Strathearn Harriers' weekend in Badaguish, 3-5 June 2011

2009 - Ullapool. Select gathering; selection of decent weather; good time (mostly) had by all.

2010 - Gairloch. Large gathering; excellent weather; more youngsters; voted even better than 2009.

2011 - Badaguish Outdoor Centre near Cairn Gorm.  Even more adults and youngsters; cooler weather but rain-free.  Would the lack of sand and sea be better - or worse?  Would there be exciting events?  How would this year be remembered?  One (perhaps slightly distorted) view follows.

The standard caution must be repeated here - only read on if you have a well-polished sense of humour and no taste.  Since this covers most youngsters, the British Board of Film Censors gives this work a '12' certificate.

The Author and his Good Lady arrive promptly hours before most of the rest.  Nice lady and associated male worker show where a trailer tent can be located.  Unfortunately, the House Rules require no cars on the grass.  Fortunately for the avoidance of death by heart attack, Government rules on the Abuse of Pensioners override local House Rules thus enabling a Pensioner's car and trailer tent to be driven onto the precious green sward.  Familiarity with the green sward that is Lord's Cricket Ground suggest that this green sward is, in fact, one of those more frequently familiar items of landscape called A Field.

Pitching carefully on The Field so as to be within hailing distance of the 'Pods' (more bus shelters familiar to our regular readers as seen at Gairloch), the Author and Good Lady's dwelling is the focus around which the Camping Fraternity develop their temporary Running Home.  The car is removed to a safe distance to avoid any possibility of overnight vandalising by the disgruntled.  Of course, on mature reflection, it is clear there are none such anywhere in the vicinity.

Having established Base Camp, the Author and Good Lady conduct the first exercise in exercise and amble off to explore some of the surrounding Nature in All It's Splendour.  The Old Dog has mixed feelings about this - and so does the 13yo canine called Joka that is accompanying the Author and Good Lady.  Nonetheless, the late afternoon weather is balmy, the conversation is similarly barmy and Joka wonders why he's not allowed off the lead to pee where he wants.  It is explained to him that little fluffy cuddly birdies are having it off in the vicinity and their resulting babies need protecting from vicious canines such as himself.  With virtually no teeth, Joka cannot work this out.  Actually, with only three brain cells (in common with most Cavaliers), he can't work anything out.  But he's happy.

A brief interlude is given to admiring the mountains to the south and to wondering - wondering why a railway was built that goes nowhere.  And loses money (apparently).  But the views are nice from the top - sometimes.  Like today.  And tourists without fully functioning legs can see the view.  And that's nice.  More railways then seems to be the answer.  Maybe one from Crieff to Perth will be next.  Or not.

We digress.

Back to Strathearn Harriers' weekend away.  And what's next on the exciting, energy-filled, health-giving, mind-stimulating agenda?  It's Friday Night - so the answer must be ..... A Curry!!

The Author and Good Lady are invited by Gorgeous George Carson and Lady to join them for a bountiful evening of oriental delights in Aviemore.  But this offer is declined in favour of just going out for a curry.  So it's off to the Spice of India for all that's best in smash-your-taste-buds cuisine.  We are also joined by A Local Councillor and his Lady, their Friend and a Doctor.  This is worrying.  Are we likely to need the services of a Councillor?  We are sure we won't need the services of a Doctor - yet.  But doubtless he stands ready as ever to minister to our self-inflicted woes.  This may yet be tested.....

Arriving at the emporium and spying a perfect niche for the car, the Author neatly positions his vehicle so that the adjacent campervan will have extreme difficulty leaving without doing a 15-point maneouvre.  This is not a problem since the campervan owner is likewise a Strathearn Harrier and therefore careless of life's difficulties.  And there's always insurance.

So we wile and while away the evening with amusing anecdotes and gay laughter.  After a little while, the laughter drops two octaves as one or two of the onlooking restaurant staff seem unduly interested in the 'gay' rather than the laughter.  The evening establishes a part of the forthcoming weekend - food and drink taking frequent precedence over all that fresh air and exercise stuff.  Still, the fuel has to come from somewhere.

Saturday dawns.  Curry and Indian beer are forgotten.  Then a reminder arrives and is despatched in the usual fashion.  Running to the facilities is normal for honed athletes such as ourselves.

