noonday Gun fires its aerosol contents and the whole amazing crowd of more than a hundred hardy souls rushes out towards Kirriemuir.  There will be disappointment though at the half-way point as the route doubles back on itself, utters a squeal of pain and returns to Clova.

Soon, SWIADTEM is going strongly and the Old Git is wrestling with the dilemma of photography versus Club loyalty.  Photography wins.  SWIADTEM is coy and shy of the paparazzi lens as she strides onwards towards a potential PB.  The Old Git is checking the pace and wondering if it is a little quick for an OAP.  Probably not for OAPs with running talent but the Old Git is not amongst them.  Ho-hum.

As early as ten minutes into the event, the contestants are arranged in an Indian file as the athletes rush away towards the horizon and those who spend a greater amount of serious time running are able to enjoy the scenery.

Blue skies draw the photographer's lens like an unearthly magnet as fluffy white clouds scud gently northwards on the crest of Mediterranean wafts.  Shadows chase each other across the rolling sward as just about all the runners pass by not caring a toss.

So three miles are marked - or is it three kilometres?  We check our watches.  If that's three kilometres, breakfast is having its own back.  If it's three miles, the Old Git is on for a ridiculously quick time (though SWIADTEM might be a tad disappointed).

But the eye is drawn to a dramatic scene of Nature at her watery best.  The glen once boasted a babbling brook that danced its way gently down the lowest points of the land as it made its inevitable way from spring to sea.  Today, all evidence of burn banks has vanished as a meandering loch defies the locals and visitors alike to stride over its life-giving liquid.  It's a floody blood as far as human eyesight can reach (except for those who should've gone to Specsavers).

But to the north all is blue sky and fluffy white water droplets.  The warm, gently sloping shoulders that tempt the spirit accept the white cotton wool covering that shields the hidden and secret reaches from prying eyes.  And the hills have clouds on them.  This point marks the moment the Old Git ran out of energy to press the camera shutter so, remarkably, no record remains of the ensuing 90 minutes or so.  Probably for the best.

Time marches on.  The Old Git staggers on.  SWIADTEM runs in beautiful assurance that a PB is within reach.  At nine miles, the Old Git gives up the unequal struggle and begs SWIADTEM to go onwards and upwards towards triumph.  SWIADTEM says it was her ancestors that bought that brand of undergarments, not her generation of modernists.  She departs, muttering about 'Kazakhstan' for some unfathomable reason.

And then!!  It is the finish.  Far ahead, the Old Git has seen SWIADTEM rush headlong into the arms of fate.  Regretfully, her PB escapes by seconds into the distance but it is a plucky run nonetheless.  

The Old Git staggers in a few minutes later and is rewarded with a candid shot of SWIADTEM chatting to the GD about their respective experiences.  The Old Git slinks away as this is clearly a runners-only meeting.

And so another episode in the life of an Old Git draws to its end.  Nature has been kind in its delivery of meteorological experiences.  The GD has been kind in acting as driver - and waiting whilst his outward-bound passengers completed their odyssey so they could become inward-bound as well.  SWIADTEM has demonstrated that next May's event could quickly become a solo run as she is simply in a different class to the Old Git.  And he'll be a year older whilst she will probably be getting younger.

Still, 2h6m25s isn't bad for an Old Git.  Definitely not a half-marathon PB (that was lost in the mists of time several generations ago) but a Course Best.  Bound to be, really - for a first run on the course.  Next year?  It'll probably be two feet of snow.  We'll see.

Official Masochism Memories - 29/30 October 2011

Every year (it seems), large numbers of possibly-insane and impossibly-fit couples take themselves off into part of our wonderful mountain scenery and subject themselves to a weekend of pain and suffering.  No, this isn't Official Masochism Memories - it's the Original Mountain Marathon.  Elsewhere, on the Interweb and other organs of so-called literature, you will doubtless be able to read the accounts of this crazy event from half-mad participants, sadistic organisers, makers of ridiculously lightweight and gruesomely expensive products and other hangers-on.  You may, on the other hand, struggle to find any account penned by anyone who bothered to treat this as a spectator sport and spent a cold, miserably wet time on a mountainside seeing it at close quarters.  This is one of, possibly, one (or two maybe) such accounts.

It all starts with the news that, this year, the event was coming to Perthshire.  The organisers always keep the details of the event a deep dark secret until the very last minute - literally.  Participants arrive at the Start not knowing where they have to go on Day 1, where they will be camping for the night or what's in store on Day 2.  Whilst there are different events within the OMM for different levels of stupidity, they all have this secrecy in common.  Get there, get the details then go out onto the mountains and try and find your way from point to point (and back again).  As fast as you can.  Without killing yourself.  Or anyone else.  And whilst staying resolutely with your partner - failure to stick together being a capital offence resulting in instant death (well, disqualification to be strictly accurate).  What fun!

For this Old Git, it all starts with an innocent request for volunteers.  From the OMM organisers.  Passed on by other members of my running club.  Seen by me.  I now should ignore such stuff - but somehow am swept up by the romance of it all.  And the promise of a T-shirt and beany hat.  Idiot.  So do I have a clue what's involved?  Do I jiggery.  So off goes the email volunteering; to (I'm sure) a nice lady in Lancashire.  I'm from Lancashire so that's a connection.  Comes back the OK.  Papers in the post.

A Gordon Highlander (see 7 July 2009 blog for more about this brave person) has also volunteered and we trip together excitedly to the Marshalls' briefing centre set up as part of the Centre of Operations at Cultibraggan Camp just outside Comrie.  We report as requested to one of the rusting Nissen huts wherein are Organisers lolling about and waiting just for us (possibly).  Unfortunately for G, the organisers propose to send me with him onto the mountains for the weekend.  This could end badly; he's heard almost all of my jokes already.  So we collect all the necessary supplies, maps so we can find where we're supposed to be, food from the local wildlife park catering centre (putting us therefore on the same level as a capercaillie or a wallaby), T-shirt and beanie, "Official" yellow vests, 'weatherproof' clipboards and Uncle Tom Cobley and All.

The weather forecast is for rain.  And wind.  And more rain.  And, on top of everything, more rain.  And possibly lots of wetness from the sky.  This promises to be fun, fun, fun.  Whatever are the participants thinking, we wonder?  Possibly everything from 'Great!!' to '* ** *** **** *****'.  We're thinking we need to get going at 0730 tomorrow.  How much spare clothing can one rucksack take?  Not enough is sure to be the answer.  G proposes to bring a tent, a move that will prove inspired.

So Saturday dawns.  It's 0730BST; the last day of Official Summer Time.  Summer normally involves a bright orange object in the sky, the sky itself at least occasionally drifting into the blue region of the spectrum.  Today is actually borrowed partly from the Indian Monsoon (the rain), partly from a colour-blind artist (skies in multi-faceted shades of grey), partly from TV programmes about rogue builders (mud underfoot everywhere and rubble obstructing almost every step) and Hollywood disaster movies involving burst dams that flood every conceivable natural channel across the landscape.  And that's only the car park.

