Strathearn Marathon 10th June 2012 - An Old Git's view

For a change, an event I didn't even start. I didn't even enter. I did give a little bit of help though. What follows reveals almost nothing about what a great event this turned out to be.

For proper illumination, read the stuff on the Strathearn Harrier's website (you can find it without any help from me). What follows here is designed only to tickle those parts of you the other blogs don't reach. If you smile (or even guffaw), you're adult, have seen a bit of life and haven't had your sense of humour surgically removed.

Sunday morning. Cool, cloudy and a bit drizzly. Perfect for a 26-mile thrash around picturesque Perthshire, a slightly soggy Strathearn. Stuff to deliver to Race Central. Decide to go early and see the start, chat to a few friends, that sort of stuff. Oh yes - and take a few pictures.

Deliver stuff. Go to test the camera. Seems to be playing up so stand in the car park to take a few test shots. Camera to eye when BANG WALLOP STAGGER. Lady driver, much distracted by car full of little demons, backs into Old Git as she prepares to exit the place. Really should have taken off that Harry Potter Invisibility Cloak - clearly a man's fault entirely. As this scene of attempted murder is witnessed, several  'friends' find the sight of an Old Git being mown down by a woman irresistibly hilarious. One flame-haired harpy does a High Five with a female who hides from the camera as she does so. A supposedly-responsible Marshal joins in the fun. The Old Git survives. The culprit drives off. She is forgiven by a saintly Old Git. She is a woman driver after all.

Outside Race Central, part of the elite Race Management team chats. One points out the need for grey hair as a condition of seniority; he is unconvincing to his female audience. Two other Grey Owls are relaxed as they contemplate an event where nothing can possibly go wrong. A Strathearn Harrier about to take part in the event laughs as a non-running colleague realises he's forgotten to get his Marshal's vest.

Then there were the loos. Normal people cross their legs; runners cross their arms or stand with legs wide apart. Some practice a half-squat. All are impressed by the scrubbed-clean state of the facilities and determine to leave them (more or less) as they find them. They leave the usual donation in gratitude. Everyone is content to find they have hydrated properly. It is remarked that there's no Mirror in the Ladies; torn up Strathearn Heralds and Perthshire Advertisers suffice.

The photo session continues with the usual contribution from a distant cousin. Happy as she always is, her exuberance is heightened by the flood of adrenaline created by the approaching climax. The race is also about to get under way.

Inside Race Central, the hustle and bustle of race registration is captured as swarms of runners press their case whilst a man hustles and a woman adjusts her bustle. The sad demise of the local red squirrel population is highlighted by the stuffed remains of the last such creature to be born alive in captivity. The highlighting also captures the glow-in-the-dark costumes of the squirrel museum curators. The male curator is renowned as the last known native speaker of red squirrel.

To confirm their happiness together, and as a sign of good manners, the couple pose for the camera. The son of Morris is also a renowned dancer [blogs passim] - with bells on. Unlike the Irish Morris dancer, who fell off the bonnet on the M1, no mistakes will be made this day.

Soon, the participants assemble. One of them emerges from his overnight accommodation having found that cardboard boxes are indeed quite warm and comfortable. His pad will be spruced up and made ready again for the next impecunious visitor to Strathearn by the local friendly skip hire company tomorrow morning.

All too soon, the queue for the loos reaches back to Race Central. One man clutches himself desperately whilst others affect nonchalance. Our skip-per gives the camera a shy smile as he readies himself for the challenge. Anticipation mounts.

A small problem now arises. The inflatable Start, brought by the inflatable car and trailer, has let itself down. It got an inflatable Finnish pregnant last month in Helsinki and is ashamed. Two carers, known in the trade as Startlings, are spoken to by the resident doctor who prescribes anti-depressants. The Start feels better and picks itself up off the floor whilst the resident D.J. and Coarse Commentator is just fed up (a big breakfast probably). As we all survey the leaden skies, we realise things are looking up.

So finally, full of drugs, the Start reveals its full majesty and defies the wind to knock it down. We become a little concerned that the wind may respond to this challenge.

Now the excitement reaches fever pitch. Marshals show their excitement as happiness bubbles up over every face. Men sport bandanas in a vain attempt to look cool. Black bin-liners abound as runners fear getting too cool. They need not fear - 'rubbish' is a more likely reaction than 'cool'.

The Race Director and the two Senior Race Marshals check out that the pipers have remembered their notes. He will also accept a cheque made out to cash. A doleful rendition of the theme tune to "Marathon is now Snickers" soon fills the air. The runners snicker. It is as though marathons have never changed after all.

One piper turns to rob Bolton. He realises this is wrong, however, and redirects his attention to Liverpool where they know more about that sort of thing. Refocussing on the day at hand, the pipers discuss the exact angle at which the feet should be held; is it 75 degrees or 15? Between them though, they agree they've made the right angle.

