Strathearn Harriers' weekend in Badaguish, 3-5 June 2011

2009 - Ullapool. Select gathering; selection of decent weather; good time (mostly) had by all.

2010 - Gairloch. Large gathering; excellent weather; more youngsters; voted even better than 2009.

2011 - Badaguish Outdoor Centre near Cairn Gorm.  Even more adults and youngsters; cooler weather but rain-free.  Would the lack of sand and sea be better - or worse?  Would there be exciting events?  How would this year be remembered?  One (perhaps slightly distorted) view follows.

The standard caution must be repeated here - only read on if you have a well-polished sense of humour and no taste.  Since this covers most youngsters, the British Board of Film Censors gives this work a '12' certificate.

The Author and his Good Lady arrive promptly hours before most of the rest.  Nice lady and associated male worker show where a trailer tent can be located.  Unfortunately, the House Rules require no cars on the grass.  Fortunately for the avoidance of death by heart attack, Government rules on the Abuse of Pensioners override local House Rules thus enabling a Pensioner's car and trailer tent to be driven onto the precious green sward.  Familiarity with the green sward that is Lord's Cricket Ground suggest that this green sward is, in fact, one of those more frequently familiar items of landscape called A Field.

Pitching carefully on The Field so as to be within hailing distance of the 'Pods' (more bus shelters familiar to our regular readers as seen at Gairloch), the Author and Good Lady's dwelling is the focus around which the Camping Fraternity develop their temporary Running Home.  The car is removed to a safe distance to avoid any possibility of overnight vandalising by the disgruntled.  Of course, on mature reflection, it is clear there are none such anywhere in the vicinity.

Having established Base Camp, the Author and Good Lady conduct the first exercise in exercise and amble off to explore some of the surrounding Nature in All It's Splendour.  The Old Dog has mixed feelings about this - and so does the 13yo canine called Joka that is accompanying the Author and Good Lady.  Nonetheless, the late afternoon weather is balmy, the conversation is similarly barmy and Joka wonders why he's not allowed off the lead to pee where he wants.  It is explained to him that little fluffy cuddly birdies are having it off in the vicinity and their resulting babies need protecting from vicious canines such as himself.  With virtually no teeth, Joka cannot work this out.  Actually, with only three brain cells (in common with most Cavaliers), he can't work anything out.  But he's happy.

A brief interlude is given to admiring the mountains to the south and to wondering - wondering why a railway was built that goes nowhere.  And loses money (apparently).  But the views are nice from the top - sometimes.  Like today.  And tourists without fully functioning legs can see the view.  And that's nice.  More railways then seems to be the answer.  Maybe one from Crieff to Perth will be next.  Or not.

We digress.

Back to Strathearn Harriers' weekend away.  And what's next on the exciting, energy-filled, health-giving, mind-stimulating agenda?  It's Friday Night - so the answer must be ..... A Curry!!

The Author and Good Lady are invited by Gorgeous George Carson and Lady to join them for a bountiful evening of oriental delights in Aviemore.  But this offer is declined in favour of just going out for a curry.  So it's off to the Spice of India for all that's best in smash-your-taste-buds cuisine.  We are also joined by A Local Councillor and his Lady, their Friend and a Doctor.  This is worrying.  Are we likely to need the services of a Councillor?  We are sure we won't need the services of a Doctor - yet.  But doubtless he stands ready as ever to minister to our self-inflicted woes.  This may yet be tested.....

Arriving at the emporium and spying a perfect niche for the car, the Author neatly positions his vehicle so that the adjacent campervan will have extreme difficulty leaving without doing a 15-point maneouvre.  This is not a problem since the campervan owner is likewise a Strathearn Harrier and therefore careless of life's difficulties.  And there's always insurance.

So we wile and while away the evening with amusing anecdotes and gay laughter.  After a little while, the laughter drops two octaves as one or two of the onlooking restaurant staff seem unduly interested in the 'gay' rather than the laughter.  The evening establishes a part of the forthcoming weekend - food and drink taking frequent precedence over all that fresh air and exercise stuff.  Still, the fuel has to come from somewhere.

Saturday dawns.  Curry and Indian beer are forgotten.  Then a reminder arrives and is despatched in the usual fashion.  Running to the facilities is normal for honed athletes such as ourselves.

It's the morning for The Run.  Or The Runs.  There is a choice; short for the Halt, Lame and Old; longer for the Fit; ridiculous for the Proper Runners.  Many will start together - then separation will occur as decisions are taken about Run A or Run B or whatever.  Phil asks everyone to line up for a group photo; response is instant.  Gordon and Tony realise they are in the wrong group and look for a way of sliding out without being noticed.  Ali thinks about heading back to her accommodation.  Liz thinks all is normal.

But soon all is well, if not entirely clear.  The Author will stay with his Good Lady who is running with the Harriers for the first time in over a year and a half.  Her knee, carefully diagnosed by the NHS as beyond help and to be considered (in the careful jargon employed by highly-trained medics) as 'knackered for good', has responded to many hours of careful attention from Pilots [er - no, dear, that's 'Pilates'].  Anyway, she's now able to run for a bit so is testing it on a 30-minute, real-world, Strathearn Harriers run.  Fingers crossed.

So off we set on a south-easterly heading down towards Loch Morlich and Reindeer.  Ali keeps us company as the three of us speedily create a large gap between ourselves and the rest of the group.  This cunning strategem preserves the Good Lady's knee and just about everything else for Ali and the Author.  After 15 minutes, Good Lady does an about-turn, indicates this is not a precursor to running the remaining distance backwards and leaves to return whence we came.  The remaining duo absorb the wonderful sensations that come with being left a long way behind and enjoy the scenery, the birdsong and the thought that we have no idea where we're going.

But all too soon, we are upon our colleagues who have kindly waited.  This extreme interval has allowed two groups to be formed, one to attempt a 'longer' run and the other not to.  Will will lead the shortened runners.  They are determined to mind their Manners.

As the 'longer' runners depart, the Author recognises one of his recent marathon relay team crew (look it up) and decides to join Kirsty.  If there is to be trouble in completing this challenge, at least there will be familiar faces to look on.

The Monday Morning Moving Coffee Morning Team hold an impromptu gathering at which Susan explains that the right hand is definitely not the part of the anatomy to fall on in the event of a stumble.  Tracy asks if she can suggest a couple of alternatives.  Kirsty shows that the effects of relighting last night's spliff this morning have not yet worn off; but she's happy.  Fiona McD is aghast at Kirsty; she could have had a fresh one from her if she'd just asked.  Fiona should have been paying attention to Susan and warned her Man.  Of such little things is Fate made.

After the meeting ends, further progress is made when a film crew is spotted with large microphone boom and, a little further on, a Cameraman with Camera for him to be a Man of.  Seonaid and Fiona D, mysteriously, have become detached from the group and soon it is clear why.  With cries of 'No pictures, no pictures', Seonaid inadvertently reveals that the film crew were there for her, prying into her personal life as a Secret Runner.  Despite being pressed for an interview, Seonaid resolutely refuses to appear in the pages of 'Hello' magazine, even for the staggeringly crazy money they were offering her.  We are all impressed.  Fiona D also quietly reveals that she is Seonaid's Official Minder, trained as she is in Tso-Kin-Gup where she has a Deep Pink Belt and T-shirt, 4th Dan.

