Great Scottish Run - Glasgow Sunday 4th September 2011

Prelims.

Last year, A Moron entered the Great Scottish Run - a half marathon event around the streets of Glasgow.  His intended running companion - The Kindly Nurse first seen on 21st March 2010 (blogs passim) - was stricken of the palsy and unable to run.  Being the stalwart she is, she nonetheless accompanied The Moron as his Support Team; she is everlastingly kind to the nation's Morons.  In the event (ho-ho), The Moron ran 2hrs 7mins 8secs and was happy with that.  In the circumstances, The Nurse agreed to do it together with The Moron in 2011. 

This is the story.  Some of it is close to the truth.

The Moron's eye is currently on Loch Ness - the monster that is the marathon.  With that in mind, trying to get back to the mileages done in April in preparation for the Edinburgh Marathon in May (blogs passim) has proved arduous.  For reasons that even an Old Git can't fathom (confirming The Moron also as an Old Git), hill-running (when running up hills is so hated) has taken precedence over road-running to build up whatever it is in the legs and other bits.

18 August.  Decide to run Legs 1,2,3 & 4 of the infamous Strathearn Harriers 5x5 relay race.  For those with Ordnance Survey maps and an empty diary indicating no social life, the route goes (roughly) Crieff - Knock Mary - White Drums - Turleum Hill - Auchingarrich - Comrie - up between Cluain and Braefordie - Glen Turret dam - Hosh - Crieff.  Around 34 kms.  The relay race adds in a circuit of Laggan Hill (Leg 5).

Since the next day was Moron/Old Git's birthday, calling up a (family) taxi after Leg 3 might be a good move.  Got there, had enough so did.  So ended up running just over 27 kms.  And had a nice birthday.  But the whole route hadn't been done.  So of course had to have another go.  Well, I am The Moron.

25 August.  Off to Englandshire in the morning for a few days R&R at a funeral so decided that this would be a good day to have another go at Legs 1,2,3 & 4.  This time, another Nurse decides to accompany me as far as Comrie in case I collapse or otherwise injure myself.  This kindly lady normally brings her tendering skills to horticulture but decides I am weedy enough to qualify for her expertise.

So TKL's car is stashed at Comrie, return to Crieff and set off.  TKL gallops off and is about a hundred metres ahead before she realises the Moron isn't there.  A brief stop and the party is all together again.  And proceeds glacially towards North Bridge, Alichmore and Knock Mary.  The sheer athleticism of the pacing shows once again that, when it comes to the timing of athletic events, the stopwatch can sometimes be less useful than the calendar.

So through the woodland clearances, across the Balloch Road and onto Turleum.  Upwards & upwards.  MacHinery (one of the few 'Macs' you won't find in the telephone directory) has been busy turning the path beyond the TV mast into a motorway for logging trucks.  Plough on.  More upwards & upwards.  Then finally downwards through The Maze until Auchingarrich appears.  And so through the last of the countryside to emerge through Cowden into Comrie.

TKL reports Legs 1 & 2 as 'OK' and leaps into car before The Moron persuades her into Leg 3.

So off into Serious Territory and the climb to Braefordie.  More a walk than a run.  More of both feet on the ground at the same time than attempting to fly.  Then after Proper Hill #1, NN780235 still threatens death as the marsh crossing remains a Moron's Nightmare.  But all is safely negotiated with the prize of Proper Hill #2 to climb.  But soon, Braefordie is below and to the right and the easterly path to Loch Turret beckons.  Bliss.

Comes the dam, comes the judgement.  How's the Old Git doing?  OK, actually.  So no taxi then today.  And a nice descent to Hosh and home.  There's them as hates descents like I hate ascents.  Can't understand why that makes me The Moron.  But it fits Old Gits.  Anyway, steady does it and Home appears in just about five hours since I left.  Glacial.  But done.

So is The Moron ready for the Great Scottish Run?  And what about the Old Git?  Read on (as usual, only if you have both a sense of humour and no taste).

