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.