G kindly offers his 4x4 as transport so 0730 sees us drive off towards the Outdoor Centre (in the middle of nowhere as these places usually are) where parking has been organised for such as we.  And it rains.  But we get there safely and, confirming we are OK to park, we organise ourselves for a march up the mountain.  And it rains.

The first part of our event takes us along a tourist route that is very pleasant on a warm, dry, summer's day.  Today, it's a trip from quagmire to quagmire.  And we haven't even got off the path yet.  Even a small burn has to be crossed by a farmer's rickety bridge.  We have more serious water to cross before we reach our scheduled location - this should be fun...

All too soon, we are looking down on the raging torrent that once was a benign and gurgling Scottish burn just waiting to be crossed with a skip and a hop.  No skipping or hopping today; certainly not by me with all too many kilos on my back.  So up the bank we walk.  And walk.  And walk.  As we reach a confluence, a quizzical look from my companion asks if I'm up for getting across here.  Possibly.  Possibly not.  Bearing in mind that the downside of getting it wrong this weekend probably wouldn't just be a bit of water in a boot but possibly bits of me floating down to Loch Tay, I gracefully decline.  Let's try further up, I suggest.  But then, hey - what am I here for anyway?  Aren't the competitors going to have to do lots of this over many hours?  What's the matter with me - am I a man or a mouse?  Squeak.  We try further up.

And then, finally, the waters are narrow enough and my leg muscles and courage are strong enough for me to reckon it's OK.  So G crosses - like a gazelle.  I follow - like a geriatric camel.  Must practice more, I hear myself (not) saying.

Safely across Obstacle #1, G takes a compass bearing on our destination.  Impressed, as I normally steer by the hairs on my wrist, we head upwards across heather and hags, squelching at every step.  I work hard at using my walking poles to alert me to water traps ahead - and step regularly calf-deep into waterholes.  I am clearly incompetent.  And out of practice at hill walking; it really isn't the same as marathon running - it's definitely harder.

We squelch manfully onwards and upwards towards the designated spot.  As the last escarpment looms and my legs resemble jelly tots, I suggest to G that he ploughs on ahead to make sure we're on station on time. I struggle up behind and eventually crest the summit to see G in the process of erecting the tent.  I manage to arrive on time but a joint effort to get some shelter from the wind and rain will pay many dividends.  I add my incompetence to the proceedings and very soon we have weather protection (sort of).  G has also brought a small gas burner and mountain kettle so hot drinks are planned.  I brought a flask of hot coffee but that disappears in the first half hour so the promise of more is very welcome.  Of course, the weather hates this idea so does its best to thwart the project.  Mostly, the weather wins.  We'll still be wet and cold.

Hardly have we got ourselves (more or less) ready than the first customer turns up.  What are these people made of?  Something other-worldly clearly.  We record the team number, check he has his companion with him plus their gear and off they go.  It rains.  And the wind blows.  We huddle into the mouth of the tent.  It's going to be a long six hours.  I have put on my best Gore-Tex jacket and trousers with suitable under-layers but it's like I hadn't bothered.  Cold and wet seems to be penetrating my skin through all the layers.  Will I be able to claim compensation for breaches of the Trades Descriptions Act?  Maybe oilskins would be better.  At least that way all my accumulated moisture would stay with me.  That would be OK, I decide; I've got a cold anyway so can't smell a thing.

Teams start to arrive in dribs, drabs and lots of drips.  We record faithfully.  We continue to get wet.  And cold.  We move around as best we can to alleviate the symptoms.  I largely fail in this process.  Two hours in and the first bus-load arrives.  The teams come thick and fast as though they're following one another.  Surely this can't be?  What if the team at the front gets lost?  Then they all get lost.  I'm assured by G that this is common and that the better teams avoid this trap.  I feel I am helping keep death off the hills by wearing my luminescent yellow all-weather jacket that can probably be spotted at a great distance.  In this weather, I rather imagine that distance is about ten feet.

The first rush subsides.  A perfect moment for severe cramp to wrack the insides of both my legs.  It's like some-one poured acid into my veins and then laughed.  I struggle to persuade my brain to issue louder instructions to my legs to allow me to get to the vertical and move.  I fail.  I lie prostrate and flail about like a drunken duck.  Slowly the acid recedes and what is possibly blood returns.  I arise and move upright with all the grace of a long-legged drunken penguin on steroids.  I am wet.  I am cold.  I am, right now, probably even older than my birth certificate.  I regroup and walk then jog around the site.  Any more of this and I'll be a helicopter case.  Little do I know that this isn't the low point.

Then more teams appear and we are distracted from our conditions by our dedication to duty and the needs of the results computer.  Slowly the numbers of teams arriving diminishes.  Slowly the hour of our scheduled departure approaches.  Our tasks do not end when our position can be left.  We are to collect another piece of recording equipment and only then make our way back to transport, home and the comforts of dry clothes and hot water.

But then!!  Miraculously, our hour of departure arrives and we quickly pack our belongings ready for the getaway.  I manage to misunderstand and incorrectly remove the marker.  I put it back equally quickly as G points out my error.  I even manage to put it back into the same almost invisible hole it came out of; a small triumph out of a larger misery.

We set off for the equipment we must find and, thanks to G's excellent navigation, find it promptly, remove it and pack it in G's capacious rucksack.  We wonder how to get back.  Back the way we came?  Lousy terrain and a significant detour around the swollen burn.  We opt for the other route where we can see the alternative swollen burn but can't see any way across.  We descend for a closer look.

The burn looks even more horrendous close up than it did from the top of the hill.  We walk upstream.  Nothing.  We walk some more.  Nothing.  We can see where the burn is formed from at least two others.  We walk towards them in hope.  Then, it looks like we're in luck!  G crosses burn #1 - elegantly.  I follow - inelegantly.  We approach burn #2.  No way across so we must go upstream - again.  Eventually, after seemingly endless dangerous options, we find one that looks possible.  G again crosses easily.  I cross - my fingers.  And just about manage to cross the burn without falling in or breaking any part of my anatomy.

We breast a rise and look down the glen.  We are on the right side to get to the road but the wrong side to get to the car.  We have a long walk ahead.  And it's getting dark.  We stride purposefully onwards - well, one of us does, the other stumbles and splashes his way behind as quickly as his once-cramped legs will take him.  This is familiar territory, having been here before, but that's no help if it gets dark.

As the last glimmers of light rush off to the west, we cross the last thousand yards over fence, field and past graveyard to the final gate next to the road.  Sod's Law dictates that a car approaches at precisely this moment causing G to stop to let it pass.  He is unwittingly standing next to a large puddle that the car promptly shares with him as it passes.  I come over the gate onto the road in perfect time to miss the car-induced shower.  As if we hadn't had enough from the sky.

