Four-leaf Clova - 12 November 2011

For some years, Forfar Road Runners have hosted a mid-November half-marathon around the lovely Glen Clova near Kirriemuir.  The weather is usually poor.  Or worse.  A perfect race just to hear about as you sit with feet up watching the howling gales through the window of your warm, dry home.

So, this year, some Old Git has the mad idea to enter the Glen Clova HM as a finale to the busiest running year of his life.  Mad indeed.  Other Harriers have run this race before.  In rain, snow, gales and other friendly attributes of the Scottish Highlands' atmospheric repertoire.  The route's reasonably flat - a few undulations - and the scenery promises to be worth it.  Oh yes, if the scenery can be seen of course.

Having publicly committed to the race, a few others also sign up including the Good Doctor and She Who Is Also Doing The Edinburgh Marathon next year.  The Old Git has promised to run with SWIADTEM next year - at least until she tires of his pedestrian pace and goes for a proper time - so offers to run with her at Clova and practice.  And take a few photos.  Questionable habit, the latter.  SWIADTEM has run the Clova before and knows well the terrain and the hazardous conditions the Grampian Mountains can throw at unwary foot travellers.  She is stalwart in the face of possible challenges.

GD offers to transport the three of us to the race and back and we gladly accept his kind offer.  With a 1200 start, the GCHM brings a civilised time to rising from our beds and eating breakfast but, since the Scottish Government neglected to include the area in its motorway programme, it will be a slow drive most of the way.  The recent weather patterns entertain as we contemplate the flooded land alongside many of the stretches of road we travel along.  How much more water can this land take, we wonder, before it floats off towards Norway?

Miraculously, today we see blue skies; lots of them.  Well, one actually, but lots of it.  And no rain.  And no howling gales.  What can possibly be happening to the Scottish weather?  Has a Spanish import been purchased for our pleasure?  We are puzzled - but happy.

But then, before we really know it, we are driving northwards up Glen Clova towards the start at the Clova Hotel.  Crowds suddenly appear and we are directed towards the muddy field that is the temporary overflow car park.  Disembarking, we make our way towards the administration centre to collect our essentials - race numbers and stuff.  The milling throng of several people excite our senses as we contemplate our early afternoon perambulations.  This should be fun.

We meet our other Harrier combatants.  The GD has briefly disappeared so an 80% photo is taken in the tarmac-ed part of the car parking facilities.  SWIADTEM & the Old Git get in the middle of a T&A shot.  SWIADTEM is amused by this thought.

The scene just before the start shows hordes of excited runners bursting to get going - to the toilets, to their friends, anywhere really.

The Finish line is ready as newly-stolen traffic cones look forward to their moment of glory.  The Triumph Arch normally present on these occasions has unfortunately been delayed along with two dozen young ladies travelling to Kirriemuir from Inverness.  Their future status is reportedly in peril.

T&A stride purposefully towards the Start line as they advertise the 25 year running history of Strathearn Harriers.  This proud history is in their hands and that of their SH companions.  The Old Git is glad it's not in his.

The excited runners line up in close formation as the appointed hour of midday draws close.  Competitors crowd into each other's personal space in a desperate attempt to get close to the line.  With no chip timing, everyone is determined to claim gun time as their own.  The Old Git just keeps taking pictures as though he doesn't care what time he does.  He actually doesn't.

 And then the Noonday Gun fires its aerosol contents and the whole amazing crowd of more than a hundred hardy souls rushes out towards Kirriemuir.  There will be disappointment though at the half-way point as the route doubles back on itself, utters a squeal of pain and returns to Clova.

Soon, SWIADTEM is going strongly and the Old Git is wrestling with the dilemma of photography versus Club loyalty.  Photography wins.  SWIADTEM is coy and shy of the paparazzi lens as she strides onwards towards a potential PB.  The Old Git is checking the pace and wondering if it is a little quick for an OAP.  Probably not for OAPs with running talent but the Old Git is not amongst them.  Ho-hum.

As early as ten minutes into the event, the contestants are arranged in an Indian file as the athletes rush away towards the horizon and those who spend a greater amount of serious time running are able to enjoy the scenery.

Blue skies draw the photographer's lens like an unearthly magnet as fluffy white clouds scud gently northwards on the crest of Mediterranean wafts.  Shadows chase each other across the rolling sward as just about all the runners pass by not caring a toss.

