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.