We walk towards the welcoming light of the lochside Hotel and I wonder aloud if G would prefer to walk the last lap up the hill without his backpack.  I'd have done the same if it were my vehicle up the hill - honest.  G kindly thinks this is a good idea and vanishes into the gloom to find his car.  I wait outside the Hotel and enjoy the fact the rain has stopped, the temperature is positively Mediterranean (well, about 11C anyway) and my legs don't hurt so much.  I even walk up and down to help keep the circulation going.

Soon, G returns safely with car, we load the gear and away we go towards rest and recuperation.  G opines that today has been very tough.  I wonder if he's just being kind to an OAP but apparently he means it.  Tomorrow, we must do this again.  In a different place - thankfully.  With different weather - hopefully.  With less physical and mental distress - at least in my case.

Sunday dawns benignly.  And we have a later start since our destination is only about an (easy-ish) hour from the car.  We leave the vehicle in a familiar car park and start an also-familiar walk across the sports field towards our spot for the day.  We've both been within a few hundred metres of the spot many times, the weather is clear and kind and, equipped as we are with maps and compasses, we don't imagine we'll need them.  The route steadily stiffens in gradient and my legs steadily stiffen in sympathy.  We get to less than a mile away and G is worried we'll be late.  I suggest he push on and I'll meet him there.  Good plan (possibly).

G disappears from view and I amble onwards and upwards.  Soon, it's time to leave the relative comfort of the made-for-vehicles track and head towards the Trig point that is our spot for the day.  The plantation we'd agreed we'd walk round actually looks less densely planted than I'd expected so I head in a direct line through the first section towards what looks like a clearing beyond.  It is.  As I emerge and start crossing a heavily overgrown area, I hear the sound of rushing water.  Well, I did see a burn on the map.  I didn't think.  As I reach it, I can see that it's full to overflowing and looks positively evil.  I look left - no bridges there.  I look right - is that a practical bridge made from a fallen tree that I see?  I head upstream for a couple of hundred yards until I can see the 'bridge' clearly.  Probably sound enough to carry a small child.  Possibly sound enough to carry a light adult with the skills of an acrobat and the strength of a trained commando.  Just the job.

I lean onto the nearest part and push downwards.  To my surprise, I don't get a faceful of water.  And no sounds of cracking wood.  I lean with the other hand.  Still OK.  I put one foot onto the end resting on the bank of the waterway and move a hand forwards.  Still OK.  Like a chameleon caught in a headlight, I move slowly forwards one limb at a time.  One hand is now resting on wood that seems to be firmly anchored on the far bank.  I put my right foot down - somewhere.  The resulting sound of wood cracking and breaking away as it falls into the water isn't comforting.  I resume my chameleon impression and slowly get two hands and a foot somewhere onto the far bank.  I throw myself forwards and scramble ungracefully onto the slope of ground that is safety.  The 'bridge' is still there (mostly) and I'm not even damp.  Unless you count where I think I wet myself that is.

I look up and am astonished to find that, not only can I see through the trees to the open countryside beyond, I can see G on the slope up to the Trig point only about three hundred yards away.  I pick myself up and reach the fence at the edge of the trees.  I clamber over then find myself gently falling backwards at the height of my clambering.  I summon up all the reserves and just about manage to recover some forward momentum and make it over the fence.  Only a short climb and I'm there.

This is the point when yesterday's exertions tell.  The slope is littered with small boulders through which ferns have grown.  As my weariness grows, so does my fear of damage through slipping off one of these hard-to-see hazards.  But soon enough the ground gets better even if the gradient doesn't.  I take plenty of breaks and survey the scenery which, today, is worth every weary step.  Soon, I breach the edge of what is a mini-plateau and see G snuggling down in the lee of the Trig point.  I get there, drop the backpack and survey the scene.  Breathtaking.  West into the mountains, east towards Crieff and Perth, south to the Ochils with the northern prospect a sweep of hills of many shades of - well, grey mostly.

We await our first customer.  And wait.  Then wait some more.  Apparently, we're an option today where we were a necessity yesterday.  Sounds like my career.  But then I spot spots on the next hill where most of the teams will be coming from.  The spots leave the summit and get spotty on the track leading towards our hill.  Soon, it is clear we really are the target and two spots gradually resolve themselves into runners intent on reaching our eyrie.  As the first one reaches us, we can't see the second.  But very shortly, he also appears and all is well.  We record them and wish them well on their way.

Soon, the nearby hill is infected with chickenpox as spots become a rash and the rash rushes towards us.  Excitement!  We steadily record, exchange banter, hear of events of yesterday and enjoy the lack of rain and the comparatively balmy winds.  The skies persist in limiting blueness to short glimpses - probably just to tease us and entertain themselves - but also persist in not shovelling water down on us.  We are thankful.

But then - a lone runner!  And no equipment!  We point out that the rules require us to report this breach; you may be disqualified says G.  You're ****** says I.  Go get your kit and your mate or your weekend finishes here, I resolutely declare with Official authority that I almost certainly don't have.  The young man slopes off down the slope and we expect to see him no more.  But we are mistaken!!  He returns a few minutes later complete with kit and mate.  We remove the Official Report Of Rule-Breaking and bid them adieu.  We are happy we have fulfilled Our Duty.

But you'd never Adam and Eve it - another lone runner.  He pleads that his companion is cream-crackered and can't make it up the hill.  We are resolute.  He departs.  We expect to see him no more.  Time passes.  He has clearly taken our report badly.  But then, what is this we see?  He returns many minutes later complete with knackered companion and full kit.  We aren't sure whether congratulations or commiserations are in order.  At least they believed that they would be DQ'd by our report and still felt the OMM was worth it.  Amazing.

Soon the clock moves towards our departure time.  The spots on the hill now disappear elsewhere than in our direction.  We are alone for the last hour and more of our sojourn.  But now it's time to go and we agree to leave the hill by a different route to our arrival.  This route is straightforward and doesn't involve a dodgy burn crossing.  Whilst I wouldn't have missed the excitement of the morning's journey (much), this is a welcome change from, well, everything.  We cover the ground at what passes for my normal walking pace and it seems we are very quickly at the place where another OMM Official is stationed.  She momentarily wonders why we are emerging from an entirely wrong direction but G quickly points our that, despite our being incognito, we are also Official Personnel.  We all laugh and we pass onwards towards the car park.

The finish of the event is where the car is parked so we go and see what's happening.  We are delighted to find that some of our fellow Harriers are there to cheer on the Harriers' teams that are competing as they finish.  Our famed Doctor is overdue and his Doctor missus is concerned.  A few minutes later, he turns up safe and well - if shattered.  We shall see him later for the full story.  We depart to OMM HQ to report in.

At HQ, we hand in the necessaries and are therefore counted as safe and well as opposed to still approaching death on the mountains.  Food and drink are also being served so we avail ourselves of the hot tea and seek out our fellow Harriers for some craich.  The event seems to have been both successfully completed and to have caused drop-outs amongst our fellow Harriers.  I am amazed anyone gets round at all.  And the organisation is impressive.  Anyone wanting to organise a big outdoor party should call these guys.