So three miles are marked - or is it three kilometres?  We check our watches.  If that's three kilometres, breakfast is having its own back.  If it's three miles, the Old Git is on for a ridiculously quick time (though SWIADTEM might be a tad disappointed).

But the eye is drawn to a dramatic scene of Nature at her watery best.  The glen once boasted a babbling brook that danced its way gently down the lowest points of the land as it made its inevitable way from spring to sea.  Today, all evidence of burn banks has vanished as a meandering loch defies the locals and visitors alike to stride over its life-giving liquid.  It's a floody blood as far as human eyesight can reach (except for those who should've gone to Specsavers).

But to the north all is blue sky and fluffy white water droplets.  The warm, gently sloping shoulders that tempt the spirit accept the white cotton wool covering that shields the hidden and secret reaches from prying eyes.  And the hills have clouds on them.  This point marks the moment the Old Git ran out of energy to press the camera shutter so, remarkably, no record remains of the ensuing 90 minutes or so.  Probably for the best.

Time marches on.  The Old Git staggers on.  SWIADTEM runs in beautiful assurance that a PB is within reach.  At nine miles, the Old Git gives up the unequal struggle and begs SWIADTEM to go onwards and upwards towards triumph.  SWIADTEM says it was her ancestors that bought that brand of undergarments, not her generation of modernists.  She departs, muttering about 'Kazakhstan' for some unfathomable reason.

And then!!  It is the finish.  Far ahead, the Old Git has seen SWIADTEM rush headlong into the arms of fate.  Regretfully, her PB escapes by seconds into the distance but it is a plucky run nonetheless.  

The Old Git staggers in a few minutes later and is rewarded with a candid shot of SWIADTEM chatting to the GD about their respective experiences.  The Old Git slinks away as this is clearly a runners-only meeting.

And so another episode in the life of an Old Git draws to its end.  Nature has been kind in its delivery of meteorological experiences.  The GD has been kind in acting as driver - and waiting whilst his outward-bound passengers completed their odyssey so they could become inward-bound as well.  SWIADTEM has demonstrated that next May's event could quickly become a solo run as she is simply in a different class to the Old Git.  And he'll be a year older whilst she will probably be getting younger.

Still, 2h6m25s isn't bad for an Old Git.  Definitely not a half-marathon PB (that was lost in the mists of time several generations ago) but a Course Best.  Bound to be, really - for a first run on the course.  Next year?  It'll probably be two feet of snow.  We'll see.

Official Masochism Memories - 29/30 October 2011

Every year (it seems), large numbers of possibly-insane and impossibly-fit couples take themselves off into part of our wonderful mountain scenery and subject themselves to a weekend of pain and suffering.  No, this isn't Official Masochism Memories - it's the Original Mountain Marathon.  Elsewhere, on the Interweb and other organs of so-called literature, you will doubtless be able to read the accounts of this crazy event from half-mad participants, sadistic organisers, makers of ridiculously lightweight and gruesomely expensive products and other hangers-on.  You may, on the other hand, struggle to find any account penned by anyone who bothered to treat this as a spectator sport and spent a cold, miserably wet time on a mountainside seeing it at close quarters.  This is one of, possibly, one (or two maybe) such accounts.

It all starts with the news that, this year, the event was coming to Perthshire.  The organisers always keep the details of the event a deep dark secret until the very last minute - literally.  Participants arrive at the Start not knowing where they have to go on Day 1, where they will be camping for the night or what's in store on Day 2.  Whilst there are different events within the OMM for different levels of stupidity, they all have this secrecy in common.  Get there, get the details then go out onto the mountains and try and find your way from point to point (and back again).  As fast as you can.  Without killing yourself.  Or anyone else.  And whilst staying resolutely with your partner - failure to stick together being a capital offence resulting in instant death (well, disqualification to be strictly accurate).  What fun!

For this Old Git, it all starts with an innocent request for volunteers.  From the OMM organisers.  Passed on by other members of my running club.  Seen by me.  I now should ignore such stuff - but somehow am swept up by the romance of it all.  And the promise of a T-shirt and beany hat.  Idiot.  So do I have a clue what's involved?  Do I jiggery.  So off goes the email volunteering; to (I'm sure) a nice lady in Lancashire.  I'm from Lancashire so that's a connection.  Comes back the OK.  Papers in the post.