Only minutes to go. Nervously smiling men, indifferent women, nonchalant confidence, shivering spectators; all human life is there. Whilst Sunny Strathearn has gone AWOL, Cool Comrie holds sway. If only it were more Mediterranean - well, Comrie ("Shaky Town") does have earthquakes like Italy; the same people get drunk here as they do on holiday in Spain; the Banks speak the same language; we've got the Sun seven days a week. Much the same, really.

If only the Official Photographer would appear so we could get some proper stuff. Then, appearing only to be an O.P.'s grandchild when in fact he is THE O.P., the Cameraman  Extraordinaire pops up with his pop-up to get the stuff that matters. The participants will be rewarded with FREE Race Certificates - alongside seductive offerings promoting the spending of money. The O.P. is hopeful for lots of business. The O.G. is hopeful for lots of laughs. They agree - both would be nice.

Then it is time for The Assembly to assemble. Dr Race Director will lead the throng throughout the thoroughly thought-through thread that thoughtfully thrusts thunderously through the thickets that thaumaturgy throws thankfully thrice. Circulation is the Good Doctor's forte and circulate they will. The Start will hold its breath whilst it sees its customers twice. Prodigious.

We're OFF!!. Like a low-rent Madison, the runners are led a merry circuit whilst spectators get the chance to cheer twice. What fun!! Maybe next year, Our Revered Leader will get an Electric Bike - powered by wind turbines, of course.

Run4It indeed. It is later revealed that the leading runners are promised great things if only they can catch the Good Doctor and touch his lucky thingy. Fortunately for G.D.'s sister, no runners manage it and she is safe.

The runners depart. A Harrier races for a position at lightning speed as his blurred image hides his expression of determination. Follow his progress later.

The lonely pipers wonder if they have been misled into believing that the runners are indeed on a circuit of the camp. One ceases wailing and commences waiting. His colleague just groans as his bag collapses but a big puff soon has his lips working again.

But YES!!  'Tis the Good Doctor on his trusty steed as he leads the Crieff-cum-Sheffield leader through the Start for the second time. The 2nd and 3rd placed runners are optimistic; they are soon to be disillusioned as they watch #64 disappear into the distance.

Then our knee-bandaged Harrier appears once more, bravely battling his severe injury and pledged to do the Club proud. He beats four and a half hours and is a credit to all who know him - and probably to the rest of the human race.

Then two lady Harriers appear. One regrets borrowing her friend's bra as she desperately seeks to stop it riding up under her chin. Her friend wisely considers what the Old Git will say about her. She need not worry; as another owner of a white baseball cap, the Old Git knows the value of making an important fashion statement.

Two more lady Harriers appear. As one chats, the other rehearses her auto responses as she listens to something far more entertaining on her MP3 player. What, in any case, could two women possibly have to talk about that is worth the risk of interrupting such an important activity as the inaugural Strathearn Marathon? Nothing, clearly.

Harriers now come thick and fast; some cannot manage both. A self-admittedly under-prepared participant pants by. His minder precedes him; none will mess with HIM. A mercurial lady wearing Hermes underwear is unaware how qualified she is for Greco-Roman events. She flies onwards with hopes of silver.

#9 and #53 appear together. They are both local. They are vying for the prize of First Proper Local Through The Finish - though they are presently ignorant of this. Eventually, the Harrier will be triumphantly second behind someone else; could it be that #9 hoped that the extra fluid he carried would make the difference? Whatever could have been in there? Urine samples would tell us - if only the organisers could find that part of the hedge.

And so our last Harrier passes the ranks of the papparazzi. He consults his watch. He consults it again. HIs lightning-speed brain computes his progress so far. It's really going very well. Should be fine.

On the basis that one circuit of Cultibraggan is enough, one lady dives into the facilities to check she is ready for the rest. A male runner is unbelieving of this necessity. Perhaps the lady is overdoing the hydration regime. Perhaps.

A group of runners forming a mini-peloton seem to be ready for a team effort. Lady visitors from sunny Yorkshire lead the way with determination. They carry all before them.

Eventually, our Lady Of The Loos emerges just in front of the back marker and, with one final check she is in good array, races off to catch the leader. Or not. Later, runner #2 is revealed as a serial marathonist. One morning he has cornflakes for breakfast, next it's oaty crunch and then it's wheat biscuits. Definitely a serial.

This race will become renowned for its friendly and ever-helpful Marshals. Many examples are to be found around the 26.2 mile course ready at all times with a cheery wave, a friendly word and a lovely smile. My wife did not pay me to say this about her (but I'm dead meat if I don't).

The Strathearn Marathon, as with Life, has its ups and downs. Eventually however, as it draws to its end it has its own epitaph. This isn't it. It is, however, the Court Knoll or Dunmhoid, the Judgement Mound. It has absolutely nothing to do with the event but that's no reason to ignore it as we pass by (even if all the participants do).