4 September - Race Day.  Not just The Moron and The Nurse this year.  Lots of Harriers are excited by the moronic experience last year and decide they also wish to share in the excitement that is the GSR.  So two cars; nine Harriers.  And a tenth meeting us there (supposedly).  Pick up folk in Crieff and Braco and head off for The Big City.

Suggest parking near #1 daughter's flat.  Handy for use of the loo and only a short walk to the Start.  Arrive safely.  Park.  Ring bell.  Use keys to enter building.  Knock on door but go in anyway.  Daughter wrapped only in towels announces she'd forgotten about our intended pit stop and attempts excoriation on Father.  Use of facilities proceeds calmly anyway.  We leave, Old Git a chastened parent.

Outside, a proposal to park nearer the Finish is approved by a show of hands.  It is suggested the loos at the Finish will be quieter than those at the Start.  This seems likely - and too intelligent a decision for A Moron.  We leave and reach the appointed location where all normal space is occupied.  We ignore this detail and park at the front and back of the line of parked cars anyway.  Note that my tow bar is hovering close to double yellow lines.  Then remembrance strikes.  Glasgow Traffic Wardens don't do Sundays.  It's against their religion (or possibly two).  We should be safe.

Take whatever seems appropriate and leave the cars.  We trust they're not torched in the meantime.  Wander towards Glasgow Green to seek out the loos.  It is not certain whether the sense of Vision or of Smell will be the more useful.  The Lead Team (possibly using all senses) finds the loos unerringly and use is made of them.

This enables the group to desport themselves before a willing camera.

Nicola demonstrates the size she expects her bump to be when her forthcoming pregnancy reaches eight months.  Kerry thinks trying to hide behind Alastair's humerus is humorous.  The Nurse screeches in supposed pain as the Moron gently treats her to a Vulcan mind grip.  The Moron practices his famous moronic grin; clearly a work in progress.  A doctor tries to remember if he gave the Nurse adequate quantities of the Moron's medicine to see them both through the next three hours.  The doctor wisely decides he couldn't care less.

An excited crowd gathers in George Square.  A mother briefs her child about the correct techniques for avoiding being crushed under foot in the first mile.  The child confirms it has understood.  Two almost incognito Strathearn Harriers (The Nurse given away by her largely-irrelevant white golf visor) survey the scene as they try to work out how to cross the barriers without getting set upon by the local Jobsworths.  They eventually need to be led to the Green Sector by The Moron as he boldly leaps the intervening obstructions in complete disregard for his own safety.  A Moron indeed.

Soon, the safety of the Green Sector envelopes itself around our brave trio.  Extremely tall people, specially bred in Glasgow on a diet of tablet, haggis and Tennent's Excuse For Lager, parade around with colourful flags denoting the various cattle pens to be used for the start.  The cattle wait (im)patiently for their time at the abattoir that is the Glasgow streets.  The sun still shines.  The organiser's loudspeakers still blare incoherent messages.

The Nurse worries about the friends she has arranged to meet.  What chance in this crowd?....  Clearly none, thinks The Moron.

The Nurse appears forlorn.  Unhappy she that wears the crown.

But what is this??  Out of the clear blue sky appears The Nurse's friend!!  All is smiles, sweetness and harmony.  Love is restored.

So overwhelmed is The Nurse that she consents to be photographed once more with her charge.  The Moron is happy.  It is too long since any female was prepared to be alone with him.  Being moronic, he is temporarily unaware they are not alone.  He will rejoin the real world shortly.

The Nurse's mood is lifted further when a young stranger offers also to be photographed with her and The Moron.  The Nurse likes fit young men.  The Moron can't work out how The Nurse knows the young man is fit since she hasn't seen him run yet.  The Nurse confirms he is 'fit' even if he can't run for toffee.  The Moron doesn't understand but is glad The Nurse is now happy.

In the distance, the organiser's Storm Troopers force the Green Pen cattle to shuffle forwards in sight of the Start.  In the distance, a reportedly famous decathlete (an athlete who takes his coffee without caffeine) is spotted being jocular.  Another man with a gold chain round his neck (signifying he is an important criminal) checks whether he can leap off the bus to freedom amongst the mass of runners.  It seems he has decided not.  In any case, behind him his armed guard reloads the pump-action shotgun available for the prevention of such foolishness.