To bring the attention of the group back to running, and because she's jealous of the 'Hello' magazine business, Liz directs attention to the group's forthcoming arrival at the Blue Lagoon.  A number of members of the group have heard of dolphin encounters at the Blue Lagoon and are excited.  It is not obvious to them that the relevant Blue Lagoon is in the Bahamas; disappointment threatens.

But soon the beauty that is An Lochan Uaine (translates as 'Small Dolphin Pool') appears.

The resident Dolphin trainer appears and kindly explains that the dolphins are not here at the moment; they are having a holiday in the Bahamas.  There is disappointment amongst some, scepticism amongst others.  In the light of his lack of current employment however, the trainer is invited to join us for the rest of the run.  He agrees, having admitted under intense female interrogation to having a 'thing' for one of the other lady Harriers.  We suspect they have actually been having a 'thing' together for quite some time.  Events will prove us right.

And so we reluctantly leave the beauty that is the Blue Lagoon and head ever upwards onto the wild and desolate countryside that leads to the safety of Ryvoan Bothy.  Ahead of us, several of our colleagues have already reached the Bothy and, being concerned about the challenges and dangers that lie beyond in Unknown Territory, have turned round and are heading for the safety and security that is Badaguish.

First to appear is our stalwart Women's Captain and her Minder.  Alerted to the presence of A Photographer, the Woman's Captain instructs her Minder to see him off with a suitably cutting remark thrown nonchalantly over her left shoulder.

True elegance cannot be disguised, however, as this revealing shot tells only too clearly.








Following quickly on behind comes a Ladies Marathon Champion accompanied by her Personal Physician.  Her cries of 'My profile, my profile, my profile's my best side' shone brightly into the heart of the Photographer.










Responding at lightening speed to this cri de coeur, the results are proudly displayed here for all to admire.

Finally broaching the 400 metre contour, the brave group finally reach Ryvoan Bothy but are disappointed that the coffee machine has been disconnected.  Kirsty offers her 'water' bottle but there are doubts about the purity of its contents.  Gin would be welcome by the ladies but unknown chemical compounds are suspected.  Kirsty is unmoved as Fiona D attempts to emulate Chad.  'Wot, no coffee?' she seems to cry.

Eventually, the group are persuaded to sit, smile and demonstrate their great pleasure in having only four miles or so to run back to their accommodation.  They comply bravely.

Regrettably, moments later, the spell is broken by Liz who says 'Right, that's all that nonsense done.  Let's get back.' whilst Fiona McD gives away the emotions the group is feeling under the mask of pleasure.  Soon we all leave, tired of pretence.

Tracy and Kirsty make their athletic way back as Kirsty fails to disguise the shame she feels at only having water in her bottle when everyone was convinced it was something MUCH more interesting.  She vows to do better next time.  Tracy leans forward, for reasons unknown, as she flexes the impressive running machines that are her legs.  Her athletic talent will be realised yet again before another day has passed.

The Two Fionas decide that it is easier if they stay together so that shouts of 'Fiona!' from their compatriots can be readily answered in chorus instead of from different parts of the countryside.  The anticipation of the return leg is palpable.

As the group hits the level ground in the midst of the forest, there is dismay on some faces as the Photographer (Old & Ancient as he undoubtedly is) speeds past them all in order to take up a suitable position for an elegant group photo.  Kirsty and Susan discuss whether Liz or Fiona McD is the more put out.  It is decided that the award goes to Liz for the Facial Expression of the Day prize.

No sooner has this decision been reached, however, than Liz demonstrates that her repetoire of graceful poses is far from limited as she reveals her famous 'This is how I get into a Disabled Parking Bay without arousing suspicion' move.  This item comes complete with a script drawn from the Alzheimer's Ward of Perth Royal Infirmary.

As the group approaches the six-mile point, it is generally agreed that 10k is far enough to run so why not walk a bit?  Kirsty demonstrates how she normally answers a mobile phone call from George.  The dolphin trainer thinks 'bottle-nosed' doesn't just apply to dolphins.  Susan's fancy is tickled - but she's too polite to scratch it.

As the Photographer goes about his innocent art, Fiona D helps by adopting exquisite poses designed to show her at one with Nature.  Whilst this is not entirely convincing, it does get voted 6 out of 10 for effort by the group.  We all agree her cheery countenance and unflagging goodwill are, well, enough.  We all express our love.

As the distance to the camp diminishes into inconsequence, there is a rush to be first to the mirror in the Ladies.  Speeding past again in uncompromisingly flashy style, the Photographer captures the rapture as the anticipation of fresh hairspray spreads in a glow across three physiognomies.

Recognising that three other ladies are ahead in the race for the Ladies' Room mirror, the remaining ladies are sanguine and remain cheery nonetheless.  Kirsty and Tracy try running as blind people whilst Susan shouts 'Left!', 'Right!' to keep them on track.  Regrettably, her laughter only results in Tracy and Kirsty colliding and reverting to the normal use of eyes.  It does, however, give them a very real feel for the perils and suffering of The Handicapped.  They are glad it's not them.

At last, the group are within sight of the camp.  But there is one more hazard to be negotiated.  Whilst there are many good people in the group, there is the occasional nutter around.  This one is almost certainly in disguise wearing a brown furry coat over his natural grey surface colour.  The group is determined to report his presence to the Police.  The Constabulary are certain to be grateful and to offer a reward.

So Saturday morning appears to be closing peacefully and harmlessly.  Meanwhile, on a mountainside far, far away.....  There is a feeling of deja vu as Fiona McD recalls Susan's stern warning earlier against using the hand to break a fall whilst running.  Someone close to her may be about to succomb to the Curse of the Harriers.  Unfortunately, it is Fiona's nearest and dearest, Tony, who is struck down by the Curse.

Hardly (it seems) has Susan's warning been articulated than Tony is pushed by irresistible forces unknown and is unable to avoid the sudden impact of hand on Mother Earth.  Nursing his limp extremity, he also cradles his hand carefully as it is carried across the land into the tenderness that is the Harrier's Court Physician.  Pronouncing that the hand is indeed damaged and, swelling to resemble part of an overinflated blow-up doll, that it should no longer be placed where more damage might result, it is carefully bandaged and placed in a shoulder sling.  We are all sympathetic and glad it is Tony, not us, that is in pain.  He is brave.  We are impressed.  Confidence is expressed that Tony's innate manly strength and fitness will restore his limb to full working order in no time at all.  But probably best to go to PRI on the way home anyway.

But many of us are unaware at the time of Tony's Travails.  We are having fun on our bicycles with lots of youngsters riding across the Glenmore Forest Park towards adventures and yet more fun.  Graham directs us onwards and upwards once more towards the Reindeer and practice at riding on real roads with real traffic.  It will be fine.  We are all careful of the young and careless of any cost to ourselves from the occasional selfish sod at the wheel of his metal machine.  We are cyclists today and hate motorists who impinge on our space and threaten our youngsters.  Suggestions we block the road from all other traffic whilst our youngsters navigate the road safely are overruled as probably illegal.  All passes safely and the wiser councils are shown to be - wiser.

Most of the party manages to negotiate the terrain to where the path crosses the confluence of Allt Ban and Allt na Ciste (translates roughly as 'Cyclists are Ban-ned').  A halt is called to allow a roll-call of the party to be taken.  A couple of the smallest youngsters are missing but this is considered an acceptable loss given most of the the brood have made it.  Nature can be cruel.

The Red Leader explains that the Blue Leader and the Grey Leader have gone on ahead to clear the forthcoming river crossing of hidden underwater obstacles.  This will make the river crossing safe and straightforward with a smooth progress from one bank to another.  The frequent exhortations to the youngsters (and adults alike) to 'just keep pedalling like crazy' raise some questions about the quality of the obstacle clearance process.