It's the morning for The Run.  Or The Runs.  There is a choice; short for the Halt, Lame and Old; longer for the Fit; ridiculous for the Proper Runners.  Many will start together - then separation will occur as decisions are taken about Run A or Run B or whatever.  Phil asks everyone to line up for a group photo; response is instant.  Gordon and Tony realise they are in the wrong group and look for a way of sliding out without being noticed.  Ali thinks about heading back to her accommodation.  Liz thinks all is normal.

But soon all is well, if not entirely clear.  The Author will stay with his Good Lady who is running with the Harriers for the first time in over a year and a half.  Her knee, carefully diagnosed by the NHS as beyond help and to be considered (in the careful jargon employed by highly-trained medics) as 'knackered for good', has responded to many hours of careful attention from Pilots [er - no, dear, that's 'Pilates'].  Anyway, she's now able to run for a bit so is testing it on a 30-minute, real-world, Strathearn Harriers run.  Fingers crossed.

So off we set on a south-easterly heading down towards Loch Morlich and Reindeer.  Ali keeps us company as the three of us speedily create a large gap between ourselves and the rest of the group.  This cunning strategem preserves the Good Lady's knee and just about everything else for Ali and the Author.  After 15 minutes, Good Lady does an about-turn, indicates this is not a precursor to running the remaining distance backwards and leaves to return whence we came.  The remaining duo absorb the wonderful sensations that come with being left a long way behind and enjoy the scenery, the birdsong and the thought that we have no idea where we're going.

But all too soon, we are upon our colleagues who have kindly waited.  This extreme interval has allowed two groups to be formed, one to attempt a 'longer' run and the other not to.  Will will lead the shortened runners.  They are determined to mind their Manners.

As the 'longer' runners depart, the Author recognises one of his recent marathon relay team crew (look it up) and decides to join Kirsty.  If there is to be trouble in completing this challenge, at least there will be familiar faces to look on.

The Monday Morning Moving Coffee Morning Team hold an impromptu gathering at which Susan explains that the right hand is definitely not the part of the anatomy to fall on in the event of a stumble.  Tracy asks if she can suggest a couple of alternatives.  Kirsty shows that the effects of relighting last night's spliff this morning have not yet worn off; but she's happy.  Fiona McD is aghast at Kirsty; she could have had a fresh one from her if she'd just asked.  Fiona should have been paying attention to Susan and warned her Man.  Of such little things is Fate made.

After the meeting ends, further progress is made when a film crew is spotted with large microphone boom and, a little further on, a Cameraman with Camera for him to be a Man of.  Seonaid and Fiona D, mysteriously, have become detached from the group and soon it is clear why.  With cries of 'No pictures, no pictures', Seonaid inadvertently reveals that the film crew were there for her, prying into her personal life as a Secret Runner.  Despite being pressed for an interview, Seonaid resolutely refuses to appear in the pages of 'Hello' magazine, even for the staggeringly crazy money they were offering her.  We are all impressed.  Fiona D also quietly reveals that she is Seonaid's Official Minder, trained as she is in Tso-Kin-Gup where she has a Deep Pink Belt and T-shirt, 4th Dan.

To bring the attention of the group back to running, and because she's jealous of the 'Hello' magazine business, Liz directs attention to the group's forthcoming arrival at the Blue Lagoon.  A number of members of the group have heard of dolphin encounters at the Blue Lagoon and are excited.  It is not obvious to them that the relevant Blue Lagoon is in the Bahamas; disappointment threatens.

But soon the beauty that is An Lochan Uaine (translates as 'Small Dolphin Pool') appears.

The resident Dolphin trainer appears and kindly explains that the dolphins are not here at the moment; they are having a holiday in the Bahamas.  There is disappointment amongst some, scepticism amongst others.  In the light of his lack of current employment however, the trainer is invited to join us for the rest of the run.  He agrees, having admitted under intense female interrogation to having a 'thing' for one of the other lady Harriers.  We suspect they have actually been having a 'thing' together for quite some time.  Events will prove us right.

