So How's The Marathon Training Gone?

So you've read the two previous blogs. If you haven't, get on with it now. Dum-de-dum-de-dum. OK, read them now? And the result was - what exactly? Mixed. Interesting. Funny in parts. Humbling in others. Quite an experience.

Some Scottish bloke once wrote:

'The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!'

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 1. Plan. Plan. Plan. Make copies of maps. Discuss arrangements for wife to be in suitable locations for photos. Everything thought of. BUT then you leave all the paperwork at home. Brilliant. Still, it's all in my head, isn't it? And I'm articulate, aren't I? Wife worries. I'm confident. Unnecessarily.

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 2. You know how it is. Call of nature in the night. Fumble around in the dark so as not to disturb your partner. Disorientated. Duck your head under a (supposed) obstacle. Bang your head. Head bleeds. Stem the flow as best you can knowing there's going to be evidence in the morning.  Ho-hum.

For last year's Edinburgh Half Marathon, we decided to camp. We like camping. Lovely site (Mortonhall), easy to get to Edinburgh City Centre and also the countryside (Pentlands). So this year, the same. Arrive Friday so we have Saturday free. Then we're not the only ones and things to arrive. First, it's sixteen Italian campervans in convoy. Nearest to us is a humungous black coach-sized campervan complete with dune buggy only slightly smaller than our car. Now we know where the Mafia go on holiday.

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 3. Then it's the wind. Then the wind's Big Brother. Then the Big Brother's Bigger Brother. Friday night gives us not enough sleep and me a bent head. What shape will I be in on Sunday morning? Pasta pasta for dinner keeps the Italian theme going.

But Saturday turns out much nicer. Walk the dog. Ancient dog (aged 14 in November) seems ready for anything so off to Howe Dean Path, an amble down Hermitage of Braid, snack at a dog-friendly bistro then back to Mortonhall. Very restful walking. And more pasta for Saturday dinner. Check the bum-bag; jelly babies, energy bars, water bottle, mobile phone, plasters, Bus Pass in case Judith has to park in Glasgow. Now for tomorrow.

Sunday dawns brightly. More protein and carbs for breakfast. Can preparation have been more thorough? The distressing answer lies blissfully unguessed. How to travel to the start - bus? car? Car wins. Less eco, more restful. Travel in confidence to the Start Area. This is how it looks. Soon this will be filled with elite athletes followed by the masses. And me. Maybe.

Many are gathered. Many queue for the facilities. But there appears to be something wrong. My number is coloured sky-blue. No sky-blue pen here. My number is 10385. The baggage trucks have no such number. Memory kicks in. MY start is elsewhere.

Check with sensible-looking helper who confirms I should be up the road. Leg it up the road (well, I am supposed to be able to run 26 miles - how can 800 yards hurt?). Then I become concious of something else.

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 4. Pasta can't run. It crawls through the Alimentary Canal like an overweight elephant. The normal (non-marathon days) breakfast to my body, however, consists of ingredients designed for high-speed sprinting. They regularly chase each other through my system in a desperate bid to win their own Olympic Gold Medal for the shortest time from Entrance to Exit. Healthy, the medics call it. Stupid, my brain calls it on Marathon Weekend. Didn't I know to consign the Alimentary Sprinters to the cupboard at home and only bring the turgid slowcoaches?.

Too late. The sprinters realise the ancient exit system is a pushover. But then what are the Portacabins for, if not to deal with such matters? In the heat of battle, however, the normally well-functioning brain fails to compute and ignores the developing disaster. This will end in tears. If only the owner of this body had any modesty. Or bashfulness. Or desperately low self-confidence. In the absence of these admirable virtues, all that is left is complete absence of shame. And a bad odour.

But the focus now is on The Race; worries will come later. In quickly increasing numbers, the assembling runners are threatening to make impossible the meeting of Strathearn Harriers Relay Team Leg 1 runner - Beth - with the now-compromised author. It seems they don't care. Should I shout? Should I make an exhibition of myself? Too late - already done that.

The milling throng mills and still no Beth. Desperately, the author climbs onto (hopefully) sturdy railings and awaits developments. As the clock ticks inexorably towards 10am, suddenly, there is Beth waving frantically as she recognises the moron in the Strathearn Harriers vest. Phew! Made it in time.