Not only are the youngsters fearless, adults with heavy backpacks consider this task a bagatelle.  Feet in the water only scores 5 points away; falling in and getting the backside wet is the real damage with 50 points conceded.  All manage to avoid the dreaded 50-pointer .

With stopwatch poised, the Red Leader announces that a new record of 9.36 seconds - and only 5 penalty points - has been set.  This encourages the remaining competitors.

The Blue Leader gives a practical demonstration of how it should be done.  Regrettably, he picks up 10 penalty points as the judges point out that the (admittedly small) helium balloon on his back did give a somewhat unfair advantage.


The Blue Leader looks thoughtfully to see if the damage caused to previous cyclists has led others to become somewhat more reluctant.  He need not fear; the youngsters are fearless.

Safely negotiating the danger, all the group press on towards the second river crossing that is described as 'dead easy' by the Leaders.  Some of the group wonder whether 'dead' or 'easy' will prevail.  They need not worry.  The crossing of Allt na Ciste is negotiated with no worries.  We are all relieved.

All too soon, we arrive at the T-junction where the planned route turns upwards towards a small lochan where the trip will reach its 'turnaround' point.  Female intuition (or is it just imagination) is concerned.  The Good Lady suggest The Knee (a source of pain and suffering for many a long month) would benefit from a return to camp.  The Author concurs.  An asthmatic youngster asks permission to accompany this breakaway group; he is welcomed.  So fate entwines us all in its unforeseeable grip as we all wish each other well and go our separate ways.

The Author, Good Lady and Youngster enjoy an uneventful journey, modestly paced, back to the camp where all is well.  The Author uses this part of the story to include an unrequired and unsolicited picture of the Good Lady.

Not quite so elsewhere, alas, as one of the other youngsters demonstrates the fragility of human collar-bones in the circumstances of a crash landing at speed.  He is in excellent hands, however, and is brought safely back with much surrounding assistance and compassion.  It is quite touching.  He will repair quickly is the verdict, unlike his adult fellow sufferer (Tony) who will almost certainly have to endure a protracted recovery period.  Or not.  As the case may be.  [Look, this isn't a medical column.  All this accident stuff is a pain.]

So to the events of the evening.  Actually, to THE event of the evening.  Fed and watered, patched up where needed, alcohol in hand where appropriate, the hardy band of Harriers gathers in The Hall for Fun and Frolics.  And George's Famous Karaoke - with smoke.  This will undoubtedly be a triumph as George's evenings invariably are.  There will be excitement, music and..... and noise.  What can that intrusive sound be, we wonder?  We wonder only for 2.5 milliseconds as the all-too-familiar screech of smoke alarms assaults our delicate orifices - and our ears.

Smoke alarms.  Smoke.  Effect.  Oh, well - we have firefighters on hand.  George, anyway.  So a quick burst of uncontrollable laughter and head for the alarm to switch it off and return to fun, frolics and music.  So where is the alarm?  Well, there's one about 15 feet above our heads.  Right-oh.  So where's the control panel then?  No problem - the Badaguish staff who are doubtless about to arrive can soon sort it out.  Dum-de-dum-de-dum-de-dum strum our fingers.  Five minutes.  Ten minutes.  Fifteen minutes.  Various Harriers with engineering skills attack what can be seen.  One down, one to go.  Still no on-site staff appear.  What can they be doing, we wonder?  Oh, yes - they're in a meeting.  Clearly more important than roasting flesh.  Lucky there isn't any.

We occupy the time usefully.  Injured Harriers have their photos taken triumphantly.  Alcohol is consumed.  Rascals make unnecessary 999 calls on their mobiles - possibly.  Alcohol is consumed.  Couples wander off to make love - possibly.  Alcohol is consumed.  Youngsters play; then cycle; then kick footballs; then consume alcohol - possibly.  Alcohol is consumed.  Yawns replace happy countenances.  George looks temporarily uncertain.  Will the karaoke ever get going again or will the audience have found a better gig?  Of course not!!

Order is finally restored and music and festivities resume.  Dancing gets under way as strange Celtic movements circle the available space.  Soft, flowing clothing flows softly and then madly.  Excitement gathers pace in a crescendo of adrenaline.  Will diminuendo ever follow?  Long-distance cyclists appear having thwarted the elements on their lung and leg-bursting endeavours.  Restorative alcohol is consumed.  Jokes flow.  [For those that didn't hear, here's one.  Scientists have discovered that the most perfectly round item in the known universe is the electron.  One went into a bar with a proton for a drink.  The proton says to the electron "Your round."  "Are you sure" says the electron.  The proton says "I'm positive".]  OK - send me a better one then.

The evening draws to its gentle close as the strains of the karaoke and the strained accompanying voices fade peacefully into Sunday.  Parents drift off to their slumber in the confident knowledge of about five hours sleep.  Participants drift off with thoughts of tomorrow's Tortoise & Hare & Youngster Handicap in their minds.  Will it be fun?  Will it work out?  Who will cross the line first?  Will anyone fall over and break another part of the human anatomy?  Will anyone care?  Most of all, will anyone get lost?  No, it's all OK - everything has been thought of.  [Ed. But I thought this was a Harriers event?]

So to Sunday morning.

The day dawns brightly but not everyone notices.  It is around 4.45 so there's an excuse.  Even the canine can't be bothered to respond to daylight at this ridiculous hour.  A fire alarm outside George's bus shelter would be fun - but wiser council prevails and all remains pacific and tranquil.  Small youngsters stir gradually; parents stir even more gradually; George stirs his porridge.  He is wise.

By 9am, the camp is a veritable hubbub of activity and excitement.  The Main Event is scheduled to start at 1030 by the camp entrance.  We await our orders.  Good Lady is persuaded to be Official Timekeeper by the Court Physician.  She is unsure of her credentials but then realises they were clean on this morning.  Lists are produced.  Teams have been selected.  Runners are advised of their team-mates.  Teeth are knashed.  Elsewhere, hands are rubbed in glee.  Some do both.

We are briefed by the Good Doctor.  First go the Hares.  Then the Tortoises.  Then the Youngsters.  We pretend to understand.  But we are raring to go and will do as we are bidden.  It is a Handicap Race so the fastest will go off first and the slowest last.  Do not ask why.  All will be revealed.  Eventually.  Careful planning has produced a predicted result whereby all the Youngsters will cross the line at the same time.  Or not.

So 1030 approaches - then flies past.  But we are almost ready to go and before we can say 1-2-3, the Good Doctor is off at a gallop.  With a cry of "You're going the wrong way" from a competitive brother-in-law, the Good Doctor waves a hand but only manages to show two of his fingers.  The message is understood.  Soon more Hares are despatched and before long a solitary Aussie is left wondering if she has been forgotten.  But no, eventually she is also despatched in a futile attempt to catch some-one.  Is this a further humiliation to heap on Oz after The Ashes?  Perhaps.

Before eyes can blink, cries of "Phil's here" ring across the forest.  It is indeed our Physician, uncaught by other Hares who have so far failed valiantly.  Or perhaps not.  Is the Handicap working we wonder?  We cannot tell for many minutes yet.  Further excitement mounts as Phil and Doug appear almost together and race for the line as though it matters.  Men, eh?  Phil prevails despite cries of "He's behind you" from the crowd of well-wishers.

