So How's The Marathon Training Going (Part 2)?

You know how it is.  You dream of doing something really wicked - and in your dream there's no hurtful consequences.  Like overtaking a police car in a 30 mph area - and they just wave you on with a smile and a "Good Morning, Sir".  Like telling your mother-in-law her favourite dish that she serves when you visit tastes like wombat's doo - and she thanks you for the compliment.  Like telling your boss he's useless and should get a job as a Council Cleansing Operative and you're thanked for the career advice.

I dreamed - as usual, the reality DID hurt.

A (calendar) month to go to The Big Day and the writer of the Marathon Training Guide I'm (sort of) following recommends a run of 29kms this week - and one of 33kms next week before the 'tapering down' starts.  Wimp!  If 29kms, why not 39kms?  If 39kms, who not go The Whole Hog and do 42kms?  Nothing like feeling the pain when there's no-one to observe the embarrassing consequences.

Maunday Thursday.  The Monarch gives succour to the poor.  This year, 85p in Maunday money.  A good day to remember those who suffer.  Me included.  But is self-induced suffering worthy of succour?  Probably not.

Is petroleum jelly what you give at children's parties to fire them up?  I'd come across runners addicted to the stuff but wasn't quite sure if they ate it or rubbed it where the sun doesn't shine.  Turns out to be the latter.  So why not try it, I ask?  So, seduced by Boots 3 for 2 offer, I acquire three pots of the stuff.  Not sure where it shouldn't go so rub it in liberally everywhere that clothes touch.  If Judith takes it in her head to grab me now, I'll probably slide off at warp speed like the petroleum really has been lit.

0830.  Two water bottles - full.  Hat - in case sun comes out (again).  Plasters for any damage occasioned en route.  Jelly babies.  Energy bars.  Fully charged mobile phone and headphones with MP3 player operational.  Housekey.  Now replace sensible head with stupid head.  Leave.

See all the children going to school.  Recognise the looks of pity for shuffling old person clearly headed for the Knackers Yard.  Resist temptation to look like a proper runner and burn out in the first mile and continue the Old Man Shuffle until out of sight up the Balloch Road.  Bliss.  Solitude.  Except for the Z4 sports car coming up behind and causing the first of the morning's Jump Onto The Verge To Avoid Bodily Injury events.  Then a car appears ahead coming this way.  Then another.  Don't these people have any respect?

So through Balloch and up the only serious hill to the Drummond Castle Plateau.  Tractor and trailer approach from behind.  Not so much the noise of the tractor engine that alerts me as the smell from the trailer.  Why does animal feed smell of molasses?  Does it have to so the animals will eat it?  Or do they spread it on toast made from Farmer's Wife home-made bread?  Better the smell of molasses than that of pig excrement, I suppose.

Target time to the Blairinroar Road, 55 minutes; actual time, 55 minutes 6seconds.  So far, so good.

Water to be sipped regularly, not gulped spasmodically.  (Maybe I didn't fit the stupid head properly.)  Jelly babies regularly.  Energy bars from ten miles.  It's a Plan!

Travel on steadily then hear a quad-bike approaching from behind; it's the farmer and dog I met the other day herding sheep down the road.  Recognition and, surprisingly, a cheery greeting from him.  Nice to meet friends unexpectedly - if briefly.

Approaching the Comrie-Braco road; target time, 1 hour 40 minutes; actual time 1 hour 41 minutes 40 seconds.  Not overdoing then.  Across the road to enjoy the benefits of road surfacing not yet recognised as in need of post-winter repair by PKC.  The advertised 'gel' element of my running shoes are put to the test and found wanting.  I can still feel the loose stones through my soles.  And my soul.  In both cases, uncomfortably.  This could end badly.

So to the junction that is Wester Meiggar; and south-west down Glen Artney and the Highland Boundary Fault line (Wikipedia explains all - if you don't already know).  Target time, 2 hours or so; actual time, 2 hours 4 minutes.  Slowing down it seems; probably wise.  Last time in Glen Artney, I was caught napping by a car from behind so keep glancing behind like a Paranoid Android with a nervous tic.  Approaching last time's literal turning point, I'm feeling OK so press on.  Before I know it, the road is going downhill and I know I'm approaching the Old Dalchruin School House.  Target time, not less than 2 hours 30 minutes; actual time, 2 hours 38 minutes 25 seconds.

Is this good, that I'm quite a bit slower to half-way and therefore conserving energy; or is it bad that I'm knackered already?  Take on water, consume energy bar, admire view of Glen Artney I'd not seen before.  Promise myself I should walk here one day - ideally with my wife complete with mended knee.  Enough.  I'm not a tourist and there's no transport waiting for me.  Except a pony; shanks' pony.

So to the return.  As I reclimb the incline, it dawns on me that I'm headed into a gentle breeze, the presence of which had eluded me before.  It must be coming from the north-east in complete contradiction of all that's normal.  Still, it's not strong and quite pleasant really.  I try to stop myself computing how much extra effort I'll have to expend to defeat it on the way back.  Just enjoy, I hear some madman saying in my head.