A quick embrace (has this woman no sense of smell?) and then photographic evidence that white hat and sunglasses do not necessarily a fashionable man make. The looks from nearby runners confirm this opinion.

So 10am arrives. We're off! Oh - no actually, we're not. We shuffle forwards. We stop. We shuffle some more. This is a pace I feel I can keep up for 26 miles; the finish though might be on Monday. At last the Starting Arch appears and we leap forwards from a shuffle to a turgid amble. That's better; running pace at last.

The Edinburgh Marathon is billed (partly) as The Fastest Marathon In The UK (by whom, I think?). That's on a meteorologically calm day - which this ain't. Still, the opening section is mostly downhill so I can sort of see what they mean. We wind through unknown streets until we spy Holyrood Palace and the now-familiar sight of the strange Scottish Parliament building hoves into view. Time for a quick on-the-move photo. The edifice has never looked lovlier as is does when photographed artfully to look completely irregular. Oh, but then it is completely irregular.

Cheering crowds have so far lined our route and uplifting they are indeed. Beth has a friend who promises to cheer from a vantage point near to Holyrood. Beth looks in vain. Friend clearly doesn't know how to be distinctive amongst the throng. Still, nice thought.

On we perambulate and pass an athletics stadium. But we aren't athletes so we aren't allowed in. One day Meadowbank will be ours. But not today. But as the concrete big stuff fades away, we are greeted by a glimpse of the sea - well, the Firth of Forth anyway. Blessedly avoiding the Sewage Works (though my costume smells like one), we gallop ever onwards towards Portobello and The Path By The Water.

The view is splendid. So we spoil it.

Well, one of us does, anyway.

We also get our first glimpse of the changeover from Leg 1 to Leg 2 and the exciting prospect of running with Mr George Carson - YES, THAT George Carson. My cup runneth over.

Actually, that wasn't the only thing running over. I try to effect improvement to my Alimentary consequences by pouring water down the back of my shorts. This has the apparently comic effect of turning my legs into a bad case of poorly applied fake tan. My naturally bronzed and stunning legs are transformed into works of art normally seen only on statues thousands of years old. I am unaware of this sad and pathetic effect. Only later do I realise that I am so unabashed, I don't care anyway. Old age and very young age may have nappies in common but they also have blissful lack of care for image. No wonder the runners who passed me speeded up as they got downwind.

During Leg #1, the kindly organisers had placed a timing mat at 10kms. I later learned that Beth & I crossed it at 1hr 4mins 24secs. 6.44 mins/km or 10.36 mins/mile. A bit quick compared to my expectation - but then we did have the wind behind us.

And it came upon us suddenly!! Here is Changeover #1 and the arrival of George. So farewell then, Beth. You have guided me through the first third and been kind enough not to mention my new style of scatalogical experimentation. Good luck with your daughter's ballet rehearsal later today and the exam tomorrow.

And here's the splendid George (who's idea this Relay Team was in the first place) ready for the fray. Except there isn't one. George is an old hand at this marathon business having completed the Edinburgh two years ago. When the water ran out. George has endured. And is a honed athlete. Clearly. I am fortunate indeed to know him, let alone have his company. I feel I am not worthy.

George's greeting is typical of the man's caring, considerate and diplomatic nature. "Had an accident, then?" No, it wasn't accidental, George; my body did it deliberately. Still, it did persuade me that at the next water stop I should make some attempt to sluice my lower half. Just down the road, came the opportunity. Several minutes, and a few dozen litres, later I went from unacceptably awful to just merely anti-social. "Don't worry about it" says George. "I'm not" say I - and mean it.

Shortly, we espy the telling signal that is the Police motorcycle escort. For the leading runner coming the other way at a lick. Why is there no wind on that side of the road, I wonder? Clearly there can't be for him to run at that speed. And we're not even half-way. It's OK for them that only run for three hours or less. What about the endurance athletes such as George & I that toil round for many more hours than that?

We seem to have gone no distance at all when - what's that noise? Surely not some-one's mobile ringing? But yes - it is. It's George's phone - and my wife on the other end. Does she imagine I'm dead?  Or worse - my phone not working? Turns out she's just arrived at Changeover #2 and is anxious to know that she's not brought the camera in vain. George reassures her.

And so the change from George to Kirsty and more statistics at the half-marathon point. Here's the more interesting part of that. Kirsty pretends she's cold in the biting westerly. I pretend that taking photographs for posterity is the only reason I've made a temporary stop.