Hares hare in at intervals whilst The Author snoozes as he awaits his last-to-leave Aussie team member.  There will be a long wait.  When it feels as though Monday has arrived, Oz appears having strained every sinew to keep the gap to the penultimate team down to mere hours.  Your Author is unleashed at last and gives chase to a 'Tortoise' with the same half marathon time as himself.  Short of injury to the runner ahead, this promises be a chase in vain.  Settling into his usual admittedly tortoise-like gait, your Author notes the gap as he passes measuring points.  Same here.  Same here.  Bit less here.  Bit more here.  Well, well, times are going to be very similar.  Just like the half marathon.

It is fun shouting at all the others as they struggle up in the opposite direction.  But half-way comes at the bottom of The Hill.  Youngsters high-five the Author as he goes into Overdrive for the trip Uphill.  Pacing himself carefully, he adopts the same gait as on the recent marathon thus ensuring that the consequential marathon pace results.  Is it worth trying for more speed?  Of course!!  Push, push, push, you old dog you.  Catch that runner or die trying.  Whoa!  No dying just yet.  Reach the part of the course where Youngsters are approaching.  See, unsurprisingly, that many are already flying around their leg of the race.  Then, almost miraculously, the line is suddenly just there so across we go and high-fives to Youngster with wings on his heels.  Good Luck - you'll need something...

Check time - as if it matters...  Same (near enough) as Chased Lady.  She is incredulous and disbelieving.  But it is true.  It really was a chase in vain.  But fun.  Sort of.  Much more fun is the last part as the Flying Youngsters start to appear with youth, vigour and determination unsullied by cynicism and failure.  Talent follows talent as the results of the Handicap system are revealed.  Not entirely a blanket finish but a nice thought anyway.  Clearly motivated Youth undoubtedly a great addition to the proceedings.

Now as to answering Youth's questions about that handicapping calculation.....  Some things in the Universe are beyond explanation.  Just enjoy.

So races run, prizes won, Harriers' fun, week-end done.  No question - seriously good addition to the Harriers esprit de corps.  And not too far to go.  And not too costly to do.  And time with friends.  And new friends found.  And health (for most) enhanced - the others will recover.

Most important of all - I got my car on the grass, er, field.  Hope I don't need a Disabled Sticker and a white stick to go with the canine to get the same next year.

If this account rings true, you're on illegal drugs.  If it raised a smile (or two), that's nice.  If not, the Author's actually the one in the red top in the following picture.

So How's The Marathon Training Gone?

So you've read the two previous blogs. If you haven't, get on with it now. Dum-de-dum-de-dum. OK, read them now? And the result was - what exactly? Mixed. Interesting. Funny in parts. Humbling in others. Quite an experience.

Some Scottish bloke once wrote:

'The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!'

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 1. Plan. Plan. Plan. Make copies of maps. Discuss arrangements for wife to be in suitable locations for photos. Everything thought of. BUT then you leave all the paperwork at home. Brilliant. Still, it's all in my head, isn't it? And I'm articulate, aren't I? Wife worries. I'm confident. Unnecessarily.

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 2. You know how it is. Call of nature in the night. Fumble around in the dark so as not to disturb your partner. Disorientated. Duck your head under a (supposed) obstacle. Bang your head. Head bleeds. Stem the flow as best you can knowing there's going to be evidence in the morning.  Ho-hum.

For last year's Edinburgh Half Marathon, we decided to camp. We like camping. Lovely site (Mortonhall), easy to get to Edinburgh City Centre and also the countryside (Pentlands). So this year, the same. Arrive Friday so we have Saturday free. Then we're not the only ones and things to arrive. First, it's sixteen Italian campervans in convoy. Nearest to us is a humungous black coach-sized campervan complete with dune buggy only slightly smaller than our car. Now we know where the Mafia go on holiday.

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 3. Then it's the wind. Then the wind's Big Brother. Then the Big Brother's Bigger Brother. Friday night gives us not enough sleep and me a bent head. What shape will I be in on Sunday morning? Pasta pasta for dinner keeps the Italian theme going.

But Saturday turns out much nicer. Walk the dog. Ancient dog (aged 14 in November) seems ready for anything so off to Howe Dean Path, an amble down Hermitage of Braid, snack at a dog-friendly bistro then back to Mortonhall. Very restful walking. And more pasta for Saturday dinner. Check the bum-bag; jelly babies, energy bars, water bottle, mobile phone, plasters, Bus Pass in case Judith has to park in Glasgow. Now for tomorrow.

Sunday dawns brightly. More protein and carbs for breakfast. Can preparation have been more thorough? The distressing answer lies blissfully unguessed. How to travel to the start - bus? car? Car wins. Less eco, more restful. Travel in confidence to the Start Area. This is how it looks. Soon this will be filled with elite athletes followed by the masses. And me. Maybe.

Many are gathered. Many queue for the facilities. But there appears to be something wrong. My number is coloured sky-blue. No sky-blue pen here. My number is 10385. The baggage trucks have no such number. Memory kicks in. MY start is elsewhere.

Check with sensible-looking helper who confirms I should be up the road. Leg it up the road (well, I am supposed to be able to run 26 miles - how can 800 yards hurt?). Then I become concious of something else.

Life Won't Take Orders - Part 4. Pasta can't run. It crawls through the Alimentary Canal like an overweight elephant. The normal (non-marathon days) breakfast to my body, however, consists of ingredients designed for high-speed sprinting. They regularly chase each other through my system in a desperate bid to win their own Olympic Gold Medal for the shortest time from Entrance to Exit. Healthy, the medics call it. Stupid, my brain calls it on Marathon Weekend. Didn't I know to consign the Alimentary Sprinters to the cupboard at home and only bring the turgid slowcoaches?.

Too late. The sprinters realise the ancient exit system is a pushover. But then what are the Portacabins for, if not to deal with such matters? In the heat of battle, however, the normally well-functioning brain fails to compute and ignores the developing disaster. This will end in tears. If only the owner of this body had any modesty. Or bashfulness. Or desperately low self-confidence. In the absence of these admirable virtues, all that is left is complete absence of shame. And a bad odour.

But the focus now is on The Race; worries will come later. In quickly increasing numbers, the assembling runners are threatening to make impossible the meeting of Strathearn Harriers Relay Team Leg 1 runner - Beth - with the now-compromised author. It seems they don't care. Should I shout? Should I make an exhibition of myself? Too late - already done that.

The milling throng mills and still no Beth. Desperately, the author climbs onto (hopefully) sturdy railings and awaits developments. As the clock ticks inexorably towards 10am, suddenly, there is Beth waving frantically as she recognises the moron in the Strathearn Harriers vest. Phew! Made it in time.

A quick embrace (has this woman no sense of smell?) and then photographic evidence that white hat and sunglasses do not necessarily a fashionable man make. The looks from nearby runners confirm this opinion.

So 10am arrives. We're off! Oh - no actually, we're not. We shuffle forwards. We stop. We shuffle some more. This is a pace I feel I can keep up for 26 miles; the finish though might be on Monday. At last the Starting Arch appears and we leap forwards from a shuffle to a turgid amble. That's better; running pace at last.

The Edinburgh Marathon is billed (partly) as The Fastest Marathon In The UK (by whom, I think?). That's on a meteorologically calm day - which this ain't. Still, the opening section is mostly downhill so I can sort of see what they mean. We wind through unknown streets until we spy Holyrood Palace and the now-familiar sight of the strange Scottish Parliament building hoves into view. Time for a quick on-the-move photo. The edifice has never looked lovlier as is does when photographed artfully to look completely irregular. Oh, but then it is completely irregular.