All is finally ready for the Green contingent to be liberated.  One of the Red Stormtroopers points his red noise generator towards the rapidly-vanishing Blue Pen cattle and urges the Greens onwards and upwards.  Free at last, we stagger forwards and take up our well-practised race-pace shuffle.  Ten-minute miles, here we come!!

Soon the ranks of the Green unwashed thin and the 5280-foot mark appears.  The Moron and The Nurse have reached here in - ten minutes!!  Amazing pacing!!  Amazing skill!!  (OK, shut up with the self-promotion and get on with this rubbish.  Ed.)  Can this continue?  Will this be a negative split (i.e. a gap in the seam at the back of the shorts)?

Remorselessly, the trail of puffers and panters drags its way towards the river crossing that is the Kingston Bridge.  We all hope the organisers have remembered to have the road closed.  There'll be trouble 't mill if not.  Soon, the panorama that is South Glasgow unfolds.  Bomb-sites still left unloved after 70 years are empty of the weekday parkers who fail to realise the SECC is nearly a mile away.  Still, the weather allows us to (nearly) see Europe's largest windfarm so all is not lost.

As the participants reach the centre of the magnificent arch that spans the River Clyde, the Strathclyde Constabulary are on full alert should anyone already be distressed enough to consider jumping.  A full cohort of brave officers stand ready for action.  We are all impressed.

We pass on and are unable to stop and stare at the image of the Clyde overlooked by blue skies and fluffy white clouds.  Around the City, bairns enquire of their loving parents what the orange ball in the sky means.  Older, wiser Glaswegians point gently at the triangle of red on their chests just below the throat and say "That's a real Glasgow tan.  You don't get many of them to the pound, ah'll tell ye."  We all continue mindlessly on.

Little do we suspect that we are being watched from above.  Apart from the Police snipers and drug dealers' lookouts, there is a higher power.  Paisley Road West looms and La Fiorentina, an eating place recently landed as a kit of parts from Italy, hosts a golden icon of almost unparalled beauty (apart from most of Italy, France, Egypt, etc., - Ed.).  We are humble in its presence and pass by in dutiful obeisance.

A little further down the road and the four-mile marker is spotted amongst architecture arguably the rival of La Fiorentina's.  We consider ourselves fortunate to witness the results of generous Glaswegian entrepreneurs building lasting monuments to their own memory.  Tartan Fish & Chips will repeatedly remind us of their quality.  Customers enquiring "Gie us a Tartan fash 'n' chaps, will ya hen" will doubtless be informed that the emporium only supplies the food; other entertainment of a more intimate and personal nature is to be found next door.

And so to the countryside we roam.  We enter Bellahouston Park where we reach 26400 feet of endeavour.  Being A Moron, thoughts drift aimlessly around the word 'Bellahouston'.  Is this an Italian's description of a large beautiful city in Texas, US of A?  If so, he clearly left his glasses at home.  Was it his mistress?  Is it 'Beautiful - House - Town'?  Does anyone care?  Not today.  We just pass through it and consider we're not even half-way yet.

The Nurse is suddenly struck.  In the bladder.  Find a receptical quickly.  Moron suggests behind a transport container.  The Nurse declines to do a 'Paula'.  A row of containers is spotted!  Quickly!!!  Aaaaaaaah, the relief.  The Moron wonders why the container suggests it to be a place where a man and a woman can have an 'Event'.  He wonders what an 'Event' is.  Should he join The Nurse and ask for an 'Event' demonstration?  Shyness overcomes his curiosity and he contents himself with chatting to the queue outside the containers.

But then!!  Out comes The Nurse with some signs of disarray.  Her greeting is not of the "Lovely to see you waited; let's carry on." accompanied by a friendly and warm smile.  No, indeed it is not!  Her countenance reveals her inner turmoil (that she had hoped would be left in the container) and the need for The Moron to support her as she resumes her athletic endeavours.  He is considerate and thoughtful as he files the photograph under "For Publication".