Soon, the leading runner - and eventual winner - hoves into view. So fast is he that he will probably hold the Course Record time for at least the next year. Rumours arise that, despite his avowed loyalty to the City of Steel, he originates from around these parts; a likely story. Still, we Lancastrians will welcome even Yorkshire folk (through gritted teeth if need be) so well done Will.

Since space is limited, we would direct our dear reader's eyes to http://www.flickr.com/photos/tanconsult/page6/ for further examples of the photographer's art as participants safely pass Comrie graveyard. Pics will remain there until at least 30-Sep-12.

We should include as a tailpiece our penultimate finisher who bravely carried his dodgy knees through some of the finest terrain that Perthshire can offer. And the last shall be first and... No they won't - not on our results list anyway - but plucky strugglers have the sympathy of this writer who knows from personal experience the pain and suffering of tail-end charlies. We deserve the medals - we're the ones out there on the road or trail for longest.

Beyond the graveyard, the Finish looms. More photos are taken (by the O.P.). Prizes are awarded and distributed. Records are set. Food and drink are consumed. Visitors go home. Helpers clear up. No-one dies (but the publicity is missed). Almost no lessons are learned since, astonishingly, there are almost none to learn. Frightening. Maybe there's an export opportunity. Maybe.

Was this more fun than taking part, I ask myself? Yes & No - but definitely less painful. Maybe I should take part one year and save someone else from being last. Maybe I should use the course as a training run before the next Big One. Maybe. Probably not.....

If you're reading this and you took part (or even if not) and any photos take your fancy, electronic originals in all their 4Gb (or so) glory can be had just by telling me which ones you want and where to send them (electronically only I regret; prints cost money....). Comment here, FB me, or email to tanconsult"usual symbol"gmail.com ("usual symbol" beats the scammers who trawl for email addresses so just change it to @).

This blog will (probably) resume normal service with events in September. Can't wait.

A little jog by the sea - 27th May 2012

Marathon Attempt #4 of my life. Edinburgh. Am I ready?

Last year, Marathon #1 at Edinburgh. 5h14m12s. And quite a lot of walking after 21m. This year?

Plan - run with B, one of my stalwart Club companions who kept me company as she ran Leg 1 of the Relay last year. This year, B plans to run the whole way. Having failed to keep up with her over 13 miles at Glen Clova (blogs passim), I am doubtful I can keep up with her for more than 26 miles. Still, we can natter for a bit.

Then, disaster!! B twists her ankle in training only a few weeks before the event and has to pull out. I know the agony of pulling out prematurely. I will be on my own (so to speak) but I gird my loins for the unsought battle ahead. Gird now, massage later.

Then, more disaster!! The Club Big Weekend Away at Badaguish is revealed as taking place during the same weekend as the Edinburgh. The organisers refuse to rearrange things for us so that's the last time I pay money to the Edinburgh Marathon Festival people. We will have to make do with the reports of what a good time is had by all - and reports from Badaguish.

Last year, I approached the Edinburgh with some 600 miles training under my belt since the year's dawn; this year only about 460. Is it enough? (Don't know). Was it the right kind of running? (Don't know). Have I rested enough? (Definitely). As I get into the three weeks tapering, I am even more twitchy than usual. I feel this cannot go well. I'm still going to have a go though; after all, the Edinburgh campsite is booked and there's no more room at Badaguish (possibly).

B & Hubby tell me that they are still going to go to Edinburgh; after all, the hotel is booked and there's no more room at Badaguish (possibly). So we're all going to miss the Club weekend for the pleasure of a weekend in Edinburgh. We'd better make the most of it. Organise to meet for lunch on Saturday at the eatery on the campsite; easy for us and the B & H & offspring will have to drive anyway - so we'll let them.

Friday 25th May

We pack. I rehearse 26 miles in my head. We drive. I rehearse some more. We arrive. 42 hours to go. Time for a toilet break.

The campsite is a long way from full but the nice lady locates us in a nearby plot nearly full with campervans and tents. Why? Still, musn't be anti-social; maybe we'll make new friends. Or not. Realise after a bit that the local hostelry where we're meeting B & H & offspring tomorrow is all of 200 metres away; maybe this location is OK after all.

Next door, a pair of Merkel's kinder are stationed. They have a roof tent of the kind used in Africa to keep occupants away from lions & leopards. Access only via a cat-proof ladder; very nice. Campervan thereby free for all other purposes without requiring nightly conversion to bedroom. Must consider this for when trailer tents are no longer our thing.

We then realise we are Germanically surrounded as another campervan with D insignia lurks on the other side. Is this a pincer movement? What would Montgomery have done? We decide they're all lovely and wouldn't get the jokes anyway.