And so we reluctantly leave the beauty that is the Blue Lagoon and head ever upwards onto the wild and desolate countryside that leads to the safety of Ryvoan Bothy.  Ahead of us, several of our colleagues have already reached the Bothy and, being concerned about the challenges and dangers that lie beyond in Unknown Territory, have turned round and are heading for the safety and security that is Badaguish.

First to appear is our stalwart Women's Captain and her Minder.  Alerted to the presence of A Photographer, the Woman's Captain instructs her Minder to see him off with a suitably cutting remark thrown nonchalantly over her left shoulder.

True elegance cannot be disguised, however, as this revealing shot tells only too clearly.








Following quickly on behind comes a Ladies Marathon Champion accompanied by her Personal Physician.  Her cries of 'My profile, my profile, my profile's my best side' shone brightly into the heart of the Photographer.










Responding at lightening speed to this cri de coeur, the results are proudly displayed here for all to admire.

Finally broaching the 400 metre contour, the brave group finally reach Ryvoan Bothy but are disappointed that the coffee machine has been disconnected.  Kirsty offers her 'water' bottle but there are doubts about the purity of its contents.  Gin would be welcome by the ladies but unknown chemical compounds are suspected.  Kirsty is unmoved as Fiona D attempts to emulate Chad.  'Wot, no coffee?' she seems to cry.

Eventually, the group are persuaded to sit, smile and demonstrate their great pleasure in having only four miles or so to run back to their accommodation.  They comply bravely.

Regrettably, moments later, the spell is broken by Liz who says 'Right, that's all that nonsense done.  Let's get back.' whilst Fiona McD gives away the emotions the group is feeling under the mask of pleasure.  Soon we all leave, tired of pretence.

Tracy and Kirsty make their athletic way back as Kirsty fails to disguise the shame she feels at only having water in her bottle when everyone was convinced it was something MUCH more interesting.  She vows to do better next time.  Tracy leans forward, for reasons unknown, as she flexes the impressive running machines that are her legs.  Her athletic talent will be realised yet again before another day has passed.

The Two Fionas decide that it is easier if they stay together so that shouts of 'Fiona!' from their compatriots can be readily answered in chorus instead of from different parts of the countryside.  The anticipation of the return leg is palpable.

As the group hits the level ground in the midst of the forest, there is dismay on some faces as the Photographer (Old & Ancient as he undoubtedly is) speeds past them all in order to take up a suitable position for an elegant group photo.  Kirsty and Susan discuss whether Liz or Fiona McD is the more put out.  It is decided that the award goes to Liz for the Facial Expression of the Day prize.

No sooner has this decision been reached, however, than Liz demonstrates that her repetoire of graceful poses is far from limited as she reveals her famous 'This is how I get into a Disabled Parking Bay without arousing suspicion' move.  This item comes complete with a script drawn from the Alzheimer's Ward of Perth Royal Infirmary.

As the group approaches the six-mile point, it is generally agreed that 10k is far enough to run so why not walk a bit?  Kirsty demonstrates how she normally answers a mobile phone call from George.  The dolphin trainer thinks 'bottle-nosed' doesn't just apply to dolphins.  Susan's fancy is tickled - but she's too polite to scratch it.

As the Photographer goes about his innocent art, Fiona D helps by adopting exquisite poses designed to show her at one with Nature.  Whilst this is not entirely convincing, it does get voted 6 out of 10 for effort by the group.  We all agree her cheery countenance and unflagging goodwill are, well, enough.  We all express our love.

As the distance to the camp diminishes into inconsequence, there is a rush to be first to the mirror in the Ladies.  Speeding past again in uncompromisingly flashy style, the Photographer captures the rapture as the anticipation of fresh hairspray spreads in a glow across three physiognomies.

Recognising that three other ladies are ahead in the race for the Ladies' Room mirror, the remaining ladies are sanguine and remain cheery nonetheless.  Kirsty and Tracy try running as blind people whilst Susan shouts 'Left!', 'Right!' to keep them on track.  Regrettably, her laughter only results in Tracy and Kirsty colliding and reverting to the normal use of eyes.  It does, however, give them a very real feel for the perils and suffering of The Handicapped.  They are glad it's not them.