And proof that running a half-marathon does nothing for glamour.

Or the inhibitions of the exhibitionist.

For the statisticians, half-marathon reached in 2hrs 22mins 11secs. This is 6.74 mins/km or 10.84 mins/mile overall. It also means that the last 11kms or so have been run at around 7 mins/km or 11.28 mins/mile. Slowing down, obviously.

So Kirsty joins me for what I don't expect to be the easiest Leg (for me). From Changeover #2, we run for about four miles with the wind behind us then turn round and hope the wind's changed direction. The turn-round point should come as an incentive; only nine more miles to go. It isn't any incentive; the wind sees to that. I feel like I've suddenly slowed to the point where athletic tortoises will pass me. But then what's this I see before me? We are turned left into the grounds of Gosford House where the trees give relief from the rushing air. But the road surface is rutted and uneven. My feet suddenly hurt. My body sends urgent signals to my brain to stop this madness, sit down, massage feet and legs and then get a taxi home.

But then there's Kirsty. What will she say if I give up now? "Get up, you lazy good-for-nothing pensioner. Don't you know we workers are keeping you in your Old Age Pension and Free Bus Pass? Can't you show some gratitude and just keep going? How hard can it be for heaven's sake?" No, there's no question. I have to keep going. As the newspaper headline once said "More snow coming: grit your teeth" So I grit what's left of my knashers, tell my extremities they should think themselves lucky to belong to such a fine upstanding athlete as myself, and emerge from the trees into the wind proper. And the road surface just gets worse. Don't Gosford House know how to maintain proper roads? Scandalous.

30 km timing mat passes under my feet almost unnoticed. It records exactly 3hrs 30mins. So that's exactly 7 mins/km or 11.27 mins/mile. Distance since the half-marathon point run at 7.62 mins/km or 12.26 mins/mile. Still slowing down - unsurprisingly, the post-race arrival of the actual numbers confirms the feelings in the legs at the time.

So I stagger, and Kirsty runs, into the wind and back towards the Changeover Point, this time to become Changeover #3 from Kirsty to Charlie. I would wonder how Charlie's feeling but, at this point, I frankly couldn't care less. I've run over 20 miles in training several times but Mile 22 in the Edinburgh Marathon with a serious headwind feels like Mile 32. Or 42. Maybe they've measured it wrongly my crazed brain wonders.

But what's this? A familiar bit of road. Surely this isn't the bit leading to the Changeover Point? But YES, it is! Kirsty confirms this by waving at me disconsolately. She was clearly wanting to run a lot further. Or was that just my imagination? I am now going so slowly that I see not only Charlie but also George and a woman looking exceedingly like my wife with a camera. They are not mirages or the product of my fevered brain.

George and Kirsty join me on my left as Charlie walks beside me on my right. Yes, I am finally walking - at least along the road by the Changeover Area. Will I be able to resume running, I wonder?

My wife calls out "GIve us a wave then, you miserable git". I reproach her for speaking of Charlie this way and we both affect a smile and give her the required wave. I decide that walking is sad and get back to the running. Well, I think, I only walked a couple of hundred metres. Not far now.

And so past the 23 mile marker and less than 5kms to go. Should be easy. Should be. But it isn't. My legs finally let go at around 24 miles (not enough jelly babies, I wonder?). So I walk, a bit. Then I run, a bit. Then I walk again, a bit. Then I run again, a bit. Then the crowds start to swell. Pride steps in; surely I can run to the finish from here? So I do. In the way of these things, I even manage to summon up one last bit of energy and pass a couple of other participants just before the line. Oh, the thrill of the win!

This year, the Finish is different from last year's half marathon that I ran so I am momentarily uncertain. "I need to sit down on that wall there, Charlie, if that's OK" I murmur. So I slump onto some unsuspecting householder's pride and joy and trust I don't leave my mark. A minute or two's recovery and I feel I can make it onwards. I am too knackered to summon up graciousness and feel in retrospect that I am insufficiently grateful to Charlie for seeing me through Hell.  We raise ourselves from the seated position, round the corner of the next street and there are all the finishing arrangements. First Aid tent (shall I? shan't I? No). Winner's medals (of a colour I still associate with cheap 'Made in Taiwan' items of my youth). And goody bags. And bananas. And Lucozade. And water. I take them all, some more than once.