But The Moron is himself about to be discommoded.  In the innocent act of acquiring a record of the six-mile point of the event, a young ruffian brutishly assaults the poor ignoramous causing him nearly to fall to the earth with the danger of potentially life-threatening injury.  Most fortunately, his dedication to learning the techniques of the Pilots (that's 'Pilates', you Moron - Ed) enables him to quickly recover his fabled balance and quickly rejoin The Nurse as she continues ambling towards Nirvana.  She is relieved for a second time, in this case because all is well.

Seven miles comes and goes in a blur.  The half-way point is passed.  Surely it's all downhill from here.  Polloks to all that, thinks The Moron.

The Nurse suddenly becomes aware she may have inadvertently mislaid a couple of items of female apparatus.  Like model trains, designed for children but mostly played with by men, this apparatus forms an essential part of many women's je ne sais quoi.  Its loss can be a disaster.  And the cost can't be reclaimed on the household insurance.  The Moron is worried.  "Have I made a boob?" he enquires.  "If you have, can you make a couple?", The Nurse wittily rejoins.  But the situation is rapidly rectified as The Moron unveils his everlasting support.  It may have been made in China but it is a good brand.

Just a little further on, The Nurse asks "Do you know we're at eight miles now?"  The One-Man Band recognises the title and immediately starts the chorus.  Like the bees, The Moron doesn't know the words so just hums.  As does his clothing.  Increasingly.  Eminem would be proud.

Then nine miles.  Spectators applaud at the sight of runners leaving the Polloks and the promise that they can go round Pollok Country Park in peace very soon.  Only four miles and a bit (thanks, Queen Mary) to go.

The ten-mile sign appears with rubbish underneath it.  There are also a lot of discarded water bottles.

The Nurse starts to feel happy at the thought that the worst is behind her.  She hasn't realised that a Jeep Cherokee is even worse than a Renault Clio.

Eleven miles is a forlorn sight with nothing interesting to say for itself.  Only one more real milepost to go.

Twelve miles.  The Moron is bored.  Three harmless old men are gently serenading the competitors towards their last jog down the riverbank to the exciting finish.  What have they done to deserve the interruption by A Moron?  Nothing.  They are blameless.  A startled passer-by thinks this must be part of an important film about the eccentric city that is Glasgow.  But no, it is only A Moron with nothing better to do on a sunny Sunday afternoon.


The Nurse moves on.  The Moron dutifully follows.  The musical group returns to normality (decent music on a Glasgow street is normal? - Ed).  Tomorrow all will be forgotten.  Especially The Moron.

And so our intrepid adventurers reach the bank of the River Clyde and battle their way through the exhausted throng to the finishing straight.  The Moron bullies The Nurse into a sprint for the line so they can pass an otherwise innocent woman who has irritated The Moron.  The Nurse feigns exhaustion then reveals her true level of fitness.

It is clear from The Nurse's priority to reach for her electronic gadget that The Moron has served his purpose and can now be dismissed.  He slinks off with a heavy heart to collect his unnecessarily bronzed medal.  The colour merely rubs in his status as the bottom row of the podium, the low level in the athletic food chain.  And he's an Old Git.


The Nurse, being kindly, then relents and gets The Moron a banana.  This is ostensibly to restore Potassium levels in The Moron's body but is really The Nurse pointing up what a monkey she thinks he is.  The pair trudge off in search of goody bags and other Harriers.  A flashing wave over the heads of the milling throng identifies a Harrier (who often moonlights as a hairdresser) wanting water.  The Nurse and The Moron steal a handful or two of free water bottles and make their way towards the hairdresser.  Reunification is under way.


Soon, most of the Harriers' group that together made its way to The Big City are reunited.  One husband has gone missing and one Harrier who arrived separately has never been seen so is presumed dead.  She later turns up safely but feels that she did end up feeling as though she was dead - so that's all right then.  The husband remains unfound as the group leave the Finish but is later reunited with his distraught family.  Apparently, he was off feeding dolphins and lost track of time (see the blog of June this year for more on this remarkable man).