At last, the group are within sight of the camp.  But there is one more hazard to be negotiated.  Whilst there are many good people in the group, there is the occasional nutter around.  This one is almost certainly in disguise wearing a brown furry coat over his natural grey surface colour.  The group is determined to report his presence to the Police.  The Constabulary are certain to be grateful and to offer a reward.

So Saturday morning appears to be closing peacefully and harmlessly.  Meanwhile, on a mountainside far, far away.....  There is a feeling of deja vu as Fiona McD recalls Susan's stern warning earlier against using the hand to break a fall whilst running.  Someone close to her may be about to succomb to the Curse of the Harriers.  Unfortunately, it is Fiona's nearest and dearest, Tony, who is struck down by the Curse.

Hardly (it seems) has Susan's warning been articulated than Tony is pushed by irresistible forces unknown and is unable to avoid the sudden impact of hand on Mother Earth.  Nursing his limp extremity, he also cradles his hand carefully as it is carried across the land into the tenderness that is the Harrier's Court Physician.  Pronouncing that the hand is indeed damaged and, swelling to resemble part of an overinflated blow-up doll, that it should no longer be placed where more damage might result, it is carefully bandaged and placed in a shoulder sling.  We are all sympathetic and glad it is Tony, not us, that is in pain.  He is brave.  We are impressed.  Confidence is expressed that Tony's innate manly strength and fitness will restore his limb to full working order in no time at all.  But probably best to go to PRI on the way home anyway.

But many of us are unaware at the time of Tony's Travails.  We are having fun on our bicycles with lots of youngsters riding across the Glenmore Forest Park towards adventures and yet more fun.  Graham directs us onwards and upwards once more towards the Reindeer and practice at riding on real roads with real traffic.  It will be fine.  We are all careful of the young and careless of any cost to ourselves from the occasional selfish sod at the wheel of his metal machine.  We are cyclists today and hate motorists who impinge on our space and threaten our youngsters.  Suggestions we block the road from all other traffic whilst our youngsters navigate the road safely are overruled as probably illegal.  All passes safely and the wiser councils are shown to be - wiser.

Most of the party manages to negotiate the terrain to where the path crosses the confluence of Allt Ban and Allt na Ciste (translates roughly as 'Cyclists are Ban-ned').  A halt is called to allow a roll-call of the party to be taken.  A couple of the smallest youngsters are missing but this is considered an acceptable loss given most of the the brood have made it.  Nature can be cruel.

The Red Leader explains that the Blue Leader and the Grey Leader have gone on ahead to clear the forthcoming river crossing of hidden underwater obstacles.  This will make the river crossing safe and straightforward with a smooth progress from one bank to another.  The frequent exhortations to the youngsters (and adults alike) to 'just keep pedalling like crazy' raise some questions about the quality of the obstacle clearance process.

Not only are the youngsters fearless, adults with heavy backpacks consider this task a bagatelle.  Feet in the water only scores 5 points away; falling in and getting the backside wet is the real damage with 50 points conceded.  All manage to avoid the dreaded 50-pointer .

With stopwatch poised, the Red Leader announces that a new record of 9.36 seconds - and only 5 penalty points - has been set.  This encourages the remaining competitors.

The Blue Leader gives a practical demonstration of how it should be done.  Regrettably, he picks up 10 penalty points as the judges point out that the (admittedly small) helium balloon on his back did give a somewhat unfair advantage.


The Blue Leader looks thoughtfully to see if the damage caused to previous cyclists has led others to become somewhat more reluctant.  He need not fear; the youngsters are fearless.

Safely negotiating the danger, all the group press on towards the second river crossing that is described as 'dead easy' by the Leaders.  Some of the group wonder whether 'dead' or 'easy' will prevail.  They need not worry.  The crossing of Allt na Ciste is negotiated with no worries.  We are all relieved.

All too soon, we arrive at the T-junction where the planned route turns upwards towards a small lochan where the trip will reach its 'turnaround' point.  Female intuition (or is it just imagination) is concerned.  The Good Lady suggest The Knee (a source of pain and suffering for many a long month) would benefit from a return to camp.  The Author concurs.  An asthmatic youngster asks permission to accompany this breakaway group; he is welcomed.  So fate entwines us all in its unforeseeable grip as we all wish each other well and go our separate ways.