So to home.  And its comforts.  Wife decides to accept an offer of work and I return only to a dog and a dinner (which fortunately isn't inside the dog).  I clean up (myself), eat the dinner and clean up again.  My body hurts.  And I've not run.  I haven't even walked very far.  But I hurt a lot.  Still, I'll be fine after a good night's rest - won't I?

Monday morning.  Harriers run - in Comrie from the very car park I was in last evening.  Wife transports me there though I am unsure this is a wise move - being there, not the transporting.  We assemble.  We set off towards the hills.  I get a few hundred metres down the track and realise the fuel gauge really IS on empty.  I put common-sense before Male Pride and stop.  My companion of the moment offers her car keys so I can await their return in comfort.  She is kind.  I am old.  I agree.  I walk back towards the cars and meet two of the OMM organisers on their way to recover OMM material still lying scattered on the hills.  We exchange brief comments on the weekend during which I suggest they lose my contact details for any further trawls for volunteers.  They laugh.  Inside, I cry.

I take four days to recover to anything like normality.  My running is still rubbish two weeks later - but since that's normal I'm not sure if the OMM weekend has yet left my body.  What is certain is that any admiration I harboured theoretically for OMM competitors now has legs.  I really DO admire them now.  I also realise that NOT running whilst on a cold, wet and windy mountain saps the life force.  At my state of life it does anyway.  So from now on, visits to mountains will be accompanied by exercise.  Anyone who asks me in future to be stationary thereon for more than the time it takes to consume a jelly baby can (expletive deleted) off.

26.2 miles and still no sign of Nessie

WARNING!!!! - This article may contain flash photography and is and has a loud report.  Do NOT enter this site unless you are in possession of a certified sense of humour and have mislaid any taste for quality literature.  No responsibility is taken for any consequences brought on by readers laughing too much (or too embarrassingly).

So, many hundreds of unsuspecting victims (numbered for the later identification of their mortal remains) are herded aboard innocent-looking buses in Inverness and driven with armed escort through the dreich and unwelcoming terrain to their uncertain futures.  As the convoy turns off the main highway south onto a narrow and dangerous trackway, the victims fear the worst.  The safety and security that lies beyond the stone edifice that is Adrian's may never be seen again.  Local inhabitants shiver behind closed animal skins in their rough and ready shelters, not daring to see so many going to their painful destiny.  Flashing lights on the escort vehicles only add to their fearfulness.  How glad they are that such a fate does not lie in wait for them this Sabbath morn.

All too soon, the convoy slows as it passes the elements of the temporary camp set up to process this latest batch of victims.  Guards with yellow clothing identify themselves as the cruel enforcers of The Organiser's will.  At a single command, the victims are cast out into the dreich and horrible conditions to see for themselves what fate had decreed.  Some attempt an immediate escape into the surrounding countryside but soon realise that the hostile terrain is only good for relieving themselves upon - so do so shamelessly, men and women alike with only despair in their hearts.  Some cling to one another; some quietly queue for the blue boxes wherein lies temporary relief and the possiblility of asphyxiation to bring a swifter end to their misery.  Women follow men follow women follow more women follow more women until the blue boxes themselves screech for relief.  All to no avail as stomachs knot, bowels clench and bodies shiver.  The Final Terror, anticipated by many during at least sixteen weeks of cruel preparation, has finally arrived.  Can Death be any worse?

Then, before ears can be properly covered, the worst sound of all.  Drowning out the howling and piteous cries of the victims as they seek shelter and pain relief in the tiny blue boxes, a fearsome gang of skirling storm troopers assails the air with its raucous and savage war cries.  Dressed in the uniforms worn by local men and women troopers alike, this group of feared assassins, each weighing nearly 50Kgs each (that's eight stones in old money), march triumphantly through the victims to stamp their mark on each one's psyche.  Terror indeed before the pain to come.

And so the victims are herded out of their blue boxes, rounded up from their attempt to escape into the surrounding countryside under the guise of a simple call of nature and pushed willy-nilly towards the start of their ordeal.  Both willies and nillies shiver.  The Leader of the Persecutors barks at them through a power-assisted loudhailer and explains.  As a generous gesture from The Organiser, those who have paid the demanded bribe will be given the chance to escape to Freedom.  A gun will be fired.  Someone may be shot.  But it will be a signal that the victims can make their bid for Freedom down the narrow road ahead.

Can this be a trick when reality will lead to a painful and lingering end?  Mostly unbeknowns to the victims, "Freedom" is relative.  Successful escapees will be required to drink thick glutenous material and consume local taste-free 'biscuits' together with material cooked inside a sheep's stomach.  And drink local liquids kept in cellars for who knows how many years whilst it no doubt rots into the colour of human waste.  Foreign victims, brought to the area by wicked capitalists who do not stop at forcing their victims to pay exorbitant bribes just for proferring plastic in payment, are told by local victims that such material is highly regarded both in its country of origin and around the world.  And this unappetising-sounding fare is celebrated by locals and ex-patriots and admirers of such produce every year once Christmas and the New Year has been safely passed.  Some dead bloke's birthday is used as the excuse to get completely frazzled again.  Unimpressed by this intelligence, the victims become aware that the sound of many knees knocking has started to drown out the skirling.

As the Old Git ambles aimlessly around, he hears his name called.  Who knows he's here, he wonders?  Turning round as the better option to standing there trying to guess, he espies two lovelies from his gang at the Internment Camp.  They await their turn at the blue boxes and are desperate for distraction.  He wanders over and distracts them.  Has the Old Git seen any other members of the gang?  Does he have any words of elderly wise advice?  Does he know if the blue boxes are all still functioning?  Does he care?  The answer in all cases is 'No'.  They fall silent.  He awaits their blue box moments and agrees not to record any aspects (as has been known elsewhere).  He unusually keeps his word.

The Old Git and the two lovelies wander towards the baggage train.  Here, the Organiser promises to keep the victims possessions safe until they are able to reclaim them at the site of their Freedom.  The Old Git is suspicious; this has a dark and evil resemblance to promises made to others elsewhere.  The lovelies laugh and tell him he is a daft old illegitimate and persuade him to part with his only warm clothing.  He wonders if he will live to regret this decision.  He wonders if he will live.  But they are lovelies, so what could possibly go wrong when a male listens to female siren voices?

But then - the Start is delayed!  Did this mean there is a stay of execution?  Has the Organiser decided to return the victims whence they came?  No.  It is but a cruel trick to keep the victims milling around in the cold and the wet for the further amusement of the well-clothed guards.  And how they laugh as small females and large males alike try to keep some small parts warm.  Some have more success in this than others.  Guards leer as the drenching rain provides interesting patterns on female clothing.

Then it is the dreaded countdown.  The Organiser's man on the loudhailer accordingly tries to rearrange a jumble of letters into a coherent sentence - but fails.  Victims try to rearrange their numbers into the secret combination - but fail.  From the powerful loudhailer pours incomprehensible jabber as victim after victim is named and taunted to try his or her luck at the forthcoming escape.  Oh cruelty!  Carol Vorderman, where are you now?

