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.