Across the way, large tents, large family (?) group. They barbecue dead animals and overdo it. Bloke wanders over and offers us leftovers for Joka-dog. Saddened by the fact that the dog's not allowed anything not endorsed by Dr Burns, bloke retreats. As he goes, I whisper that (in my opinion anyway) he's not only a runner but almost certainly a very good one. J wonders how I can know this. I just do, I reply enigmatically.

Roof Tent Folk next door vanish and are replaced by older couple in large campervan. Naturally, they're German.

Saturday 26th May

Daughter #1 is 24 today. We breakfast then call her to wish her all the best. We saw her two days ago and we'll be seeing her again in two days time but these gestures are important (according to the women in my family anyway). She is happy.

So what else to do? Lunch at 1200 means a morning of leisure. J has a sisterly birthday in a few days so shopping is required. Ruling out options that require driving, we amble up to the nearby Garden Centre that is also the usual cornucopia of loveliness for one to donate to another - it has a Gift Shop. J shops, I wander. The I wander some more. The sunshine is lovely, the plants delightful, the range of plant-pots a wonderful and dazzling array. I wander some more. The sunshine is still lovely. I wander and find myself next to J. Am I too soon, I wonder? Decisions still need to be made but suitable beauty is selected and we can now pay and leave. I am content.

Off to the eatery via The Campsite Office. Some incapacitated gentleman has inveigled J to return a key to The Office on his behalf so she obliges; lovely lady. We wander outside and towards the eatery when a car slides by with our friends and their two lovely girls on board. What timing!! We embrace - then wait whilst our friends alight and we embrace them too.

We have booked a table at the eatery but it seems unnecessary as Mine Host conveys us to one of the many empty tables. We chatter. We natter. We are in a world of our own when EEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!

Down upon the head of B falls the MOST enormous spider with long hairy legs and teeth enough to kill a Great White. B thcreams and thcreams and thcreams enough to do justice as Violet Elizabeth Bott. She is very nearly thick. B's bloke & I are gently amused as those of the female persuasion severally and collectively almost wet themselves. As quick as it fell, however, said spider rises and dangles tantalisingly out of reach.

It now becomes clear what is going on. Connected by fishing line to the Bar, this FAKE spider can be lowered and raised at will by the mischevious owner and bar-tender. He is a card indeed! As a resemblance of equanimity is restored, the ladies all express their feelings about this hair-raising experience. The owner appears and grins. Fortunately, cutlery has not yet been delivered or he might well have received a couple of forks in the eye. He is well satisfied. He clearly doesn't need the tips.

Soon lunch is served and conviviality holds sway. Children play, gristle then play again. We ignore them with the experience of years of practice. All too soon, our togetherness is over and we go our separate ways. B& Co will come to the event tomorrow and cheer. I remind them they will have all day to shop and play as it will no doubt be getting dark as I cross the finishing line. They agree and leave; we wander back the 200 metres to our gypsy home to enjoy the afternoon sun.

Across the way, the family have abandoned Bloke who is trying to settle on an air-bed. He is restless. He fidgits. He is clearly a runner in the throes of End Of Tapering and Eve Of Event. I feel much the same - but lie motionless. I wonder how many others on the site will be at the start tomorrow morning. Turns out, quite a lot.

Couple next door contemplating drive round the coast anti-clockwise. They also have bikes - well, they are German. Offer them some info on bike routes from Sustrans and wish them bon voyage - then realise this is the wrong language and wish them Gute Reise (or something).

Sunday 27th May

I wake; it is barely light. It is ridiculously early. I turn over. I then decide wetting the bed isn't nice and get up and use the nearby facilities. I return to bed. I sleep. I wake again. It is two minutes before the first alarm is due to go off; how does the brain do that? I get up and turn off the several alarms on my watch. I have breakfast and try to stuff more calories into my beleaguered frame. I take a break in order to use the facilities. I eat some more. I visit the facilities. I put on my running gear. I look like an idiot; silly white baseball cap, sports sunglasses, long-sleeved Harriers vest; backpack with 1000ml of fluid. Like this bloke here. I visit the facilities.

All too soon, it is time to be chauffeured by J to The Start. We get there far too early so we sit and chat. I am nervous so I make my excuses, embrace and head for the facilities. There is a queue. I join. It splits in two; Men Who Merely Wish To Stand to the left and Others to the right. I go right. A lady at the head of the queue that I join enters a portable cabin only to emerge almost immediately descibing the location as unsuitable for human contact. It has presumably only been used to this point by men.

Soon it is my turn. I enter an apparently harmless cabin. Almost habitable. I function. I function again. And once more for luck. I reassemble myself with as much cleanliness as possible under the difficult circumstances and emerge back into the daylight. I feel the lady replacing me will be pleased with her choice and will utter thanks to a well-mannered male. I hope.

