OK - this isn't a treatise on Wordsworth or rambling on about poetry (sorry, any poetry-lovers out there). It's still my ramblings about the pain and suffering of running. But poets have their place and it should be close to our hearts - if we have any sensitivity. Crooked lawyers, business leaders, journalists, police and politicians also have their place - at the bottom of a deep hole - whilst runners hold their own in a place amongst the slightly wacky and eccentric members of the Human Race where most non-runners place us. Non-runners have a point.
So what, I hear you impatiently ask.
Edinburgh, and its painful (to me) Marathon was nearly 11 weeks ago. The Loch Ness Marathon (also being run by some-one called Susan, I think) is in just over 8 weeks. I should be where I was at the end of March. At that time, however, I'd been ill for a couple of weeks and then managed to put in 4 weeks totalling around 180 miles. So I can now look forward to a schedule of 45 miles a week. This isn't eccentricity - it's outright madness and stupidity. I am a moron. Fortunately, having no brains means I can contemplate the future without remembering the past. When the pain vanishes, it leaves no trace. I don't have misshapen toes, sand-blasted ankles or bags under my eyes that could hold the tailings from the Channel Tunnel to remind that what I'm doing is definitely a BAD IDEA. All those things only happen if I finish off the wine instead of letting My Good Wife do it.
Normality (if my fellow Harriers are a measure) suggests that all this training should leave traces. It should leave damage. It should leave irregular bouts of injury accompanied by pain to remind the injured of the stupidity they have inflicted on themselves. Rhamnousia (she was Nemesis when I were a little lad) may be skulking round the corner waiting for me. Scadenfreude may be about to visit in coachloads. I don't care. Right now, all that's happening is bad planning and stupidity. I don't need any help gaining my fair share of the consequences of those two talents.
Students of my training talents may recall that I'm not always spot on with my estimate of liquid refreshment to be carried in the event the Scottish sun (the real one - not Murdoch's rag) shines brightly. So I hatched a Cunning Plan worthy of Baldrick.
In the face of unarguable mathematics, I realised that an 11km run round Monzie wasn't going to do the job. Not unless I was prepared to run it every day. Which I'm not. Which I can't. Which means something else. Like resurrecting the longer runs of April. Like 20 miles+. Sometimes + quite a lot. Fortunately, I'm a moron so can't remember how stupid it is to run such distances when your 8th Decade looms.
So mid-July, a bit warmer than previously. Plan a few longer runs. Include walking a couple of Munros for fun. Think carefully about... WHOA!! Did that sentence include the Completely Stupid proposal to walk Munros as well?? Oops. Fellow-runner and Hill-walker Julia is currently damaged (with something mysterious) and suffers bouts of stitches of the kind that can't be knitted. So naturally, the idea of doing a couple of Munros is perfect. I succomb. The weather's glorious. I haven't been hill-walking in ages and it all sounds a great idea.
Beinn Dorain (1076m) and Beinn Dothaidh (1004m) or, as the Gaels would have it, Bine Doe-erenn and Bine uh Naw-hee. No, I don't get it either. Still, a break from running (unless it's into the pub) and a new place to visit. Pretty much straight up from the car park and a fun climb to a col where the path goes its merry way right to BenD and left to the other one. We go right and, after wizard tales of other walkers falling off cliffs and seriously damaging themselves (honestly, we did get treated to such a true story by the victim), we reach the summit despite having failed to read the map properly. Lunch.
The afternoon essentially consisted of us descending to Decision Col where Col decided he'd had enough and a swift descent to the pub was called for. Naw-hee can wait - it'll still be there when we're ready. I declined the opportunity to put it a bit of running practice downhill on the grounds the grounds would probably kill me. A safe return, complete with drinks in the late afternoon sunshine beside the loveliness that is the A82, meant running could resume tomorrow.
So this is the week I can finally get back to the 20-milers! Ho-ho. A couple of days follow when I am able to experience the blissful Strathearn countryside in the company of some of my fellow Harriers. All very amiable and I don't get lost. Then Thursday beckons. A plan is announced to survey part of the Harriers' Autumn Bonanza that is the Simon Wake Comrie Hills Relay Race. I smell trouble - and my brain's nostrils rarely let me down. So I decide that I should run part of the way with my friends then peel off and run home alone. Whatever cover story I rambled on about, the fact was my legs felt absolute rubbish and I was having trouble keeping up with our 14yo dog - who's very nearly dead.
So assembled we our band of warriors and set off into the hills. Where we promptly lost three of our company who (a) got far enough behind not to see where Our Leader was going and (b) hadn't asked the route beforehand and so went a different way. Shame. Still, gave me a break. Which I thought would help. Which didn't. In spades.
So, re-assembled, we set off for the wide open spaces above Comrie. Well, most of us did. I just died - and didn't go to Heaven, just to Hell as usual. Couldn't possibly have had anything to do with stupidity above Bridge of Orchy. No, of course not. I'm just old and decrepit. Beth, one of the Edinburgh Marathon Relay Team, attempted to go slow enough to pretend I was keeping up but she couldn't make it stick. So as the gang assembled at one of the several 'tops', I staggered into view and pointed out this was where their route separated from mine. Ignoring this comment, they promptly ran off the wrong way and soon reappeared running towards me. Disconcerting as this was, we made our farewells and I was left to navigate my way across the dark and treacherous moors unaided by anything more than my native senses and terrifying fear. Well, actually it was broad daylight, the track was obvious - and I'd been this way several times. And I had a compass. And an altimeter. And I was sober.