Cheering crowds have so far lined our route and uplifting they are indeed. Beth has a friend who promises to cheer from a vantage point near to Holyrood. Beth looks in vain. Friend clearly doesn't know how to be distinctive amongst the throng. Still, nice thought.

On we perambulate and pass an athletics stadium. But we aren't athletes so we aren't allowed in. One day Meadowbank will be ours. But not today. But as the concrete big stuff fades away, we are greeted by a glimpse of the sea - well, the Firth of Forth anyway. Blessedly avoiding the Sewage Works (though my costume smells like one), we gallop ever onwards towards Portobello and The Path By The Water.

The view is splendid. So we spoil it.

Well, one of us does, anyway.

We also get our first glimpse of the changeover from Leg 1 to Leg 2 and the exciting prospect of running with Mr George Carson - YES, THAT George Carson. My cup runneth over.

Actually, that wasn't the only thing running over. I try to effect improvement to my Alimentary consequences by pouring water down the back of my shorts. This has the apparently comic effect of turning my legs into a bad case of poorly applied fake tan. My naturally bronzed and stunning legs are transformed into works of art normally seen only on statues thousands of years old. I am unaware of this sad and pathetic effect. Only later do I realise that I am so unabashed, I don't care anyway. Old age and very young age may have nappies in common but they also have blissful lack of care for image. No wonder the runners who passed me speeded up as they got downwind.

During Leg #1, the kindly organisers had placed a timing mat at 10kms. I later learned that Beth & I crossed it at 1hr 4mins 24secs. 6.44 mins/km or 10.36 mins/mile. A bit quick compared to my expectation - but then we did have the wind behind us.

And it came upon us suddenly!! Here is Changeover #1 and the arrival of George. So farewell then, Beth. You have guided me through the first third and been kind enough not to mention my new style of scatalogical experimentation. Good luck with your daughter's ballet rehearsal later today and the exam tomorrow.

And here's the splendid George (who's idea this Relay Team was in the first place) ready for the fray. Except there isn't one. George is an old hand at this marathon business having completed the Edinburgh two years ago. When the water ran out. George has endured. And is a honed athlete. Clearly. I am fortunate indeed to know him, let alone have his company. I feel I am not worthy.

George's greeting is typical of the man's caring, considerate and diplomatic nature. "Had an accident, then?" No, it wasn't accidental, George; my body did it deliberately. Still, it did persuade me that at the next water stop I should make some attempt to sluice my lower half. Just down the road, came the opportunity. Several minutes, and a few dozen litres, later I went from unacceptably awful to just merely anti-social. "Don't worry about it" says George. "I'm not" say I - and mean it.

Shortly, we espy the telling signal that is the Police motorcycle escort. For the leading runner coming the other way at a lick. Why is there no wind on that side of the road, I wonder? Clearly there can't be for him to run at that speed. And we're not even half-way. It's OK for them that only run for three hours or less. What about the endurance athletes such as George & I that toil round for many more hours than that?

We seem to have gone no distance at all when - what's that noise? Surely not some-one's mobile ringing? But yes - it is. It's George's phone - and my wife on the other end. Does she imagine I'm dead?  Or worse - my phone not working? Turns out she's just arrived at Changeover #2 and is anxious to know that she's not brought the camera in vain. George reassures her.

And so the change from George to Kirsty and more statistics at the half-marathon point. Here's the more interesting part of that. Kirsty pretends she's cold in the biting westerly. I pretend that taking photographs for posterity is the only reason I've made a temporary stop.

And proof that running a half-marathon does nothing for glamour.

Or the inhibitions of the exhibitionist.

For the statisticians, half-marathon reached in 2hrs 22mins 11secs. This is 6.74 mins/km or 10.84 mins/mile overall. It also means that the last 11kms or so have been run at around 7 mins/km or 11.28 mins/mile. Slowing down, obviously.

So Kirsty joins me for what I don't expect to be the easiest Leg (for me). From Changeover #2, we run for about four miles with the wind behind us then turn round and hope the wind's changed direction. The turn-round point should come as an incentive; only nine more miles to go. It isn't any incentive; the wind sees to that. I feel like I've suddenly slowed to the point where athletic tortoises will pass me. But then what's this I see before me? We are turned left into the grounds of Gosford House where the trees give relief from the rushing air. But the road surface is rutted and uneven. My feet suddenly hurt. My body sends urgent signals to my brain to stop this madness, sit down, massage feet and legs and then get a taxi home.

But then there's Kirsty. What will she say if I give up now? "Get up, you lazy good-for-nothing pensioner. Don't you know we workers are keeping you in your Old Age Pension and Free Bus Pass? Can't you show some gratitude and just keep going? How hard can it be for heaven's sake?" No, there's no question. I have to keep going. As the newspaper headline once said "More snow coming: grit your teeth" So I grit what's left of my knashers, tell my extremities they should think themselves lucky to belong to such a fine upstanding athlete as myself, and emerge from the trees into the wind proper. And the road surface just gets worse. Don't Gosford House know how to maintain proper roads? Scandalous.

30 km timing mat passes under my feet almost unnoticed. It records exactly 3hrs 30mins. So that's exactly 7 mins/km or 11.27 mins/mile. Distance since the half-marathon point run at 7.62 mins/km or 12.26 mins/mile. Still slowing down - unsurprisingly, the post-race arrival of the actual numbers confirms the feelings in the legs at the time.

So I stagger, and Kirsty runs, into the wind and back towards the Changeover Point, this time to become Changeover #3 from Kirsty to Charlie. I would wonder how Charlie's feeling but, at this point, I frankly couldn't care less. I've run over 20 miles in training several times but Mile 22 in the Edinburgh Marathon with a serious headwind feels like Mile 32. Or 42. Maybe they've measured it wrongly my crazed brain wonders.

But what's this? A familiar bit of road. Surely this isn't the bit leading to the Changeover Point? But YES, it is! Kirsty confirms this by waving at me disconsolately. She was clearly wanting to run a lot further. Or was that just my imagination? I am now going so slowly that I see not only Charlie but also George and a woman looking exceedingly like my wife with a camera. They are not mirages or the product of my fevered brain.

George and Kirsty join me on my left as Charlie walks beside me on my right. Yes, I am finally walking - at least along the road by the Changeover Area. Will I be able to resume running, I wonder?

My wife calls out "GIve us a wave then, you miserable git". I reproach her for speaking of Charlie this way and we both affect a smile and give her the required wave. I decide that walking is sad and get back to the running. Well, I think, I only walked a couple of hundred metres. Not far now.

And so past the 23 mile marker and less than 5kms to go. Should be easy. Should be. But it isn't. My legs finally let go at around 24 miles (not enough jelly babies, I wonder?). So I walk, a bit. Then I run, a bit. Then I walk again, a bit. Then I run again, a bit. Then the crowds start to swell. Pride steps in; surely I can run to the finish from here? So I do. In the way of these things, I even manage to summon up one last bit of energy and pass a couple of other participants just before the line. Oh, the thrill of the win!