A Gordon Highlander (see 7 July 2009 blog for more about this brave person) has also volunteered and we trip together excitedly to the Marshalls' briefing centre set up as part of the Centre of Operations at Cultibraggan Camp just outside Comrie.  We report as requested to one of the rusting Nissen huts wherein are Organisers lolling about and waiting just for us (possibly).  Unfortunately for G, the organisers propose to send me with him onto the mountains for the weekend.  This could end badly; he's heard almost all of my jokes already.  So we collect all the necessary supplies, maps so we can find where we're supposed to be, food from the local wildlife park catering centre (putting us therefore on the same level as a capercaillie or a wallaby), T-shirt and beanie, "Official" yellow vests, 'weatherproof' clipboards and Uncle Tom Cobley and All.

The weather forecast is for rain.  And wind.  And more rain.  And, on top of everything, more rain.  And possibly lots of wetness from the sky.  This promises to be fun, fun, fun.  Whatever are the participants thinking, we wonder?  Possibly everything from 'Great!!' to '* ** *** **** *****'.  We're thinking we need to get going at 0730 tomorrow.  How much spare clothing can one rucksack take?  Not enough is sure to be the answer.  G proposes to bring a tent, a move that will prove inspired.

So Saturday dawns.  It's 0730BST; the last day of Official Summer Time.  Summer normally involves a bright orange object in the sky, the sky itself at least occasionally drifting into the blue region of the spectrum.  Today is actually borrowed partly from the Indian Monsoon (the rain), partly from a colour-blind artist (skies in multi-faceted shades of grey), partly from TV programmes about rogue builders (mud underfoot everywhere and rubble obstructing almost every step) and Hollywood disaster movies involving burst dams that flood every conceivable natural channel across the landscape.  And that's only the car park.

G kindly offers his 4x4 as transport so 0730 sees us drive off towards the Outdoor Centre (in the middle of nowhere as these places usually are) where parking has been organised for such as we.  And it rains.  But we get there safely and, confirming we are OK to park, we organise ourselves for a march up the mountain.  And it rains.

The first part of our event takes us along a tourist route that is very pleasant on a warm, dry, summer's day.  Today, it's a trip from quagmire to quagmire.  And we haven't even got off the path yet.  Even a small burn has to be crossed by a farmer's rickety bridge.  We have more serious water to cross before we reach our scheduled location - this should be fun...

All too soon, we are looking down on the raging torrent that once was a benign and gurgling Scottish burn just waiting to be crossed with a skip and a hop.  No skipping or hopping today; certainly not by me with all too many kilos on my back.  So up the bank we walk.  And walk.  And walk.  As we reach a confluence, a quizzical look from my companion asks if I'm up for getting across here.  Possibly.  Possibly not.  Bearing in mind that the downside of getting it wrong this weekend probably wouldn't just be a bit of water in a boot but possibly bits of me floating down to Loch Tay, I gracefully decline.  Let's try further up, I suggest.  But then, hey - what am I here for anyway?  Aren't the competitors going to have to do lots of this over many hours?  What's the matter with me - am I a man or a mouse?  Squeak.  We try further up.

And then, finally, the waters are narrow enough and my leg muscles and courage are strong enough for me to reckon it's OK.  So G crosses - like a gazelle.  I follow - like a geriatric camel.  Must practice more, I hear myself (not) saying.

Safely across Obstacle #1, G takes a compass bearing on our destination.  Impressed, as I normally steer by the hairs on my wrist, we head upwards across heather and hags, squelching at every step.  I work hard at using my walking poles to alert me to water traps ahead - and step regularly calf-deep into waterholes.  I am clearly incompetent.  And out of practice at hill walking; it really isn't the same as marathon running - it's definitely harder.

We squelch manfully onwards and upwards towards the designated spot.  As the last escarpment looms and my legs resemble jelly tots, I suggest to G that he ploughs on ahead to make sure we're on station on time. I struggle up behind and eventually crest the summit to see G in the process of erecting the tent.  I manage to arrive on time but a joint effort to get some shelter from the wind and rain will pay many dividends.  I add my incompetence to the proceedings and very soon we have weather protection (sort of).  G has also brought a small gas burner and mountain kettle so hot drinks are planned.  I brought a flask of hot coffee but that disappears in the first half hour so the promise of more is very welcome.  Of course, the weather hates this idea so does its best to thwart the project.  Mostly, the weather wins.  We'll still be wet and cold.