It's turning into a day for meeting old friends of the road.  As I near Wester Meiggar, I realise I have a car behind.  Lo and behold it's the very same lady who surprised me from behind (so to speak) on an earlier visit.  Waving her on cheerily, I expect this to be the last time our paths will cross.  The Fates have more of a sense of humour.  Not two minutes later, there is her car stationary at the junction.  It's either parked (well, it's no more than five feet from the road edge), abandoned or the lady's become invisible.  Suddenly, she re-appears upright in the driving seat having presumably been fishing around on the floor or the glovebox for something.

As I draw level, all becomes clear.  She is talking in animated fashion on a mobile phone to what I can only presume is another woman (or is it a gay man?).  I run past; she ignores me.  I travel on wondering if I'm going to be approached from the rear by her again in a few minutes.  I am not excited by the prospect.

In the midst of all this excitement, I realise the time is now 3 hours 14 minutes.  I am still slowing down; or is it the breeze and climbing back up the hill?  I decide I don't care and focus on more water, another jelly baby and my increasingly painful feet.  And that damaged and unrepaired road that's doing those feet no favours.  Head for the Coilcambus crossroads and that tempting seat with the fine views.  Ease down to a walk as I approach the road; how ironic to run so far and get mown down in the middle of nowhere by a motoring moron.  OK, no traffic so jog confidently back into the Blairinroar road and only 9 miles to get home.

Bravely ignoring the seat, I get out of sight of the main road and realise I need a break.  Relapsing into submission, I take a comfy seat on a wall, inspect my toes and declare them fit for purpose.  More food and drink then off up the slope.  The next mile is not fun; in fact, it's The Mile I Wouldn't Run If Someone Came Along And Offered Me A Lift.  But of course no-one does.  So I carry on.  Rather to my surprise, I don't actually die and another mile or so further, my body stops fooling about and releases a minute shred of energy back into my legs again.  Weird.

Remembering I have another energy bar, I'm forced to stop to retrieve it having failed to work out how to do so on the move.  As I stand there having a chew, the one vehicle to pass me in the four miles of this leg goes by.  It is a long, low, expensive Mercedes estate car driven by a long, low, expensive woman; probably an estate woman at that.  She gives me a disdainful look.  Fortunately she's going in the wrong direction or I might have lain down in front of her car in desperation for a lift.  Or not.

Whatever passes for a second wind is now in my sails and I jog onwards to the point where it is, quite literally, downhill (almost) all the way to Crieff.  As I hum along to the music in my ears, I am interrupted in my reverie by what sounds like a telephone ringing.  Realising quickly that it IS a telephone ringing, I quickly fish out the mobile, hastily press something or other and hope the caller hasn't gone (unless it's a sales call).  It's my wife, enquiring about my health and safety before she goes off to lunch with a friend.  I reassure her that my Current Energy Crisis is one readily solved if only I can reduce my emissions and increase my miles per litre.  Refreshed emotionally by this caring call, I ignore the fact that I'm still just as knackered and keep going.

So the turn by Drummond Castle wall where the outward leg took 55 minutes.  Going back is largely downhill so surely can't be longer?  So only 55 minutes to home.  And 4 hours 15 minutes running (plus a few minutes rest) since I left.  I now rediscover the controversial fact that running downhill can be slower than running uphill.  This conflict with the Laws of Gravity and Einsteinian Physics operates largely with The Old and the Timid; it appears not to afflict the Young and the Brave.  Einstein never mentioned this so far as I know.

I mentally divide up the remaining miles into 'laps' in my head.  This way, I know the distance will pass easily and readily and I will arrive home in fine shape.  Ho-*******-ho.  First lap, to Balloch.  The rain gently starts to fall.  Actually, doing OK so far; and the rain helps.  Second lap, to North Bridge.  Get to Stuart Crystal and Graham Martin remarkably fails to appear.  And there was me thinking he had nothing better to do.  Crawl over the bridge and ignore all other humans.  Pretend I'm a new species that always travels like this.

Round into Duchlage Road and onto the Market Park.  Less than a mile to go.  Take a young couple by surprise as they step back hastily to let an aged person shuffle by.  Spot another young couple ahead pushing a pram; use them as a target to catch to get me home.  Fail; they're going at normal walking pace which is clearly much too fast for me.  I rally and catch up to them at the bottom of my road.  Climb the hill and tell myself I should always be able to sprint the last 100 metres.  I continue to shuffle.

So at last I can stop the watch as I get to the house.  I daren't look at the time it records.  Just get in and recover,  I tell myself.  So in, drink, shower and crash.  Two hours later, Judith finds me still crashed and unaware I've lost two hours to slumber.  I arise and wonder how much my body will make me pay for my madness.

Good Friday.  And it is quite good.  Remarkably, no pain; hardly any stiffness; no damage to toes or other extremities.  5 hours 29 minutes 25 seconds I was out (of the house) and running for 5 hours and 15 minutes.  42.38kms.  685.6 metres of ascent and descent; over 2000 feet in old money - no wonder I got home a knackered Old Bloke.  Never again.  Well, not until the next time.  When it'll be flatter.  And busier.  And in Edinburgh on May 22nd.  I must be mad.

It WAS a wicked idea.  But I didn't dream it.  It hurt at the time but I got away with it.  All the same, I don't think it means I can overtake a police car in a 30mph area and get away with it.