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.