Hardly have we got ourselves (more or less) ready than the first customer turns up.  What are these people made of?  Something other-worldly clearly.  We record the team number, check he has his companion with him plus their gear and off they go.  It rains.  And the wind blows.  We huddle into the mouth of the tent.  It's going to be a long six hours.  I have put on my best Gore-Tex jacket and trousers with suitable under-layers but it's like I hadn't bothered.  Cold and wet seems to be penetrating my skin through all the layers.  Will I be able to claim compensation for breaches of the Trades Descriptions Act?  Maybe oilskins would be better.  At least that way all my accumulated moisture would stay with me.  That would be OK, I decide; I've got a cold anyway so can't smell a thing.

Teams start to arrive in dribs, drabs and lots of drips.  We record faithfully.  We continue to get wet.  And cold.  We move around as best we can to alleviate the symptoms.  I largely fail in this process.  Two hours in and the first bus-load arrives.  The teams come thick and fast as though they're following one another.  Surely this can't be?  What if the team at the front gets lost?  Then they all get lost.  I'm assured by G that this is common and that the better teams avoid this trap.  I feel I am helping keep death off the hills by wearing my luminescent yellow all-weather jacket that can probably be spotted at a great distance.  In this weather, I rather imagine that distance is about ten feet.

The first rush subsides.  A perfect moment for severe cramp to wrack the insides of both my legs.  It's like some-one poured acid into my veins and then laughed.  I struggle to persuade my brain to issue louder instructions to my legs to allow me to get to the vertical and move.  I fail.  I lie prostrate and flail about like a drunken duck.  Slowly the acid recedes and what is possibly blood returns.  I arise and move upright with all the grace of a long-legged drunken penguin on steroids.  I am wet.  I am cold.  I am, right now, probably even older than my birth certificate.  I regroup and walk then jog around the site.  Any more of this and I'll be a helicopter case.  Little do I know that this isn't the low point.

Then more teams appear and we are distracted from our conditions by our dedication to duty and the needs of the results computer.  Slowly the numbers of teams arriving diminishes.  Slowly the hour of our scheduled departure approaches.  Our tasks do not end when our position can be left.  We are to collect another piece of recording equipment and only then make our way back to transport, home and the comforts of dry clothes and hot water.

But then!!  Miraculously, our hour of departure arrives and we quickly pack our belongings ready for the getaway.  I manage to misunderstand and incorrectly remove the marker.  I put it back equally quickly as G points out my error.  I even manage to put it back into the same almost invisible hole it came out of; a small triumph out of a larger misery.

We set off for the equipment we must find and, thanks to G's excellent navigation, find it promptly, remove it and pack it in G's capacious rucksack.  We wonder how to get back.  Back the way we came?  Lousy terrain and a significant detour around the swollen burn.  We opt for the other route where we can see the alternative swollen burn but can't see any way across.  We descend for a closer look.

The burn looks even more horrendous close up than it did from the top of the hill.  We walk upstream.  Nothing.  We walk some more.  Nothing.  We can see where the burn is formed from at least two others.  We walk towards them in hope.  Then, it looks like we're in luck!  G crosses burn #1 - elegantly.  I follow - inelegantly.  We approach burn #2.  No way across so we must go upstream - again.  Eventually, after seemingly endless dangerous options, we find one that looks possible.  G again crosses easily.  I cross - my fingers.  And just about manage to cross the burn without falling in or breaking any part of my anatomy.

We breast a rise and look down the glen.  We are on the right side to get to the road but the wrong side to get to the car.  We have a long walk ahead.  And it's getting dark.  We stride purposefully onwards - well, one of us does, the other stumbles and splashes his way behind as quickly as his once-cramped legs will take him.  This is familiar territory, having been here before, but that's no help if it gets dark.

As the last glimmers of light rush off to the west, we cross the last thousand yards over fence, field and past graveyard to the final gate next to the road.  Sod's Law dictates that a car approaches at precisely this moment causing G to stop to let it pass.  He is unwittingly standing next to a large puddle that the car promptly shares with him as it passes.  I come over the gate onto the road in perfect time to miss the car-induced shower.  As if we hadn't had enough from the sky.