This year, the Finish is different from last year's half marathon that I ran so I am momentarily uncertain. "I need to sit down on that wall there, Charlie, if that's OK" I murmur. So I slump onto some unsuspecting householder's pride and joy and trust I don't leave my mark. A minute or two's recovery and I feel I can make it onwards. I am too knackered to summon up graciousness and feel in retrospect that I am insufficiently grateful to Charlie for seeing me through Hell.  We raise ourselves from the seated position, round the corner of the next street and there are all the finishing arrangements. First Aid tent (shall I? shan't I? No). Winner's medals (of a colour I still associate with cheap 'Made in Taiwan' items of my youth). And goody bags. And bananas. And Lucozade. And water. I take them all, some more than once.

And photographers - not the kind that Hollywood stars get. These papparazzi line runners up against a wall and shoot them. I feel this is appropriate - They Shoot Horses Don't They? "Website pictures here" the young man shouts, as though the website in question will end up with attractive pictures of healthy young people in various stages of deshabille. Actually, that's almost correct - only the 'attractive' bit doesn't work somehow.

Charlie has the logistical problem of collecting presents for Beth, George and Kirsty as well as himself. His talent for holding quantities of slippery plastic bags is impressive as well as unsuspected. He points out that he has no mobile with him and is therefore reliant on me to communicate with the others to make sure we meet safely. I am humbled by his trust. And not confident it is placed wisely.

The Baggage Truck coughs up my bag with ancient Nike tracksuit and I stumble into it as I start to feel the cold. We make our way through the throng a distance that seems to me about another five miles to the Reunion Area. Once safely onto a clear bit of grass, I slump and almost immediately nearly succomb to cramp - in both legs. I hastily stretch out and lie down. I shiver. I shiver a lot.

I then realise it's my job to call Judith. Or George. Three calls later to each, I'm still no nearer - they don't reply.

There's a Coffee kiosk nearby so I stagger towards it whilst still trying the mobile. I'm in the queue wondering which will arrive first, the coffee or my imminent collapse, when the mobile rings. Through my haze, I finally work out that it's Judith who's with Charlie! I leave the coffee to its own devices and stumble back to The Team. George & Kirsty emerge from a crowd and suddenly we are complete. I shiver. I shiver a lot. I am given my fleece, my jacket, the dog and two cups of sweet tea.

The Team look on, discussing how many other pall-bearers they might need when the clearly imminent death arrives. I proceed to issue Disappointment Notices (again) by very quickly making a complete recovery and proving it by standing up. The dog is happy.

So once more I thank the brave and stalwart Relay Team and also encourage Charlie to say my further thanks to Beth. We part company to make our way to our respective vehicles parked at some distant point with the promise we must do this again one day. But not tomorrow. Or anytime soon.

Judith having had to park the car two parishes away, the delightful extended walk to our car keeps my legs from seizing up. I am proud to find that 26.2 miles is not my limit for the day. I'm then treated to a ride back to the campsite without doing anything more than admire my wife's driving skill. And she gets back unerringly. The SatNav has nothing to do with it; probably.

So, restored to humanity and polite company through the kind offices of a hot shower and fresh clothes, I assist my good lady as we finally decamp (encouraged by George's advice that even worse weather is on its way) and head back to sunny Crieff for an evening involving wine and rest. I reflect on all the messages of encouragement I've had before the event. I'm then more than taken aback by the mass of (mainly electronically delivered) messages of congratulation that flood in.

I am humbled. All I've done is follow what (probably) more than a million human beings have now done - run their first marathon. Whilst most of them weren't into their 67th year when they did it, I haven't felt that my age was any distinction. Certainly my time wasn't! (The winner in my age category recorded a time of 2:58:32 - now that's talent.).

So - would I do it again?

Even before Sunday, I entered the Loch Ness Marathon in October. I thought "If Edinburgh's a disaster, I want another commitment to keep me going. If it's not, I've proved to myself I can get round so why not see what happens next time?". Of course, at Loch Ness I'll have to run without the psychological support and physical presence of Sunday's wonderful Relay Team. That's OK. I still don't care about times; I just want to get round and not be destroyed for weeks (or months).

As I complete this blog less than 48 hours after I finished in Edinburgh, I'm feeling fine. I did go out for a short run with some of my Strathearn Harriers clubmates in the wind & rain yesterday morning (I think they were a mite surprised to see me) and whilst the legs are still feeling it a bit and the pain in the neck has still to finally vanish, the bump on the head is healing nicely, I seem to have a cold (or hay fever) but I really do feel very well. If the training is anything to go by, I should continue to be OK.

So, the ravages of the years to come allowing, and assuming that race organisers continue to admit geriatrics, I'll keep going for a bit yet. Of course, if anyone in future asks what I think of the runs, I now have a choice of scatalogical, physiological or athletical answers to choose from.... Hopefully, if their taste may be questionable, the answers will at least be funny.

Thank you for bothering to read this far. If it brought the odd smile to your lips, I'm happy. If it didn't, you're clearly a miserable git - so lighten up.

And just in case you need it to be said - if I can do it, so can you.

So How's The Marathon Training Going (Part 2)?

You know how it is.  You dream of doing something really wicked - and in your dream there's no hurtful consequences.  Like overtaking a police car in a 30 mph area - and they just wave you on with a smile and a "Good Morning, Sir".  Like telling your mother-in-law her favourite dish that she serves when you visit tastes like wombat's doo - and she thanks you for the compliment.  Like telling your boss he's useless and should get a job as a Council Cleansing Operative and you're thanked for the career advice.

I dreamed - as usual, the reality DID hurt.

A (calendar) month to go to The Big Day and the writer of the Marathon Training Guide I'm (sort of) following recommends a run of 29kms this week - and one of 33kms next week before the 'tapering down' starts.  Wimp!  If 29kms, why not 39kms?  If 39kms, who not go The Whole Hog and do 42kms?  Nothing like feeling the pain when there's no-one to observe the embarrassing consequences.

Maunday Thursday.  The Monarch gives succour to the poor.  This year, 85p in Maunday money.  A good day to remember those who suffer.  Me included.  But is self-induced suffering worthy of succour?  Probably not.

Is petroleum jelly what you give at children's parties to fire them up?  I'd come across runners addicted to the stuff but wasn't quite sure if they ate it or rubbed it where the sun doesn't shine.  Turns out to be the latter.  So why not try it, I ask?  So, seduced by Boots 3 for 2 offer, I acquire three pots of the stuff.  Not sure where it shouldn't go so rub it in liberally everywhere that clothes touch.  If Judith takes it in her head to grab me now, I'll probably slide off at warp speed like the petroleum really has been lit.

0830.  Two water bottles - full.  Hat - in case sun comes out (again).  Plasters for any damage occasioned en route.  Jelly babies.  Energy bars.  Fully charged mobile phone and headphones with MP3 player operational.  Housekey.  Now replace sensible head with stupid head.  Leave.

See all the children going to school.  Recognise the looks of pity for shuffling old person clearly headed for the Knackers Yard.  Resist temptation to look like a proper runner and burn out in the first mile and continue the Old Man Shuffle until out of sight up the Balloch Road.  Bliss.  Solitude.  Except for the Z4 sports car coming up behind and causing the first of the morning's Jump Onto The Verge To Avoid Bodily Injury events.  Then a car appears ahead coming this way.  Then another.  Don't these people have any respect?

So through Balloch and up the only serious hill to the Drummond Castle Plateau.  Tractor and trailer approach from behind.  Not so much the noise of the tractor engine that alerts me as the smell from the trailer.  Why does animal feed smell of molasses?  Does it have to so the animals will eat it?  Or do they spread it on toast made from Farmer's Wife home-made bread?  Better the smell of molasses than that of pig excrement, I suppose.

Target time to the Blairinroar Road, 55 minutes; actual time, 55 minutes 6seconds.  So far, so good.