So, in the unlikely sunshine of Glasgow, ended a Day To Remember (well, maybe for the rest of the week).  The medal count was better than the British Olympic Athletics team - so that's something.  Every one of us that started managed to finish.  Some did brilliant times; everyone did times to be proud of.  Some of us got to the finish with something we hadn't started with (like a minor photo collection) even if all of us left some weight on the course.  We'll put the weight back on, of course, in the form of useful material such as curry, chips, beer, wine, whisky and other recommended dietary supplements.  Then we'll go out training to lose it again.

Days like this can make it seem like everyone these days is out running (or doing some other active sport).  But they're not.  We're still a minority in an increasingly fat and unfit world.  Sometimes we look like a mad minority.  But at least it's a madness with great payback.


And The Moron and his doppleganger The Old Git got no better - in any respect.  So that's all right then.

The things which I have seen I now can see no more (Billy Wordsmith)

OK - this isn't a treatise on Wordsworth or rambling on about poetry (sorry, any poetry-lovers out there).  It's still my ramblings about the pain and suffering of running.  But poets have their place and it should be close to our hearts - if we have any sensitivity.  Crooked lawyers, business leaders, journalists, police and politicians also have their place - at the bottom of a deep hole - whilst runners hold their own in a place amongst the slightly wacky and eccentric members of the Human Race where most non-runners place us.  Non-runners have a point.

So what, I hear you impatiently ask.

Edinburgh, and its painful (to me) Marathon was nearly 11 weeks ago.  The Loch Ness Marathon (also being run by some-one called Susan, I think) is in just over 8 weeks.  I should be where I was at the end of March.  At that time, however, I'd been ill for a couple of weeks and then managed to put in 4 weeks totalling around 180 miles.  So I can now look forward to a schedule of 45 miles a week.  This isn't eccentricity - it's outright madness and stupidity.  I am a moron.  Fortunately, having no brains means I can contemplate the future without remembering the past.  When the pain vanishes, it leaves no trace.  I don't have misshapen toes, sand-blasted ankles or bags under my eyes that could hold the tailings from the Channel Tunnel to remind that what I'm doing is definitely a BAD IDEA.  All those things only happen if I finish off the wine instead of letting My Good Wife do it.

Normality (if my fellow Harriers are a measure) suggests that all this training should leave traces.  It should leave damage.  It should leave irregular bouts of injury accompanied by pain to remind the injured of the stupidity they have inflicted on themselves.  Rhamnousia (she was Nemesis when I were a little lad) may be skulking round the corner waiting for me.  Scadenfreude may be about to visit in coachloads. I don't care.  Right now, all that's happening is bad planning and stupidity.  I don't need any help gaining my fair share of the consequences of those two talents.

Students of my training talents may recall that I'm not always spot on with my estimate of liquid refreshment to be carried in the event the Scottish sun (the real one - not Murdoch's rag) shines brightly.  So I hatched a Cunning Plan worthy of Baldrick.

In the face of unarguable mathematics, I realised that an 11km run round Monzie wasn't going to do the job.  Not unless I was prepared to run it every day.  Which I'm not.  Which I can't.  Which means something else.  Like resurrecting the longer runs of April.  Like 20 miles+.  Sometimes + quite a lot.  Fortunately, I'm a moron so can't remember how stupid it is to run such distances when your 8th Decade looms.

So mid-July, a bit warmer than previously.  Plan a few longer runs.  Include walking a couple of Munros for fun.  Think carefully about... WHOA!!  Did that sentence include the Completely Stupid proposal to walk Munros as well??  Oops.  Fellow-runner and Hill-walker Julia is currently damaged (with something mysterious) and suffers bouts of stitches of the kind that can't be knitted. So naturally, the idea of doing a couple of Munros is perfect.  I succomb.  The weather's glorious.  I haven't been hill-walking in ages and it all sounds a great idea.