Suddenly, it's 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1 - GO!!!  Bang!!  (Don't say you weren't warned that this was a loud report.)

The Great Escape is on.  Victims pour out into the countryside and follow the trail of increasingly soggy and vanishing breadcrumbs left out to guide them back.  The Organiser cunningly secretes his own people amongst the victims to pretend that escape is real and that pain is imagined.  His people race on ahead and out of sight whilst the real victims struggle onwards through the mist.  Young and old.  Male and female.  48 nationalities the loudhailer proudly hails loudly.  All doomed.  A veritable United Nations diaster unfolds.  If only those nice young men in blue helmets would appear.

Some victims will never make it.  Vehicles painted in a reassuring white and red colour scheme mistakenly lead a few poor victims into thinking that relief from pain lies inside.  Instead, only humiliation beckons as other victims pour past thinking they are the lucky ones.  This could be a long bad Sunday.

HIdden amongst the victims is an Old Git.  He knows it is he because his 'friends' have tattooed it on his back and on all his clothing.  Others smirk at the name but he won't have it.  He stays healthy as he surrounds himself with a no-smirking zone.  And this is his chance to escape to Freedom.  His chance to run and become - something.  Swift of thought as always, he realises that his opportunity lies amongst the least fortunate of the victims.  He cunningly hides himself amongst the laggards and the sloths as they fall away at the tail of the snake that is growing along the shores of the Beastly Lake.  Tales are told of slithering creatures inhabiting the lake that come out at the bidding of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to attack and consume innocent humans.  None alive has seen The Beast but many know it to be there - just waiting.  We are all on guard.  Some even try to take photographs.  But not, this time, our Old Git (whose camera isn't waterproof).

Cruelly, the Organiser has marked up how far the victims have to travel to reach Freedom; every mile (that's 1.6km for those readers unable to cope with these last vestiges of Imperial Rule).  Thankfully, as the pain increases, the realisation of the distance to Freedom diminishes until all is just a haze of chemicals.  But this is for the future.  The far future.  For now it is just the next mile that matters.

Sadistically, the Great Escape starts downhill.  Unthinking victims race onwards and burn the very fuel they will need in the hours to come.  The Old Git is wiser.  He ambles.  He jogs.  He concentrates.  His amazing capacity for mental arithmetic ensures he can work out how far it is still to go at each mile marker; many cannot and race on at an unsustainable pace for which they will pay dearly as the sun sinks towards the West.

Still the rain falls.  Mile One.  Mile Two.  Mile Three.  An opinion is voiced near the Old Git that hail will surely fall.  Nearby victims are cheered by this innocent stupidity and laugh loudly at the source of the opinion.  She falls silent.  The Old Git ponders.  Others are just ponderous.  As Mile Four threatens to arrive, the witch predicting hail has her incantations answered and indeed the victims find themselves in the midst of a ferocious hail storm and suffer tiny bouncing white ice balls across their already-suffering feet.  Thankfully, the witch's spell is a weak one and the hail quickly gives way to cold rain.  Thankfully - yeah.

By now, the bus-loads of victims has strung out to a colourful string snaking its way across the verdant area that lies atop the lake's craggy limits.  Small hamlets are passed as the local inhabitants bravely overcome their fear and watch as the victims parade past.  Some jeer and shout in a pretence of encouragment but the victims know the reality and largely ignore these cruel sounds.  As a Master of Irony (Upper Second), the Old Git cheerfully acknowledges these cries with a hearty 'Thank you' and 'Your turn next year' as he passes.  He is not fooled.

Time passes - but few other victims now pass the Old Git.  He is starting to pass some of those who unwisely rushed down the early hill.  He is in danger of succombing to smugness but keeps this emotion in firm check in favour of gritted teeth and gritted energy bars that he secreted about his person before leaving the Departure Camp.  A short sharp incline in the road brings further misery to some - but not yet the Old Git.  Those months of suffering on the hills alone, cold and miserable but determined are paying a small dividend.  Very small.

Soon the second short sharp rise signals the nearness of the place where the world's cinemas and theatres have for decades sought their entrance designs and materials.  Other scoff but Foyers is not French after all.  But we pass by on our quest to reach Freedom, unimpressed by local achievements.  We are now in the territory of The Beast.  We shiver, even though the rain has now thankfully stopped.  We are fearful and wonder at the bravery of those who come from far and wide to seek out The Beast.  It becomes clear they are not brave - just stupid.  Many purchase knick-knacks that purport to represent The Beast - the one that no living soul has seen.  Who in China knows what it looks like that they can make such stuff?  We are not interested in such matters; Freedom is our only goal.

Through tiny community after tiny community we struggle - but it's useless.  We'll never get the pronunciation of their names right.  Men with huge army rucksacks on their backs are passed as they pretend to be part of the escape plan.  We do not know what might be in their sacks but we are afraid to guess.  One swift burst of gunfire would bring down a whole generation of Freedom-seekers.  We hold our breath (well, we don't manage this actually) and hope we're wrong.  We pass safely.  There is no following cascade of metal travelling at high velocity.  Perhaps it waits up ahead.  We press on.

Suddenly - there is the sign that says 'Half-way'!  Actually, it doesn't but the Old Git's arithmetical genius realises that 13 miles is probably about there.  If the sign is true.  If.  We grab water proferred by local missionaries (probably from China) and hope that there are no Beastly frights awaiting.  As long as there is someone near me who runs more slowly than me, thinks the Old Git, I should be OK.  The Beast can have them whilst I escape.  Possibly.

A brief gap in the untamed undergrowth and overgrowth allows the Old Git to see what he knows to be Urquhart Castle.  In the deeps nearby is rumoured to be the Lair of The Beast.  We shiver again, this time in sunshine so we know we really are scared.  We do our best to hurry on and reach the relative safety of Dores.  It is the only one yet is more usually referred to as "a Dores" by those who love it.  Locals are very strange.

Many long years ago, a road builder known by the courtesy title of 'General' came through the area and built a road.  He was not qualified to do anything else.  Regrettably, he also pocketed a large part of the fee he was paid that was scheduled for the building of a deep cutting (or even a tunnel) towards the north-east.  This failure has resulted in there being a long hill along the road in that direction instead of comfortable flat access for horse-drawn carriages and foot travellers to the sea.  His wickedness shall not be forgotten by the victims today as the dreaded Hill of Dores looms.

The Old Git smiles.  He grasps the bottle of 'water' proferred by one of the missionaries but decides it may be contaminated by human waste so wisely does not partake.  One of The Organiser's photo goons spots this and records the scene.  Perhaps the Old Git has unwittingly gained The Organiser's approval.  Perhaps Freedom awaits.  Perhaps.