Water to be sipped regularly, not gulped spasmodically.  (Maybe I didn't fit the stupid head properly.)  Jelly babies regularly.  Energy bars from ten miles.  It's a Plan!

Travel on steadily then hear a quad-bike approaching from behind; it's the farmer and dog I met the other day herding sheep down the road.  Recognition and, surprisingly, a cheery greeting from him.  Nice to meet friends unexpectedly - if briefly.

Approaching the Comrie-Braco road; target time, 1 hour 40 minutes; actual time 1 hour 41 minutes 40 seconds.  Not overdoing then.  Across the road to enjoy the benefits of road surfacing not yet recognised as in need of post-winter repair by PKC.  The advertised 'gel' element of my running shoes are put to the test and found wanting.  I can still feel the loose stones through my soles.  And my soul.  In both cases, uncomfortably.  This could end badly.

So to the junction that is Wester Meiggar; and south-west down Glen Artney and the Highland Boundary Fault line (Wikipedia explains all - if you don't already know).  Target time, 2 hours or so; actual time, 2 hours 4 minutes.  Slowing down it seems; probably wise.  Last time in Glen Artney, I was caught napping by a car from behind so keep glancing behind like a Paranoid Android with a nervous tic.  Approaching last time's literal turning point, I'm feeling OK so press on.  Before I know it, the road is going downhill and I know I'm approaching the Old Dalchruin School House.  Target time, not less than 2 hours 30 minutes; actual time, 2 hours 38 minutes 25 seconds.

Is this good, that I'm quite a bit slower to half-way and therefore conserving energy; or is it bad that I'm knackered already?  Take on water, consume energy bar, admire view of Glen Artney I'd not seen before.  Promise myself I should walk here one day - ideally with my wife complete with mended knee.  Enough.  I'm not a tourist and there's no transport waiting for me.  Except a pony; shanks' pony.

So to the return.  As I reclimb the incline, it dawns on me that I'm headed into a gentle breeze, the presence of which had eluded me before.  It must be coming from the north-east in complete contradiction of all that's normal.  Still, it's not strong and quite pleasant really.  I try to stop myself computing how much extra effort I'll have to expend to defeat it on the way back.  Just enjoy, I hear some madman saying in my head.

It's turning into a day for meeting old friends of the road.  As I near Wester Meiggar, I realise I have a car behind.  Lo and behold it's the very same lady who surprised me from behind (so to speak) on an earlier visit.  Waving her on cheerily, I expect this to be the last time our paths will cross.  The Fates have more of a sense of humour.  Not two minutes later, there is her car stationary at the junction.  It's either parked (well, it's no more than five feet from the road edge), abandoned or the lady's become invisible.  Suddenly, she re-appears upright in the driving seat having presumably been fishing around on the floor or the glovebox for something.

As I draw level, all becomes clear.  She is talking in animated fashion on a mobile phone to what I can only presume is another woman (or is it a gay man?).  I run past; she ignores me.  I travel on wondering if I'm going to be approached from the rear by her again in a few minutes.  I am not excited by the prospect.

In the midst of all this excitement, I realise the time is now 3 hours 14 minutes.  I am still slowing down; or is it the breeze and climbing back up the hill?  I decide I don't care and focus on more water, another jelly baby and my increasingly painful feet.  And that damaged and unrepaired road that's doing those feet no favours.  Head for the Coilcambus crossroads and that tempting seat with the fine views.  Ease down to a walk as I approach the road; how ironic to run so far and get mown down in the middle of nowhere by a motoring moron.  OK, no traffic so jog confidently back into the Blairinroar road and only 9 miles to get home.

Bravely ignoring the seat, I get out of sight of the main road and realise I need a break.  Relapsing into submission, I take a comfy seat on a wall, inspect my toes and declare them fit for purpose.  More food and drink then off up the slope.  The next mile is not fun; in fact, it's The Mile I Wouldn't Run If Someone Came Along And Offered Me A Lift.  But of course no-one does.  So I carry on.  Rather to my surprise, I don't actually die and another mile or so further, my body stops fooling about and releases a minute shred of energy back into my legs again.  Weird.

Remembering I have another energy bar, I'm forced to stop to retrieve it having failed to work out how to do so on the move.  As I stand there having a chew, the one vehicle to pass me in the four miles of this leg goes by.  It is a long, low, expensive Mercedes estate car driven by a long, low, expensive woman; probably an estate woman at that.  She gives me a disdainful look.  Fortunately she's going in the wrong direction or I might have lain down in front of her car in desperation for a lift.  Or not.

Whatever passes for a second wind is now in my sails and I jog onwards to the point where it is, quite literally, downhill (almost) all the way to Crieff.  As I hum along to the music in my ears, I am interrupted in my reverie by what sounds like a telephone ringing.  Realising quickly that it IS a telephone ringing, I quickly fish out the mobile, hastily press something or other and hope the caller hasn't gone (unless it's a sales call).  It's my wife, enquiring about my health and safety before she goes off to lunch with a friend.  I reassure her that my Current Energy Crisis is one readily solved if only I can reduce my emissions and increase my miles per litre.  Refreshed emotionally by this caring call, I ignore the fact that I'm still just as knackered and keep going.

So the turn by Drummond Castle wall where the outward leg took 55 minutes.  Going back is largely downhill so surely can't be longer?  So only 55 minutes to home.  And 4 hours 15 minutes running (plus a few minutes rest) since I left.  I now rediscover the controversial fact that running downhill can be slower than running uphill.  This conflict with the Laws of Gravity and Einsteinian Physics operates largely with The Old and the Timid; it appears not to afflict the Young and the Brave.  Einstein never mentioned this so far as I know.

I mentally divide up the remaining miles into 'laps' in my head.  This way, I know the distance will pass easily and readily and I will arrive home in fine shape.  Ho-*******-ho.  First lap, to Balloch.  The rain gently starts to fall.  Actually, doing OK so far; and the rain helps.  Second lap, to North Bridge.  Get to Stuart Crystal and Graham Martin remarkably fails to appear.  And there was me thinking he had nothing better to do.  Crawl over the bridge and ignore all other humans.  Pretend I'm a new species that always travels like this.

Round into Duchlage Road and onto the Market Park.  Less than a mile to go.  Take a young couple by surprise as they step back hastily to let an aged person shuffle by.  Spot another young couple ahead pushing a pram; use them as a target to catch to get me home.  Fail; they're going at normal walking pace which is clearly much too fast for me.  I rally and catch up to them at the bottom of my road.  Climb the hill and tell myself I should always be able to sprint the last 100 metres.  I continue to shuffle.

So at last I can stop the watch as I get to the house.  I daren't look at the time it records.  Just get in and recover,  I tell myself.  So in, drink, shower and crash.  Two hours later, Judith finds me still crashed and unaware I've lost two hours to slumber.  I arise and wonder how much my body will make me pay for my madness.

Good Friday.  And it is quite good.  Remarkably, no pain; hardly any stiffness; no damage to toes or other extremities.  5 hours 29 minutes 25 seconds I was out (of the house) and running for 5 hours and 15 minutes.  42.38kms.  685.6 metres of ascent and descent; over 2000 feet in old money - no wonder I got home a knackered Old Bloke.  Never again.  Well, not until the next time.  When it'll be flatter.  And busier.  And in Edinburgh on May 22nd.  I must be mad.