It is still 40 minutes to go so I sit on a kerb. The sun is pleasant; I know it will not remain so. I feel glad for the liquid on my back; I then realise it is just a torrent of my own sweat running like Niagara Falls towards the kerb. I take a little sip; then I try the liquid on my back. It is nectar - without the points.

I am waiting this time for no-one. No-one else will call my name and keep me company. No-one will urge me on when I am at my lowest ebb. No-one will pick me up when exhaustion strikes. No-one will keep me amused with their anecdotal ramblings. The emotion wells up; I am happy at last.

The announcer announces. Get into your allotted pens (ready for slaughter, she fails to add). The sun shines some more. The temperature rises - some more. All too soon 10 o'clock heralds its arrival and, somewhere on a distant planet, runners are released at the Start and rush onwards to hoped-for glory. We shuffle forwards. We shuffle some more. Minutes that seem like minutes pass. Soon we see the Start gate in the distance; slowly it draws near as more and more participants are released. Then, almost before we know it, the timing mats are there and there is a rush of hands to wrists as we all demonstrate our deep distrust of the chip system provided by the organisers. I'm the same but have both a stopwatch and a Garmin to start. Unlike Lochaber, this time I actually manage to start both technologies correctly. I vow to leave them alone until I reach the finish.

As the route wends its way downwards, I am passed by many folk rushing like Gaderene swine to the sea. Fools, I think. I shall stick to my plan and run at no more than 7m15s per kilometre. The race organisers, of course, mark the route in miles so I settle for 11m11s miles as comparably easy mental arithmetic. I can't shake off the need to ignore the technology in case it lets me down. I fail to recognise that my brain is less reliable.

Soon we round the Scottish Parliament and are into Holyrood Park. I notice two ladies claiming, on their backs, to be Kestrels. They run, I hover. Almost immediately, one departs the other. This seems somewhat churlish so I seek to console her companion. When it transpires she is from Yorkshire, the Lancastrian blood in my veins almost causes me to recoil and faint. I remember though that we are all Northeners together in a foreign land and regain my composure. I am condemned to be polite.

It is JS's first marathon; she hopes to arrive in around five and a half hours. So do I so we chat on. A car wash man sprays water over all the passing runners whether they are dirty or not. His gesture is kindly meant; I hope we don't die of pneumonia. We chat on.

Before we can say "Hey", we cross the 10k mat and somewhere our time (70 minutes) is recorded. We are probably going too quickly, I say. Slowing down whilst remaining in a running posture may be a problem. Dogs walk faster than we are running. Still, the heat's not a problem, there's a gentle breeze in our faces and the sea and sand are looking lovely. JS & I are snapped as we discuss the nature of marathon running and if we're ready. We try to go slower.

Just after eight miles, the first changeover point for the relay runners appears. JS is intrigued as she didn't realise we were also being accompanied by teams. These are the people who go past us quickly, I explain. They can be ignored, I add.

Almost immediately, we come to Musselburgh Racecourse and I explain that all we have to do from here is run to the turning point and run back since the Finish is here. Easy, really.

Now we push on towards Prestonpans where battle will really commence. The place has practice at this sort of thing. The terrain is slightly uphill and suddenly there is an unaccountable crowd of well-wishers shouting loudly in incompehensible accents. We then spot the nearby car park and realise these are the kindly but diseased folk who can only manage a 200 metre walk from their cars. Their kindness and well-meaning support is welcome nonetheless. We hope they recover and find the benefit of physical exercise in their future lives.

Then real excitement!!! Police motorcycles come alongside us as a commotion commotes and a hubbub hubs. In the near distance - can it be - yes it can!! The timing vehicle that travels just ahead of the lead runner can now be clearly seen. The police about-turn and clear the path for the oncoming race. How we wish we could join such an event - but we are feeble and weak and have to make do with our more lowly competition against ourselves. The timing-wagon rushes past. A flash of muliple black skins rushes past after it. Then silence. Then a lone runner with paler skin appears. He clearly realises his task is hopeless in the face of the presence of East African talent. He continues and will no doubt be gratified by his place at the head of the Caucasian entourage.

We plod on towards Cockenzie & Port Seton as we contemplate in silence that those we have just seen will be on the train and away before we are even running in the same direction. Bet they couldn't change a starter on a Citroen GS though, I tell myself. No doubt JS has similar thoughts.

We trot through the lovely centre of Cockenzie & Port Seton and wonder where one stops and the other starts. We then realise we couldn't care less as we pass over the half-way timing mat (2h29m39s) on our way through to the next relay race changeover site. When we get back to the other side of this, I tell JS, there's only four and a half miles to go. She is consoled.