So to the Hill of Doom.  Another victim asks "Is this the hill?".  The Old Git confirms this dreaded news.  The questioner falls back in despair and disarray.  The Old Git plods on, maintaining what is technically known as a 'run', albeit his speed seems to suggest otherwise.  He enters the nursery slopes of the Hill with determination in his soul, who-knows-what in his bottle and socks in his shoes.  All is ready for the assault.  He goes for it.

Around the first bend he labours; but still he runs.  Up ahead, he sees many victims walking.  In fact, he can't see that any of them are running but instead all are walking.  Can he be alone in using this technique to conquer the hill?  He concentrates on getting both feet off the ground at the same time, albeit for a fraction of a second.  This will enable him to confirm to the watching goons that he is indeed 'running'.  He hopes they will be pleased with him.  Mid-way up the hill, one of the goons (clearly more important since he has his own vehicle and is not sharing it with anyone else) shouts out what seems like encouragement.  Unfooled, the Old Git merely smiles and maintains his technique.  He is determined.  The false summits on this hill will not deter him from achieving a 'ran it all the way' sticker from the lovelies at Freedom's door.  The thought of them spurs him on as he passes walker after walker - so many indeed that shortbread seems imminent.

The slope of the road starts to diminish.  It diminishes some more.  It reaches a crescendo of diminuendo.  The road is flat!  The Hill of Doom is conquered by an Old Git!  Surely future generations will erect a small blue plaque to mark the event.  The Old Git is hopeful; he likes erections and has many photographs of them from around the world.

Can Freedom now be far?  Can that sound dimly heard in the far distance be the noise he has been so desperate to hear?  The sound of laughing from joyous victims as they reach Freedom and cry out their joy.

He is distracted by another victim passing him.  She is clearly desperate and distraught, conditions that have given wings to her feet and ugliness to her face.  The Old Git plods on.  He knows.  Sure enough, she slows and walks.  The Old Git passes her.  No words of encouragement does he utter.  Just that distant look that tells of a brain focussed on the achievement of a lifetime.  He may be old enough to be disposable but he intends to be seriously hard to flush down the pan today.  Let others be the effluent of the human race; it is only this race - to Freedom - that matters to the Old Git.  Save your soluble paper for others, he seems to say - I am indissoluble.

The natural terrain gives way to the hand of man.  Buildings spring up as if from nowhere and crowds surge forwards to see the Old Git as he enters the final phase of the dash for Freedom.  He doesn't dash.  He is patient.  He keeps to his schedule and plods on.  He knows he could look flash and run like a gazelle towards the bag ladies but declines this Devil's temptation in favour of modest gentleness along the riverside that leads to Freedom.  He hears the ever-increasing volume of sound from Freedom Park and smiles inwardly whilst outwardly maintaining the fiction that he is on his last legs.

Running continues.  He will run all the way.  He will triumph.  He will have his Freedom.

From the other side of the river, he sees that the Organiser has another of his photo goons stationed to capture final images of near-death.  Unwilling to be a disappointment to the Organiser, he reluctantly adopts what he believes to be the correct persona for the final few hundred metres to the finish.  He is relieved afterwards to find he struck just the right note between life and death - still alive but heading fast for death.  He is not quite sure that the photo goon completely captures his amazing physique at its peak of photogenic excellence but accepts that life is rarely perfect.  A little light retouching on the computer will cure all that.

And so Freedom is achieved.  Quietly squirting a dose of fluid up his shorts, the Old Git poses for a final revealing photo before visiting the bag ladies for his bag and T-shirt that remind him he is only free on licence.  He may (subject to witness statements to the contrary) have run all the way, he may have reached Freedom quicker than ever before in his life (styled a 'PB' - or 'Properly Beggared' - by his admiring friends), he may have passed many other victims whose fate is now unknown - yes, he may.  We'll never know for sure.

So five hours, five minutes and 42 seconds after leaving the dreich and wind-swept uplands on his dash for Freedom, the Old Git finally walked.  Then sat.  Then lay down.  Then slept.  But sleep does not bring relief; he can't forget.  The memory of the other victims who could not do as he did haunts him.  He must avenge them.  He must do this again.  He must be chucking nuts.

No wonder his 'friends' know him as the Old Git.

Great Scottish Run - Glasgow Sunday 4th September 2011

Prelims.

Last year, A Moron entered the Great Scottish Run - a half marathon event around the streets of Glasgow.  His intended running companion - The Kindly Nurse first seen on 21st March 2010 (blogs passim) - was stricken of the palsy and unable to run.  Being the stalwart she is, she nonetheless accompanied The Moron as his Support Team; she is everlastingly kind to the nation's Morons.  In the event (ho-ho), The Moron ran 2hrs 7mins 8secs and was happy with that.  In the circumstances, The Nurse agreed to do it together with The Moron in 2011. 

This is the story.  Some of it is close to the truth.

The Moron's eye is currently on Loch Ness - the monster that is the marathon.  With that in mind, trying to get back to the mileages done in April in preparation for the Edinburgh Marathon in May (blogs passim) has proved arduous.  For reasons that even an Old Git can't fathom (confirming The Moron also as an Old Git), hill-running (when running up hills is so hated) has taken precedence over road-running to build up whatever it is in the legs and other bits.

18 August.  Decide to run Legs 1,2,3 & 4 of the infamous Strathearn Harriers 5x5 relay race.  For those with Ordnance Survey maps and an empty diary indicating no social life, the route goes (roughly) Crieff - Knock Mary - White Drums - Turleum Hill - Auchingarrich - Comrie - up between Cluain and Braefordie - Glen Turret dam - Hosh - Crieff.  Around 34 kms.  The relay race adds in a circuit of Laggan Hill (Leg 5).

Since the next day was Moron/Old Git's birthday, calling up a (family) taxi after Leg 3 might be a good move.  Got there, had enough so did.  So ended up running just over 27 kms.  And had a nice birthday.  But the whole route hadn't been done.  So of course had to have another go.  Well, I am The Moron.

25 August.  Off to Englandshire in the morning for a few days R&R at a funeral so decided that this would be a good day to have another go at Legs 1,2,3 & 4.  This time, another Nurse decides to accompany me as far as Comrie in case I collapse or otherwise injure myself.  This kindly lady normally brings her tendering skills to horticulture but decides I am weedy enough to qualify for her expertise.

So TKL's car is stashed at Comrie, return to Crieff and set off.  TKL gallops off and is about a hundred metres ahead before she realises the Moron isn't there.  A brief stop and the party is all together again.  And proceeds glacially towards North Bridge, Alichmore and Knock Mary.  The sheer athleticism of the pacing shows once again that, when it comes to the timing of athletic events, the stopwatch can sometimes be less useful than the calendar.

So through the woodland clearances, across the Balloch Road and onto Turleum.  Upwards & upwards.  MacHinery (one of the few 'Macs' you won't find in the telephone directory) has been busy turning the path beyond the TV mast into a motorway for logging trucks.  Plough on.  More upwards & upwards.  Then finally downwards through The Maze until Auchingarrich appears.  And so through the last of the countryside to emerge through Cowden into Comrie.