The Author, Good Lady and Youngster enjoy an uneventful journey, modestly paced, back to the camp where all is well.  The Author uses this part of the story to include an unrequired and unsolicited picture of the Good Lady.

Not quite so elsewhere, alas, as one of the other youngsters demonstrates the fragility of human collar-bones in the circumstances of a crash landing at speed.  He is in excellent hands, however, and is brought safely back with much surrounding assistance and compassion.  It is quite touching.  He will repair quickly is the verdict, unlike his adult fellow sufferer (Tony) who will almost certainly have to endure a protracted recovery period.  Or not.  As the case may be.  [Look, this isn't a medical column.  All this accident stuff is a pain.]

So to the events of the evening.  Actually, to THE event of the evening.  Fed and watered, patched up where needed, alcohol in hand where appropriate, the hardy band of Harriers gathers in The Hall for Fun and Frolics.  And George's Famous Karaoke - with smoke.  This will undoubtedly be a triumph as George's evenings invariably are.  There will be excitement, music and..... and noise.  What can that intrusive sound be, we wonder?  We wonder only for 2.5 milliseconds as the all-too-familiar screech of smoke alarms assaults our delicate orifices - and our ears.

Smoke alarms.  Smoke.  Effect.  Oh, well - we have firefighters on hand.  George, anyway.  So a quick burst of uncontrollable laughter and head for the alarm to switch it off and return to fun, frolics and music.  So where is the alarm?  Well, there's one about 15 feet above our heads.  Right-oh.  So where's the control panel then?  No problem - the Badaguish staff who are doubtless about to arrive can soon sort it out.  Dum-de-dum-de-dum-de-dum strum our fingers.  Five minutes.  Ten minutes.  Fifteen minutes.  Various Harriers with engineering skills attack what can be seen.  One down, one to go.  Still no on-site staff appear.  What can they be doing, we wonder?  Oh, yes - they're in a meeting.  Clearly more important than roasting flesh.  Lucky there isn't any.

We occupy the time usefully.  Injured Harriers have their photos taken triumphantly.  Alcohol is consumed.  Rascals make unnecessary 999 calls on their mobiles - possibly.  Alcohol is consumed.  Couples wander off to make love - possibly.  Alcohol is consumed.  Youngsters play; then cycle; then kick footballs; then consume alcohol - possibly.  Alcohol is consumed.  Yawns replace happy countenances.  George looks temporarily uncertain.  Will the karaoke ever get going again or will the audience have found a better gig?  Of course not!!

Order is finally restored and music and festivities resume.  Dancing gets under way as strange Celtic movements circle the available space.  Soft, flowing clothing flows softly and then madly.  Excitement gathers pace in a crescendo of adrenaline.  Will diminuendo ever follow?  Long-distance cyclists appear having thwarted the elements on their lung and leg-bursting endeavours.  Restorative alcohol is consumed.  Jokes flow.  [For those that didn't hear, here's one.  Scientists have discovered that the most perfectly round item in the known universe is the electron.  One went into a bar with a proton for a drink.  The proton says to the electron "Your round."  "Are you sure" says the electron.  The proton says "I'm positive".]  OK - send me a better one then.

The evening draws to its gentle close as the strains of the karaoke and the strained accompanying voices fade peacefully into Sunday.  Parents drift off to their slumber in the confident knowledge of about five hours sleep.  Participants drift off with thoughts of tomorrow's Tortoise & Hare & Youngster Handicap in their minds.  Will it be fun?  Will it work out?  Who will cross the line first?  Will anyone fall over and break another part of the human anatomy?  Will anyone care?  Most of all, will anyone get lost?  No, it's all OK - everything has been thought of.  [Ed. But I thought this was a Harriers event?]

So to Sunday morning.

The day dawns brightly but not everyone notices.  It is around 4.45 so there's an excuse.  Even the canine can't be bothered to respond to daylight at this ridiculous hour.  A fire alarm outside George's bus shelter would be fun - but wiser council prevails and all remains pacific and tranquil.  Small youngsters stir gradually; parents stir even more gradually; George stirs his porridge.  He is wise.