This route also passes many places where the Ordnance Survey proclaims that "Grouse Butts". Not sure if that's good English - or accurate ornithology. I know goats butt but hadn't picked up on the head-banging proclivities of the local flying delicacy. Even so, the route took me up to nearly 370m (over 1200ft in old money) as I reached Glen Turret dam knowing that from there the route was almost all downhill - apart from the bits that weren't. Some of the views from the hills were stunning - and that wasn't just semi-naked me. I consider myself fortunate that I run so slowly I can see the views without risking life and limb. If only I didn't have to run into that wind coming down the Glen.
So over the dam, down the damn dam road to the Falls of Barvick and onwards through the Hosh, past the Whisky Palace and onto the A85. Minding my own business when cars start hooting. Only my running friends of the early part of the day just returning home. Where can they have been? (Later investigation reveals the answer - lost.) Only just over 19kms for me but very satisfying as it's the first long hill run I've done since Edinburgh. The legs recover quickly and I'm left wondering why they always refuse to operate above a crawl-speed. Oh yes - decrepitude.
So will this week be any better? Another ho-ho seems called for. Sunday sees me crawl round the Monzie Loop twice in anticipation of an easy Club run the next morning. Fortunately, I am not called upon to exert myself too much (other than finding lost dogs) so the week is looking promising.
Wednesday - another double Monzie Loop. I did wonder about doing three circuits but realised I was not going to make it so headed home. Pride saw me get straight on to the treadmill for another couple of miles but then sanity briefly gained the upper hand and I quit. That was another 25kms in the bag.
And so to Friday. That's today. I write this before the sun has gone down on my doings. Just in case I forget.
So this morning was targeted for Monzie Loop times three. Another 33kms. If I could manage it, this week would be my highest weekly mileage ever at just over 90kms. (Or is that weakly?) Check everything ready. Clothing (Edinburgh Marathon vest of course). Vaseline (should I get so much pleasure applying it to my delicates?). Mobile/MP3 player set up to cycle through my eclectic music tastes. Sports sunglasses. Step counter. Watch/Compass/Alimeter/Barometer/TV set (I made that last one up - but soon, who knows?). Water (600mls). Wine gums/jelly babies.
First loop. Go slow. Then go slower. Braes of Monzie just past 42mins. OK. Water OK. Sugar pills OK. Cars managing not to hit me. Back into Crieff along A85. Lots of traffic. Lots of cyclists heading up towards Dunkeld/Aberfeldy who all appear to be in the same Club - but spread out over about two miles. Some drivers of cars not happy. Ferntower Road timing point at 1hr14mins. OK.
Second lap starts. Water OK. Sweeties OK. Meet neighbour walking up from McCrosty Park. Exchange desultory insults (he's wary if I'm nice to him). Back on to the Comrie Road. Turn up past the Whisky Cafe. Some traffic. Most tourists very nice and courteous and give me a wide berth. OK, maybe it was the smell. Braes of Monzie at around 1hr57mins. OK. Slow down again. Water OK but running a bit low. Back to Gilmerton and the A85. Traffic less than before. Get to Ferntower Road timing point at 2hr32mins. OK.
Third lap starts. Water running out (should I have gone home and filled up?). Sweeties a-plenty still. Back to the A85 and the turn towards Monzie. Definitely feeling knackered. Water could be a problem. Get past The Hosh and feel bad. Stop for the first time and take stock. Water needed. Get it from Shaggie (Burn, that is)? Probably not wise. Monzie Castle? Possibly not feeding the peasants any more. Get past Braes of Monzie at 3hrs14mins.
OK - but for the water. Anyone I know in Monzie? No. But I do regularly see the farmer from Cuilt. Stop there and plead for water. Offer either or both of my daughters as payment. No need, he says. Just work off your debt on my farm - Saturdays and Sundays, November to March would be fine. So water is supplied and I sign up in blood. I'm often described as a Cuilt (I think that's how it's pronounced) so maybe it's fitting.
Get to the Dunkeld Road and stop to empty the last of the farmer's kindly-donated water down my throat. Again the bottle is empty. Can I reach home on the fuel in my tank? Try to eat another wine gum but my stomach rejects the offering. I spit it out before I make a complete public spectacle of myself by barfing on the nearest passing vehicle. So to Gilmerton and down the path that leads to Nirvana. I am oblivious to the passing vehicles (pretty much as usual) and suddenly realise that the footpath is now pointing more towards the Earth's core than away from it. I resist the urge to show off and sprint the last mile and casually amble in that completely-knackered style I feel I've made my own.
And then, there's the house! More importantly, it's got an outside tap by the front door so I don't even need to find the strength to get inside. I can slake my desperate thirst and enjoy the experience of looking dead whilst still moving. It is 3hrs48mins48secs since I left home.
Loch Ness seems far too close. It's only the thought of Susan's mocking laughter as she observes me crossing the finishing line three hours behind her that spurs me on. Thank you Susan. You'll be as old as me one day. But possibly better-looking.....
Friday, 5 August 2011
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