So past Longniddry and the powers that be as we see ahead the long snake that is the human pointer to the turn-around point. We see where it ends and are encouraged that soon we will be coming back towards the Finish. With already-weary legs but uplifted spirits, we reach the northern-most point and, putting the gentle breeze at our backs, head south.

We are slowly slowing and at the 30k timing mat (3h35m54s) it is clear that we are not going to achieve a negative split. Indeed, we recognise we are only going to slowly run through many split infinitives.

19 miles pass. 20 miles loom. Relay Changeover #4 looms more. JS & I are completely knackered but are determined to support the other through thick and thin. She's thin; I'm left with the rest. We pass through the changeover when I am attacked by a spasm. The connection between my brain and my legs, tenuous at best, is completely broken for a couple of seconds and I perform a perfect rendition of This Is What A Drunk Looks Like. JS kindly waits whilst I (sort of ) recover and we plod on some more.

But it is no good; I have to walk. JS runs (slowly); I walk (even more slowly). Kilometre 36 (between Mile22 and Mile 23) on my Garmin will later be revealed to have recorded a time of 10m35s. Shameful. Painful. But JS waits and makes clear she is suffering badly too - only without the spasms.

We struggle together through Prestonpans and slowly I feel something coming back into my legs. I am drawing on my backpack fluid that contains soluble tablets donated by the organisers. Could it be they contain illegal substances that promote false world record times? Surely not. Maybe it's just we're getting near the Finish.

At mile 24, JS & I break into a run again. Well, to us it's a run; to spectators it's a pathetic shuffle. But at least we have both feet off the ground at the same millisecond. We get through to mile 25 and now there's going to be no stopping us. We reach the roundabout that brings us onto the final long straight by the racecourse and we encourage each other for the final gasp.

As we reach the final turn into the finishing funnel, JS's friends leap out at her from nowhere and scream at her to put all she has left into the final metres. We run up the funnel together and finally the bliss that is the finishing timing mat. I stop my technology (5h24m36s), look up and see JS looking like she's not altogether sure where she is. We embrace. I hope her sense of smell has gone as well as everything else. She cries. We embrace again. I wonder if I should cry as well; I don't. We are both better for these final moments of togetherness before we go our separate ways.

We wend our weary way to where we are bemedalled (don't the organisers know not to make a medal the shape of a man's privates and the weight of his head?), beshirted and become. Truly we have run and become. We say our final farewells and I go off to find a wife. She is not at the gate out of the runners area so I find a slumping place and give it a good slumping. I find my mobile phone, call J's voicemail and give careful directions to my location. After some confusion, I see our little old dog through the legs of the crowd and, sure enough, he is bringing J safely to me.

I feel sick - but can't be. I feel well hydrated but not yet ready to release any of my precious bodily fluids to any apparatus of any kind. I am given milky coffee that I drink greedily. I am offered chips. I accept. We make our way to a more comfortable spot where, in a miraculous flash, chips appear and are consumed with gratitude and vinegar. I no longer feel sick. I rest horizontally and contemplate the sky. Alto cumulus, I think. I am (sort of) restored.

As last year, our car is parked some way away. We walk. I feel OK, if a little weary. The dog complains. At 14 and some, he feels even more weary than me. Walk, I tell him; you're not getting carried today. Half an hour and the bliss that is the car appears. I realise that I was right about being well-hydrated at the end of the run; the coffee is working its magic. The experienced runner in me soon spots a nearby spot and all is soon well again. We drive off. I hope no-one took the registration number.

Back at camp, we see our running neighbours all decked out in their Edinburgh Marathon T-shirts so wander over for a convivial chat. They of course have been back for about half a day. Mr Bloke ran around 3h30m and said that injury had prevented him getting a good time.... Turns out the group are Mow Cop Runners so details of the SH Marathon 2013 are given. They are warned not to miss it. We shall see.

So another marathon, another finish, another failure to run all the way. Still, I'm not getting any younger [Oh, please - can't you just stop whingeing and get training again?- Ed] but Loch Ness is only 16 weeks away. More fun. Maybe I'll be used to this 26-mile stuff one day. Maybe.

Lochaber Marathon - 15th April 2012

I apologise to my many readers for the fact that the writing of this blog has been delayed by a myriad of factors [Lie!! - Ed] - but at last it's here.

Last year, as a mad Old Git, I did my first two marathons. This year, I decided to run three, the two I did last year plus Lochaber. Run along the shore of Loch Eil, the Lochaber Marathon is deceptively flat; like me, about as soon as the terrain threatens to make it get seriously hilly, the course about-turns and goes back to Fort William. Mention of Fort William caused several folk I told to immediately have visions of running up very steep hills - like Ben Nevis. I don't do steep hills. The Ben Nevis race is for idiots whilst running marathons is clearly for morons; subtle difference.