We walk towards the welcoming light of the lochside Hotel and I wonder aloud if G would prefer to walk the last lap up the hill without his backpack.  I'd have done the same if it were my vehicle up the hill - honest.  G kindly thinks this is a good idea and vanishes into the gloom to find his car.  I wait outside the Hotel and enjoy the fact the rain has stopped, the temperature is positively Mediterranean (well, about 11C anyway) and my legs don't hurt so much.  I even walk up and down to help keep the circulation going.

Soon, G returns safely with car, we load the gear and away we go towards rest and recuperation.  G opines that today has been very tough.  I wonder if he's just being kind to an OAP but apparently he means it.  Tomorrow, we must do this again.  In a different place - thankfully.  With different weather - hopefully.  With less physical and mental distress - at least in my case.

Sunday dawns benignly.  And we have a later start since our destination is only about an (easy-ish) hour from the car.  We leave the vehicle in a familiar car park and start an also-familiar walk across the sports field towards our spot for the day.  We've both been within a few hundred metres of the spot many times, the weather is clear and kind and, equipped as we are with maps and compasses, we don't imagine we'll need them.  The route steadily stiffens in gradient and my legs steadily stiffen in sympathy.  We get to less than a mile away and G is worried we'll be late.  I suggest he push on and I'll meet him there.  Good plan (possibly).

G disappears from view and I amble onwards and upwards.  Soon, it's time to leave the relative comfort of the made-for-vehicles track and head towards the Trig point that is our spot for the day.  The plantation we'd agreed we'd walk round actually looks less densely planted than I'd expected so I head in a direct line through the first section towards what looks like a clearing beyond.  It is.  As I emerge and start crossing a heavily overgrown area, I hear the sound of rushing water.  Well, I did see a burn on the map.  I didn't think.  As I reach it, I can see that it's full to overflowing and looks positively evil.  I look left - no bridges there.  I look right - is that a practical bridge made from a fallen tree that I see?  I head upstream for a couple of hundred yards until I can see the 'bridge' clearly.  Probably sound enough to carry a small child.  Possibly sound enough to carry a light adult with the skills of an acrobat and the strength of a trained commando.  Just the job.

I lean onto the nearest part and push downwards.  To my surprise, I don't get a faceful of water.  And no sounds of cracking wood.  I lean with the other hand.  Still OK.  I put one foot onto the end resting on the bank of the waterway and move a hand forwards.  Still OK.  Like a chameleon caught in a headlight, I move slowly forwards one limb at a time.  One hand is now resting on wood that seems to be firmly anchored on the far bank.  I put my right foot down - somewhere.  The resulting sound of wood cracking and breaking away as it falls into the water isn't comforting.  I resume my chameleon impression and slowly get two hands and a foot somewhere onto the far bank.  I throw myself forwards and scramble ungracefully onto the slope of ground that is safety.  The 'bridge' is still there (mostly) and I'm not even damp.  Unless you count where I think I wet myself that is.

I look up and am astonished to find that, not only can I see through the trees to the open countryside beyond, I can see G on the slope up to the Trig point only about three hundred yards away.  I pick myself up and reach the fence at the edge of the trees.  I clamber over then find myself gently falling backwards at the height of my clambering.  I summon up all the reserves and just about manage to recover some forward momentum and make it over the fence.  Only a short climb and I'm there.

This is the point when yesterday's exertions tell.  The slope is littered with small boulders through which ferns have grown.  As my weariness grows, so does my fear of damage through slipping off one of these hard-to-see hazards.  But soon enough the ground gets better even if the gradient doesn't.  I take plenty of breaks and survey the scenery which, today, is worth every weary step.  Soon, I breach the edge of what is a mini-plateau and see G snuggling down in the lee of the Trig point.  I get there, drop the backpack and survey the scene.  Breathtaking.  West into the mountains, east towards Crieff and Perth, south to the Ochils with the northern prospect a sweep of hills of many shades of - well, grey mostly.

We await our first customer.  And wait.  Then wait some more.  Apparently, we're an option today where we were a necessity yesterday.  Sounds like my career.  But then I spot spots on the next hill where most of the teams will be coming from.  The spots leave the summit and get spotty on the track leading towards our hill.  Soon, it is clear we really are the target and two spots gradually resolve themselves into runners intent on reaching our eyrie.  As the first one reaches us, we can't see the second.  But very shortly, he also appears and all is well.  We record them and wish them well on their way.