TKL reports Legs 1 & 2 as 'OK' and leaps into car before The Moron persuades her into Leg 3.

So off into Serious Territory and the climb to Braefordie.  More a walk than a run.  More of both feet on the ground at the same time than attempting to fly.  Then after Proper Hill #1, NN780235 still threatens death as the marsh crossing remains a Moron's Nightmare.  But all is safely negotiated with the prize of Proper Hill #2 to climb.  But soon, Braefordie is below and to the right and the easterly path to Loch Turret beckons.  Bliss.

Comes the dam, comes the judgement.  How's the Old Git doing?  OK, actually.  So no taxi then today.  And a nice descent to Hosh and home.  There's them as hates descents like I hate ascents.  Can't understand why that makes me The Moron.  But it fits Old Gits.  Anyway, steady does it and Home appears in just about five hours since I left.  Glacial.  But done.

So is The Moron ready for the Great Scottish Run?  And what about the Old Git?  Read on (as usual, only if you have both a sense of humour and no taste).

4 September - Race Day.  Not just The Moron and The Nurse this year.  Lots of Harriers are excited by the moronic experience last year and decide they also wish to share in the excitement that is the GSR.  So two cars; nine Harriers.  And a tenth meeting us there (supposedly).  Pick up folk in Crieff and Braco and head off for The Big City.

Suggest parking near #1 daughter's flat.  Handy for use of the loo and only a short walk to the Start.  Arrive safely.  Park.  Ring bell.  Use keys to enter building.  Knock on door but go in anyway.  Daughter wrapped only in towels announces she'd forgotten about our intended pit stop and attempts excoriation on Father.  Use of facilities proceeds calmly anyway.  We leave, Old Git a chastened parent.

Outside, a proposal to park nearer the Finish is approved by a show of hands.  It is suggested the loos at the Finish will be quieter than those at the Start.  This seems likely - and too intelligent a decision for A Moron.  We leave and reach the appointed location where all normal space is occupied.  We ignore this detail and park at the front and back of the line of parked cars anyway.  Note that my tow bar is hovering close to double yellow lines.  Then remembrance strikes.  Glasgow Traffic Wardens don't do Sundays.  It's against their religion (or possibly two).  We should be safe.

Take whatever seems appropriate and leave the cars.  We trust they're not torched in the meantime.  Wander towards Glasgow Green to seek out the loos.  It is not certain whether the sense of Vision or of Smell will be the more useful.  The Lead Team (possibly using all senses) finds the loos unerringly and use is made of them.

This enables the group to desport themselves before a willing camera.

Nicola demonstrates the size she expects her bump to be when her forthcoming pregnancy reaches eight months.  Kerry thinks trying to hide behind Alastair's humerus is humorous.  The Nurse screeches in supposed pain as the Moron gently treats her to a Vulcan mind grip.  The Moron practices his famous moronic grin; clearly a work in progress.  A doctor tries to remember if he gave the Nurse adequate quantities of the Moron's medicine to see them both through the next three hours.  The doctor wisely decides he couldn't care less.

An excited crowd gathers in George Square.  A mother briefs her child about the correct techniques for avoiding being crushed under foot in the first mile.  The child confirms it has understood.  Two almost incognito Strathearn Harriers (The Nurse given away by her largely-irrelevant white golf visor) survey the scene as they try to work out how to cross the barriers without getting set upon by the local Jobsworths.  They eventually need to be led to the Green Sector by The Moron as he boldly leaps the intervening obstructions in complete disregard for his own safety.  A Moron indeed.

Soon, the safety of the Green Sector envelopes itself around our brave trio.  Extremely tall people, specially bred in Glasgow on a diet of tablet, haggis and Tennent's Excuse For Lager, parade around with colourful flags denoting the various cattle pens to be used for the start.  The cattle wait (im)patiently for their time at the abattoir that is the Glasgow streets.  The sun still shines.  The organiser's loudspeakers still blare incoherent messages.

The Nurse worries about the friends she has arranged to meet.  What chance in this crowd?....  Clearly none, thinks The Moron.

The Nurse appears forlorn.  Unhappy she that wears the crown.

But what is this??  Out of the clear blue sky appears The Nurse's friend!!  All is smiles, sweetness and harmony.  Love is restored.

So overwhelmed is The Nurse that she consents to be photographed once more with her charge.  The Moron is happy.  It is too long since any female was prepared to be alone with him.  Being moronic, he is temporarily unaware they are not alone.  He will rejoin the real world shortly.

The Nurse's mood is lifted further when a young stranger offers also to be photographed with her and The Moron.  The Nurse likes fit young men.  The Moron can't work out how The Nurse knows the young man is fit since she hasn't seen him run yet.  The Nurse confirms he is 'fit' even if he can't run for toffee.  The Moron doesn't understand but is glad The Nurse is now happy.

In the distance, the organiser's Storm Troopers force the Green Pen cattle to shuffle forwards in sight of the Start.  In the distance, a reportedly famous decathlete (an athlete who takes his coffee without caffeine) is spotted being jocular.  Another man with a gold chain round his neck (signifying he is an important criminal) checks whether he can leap off the bus to freedom amongst the mass of runners.  It seems he has decided not.  In any case, behind him his armed guard reloads the pump-action shotgun available for the prevention of such foolishness.

All is finally ready for the Green contingent to be liberated.  One of the Red Stormtroopers points his red noise generator towards the rapidly-vanishing Blue Pen cattle and urges the Greens onwards and upwards.  Free at last, we stagger forwards and take up our well-practised race-pace shuffle.  Ten-minute miles, here we come!!

Soon the ranks of the Green unwashed thin and the 5280-foot mark appears.  The Moron and The Nurse have reached here in - ten minutes!!  Amazing pacing!!  Amazing skill!!  (OK, shut up with the self-promotion and get on with this rubbish.  Ed.)  Can this continue?  Will this be a negative split (i.e. a gap in the seam at the back of the shorts)?

Remorselessly, the trail of puffers and panters drags its way towards the river crossing that is the Kingston Bridge.  We all hope the organisers have remembered to have the road closed.  There'll be trouble 't mill if not.  Soon, the panorama that is South Glasgow unfolds.  Bomb-sites still left unloved after 70 years are empty of the weekday parkers who fail to realise the SECC is nearly a mile away.  Still, the weather allows us to (nearly) see Europe's largest windfarm so all is not lost.

As the participants reach the centre of the magnificent arch that spans the River Clyde, the Strathclyde Constabulary are on full alert should anyone already be distressed enough to consider jumping.  A full cohort of brave officers stand ready for action.  We are all impressed.

We pass on and are unable to stop and stare at the image of the Clyde overlooked by blue skies and fluffy white clouds.  Around the City, bairns enquire of their loving parents what the orange ball in the sky means.  Older, wiser Glaswegians point gently at the triangle of red on their chests just below the throat and say "That's a real Glasgow tan.  You don't get many of them to the pound, ah'll tell ye."  We all continue mindlessly on.

