Great Scottish Run - Sunday 2nd September

For the third year running, literally, the Old Git finds himself here.

If you're bored already, try taking in the report of last year's event. It might get you in the mood for the nonsense that follows. Or not.

This fountain is meaningless to The Great Scottish Run. It is also meaningless to any Old Git's participation. It's old though and beautifully done. At least it's something that's both since the Old Git's only one of those two things - take your pick. That's how you drive a ditch-digger mad, by the way - offer him two spades and tell him to take his pick.

To intense regret, The Nurse is again unable to look after the Old Git and provide endless opportunities for embarrassing photos. Possibly a connection. Consolingly, her doppelganger has exactly the same number and name and therefore provides Old Git's accompaniment to the start. As a DG, she has never run 13 miles before. The DG is also reportedly qualified for the Paralympics without her glasses and therefore needs a Guide Runner in order not to end up in Cumbernauld, a fate worse than death. She stands poised, a Half Marathon Virgin about to be deflowered. It could be painful.

The Para-gon and the Old Git are to be joined by a Qualified Teacher who promises to get them through their tables from 2 to 12 before the race finish at Glasgow Green. She starts by asking if any of 19239, 19273 or 20243 is a Prime Number. There is smiling and pretending not to know what the **** she's talking about. Milling about whilst QT's mother (or so she claims) clucks over the trio across the barriers erected to keep fans from this starry company, a photo is shot. The OG sports a water bladder which has a repair he is testing; this could end badly.

The throngs throng. The Para-gon worries about para-lysis and resorts to para-phrase as a new para-digm. QT and OG realise para-dise awaits after our 13-mile para-de around Glasgow. And no sign of the Paras.

Almost before it is realised, all are released from the Green Pen (though no sign of Green Ink) and thrust willy-nilly to the West. [We apologise for the unfortunate juxtaposition of a willy and a nilly, by the way. - Ed.] Willy-nilly precautions have been taken. The Lady Who Ate All The Pies And Sings (usually whale-song) At The End wanders in One Direction whilst our brave trio seek the West Life. We continue and chart our way forward.

Spectators desperate for a view of this heaving mass of toned and perfect athletic machines are driven to take any opportunity to get ahead. This location is clearly a perch but tastes of cod. "Is statue?", he is asked. "Yes - but I feel a right tit" he replies.

More desperate spectators have hired a 'cherry picker' to get their dubious photos down some runners' cleavages. The trio are safe - none of them has one.

The OG has counselled the para-glider that many unwitting participants in this form of athletic endeavour start too quickly and the finish is weak and painful. This para-graph rings true and it is agreed that steady pacing is para-mount. Ten minutes for every mile is the agreed para-digm. Conservation of early energy will lead to a stunning climax; the ladies agree enthusiastically. Mile One appears on schedule; our trio are happy in their task. Many runners pass them; they do not care since they shall repass these deluded innocents later when their energies have been sapped by taking the first half too quickly. Smugness threatens.

As Mile Two appears, the trio cross the bonnie Clyde, itself a picture many now enjoy watching. Sad that Faye was done away.

Exactly on the remarkably even schedule, the happy trio approach Mile Three as one 'runner' encourages an alternative form of perambulation. Our brave three ignore the advice and run onwards and upwards past the gently swaying, and amply filled, lycra that are grey hot pants. The Old Git ignores the resultant hot flush. Any such threatening warmth is about to be dampened.

Mile Four appears just past the local 'Lifestyle' shop where inhabitants of the area can purchase velour furnishings, lottery tickets, Tennants Lager (whatever that is), newspapers competing for the day's female nipple count and tablet; everything, in other words, that sensible Glaswegians could need. Next door, the demise of the 'Hardware Stores' store lays testament to the local demand for DIY items. Its one-time trade in sharpened implements has been laid low by the robust approach of the brave officers of Strathclyde Constabulary to the potential misuse of such stuff .

Fifty minutes sees Five Miles approach. The three are now enjoying passing through one of The Lungs of Glasgow and greenery surrounds them. They are now steadily passing numbers of too-enthusiastic beginners who are finding the going tough. The trio are hard-hearted and ignore them.

Six Miles. One hour. Nearly half-way. QT and DG are thrilled. It is almost as if only the second half remains to be negotiated. They look forward to passing even more poor souls. The OG feels a small flow of liquid down his legs. Normal service is resumed, he wearily decides.

Bellahouston fades. The trio approach Lung of Glasgow #2 - Pollockshaws. The impressive stone pillars guard the entrance to Mile Seven. In just a MO, they shall pass another stressed competitor. The OG is now in full flow. The DG remarks that she is being splashed by the resultant tide; it tastes funny. QT observes and smiles inwardly.

The choke that is the pillared entrance momentarily thwarts the trio's planned overtaking maneouvre but they have the momentum. The pendulum carried by the OG is swinging well. A rapidly-emptying water bladder is also swinging well and the OG now sports a large wet patch on the rear. This is undoubtedly a tasteful addition to his normal look.

By Mile Eight, our trio's speed causes many passing sights to become merely blurs. The three intrepid runners are focussed on their task. One hour and twenty minutes have elapsed. The quality of the pacing machine is breathtaking. Their breath is duly taken.

Nine Miles. The column of sweat leaves the beautiousness that is Pollockshaws and enters the urban sprawl that is lower Glasgow. Soon it will turn eastwards for the final thrust towards its return to the bonnie Clyde and all that sail in her. The DG is still running well within herself but is persuaded, for the benefit of others, to be without herself. She is happy nonetheless. The QT quietly enjoys the continued experience of passing more of those unable to pace the full distance.

The Tenth Mile marker is another passed in a blur. Those pills kindly proffered by the young man near George Square seem to be working; blurred vision and pain-free legs are a worthwhile result. The Old Git reassures his companions, as they enquire about the provenance of these purple pills, that no urine tests apply on this event. This is as well as both his bladders are now fully evacuated.

The arrival of Eleven Miles is signalled by the pained sound of a strangled cat. Sensibilities are calmed as the source is revealed to be the usual warming up of a set of bagpipes. The passing column passes without acknowledgement as the last potentially fatal stage of the event is reached. The bagpipe player nonetheless gives a cheery and gay smile which the OG returns with interest. Misunderstandings can occur in the most innocent of situations.

Plan A has been for OG, DG and QT to run together to twelve miles then amble their own way to the finish on Glasgow Green. In this fashion, no-one will get lost - even if there is any smidgen of wish someone would. DG swallows the last pill and hastens off towards her PB. OG and QT have both done this event before and re-use part of their catalogue of more sedate paces to the finish. Crossing the last timing mat and re-united in their triumph, the three Must-Get-Heres pose for an end-game photo. Only a minute separates the finishing times of the three companions who are now bonded in a common glow of achievement.

And so The People's Palace welcomes the milling throngs as they mill and throng around the finishing area replete with artisans of Scottish cuisine and other hucksters. The happy trio are finally separated as QT leaves with her mother and OG and DG return to their transport for the trip home. OG decides to strip to the buff in a public street in downtown Glasgow as he seeks dryness. Uncharacteristically, he also drapes himself in a towel to save passing females from fainting at the sight of unparalled manhood. Completing his toilet in smooth and swift fashion, all is finally ready for the uneventful return to their respective homes and the welcoming embrace of warm water and soap.

13.1 miles. 21.2 kilometres. Countless paces. Unknown calories. The death of many brain cells. Atmospheric pollution. And a modest set of personal achievements. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Then there's the next event .......