Beinn Dorain (1076m) and Beinn Dothaidh (1004m) or, as the Gaels would have it, Bine Doe-erenn and Bine uh Naw-hee.  No, I don't get it either.  Still, a break from running (unless it's into the pub) and a new place to visit.  Pretty much straight up from the car park and a fun climb to a col where the path goes its merry way right to BenD and left to the other one.  We go right and, after wizard tales of other walkers falling off cliffs and seriously damaging themselves (honestly, we did get treated to such a true story by the victim), we reach the summit despite having failed to read the map properly.  Lunch.


The afternoon essentially consisted of us descending to Decision Col where Col decided he'd had enough and a swift descent to the pub was called for.  Naw-hee can wait - it'll still be there when we're ready.  I declined the opportunity to put it a bit of running practice downhill on the grounds the grounds would probably kill me.  A safe return, complete with drinks in the late afternoon sunshine beside the loveliness that is the A82, meant running could resume tomorrow.


So this is the week I can finally get back to the 20-milers!  Ho-ho.  A couple of days follow when I am able to experience the blissful Strathearn countryside in the company of some of my fellow Harriers.  All very amiable and I don't get lost.  Then Thursday beckons.  A plan is announced to survey part of the Harriers' Autumn Bonanza that is the Simon Wake Comrie Hills Relay Race.  I smell trouble - and my brain's nostrils rarely let me down.  So I decide that I should run part of the way with my friends then peel off and run home alone.  Whatever cover story I rambled on about, the fact was my legs felt absolute rubbish and I was having trouble keeping up with our 14yo dog - who's very nearly dead.


So assembled we our band of warriors and set off into the hills.  Where we promptly lost three of our company who (a) got far enough behind not to see where Our Leader was going and (b) hadn't asked the route beforehand and so went a different way.  Shame.  Still, gave me a break.  Which I thought would help.  Which didn't.  In spades.


So, re-assembled, we set off for the wide open spaces above Comrie.  Well, most of us did.  I just died - and didn't go to Heaven, just to Hell as usual.  Couldn't possibly have had anything to do with stupidity above Bridge of Orchy.  No, of course not.  I'm just old and decrepit.  Beth, one of the Edinburgh Marathon Relay Team, attempted to go slow enough to pretend I was keeping up but she couldn't make it stick.  So as the gang assembled at one of the several 'tops', I staggered into view and pointed out this was where their route separated from mine.  Ignoring this comment, they promptly ran off the wrong way and soon reappeared running towards me.  Disconcerting as this was, we made our farewells and I was left to navigate my way across the dark and treacherous moors unaided by anything more than my native senses and terrifying fear.  Well, actually it was broad daylight, the track was obvious - and I'd been this way several times.  And I had a compass.  And an altimeter.  And I was sober.

This route also passes many places where the Ordnance Survey proclaims that "Grouse Butts".  Not sure if that's good English - or accurate ornithology.  I know goats butt but hadn't picked up on the head-banging proclivities of the local flying delicacy.  Even so, the route took me up to nearly 370m (over 1200ft in old money) as I reached Glen Turret dam knowing that from there the route was almost all downhill - apart from the bits that weren't.  Some of the views from the hills were stunning - and that wasn't just semi-naked me.  I consider myself fortunate that I run so slowly I can see the views without risking life and limb.  If only I didn't have to run into that wind coming down the Glen.


So over the dam, down the damn dam road to the Falls of Barvick and onwards through the Hosh, past the Whisky Palace and onto the A85.  Minding my own business when cars start hooting.  Only my running friends of the early part of the day just returning home.  Where can they have been?  (Later investigation reveals the answer - lost.)  Only just over 19kms for me but very satisfying as it's the first long hill run I've done since Edinburgh.  The legs recover quickly and I'm left wondering why they always refuse to operate above a crawl-speed.  Oh yes - decrepitude.


So will this week be any better?  Another ho-ho seems called for.  Sunday sees me crawl round the Monzie Loop twice in anticipation of an easy Club run the next morning.  Fortunately, I am not called upon to exert myself too much (other than finding lost dogs) so the week is looking promising.