Just for a change, I didn't carry a camera round the Lochaber course. This turned out to be wise but it does mean that all the pictures of the run in this blog are word pictures; you'll probably create better ones in your head than me anyway. I did take this one to prove we did camp in our trailer tent at the foot of Ben Nevis; not the same, I know, but it'll have to do.

So - Saturday 14th April and it's off to Fort William to collect race number 79. A mid-morning start sees us head off to, then north up, the A9 and leads to lunch at Ralia in the round house. Try it if you're passing and you haven't - if you see what I mean.

Arriving in Fort William, we head for the Glen Nevis campsite and our chosen piece of (temporary) heaven.  The young lady booking us in is new to the job and not entirely sure how to record a trailer tent; if only we'd come in a caravan - so much simpler.  Whilst older lady rescues younger one, Judith engages a fellow camper in conversation only to find he's English and from Lancashire, so that's the rest of the afternoon taken care of.

We finally extricate ourselves from bureaucracy and fellow campers and pitch up.  The weather promises well even if my performance doesn't.  So, before darkness threatens to fall on our heads, on to find the organisers and collect the usual material.

The sports hall in Fort William where all is happening proves easy to find and we can actually park. We go inside and find the desk that admits to having my stuff. I'm duly crossed off, given my number and T-shirt and can now return whence I came complete with official ID, pins and all.  As usual, everyone else there looks like they are training for London2012.  I feel I should be with the Chelsea Pensioners.

My brother's brother-in-law's brother, who wierdly lives near me though we've never met, is also (apparently) in the event so I look for his name in the list of some 400-odd participants; very odd. Sure enough, there it is so maybe I'll bump into him. Or not.

So back to Base Camp where final preparations are to be made for the assault on Mount Whatever it is. Pain, I think. We decide that the best preparation is to go for a walk - so we do. We head for Ben Nevis and quickly ascend to the summit [Lie!! - Ed]. Reality finds us take a gentle stroll along the bank of the River Nevis to where it gets a bit rough and then back again to where it doesn't. Perfect preparation for - a long lie down.  So Judith cooks; I eat; calories are consumed at obesity levels yet I don't get fat. Strange that.

Will it ever get dark? Will I ever get to sleep? Will I get up in time in the morning? Yes yes yes - three times yes.

Sunday 15th April 2012. I know my body isn't really ready. One or more viruses since before Christmas last year have robbed me of my envied, honed and superbly conditioned bod. I just feel unfit, tired and depressed like most Saturday night drinkers on a Sunday morning. This does not promise well. Still, I've practised running at a fast walking pace (or is it walking at a slow running pace?) so all I have to do is put all that practice into practice. Should be a doddle since anything faster than a doddle will be a bad idea.

Breakfast. Water. Toilet. Shave. Running gear. Toilet. Vaseline. Toilet. Toilet again. Can I have forgotten anything? Oh yes, go to the toilet.

So off to the sports hall for the safety briefing. Will they mention not standing downwind of me? Probably not. Lots of people mill around but fail to make or use their loaf. Everyone looks faster than me [They were!! - Ed].  Briefing over, we shuffle out to the start where (I think) I am ready to start my satellite-guided chronometer (Garmin - other satellite products are available).

1000 looms and we're OFF!!! I (think I) start my Garmin. MUCH later (when I put my glasses on) I will discover that, in fact, I stopped it instead having inadvertently started it in the hall. Should've fiddled with something else I tell myself. I will have to rely on my old-fashioned chronometer and my honed and polished grasp of mental arithmetic instead.

I go slowly along the street. Many runners pass me. I go slower. Many more runners pass me. I am still going too quickly. Everyone else passes me though I don't immediately know this. Soon, however, I hear the unmistakable sounds of a walkie-talkie. Turning around as I (sort of) run, I find myself being followed by two gentlemen of leisure on bicycles. "Morning", I greet them."Does your esteemed presence signify that I am indeed the last participant in your wonderful event?"  "You are indeed, sir, but you are doing magnificently and we shall guide you safely towards the main road." As he speaks, I join the pavement that runs alongside the said main road; I note that the pavement's actually running faster than me.

I now have a new item for my running C.V. I was once DEFINITELY last in an event. That's a first.

In front of me I see a man and a woman running together who are also evidently in this event. I slowly cruise up behind them like a stalker on a mission to see if their pace is worth (a) copying, (b) too fast or (c) too slow. I can't tell. My electronics are no help and we haven't gone far enough for the mental arithmetic to be useful either. Foolhardy as it will prove, I decide to go past and see what happens. [They eventually finish last in something over 6 hours - but at least they finish. - Ed]

Just then, a young lady passes me. My ghast is flabbered - those men lied! I was not last. Someone was last-er. Or was she in the hedge attending to Nature's siren call? Who knows? But she's only going at a modest lick so I snuggle up beside her and introduce myself. It turns out to be the lady's first marathon and she's done most of her training alone. In fact, she prefers to run alone... I enquire if this is her way of telling me to get lost but she assures me not. We continue to chat.

