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.
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