Wednesday - another double Monzie Loop.  I did wonder about doing three circuits but realised I was not going to make it so headed home.  Pride saw me get straight on to the treadmill for another couple of miles but then sanity briefly gained the upper hand and I quit.  That was another 25kms in the bag.

And so to Friday.  That's today.  I write this before the sun has gone down on my doings.  Just in case I forget.


So this morning was targeted for Monzie Loop times three.  Another 33kms.  If I could manage it, this week would be my highest weekly mileage ever at just over 90kms.  (Or is that weakly?)  Check everything ready.  Clothing (Edinburgh Marathon vest of course).  Vaseline (should I get so much pleasure applying it to my delicates?).  Mobile/MP3 player set up to cycle through my eclectic music tastes.  Sports sunglasses.  Step counter.  Watch/Compass/Alimeter/Barometer/TV set (I made that last one up - but soon, who knows?).  Water (600mls).  Wine gums/jelly babies.


First loop.  Go slow.  Then go slower.  Braes of Monzie just past 42mins.  OK.  Water OK.  Sugar pills OK.  Cars managing not to hit me.  Back into Crieff along A85.  Lots of traffic.  Lots of cyclists heading up towards Dunkeld/Aberfeldy who all appear to be in the same Club - but spread out over about two miles.  Some drivers of cars not happy.  Ferntower Road timing point at 1hr14mins.  OK.  

Second lap starts.  Water OK.  Sweeties OK.  Meet neighbour walking up from McCrosty Park.  Exchange desultory insults (he's wary if I'm nice to him).  Back on to the Comrie Road.  Turn up past the Whisky Cafe.  Some traffic.  Most tourists very nice and courteous and give me a wide berth.  OK, maybe it was the smell.  Braes of Monzie at around 1hr57mins.  OK.  Slow down again.  Water OK but running a bit low.  Back to Gilmerton and the A85.  Traffic less than before.  Get to Ferntower Road timing point at 2hr32mins.  OK.


Third lap starts.  Water running out (should I have gone home and filled up?).  Sweeties a-plenty still.  Back to the A85 and the turn towards Monzie.  Definitely feeling knackered.  Water could be a problem.  Get past The Hosh and feel bad.  Stop for the first time and take stock.  Water needed.  Get it from Shaggie (Burn, that is)?  Probably not wise.  Monzie Castle?  Possibly not feeding the peasants any more.  Get past Braes of Monzie at 3hrs14mins.

OK - but for the water.  Anyone I know in Monzie?  No.  But I do regularly see the farmer from Cuilt.  Stop there and plead for water.  Offer either or both of my daughters as payment.  No need, he says.  Just work off your debt on my farm - Saturdays and Sundays, November to March would be fine.  So water is supplied and I sign up in blood.  I'm often described as a Cuilt (I think that's how it's pronounced) so maybe it's fitting.


Get to the Dunkeld Road and stop to empty the last of the farmer's kindly-donated water down my throat.  Again the bottle is empty.  Can I reach home on the fuel in my tank?  Try to eat another wine gum but my stomach rejects the offering.  I spit it out before I make a complete public spectacle of myself by barfing on the nearest passing vehicle.  So to Gilmerton and down the path that leads to Nirvana.  I am oblivious to the passing vehicles (pretty much as usual) and suddenly realise that the footpath is now pointing more towards the Earth's core than away from it.  I resist the urge to show off and sprint the last mile and casually amble in that completely-knackered style I feel I've made my own.


And then, there's the house!  More importantly, it's got an outside tap by the front door so I don't even need to find the strength to get inside.  I can slake my desperate thirst and enjoy the experience of looking dead whilst still moving.  It is 3hrs48mins48secs since I left home.

Loch Ness seems far too close.  It's only the thought of Susan's mocking laughter as she observes me crossing the finishing line three hours behind her that spurs me on.  Thank you Susan.  You'll be as old as me one day.  But possibly better-looking.....

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.