By 9am, the camp is a veritable hubbub of activity and excitement.  The Main Event is scheduled to start at 1030 by the camp entrance.  We await our orders.  Good Lady is persuaded to be Official Timekeeper by the Court Physician.  She is unsure of her credentials but then realises they were clean on this morning.  Lists are produced.  Teams have been selected.  Runners are advised of their team-mates.  Teeth are knashed.  Elsewhere, hands are rubbed in glee.  Some do both.

We are briefed by the Good Doctor.  First go the Hares.  Then the Tortoises.  Then the Youngsters.  We pretend to understand.  But we are raring to go and will do as we are bidden.  It is a Handicap Race so the fastest will go off first and the slowest last.  Do not ask why.  All will be revealed.  Eventually.  Careful planning has produced a predicted result whereby all the Youngsters will cross the line at the same time.  Or not.

So 1030 approaches - then flies past.  But we are almost ready to go and before we can say 1-2-3, the Good Doctor is off at a gallop.  With a cry of "You're going the wrong way" from a competitive brother-in-law, the Good Doctor waves a hand but only manages to show two of his fingers.  The message is understood.  Soon more Hares are despatched and before long a solitary Aussie is left wondering if she has been forgotten.  But no, eventually she is also despatched in a futile attempt to catch some-one.  Is this a further humiliation to heap on Oz after The Ashes?  Perhaps.

Before eyes can blink, cries of "Phil's here" ring across the forest.  It is indeed our Physician, uncaught by other Hares who have so far failed valiantly.  Or perhaps not.  Is the Handicap working we wonder?  We cannot tell for many minutes yet.  Further excitement mounts as Phil and Doug appear almost together and race for the line as though it matters.  Men, eh?  Phil prevails despite cries of "He's behind you" from the crowd of well-wishers.

Hares hare in at intervals whilst The Author snoozes as he awaits his last-to-leave Aussie team member.  There will be a long wait.  When it feels as though Monday has arrived, Oz appears having strained every sinew to keep the gap to the penultimate team down to mere hours.  Your Author is unleashed at last and gives chase to a 'Tortoise' with the same half marathon time as himself.  Short of injury to the runner ahead, this promises be a chase in vain.  Settling into his usual admittedly tortoise-like gait, your Author notes the gap as he passes measuring points.  Same here.  Same here.  Bit less here.  Bit more here.  Well, well, times are going to be very similar.  Just like the half marathon.

It is fun shouting at all the others as they struggle up in the opposite direction.  But half-way comes at the bottom of The Hill.  Youngsters high-five the Author as he goes into Overdrive for the trip Uphill.  Pacing himself carefully, he adopts the same gait as on the recent marathon thus ensuring that the consequential marathon pace results.  Is it worth trying for more speed?  Of course!!  Push, push, push, you old dog you.  Catch that runner or die trying.  Whoa!  No dying just yet.  Reach the part of the course where Youngsters are approaching.  See, unsurprisingly, that many are already flying around their leg of the race.  Then, almost miraculously, the line is suddenly just there so across we go and high-fives to Youngster with wings on his heels.  Good Luck - you'll need something...

Check time - as if it matters...  Same (near enough) as Chased Lady.  She is incredulous and disbelieving.  But it is true.  It really was a chase in vain.  But fun.  Sort of.  Much more fun is the last part as the Flying Youngsters start to appear with youth, vigour and determination unsullied by cynicism and failure.  Talent follows talent as the results of the Handicap system are revealed.  Not entirely a blanket finish but a nice thought anyway.  Clearly motivated Youth undoubtedly a great addition to the proceedings.

Now as to answering Youth's questions about that handicapping calculation.....  Some things in the Universe are beyond explanation.  Just enjoy.

So races run, prizes won, Harriers' fun, week-end done.  No question - seriously good addition to the Harriers esprit de corps.  And not too far to go.  And not too costly to do.  And time with friends.  And new friends found.  And health (for most) enhanced - the others will recover.

Most important of all - I got my car on the grass, er, field.  Hope I don't need a Disabled Sticker and a white stick to go with the canine to get the same next year.

If this account rings true, you're on illegal drugs.  If it raised a smile (or two), that's nice.  If not, the Author's actually the one in the red top in the following picture.