It WAS a wicked idea.  But I didn't dream it.  It hurt at the time but I got away with it.  All the same, I don't think it means I can overtake a police car in a 30mph area and get away with it.

So How's The Marathon Training Going?

Did I mention I entered the Edinburgh Marathon on 22nd May?  Probably not.

It's all that baby's fault - possibly.  Fellow Strathearn Harriers Al & Kaz were about to have Kaz deliver what turned out to be Murray.  A bottle of bubbly was offered by another Harrier to the person who got closest to day and time of birth plus birthweight and boy/girl prediction.

If there were two tickets in a lottery, I'd pick the wrong one.  So, confident as ever of failure, I promised I'd run the 2011 Edinburgh Marathon if I won.

Oh, the sense of humour of the Gods.

And so it transpired that 'For tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his owne petar'.  Blown up by my own gunpowder.  A delayed action fuse even, since I'll probably 'blow up' somewhere around 16-20 miles, or sooner.

This is not so fanciful or even guesswork; last Friday says so.  The latest instalment of training involved a run from home into the glory that is Glen Artney, south-west of Comrie, Perthshire.

Friday 8th April was glorious, if breezy.  The target was The Schoolhouse in Glen Artney, some 20kms or so from home.  A round trip approaching marathon distance, albeit I expected to stop a few times en route.  Packed water (600ml), jelly babies and mobile phone.  Wife working (without mobile phone) for most of the time I'd be running but, hey, I'm not going to need rescuing, am I?  Use the MP3 player on the mobile to while away the miles, not something I usually do.  Silence - or more correctly the sounds of the countryside - is usually preferable to me.  But I do like a slug of Sandy Dennis, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Kirsty McCall and so on mingled with Bruch, Tchaikovsky and Leoncavallo.  Eclectic, I think that's called.  Or mad.

So off into the teeth of the breeze and the first leg (8kms) that included most of the climbing I'd be doing.  Into Balloch (is Scotland just a load of Ballochs?) where a 20mph driver passes considerately.  Out again and round the back of Drummond Castle to head for Blar an Rodhar (Blairinroar).  Wind now hitting from the left as I head West past farms and the Scout & Guide campsite.  Intermittent shelter from the wind but find I actually like the feel of the fast-flowing, oxygen-laden breath of Mother Nature on my shoulder.

So across the B827 as vehicles scurry by to Comrie or Braco to the renewed peace of my westerly trek.  But then reality breaks into the poetic imaginings; my toes are hurting.

Since it's not a good idea to break in a new pair of running shoes on a marathon, I changed to one of my stored pairs a few weeks ago.  When I find shoes that suit me, I buy two or three pairs and put them away for later.  My feet aren't going to change, are they?....

So my toes are hurting and I don't feel like pretending this is the real thing so I stop, remove the shoes and get massaging.  Having only seen one vehicle on my bit of tarmac for nearly 10 miles, of course this is the perfect moment for vehicle #2 to pass.  A utility company 'white' van - driven not by White Van Man but by White Van Woman.  Equality reigns.

Glen Artney beckons so on with the shoes and down to Wester Meiggar and into South-West mode.  Check watch.  Just two hours so close enough to schedule.  Head for The Turning Point.  Hum-de-hum goes the MP3 player and its library of entertaining tunes.  The sun shines brightly on Beinn Dearg.  The hills are alive with the sound of music.

PARP!!  I leap skywards Apollo-like for at least 10cms and lurch sideways onto the grass verge.  Has Toad been reincarnated?  No.  Gently, a very nice lady driver in her 4x4 draws level from where she was following me and says through the open window "I'm SO sorry.  I didn't mean to startle you but with those.. " - she points at the MP3 ear-pieces now dangling from my neck - "I realised you couldn't hear me."  "Quite all right.  In a world of my own with all this.." - I gesture at Nature In All Her Glory - "as well as the music."  We part good friends.

So onwards and (mostly) downwards towards the end of Glen Artney.  But the miles are starting to tell their own story and it seems sensible to consider turning a little earlier than planned.  So I do, about 3 kms shy of the Car Park.

So back up Glen Artney, back to Wester Meiggar where the clock shows around 43 minutes for the round trip.  Plan A was to return via Cultibraggan and the Glascorrie Road.  This also involves several miles of the Strowan Road (back road Crieff-Comrie) that I don't care for much.  So I invoke Plan B and return the way I came.

27kms and the water's gone.  And it's got warmer.  And the breeze has receded.  And I'm tired.  Still, pop a couple more jelly babies into the mouth, get the energy in and see how we go.  Nature torments me with the sound of babbling brooks alongside the road but I'm not yet desparate enough to drink pond-life.  But what's that?  Can it really be a miniature waterfall emerging through a mossy enclosure next to the road?  Indeed it can.  Caution to the winds, fill water-bottle and drink icy-cold liquid in gulps.  Is this wise?  Possibly not....

Another kilometre and minor pain in the gut.  OH NO!!!!  The water was poisoned.....  Another kilometre and - the pain's gone.  More water, less pain.  WHEW!!  Good call after all.

Get to 30kms and it's (mostly) all downhill from here.  Back through Balloch and up the long drag to the A85.  A couple + dog emerge ahead about 150 metres ahead of me, the couple oblivious to me, the dog not.  Dog approaches; he knows I'm a Dogman, I know he's not a problem.  We run along together and, just as we are a few metres behing the couple, they realise they have no dog but that An Apparition has it.  I return their dog and very soon am standing on the edge of the A85 waiting for the traffic to go by.  I am oblivious to their nature.

So across the road onto the hundred or so metres of grass verge before the pavement starts near Stuart Crystal.  I walk, partly so I don't fall over into the traffic, partly for a breather.  I become aware that a man is walking towards me.  This is strange because this short pavement goes nowhere.  Then I realise - it's fellow Harrier Graham Martin.  How coincidental!  Well, not entirely.

Being a kindly soul and passing in his car a fellow Harrier in apparent distress, he rides to the rescue with the offer of a lift home.  He should be a doctor - diagnosis 100%.  (I THINK I'd have got home OK - about 2kms further - but you never know).  And he provides me with an unopened 500ml bottle of water to boot.  What a gent.  The water doesn't last a mile - could it be I was a trifle dehydrated?....

Safely delivered home, I restore what's left of me in the usual fashion under a deluge of water in the bathroom and also restore my depleted internal water supply - about 2 litres-worth.  The shower also provides evidence that my bald spot got slightly sunburned.  Smacked wrists for no hat - as well as not enough water.  Ho-hum.  Experience can be had at any age - even my advanced one.

Next morning, I go out for an 11km run 'round the block' on my regular routine run.  Slowest ever in 12 years of doing that route - but I don't care.  By the following morning, I wake up and walk downstairs without any pain and scarcely any stiffness.  That 11kms was a struggle but an investment well-worthwhile.

So will the Edinburgh Marathon be within my compass?  Possibly.  Probably.  Definitely.  One of them anyway.

But my kindly fellow Harriers, possibly motivated by fear of my succombing to the event, have formed a Relay Team (of four) to accompany me.  How can I possibly let them down?  It promises to be interesting - possibly - and (hopefully) even entertaining.  It will certainly be a challenge.  Many have now met that challenge, including my heroes George Carson and Fiona Lyle.  George will be there on the starting line and with me through Leg 1.  Beth, Liz and Charlie will follow on the next three Legs (Liz threatening to do Legs 3 AND 4).  I just hope I'll be there - on both legs - as Leg 4 comes to its glorious conclusion in the company of Charlie and Liz.

Watch this space.