And photographers - not the kind that Hollywood stars get. These papparazzi line runners up against a wall and shoot them. I feel this is appropriate - They Shoot Horses Don't They? "Website pictures here" the young man shouts, as though the website in question will end up with attractive pictures of healthy young people in various stages of deshabille. Actually, that's almost correct - only the 'attractive' bit doesn't work somehow.

Charlie has the logistical problem of collecting presents for Beth, George and Kirsty as well as himself. His talent for holding quantities of slippery plastic bags is impressive as well as unsuspected. He points out that he has no mobile with him and is therefore reliant on me to communicate with the others to make sure we meet safely. I am humbled by his trust. And not confident it is placed wisely.

The Baggage Truck coughs up my bag with ancient Nike tracksuit and I stumble into it as I start to feel the cold. We make our way through the throng a distance that seems to me about another five miles to the Reunion Area. Once safely onto a clear bit of grass, I slump and almost immediately nearly succomb to cramp - in both legs. I hastily stretch out and lie down. I shiver. I shiver a lot.

I then realise it's my job to call Judith. Or George. Three calls later to each, I'm still no nearer - they don't reply.

There's a Coffee kiosk nearby so I stagger towards it whilst still trying the mobile. I'm in the queue wondering which will arrive first, the coffee or my imminent collapse, when the mobile rings. Through my haze, I finally work out that it's Judith who's with Charlie! I leave the coffee to its own devices and stumble back to The Team. George & Kirsty emerge from a crowd and suddenly we are complete. I shiver. I shiver a lot. I am given my fleece, my jacket, the dog and two cups of sweet tea.

The Team look on, discussing how many other pall-bearers they might need when the clearly imminent death arrives. I proceed to issue Disappointment Notices (again) by very quickly making a complete recovery and proving it by standing up. The dog is happy.

So once more I thank the brave and stalwart Relay Team and also encourage Charlie to say my further thanks to Beth. We part company to make our way to our respective vehicles parked at some distant point with the promise we must do this again one day. But not tomorrow. Or anytime soon.

Judith having had to park the car two parishes away, the delightful extended walk to our car keeps my legs from seizing up. I am proud to find that 26.2 miles is not my limit for the day. I'm then treated to a ride back to the campsite without doing anything more than admire my wife's driving skill. And she gets back unerringly. The SatNav has nothing to do with it; probably.

So, restored to humanity and polite company through the kind offices of a hot shower and fresh clothes, I assist my good lady as we finally decamp (encouraged by George's advice that even worse weather is on its way) and head back to sunny Crieff for an evening involving wine and rest. I reflect on all the messages of encouragement I've had before the event. I'm then more than taken aback by the mass of (mainly electronically delivered) messages of congratulation that flood in.

I am humbled. All I've done is follow what (probably) more than a million human beings have now done - run their first marathon. Whilst most of them weren't into their 67th year when they did it, I haven't felt that my age was any distinction. Certainly my time wasn't! (The winner in my age category recorded a time of 2:58:32 - now that's talent.).

So - would I do it again?

Even before Sunday, I entered the Loch Ness Marathon in October. I thought "If Edinburgh's a disaster, I want another commitment to keep me going. If it's not, I've proved to myself I can get round so why not see what happens next time?". Of course, at Loch Ness I'll have to run without the psychological support and physical presence of Sunday's wonderful Relay Team. That's OK. I still don't care about times; I just want to get round and not be destroyed for weeks (or months).

As I complete this blog less than 48 hours after I finished in Edinburgh, I'm feeling fine. I did go out for a short run with some of my Strathearn Harriers clubmates in the wind & rain yesterday morning (I think they were a mite surprised to see me) and whilst the legs are still feeling it a bit and the pain in the neck has still to finally vanish, the bump on the head is healing nicely, I seem to have a cold (or hay fever) but I really do feel very well. If the training is anything to go by, I should continue to be OK.

So, the ravages of the years to come allowing, and assuming that race organisers continue to admit geriatrics, I'll keep going for a bit yet. Of course, if anyone in future asks what I think of the runs, I now have a choice of scatalogical, physiological or athletical answers to choose from.... Hopefully, if their taste may be questionable, the answers will at least be funny.

Thank you for bothering to read this far. If it brought the odd smile to your lips, I'm happy. If it didn't, you're clearly a miserable git - so lighten up.

And just in case you need it to be said - if I can do it, so can you.