We have been warned to stay on the right-hand side of the road since the traffic continues to flow normally. I begin to wonder if this was an entirely sensible event to be in as the volume of tourist traffic steadily builds. Mostly, it's fine. 99% of the drivers are not only courteously avoiding killing any of the runners I can see but they also often give a cheery wave in response to my hand gesture of thanks.

Then we meet the 1%. Driving a Jag. Back of a short line of cars but he can see me perfectly well. I feel his wing mirror catch my left costume, missing my left anatomy by millimetres. His female companion in the passenger seat clearly finds the presence of pedestrians in the carriageway an irrelevance. I am not quick enough to key his passion-wagon and he escapes unscathed. My new running friend is in blissful ignorance of this near miss and we continue as before. Well, actually, I vent my views for the next twenty minutes or so until I realise she's fallen asleep out of boredom. I wake her up and our travels continue towards the half-way point and the turn back to Fort William.

When we are not far from The Turn, I spot said brother's brother-in-law's brother and give a cheery greeting. As he flashes past, it is clear that (a) he doesn't know who the hell I am and (b) how do I know his name and that of his brother and sister-in-law in whose name I greet him. I wonder if he will unravel the mystery. Maybe our paths will eventually cross. Or not.

So now we are on the Home Leg. Only 20k to go. I'm doing better than I thought and my companion has decided she's had enough and fallen back in desperation to be rid of me. I am just past 16 miles (25k) when my body suddenly lets go. Remarkably, this does not consist of a sudden exhaustion of gasses but a sudden non-availability of legs. I feel like I have stopped and that the countryside is a video game that is slowly being unwound past me. I stuff jelly babies down my neck in desperation then decide that eating them is better so do so. Nothing. Nada. Rien. I am dead meat.

I struggle on to the 17 mile marker and my running friend goes past me with a quick "Bye-bye" and I am alone again. Near to 18 miles, a voice hails me from a passing vehicle. "You OK?" says the Ambulance Man (for 'tis he). "Absolutely!" I lie. "Never better." He drives off. I judge I have just been a moron again.

As I look up from my new-found role as one of the participants in The Night Of The Living Dead, I see that Ambulance Man has parked up near to the 19-mile marker. I consider - "seven more miles of completely pointless pain or a nice, warm, comfortable seat and a ride back to Fort William?" I am torn; the pain is very appealing. I settle, however, for the humiliation that is the Sag Wagon and clamber slowly into the vehicle and try to hide my shamed face.

A voice from the rear interrupts my thoughts of shame and humiliation and says "I gave up too and this is my twentieth." Twentieth what, I wonder. Turns out the lady behind the voice is an experienced marathon runner with the experience to know when to stop. I explain this is my first withdrawal and that I can usually keep going to the final climax. She understands completely. It's just your age, she quietly and sensitively explains.

The driver asks if I need anything or if I'm OK to cope with a seven-mile drive whilst sitting down and resting. I assure him that the physical effort involved is within my capabilities. He is happy.

So off we drive past many further examples of needless pain and suffering. I am sorry to see so many runners struggling to reach their destination whilst my legs and my brain have a serious argument about who's the culprit. To pass the time entertainingly, the ambulance driver explains he has come all the way from Dumfries with his over-50 year-old Land-Rover ambulance that has less than 50,000 miles on the clock. It was used on an RAF air base for many years and just pootled around the same few miles. Now it's forced to drive from Dumfries to Fort William and back, poor thing. I become obsessed by (a) Land-Rovers are statistically the least reliable vehicles on the road, (b) 50yo vehicles haven't passed the latest ENCAP safety tests and (c) why is his old vehicle running when my 1970 Citroen DS isn't.

We reach the Start/Finish and I alight. First priority is to ring Judith - so I do. Her immediate reaction is to congratulate me on my stunning marathon PB; I explain that it doesn't count when part of it is completed using an internal combustion engine. Rules are rules, after all. She is disappointed but says she'll be on her way as soon as she finds the car keys. I consider which hotel will put me up for the night whilst this project is completed. Of course, I needn't have worried; the spare key is where I left it hanging up. [You bad person. You know Judith never loses her car keys...... Ed]

So I repair to the sports hall and hang around like a bad smell (actually with a bad smell) in the entrance where I can see the road. In remarkable time, I see the car, rush outside and am at the passenger door even as Judith is parking. She is impressed (so am I). Now she is here, she can give me what I need the most - transport to the showers.

So there we are. My First Failure In An Event. 19 miles of hard running two hours and some from home and nothing to show for it except a receipt from the campsite. And I didn't even have any Garmin times. Probably best, really; they'd be absolute rubbish. At least I now know what it is to collect a 'DNF' medal.