Little do we suspect that we are being watched from above.  Apart from the Police snipers and drug dealers' lookouts, there is a higher power.  Paisley Road West looms and La Fiorentina, an eating place recently landed as a kit of parts from Italy, hosts a golden icon of almost unparalled beauty (apart from most of Italy, France, Egypt, etc., - Ed.).  We are humble in its presence and pass by in dutiful obeisance.

A little further down the road and the four-mile marker is spotted amongst architecture arguably the rival of La Fiorentina's.  We consider ourselves fortunate to witness the results of generous Glaswegian entrepreneurs building lasting monuments to their own memory.  Tartan Fish & Chips will repeatedly remind us of their quality.  Customers enquiring "Gie us a Tartan fash 'n' chaps, will ya hen" will doubtless be informed that the emporium only supplies the food; other entertainment of a more intimate and personal nature is to be found next door.

And so to the countryside we roam.  We enter Bellahouston Park where we reach 26400 feet of endeavour.  Being A Moron, thoughts drift aimlessly around the word 'Bellahouston'.  Is this an Italian's description of a large beautiful city in Texas, US of A?  If so, he clearly left his glasses at home.  Was it his mistress?  Is it 'Beautiful - House - Town'?  Does anyone care?  Not today.  We just pass through it and consider we're not even half-way yet.

The Nurse is suddenly struck.  In the bladder.  Find a receptical quickly.  Moron suggests behind a transport container.  The Nurse declines to do a 'Paula'.  A row of containers is spotted!  Quickly!!!  Aaaaaaaah, the relief.  The Moron wonders why the container suggests it to be a place where a man and a woman can have an 'Event'.  He wonders what an 'Event' is.  Should he join The Nurse and ask for an 'Event' demonstration?  Shyness overcomes his curiosity and he contents himself with chatting to the queue outside the containers.

But then!!  Out comes The Nurse with some signs of disarray.  Her greeting is not of the "Lovely to see you waited; let's carry on." accompanied by a friendly and warm smile.  No, indeed it is not!  Her countenance reveals her inner turmoil (that she had hoped would be left in the container) and the need for The Moron to support her as she resumes her athletic endeavours.  He is considerate and thoughtful as he files the photograph under "For Publication".

But The Moron is himself about to be discommoded.  In the innocent act of acquiring a record of the six-mile point of the event, a young ruffian brutishly assaults the poor ignoramous causing him nearly to fall to the earth with the danger of potentially life-threatening injury.  Most fortunately, his dedication to learning the techniques of the Pilots (that's 'Pilates', you Moron - Ed) enables him to quickly recover his fabled balance and quickly rejoin The Nurse as she continues ambling towards Nirvana.  She is relieved for a second time, in this case because all is well.

Seven miles comes and goes in a blur.  The half-way point is passed.  Surely it's all downhill from here.  Polloks to all that, thinks The Moron.

The Nurse suddenly becomes aware she may have inadvertently mislaid a couple of items of female apparatus.  Like model trains, designed for children but mostly played with by men, this apparatus forms an essential part of many women's je ne sais quoi.  Its loss can be a disaster.  And the cost can't be reclaimed on the household insurance.  The Moron is worried.  "Have I made a boob?" he enquires.  "If you have, can you make a couple?", The Nurse wittily rejoins.  But the situation is rapidly rectified as The Moron unveils his everlasting support.  It may have been made in China but it is a good brand.

Just a little further on, The Nurse asks "Do you know we're at eight miles now?"  The One-Man Band recognises the title and immediately starts the chorus.  Like the bees, The Moron doesn't know the words so just hums.  As does his clothing.  Increasingly.  Eminem would be proud.

Then nine miles.  Spectators applaud at the sight of runners leaving the Polloks and the promise that they can go round Pollok Country Park in peace very soon.  Only four miles and a bit (thanks, Queen Mary) to go.

The ten-mile sign appears with rubbish underneath it.  There are also a lot of discarded water bottles.

The Nurse starts to feel happy at the thought that the worst is behind her.  She hasn't realised that a Jeep Cherokee is even worse than a Renault Clio.

Eleven miles is a forlorn sight with nothing interesting to say for itself.  Only one more real milepost to go.

Twelve miles.  The Moron is bored.  Three harmless old men are gently serenading the competitors towards their last jog down the riverbank to the exciting finish.  What have they done to deserve the interruption by A Moron?  Nothing.  They are blameless.  A startled passer-by thinks this must be part of an important film about the eccentric city that is Glasgow.  But no, it is only A Moron with nothing better to do on a sunny Sunday afternoon.


The Nurse moves on.  The Moron dutifully follows.  The musical group returns to normality (decent music on a Glasgow street is normal? - Ed).  Tomorrow all will be forgotten.  Especially The Moron.

And so our intrepid adventurers reach the bank of the River Clyde and battle their way through the exhausted throng to the finishing straight.  The Moron bullies The Nurse into a sprint for the line so they can pass an otherwise innocent woman who has irritated The Moron.  The Nurse feigns exhaustion then reveals her true level of fitness.

It is clear from The Nurse's priority to reach for her electronic gadget that The Moron has served his purpose and can now be dismissed.  He slinks off with a heavy heart to collect his unnecessarily bronzed medal.  The colour merely rubs in his status as the bottom row of the podium, the low level in the athletic food chain.  And he's an Old Git.


The Nurse, being kindly, then relents and gets The Moron a banana.  This is ostensibly to restore Potassium levels in The Moron's body but is really The Nurse pointing up what a monkey she thinks he is.  The pair trudge off in search of goody bags and other Harriers.  A flashing wave over the heads of the milling throng identifies a Harrier (who often moonlights as a hairdresser) wanting water.  The Nurse and The Moron steal a handful or two of free water bottles and make their way towards the hairdresser.  Reunification is under way.


Soon, most of the Harriers' group that together made its way to The Big City are reunited.  One husband has gone missing and one Harrier who arrived separately has never been seen so is presumed dead.  She later turns up safely but feels that she did end up feeling as though she was dead - so that's all right then.  The husband remains unfound as the group leave the Finish but is later reunited with his distraught family.  Apparently, he was off feeding dolphins and lost track of time (see the blog of June this year for more on this remarkable man).

So, in the unlikely sunshine of Glasgow, ended a Day To Remember (well, maybe for the rest of the week).  The medal count was better than the British Olympic Athletics team - so that's something.  Every one of us that started managed to finish.  Some did brilliant times; everyone did times to be proud of.  Some of us got to the finish with something we hadn't started with (like a minor photo collection) even if all of us left some weight on the course.  We'll put the weight back on, of course, in the form of useful material such as curry, chips, beer, wine, whisky and other recommended dietary supplements.  Then we'll go out training to lose it again.

Days like this can make it seem like everyone these days is out running (or doing some other active sport).  But they're not.  We're still a minority in an increasingly fat and unfit world.  Sometimes we look like a mad minority.  But at least it's a madness with great payback.


And The Moron and his doppleganger The Old Git got no better - in any respect.  So that's all right then.