Soon, the nearby hill is infected with chickenpox as spots become a rash and the rash rushes towards us.  Excitement!  We steadily record, exchange banter, hear of events of yesterday and enjoy the lack of rain and the comparatively balmy winds.  The skies persist in limiting blueness to short glimpses - probably just to tease us and entertain themselves - but also persist in not shovelling water down on us.  We are thankful.

But then - a lone runner!  And no equipment!  We point out that the rules require us to report this breach; you may be disqualified says G.  You're ****** says I.  Go get your kit and your mate or your weekend finishes here, I resolutely declare with Official authority that I almost certainly don't have.  The young man slopes off down the slope and we expect to see him no more.  But we are mistaken!!  He returns a few minutes later complete with kit and mate.  We remove the Official Report Of Rule-Breaking and bid them adieu.  We are happy we have fulfilled Our Duty.

But you'd never Adam and Eve it - another lone runner.  He pleads that his companion is cream-crackered and can't make it up the hill.  We are resolute.  He departs.  We expect to see him no more.  Time passes.  He has clearly taken our report badly.  But then, what is this we see?  He returns many minutes later complete with knackered companion and full kit.  We aren't sure whether congratulations or commiserations are in order.  At least they believed that they would be DQ'd by our report and still felt the OMM was worth it.  Amazing.

Soon the clock moves towards our departure time.  The spots on the hill now disappear elsewhere than in our direction.  We are alone for the last hour and more of our sojourn.  But now it's time to go and we agree to leave the hill by a different route to our arrival.  This route is straightforward and doesn't involve a dodgy burn crossing.  Whilst I wouldn't have missed the excitement of the morning's journey (much), this is a welcome change from, well, everything.  We cover the ground at what passes for my normal walking pace and it seems we are very quickly at the place where another OMM Official is stationed.  She momentarily wonders why we are emerging from an entirely wrong direction but G quickly points our that, despite our being incognito, we are also Official Personnel.  We all laugh and we pass onwards towards the car park.

The finish of the event is where the car is parked so we go and see what's happening.  We are delighted to find that some of our fellow Harriers are there to cheer on the Harriers' teams that are competing as they finish.  Our famed Doctor is overdue and his Doctor missus is concerned.  A few minutes later, he turns up safe and well - if shattered.  We shall see him later for the full story.  We depart to OMM HQ to report in.

At HQ, we hand in the necessaries and are therefore counted as safe and well as opposed to still approaching death on the mountains.  Food and drink are also being served so we avail ourselves of the hot tea and seek out our fellow Harriers for some craich.  The event seems to have been both successfully completed and to have caused drop-outs amongst our fellow Harriers.  I am amazed anyone gets round at all.  And the organisation is impressive.  Anyone wanting to organise a big outdoor party should call these guys.

So to home.  And its comforts.  Wife decides to accept an offer of work and I return only to a dog and a dinner (which fortunately isn't inside the dog).  I clean up (myself), eat the dinner and clean up again.  My body hurts.  And I've not run.  I haven't even walked very far.  But I hurt a lot.  Still, I'll be fine after a good night's rest - won't I?

Monday morning.  Harriers run - in Comrie from the very car park I was in last evening.  Wife transports me there though I am unsure this is a wise move - being there, not the transporting.  We assemble.  We set off towards the hills.  I get a few hundred metres down the track and realise the fuel gauge really IS on empty.  I put common-sense before Male Pride and stop.  My companion of the moment offers her car keys so I can await their return in comfort.  She is kind.  I am old.  I agree.  I walk back towards the cars and meet two of the OMM organisers on their way to recover OMM material still lying scattered on the hills.  We exchange brief comments on the weekend during which I suggest they lose my contact details for any further trawls for volunteers.  They laugh.  Inside, I cry.

I take four days to recover to anything like normality.  My running is still rubbish two weeks later - but since that's normal I'm not sure if the OMM weekend has yet left my body.  What is certain is that any admiration I harboured theoretically for OMM competitors now has legs.  I really DO admire them now.  I also realise that NOT running whilst on a cold, wet and windy mountain saps the life force.  At my state of life it does anyway.  So from now on, visits to mountains will be accompanied by exercise.  Anyone who asks me in future to be stationary thereon for more than the time it takes to consume a jelly baby can (expletive deleted) off.