Great Scottish Run - Sunday 2nd September

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strathearn Marathon 10th June 2012 - An Old Git's view

For a change, an event I didn't even start. I didn't even enter. I did give a little bit of help though. What follows reveals almost nothing about what a great event this turned out to be.

For proper illumination, read the stuff on the Strathearn Harrier's website (you can find it without any help from me). What follows here is designed only to tickle those parts of you the other blogs don't reach. If you smile (or even guffaw), you're adult, have seen a bit of life and haven't had your sense of humour surgically removed.

Sunday morning. Cool, cloudy and a bit drizzly. Perfect for a 26-mile thrash around picturesque Perthshire, a slightly soggy Strathearn. Stuff to deliver to Race Central. Decide to go early and see the start, chat to a few friends, that sort of stuff. Oh yes - and take a few pictures.

Deliver stuff. Go to test the camera. Seems to be playing up so stand in the car park to take a few test shots. Camera to eye when BANG WALLOP STAGGER. Lady driver, much distracted by car full of little demons, backs into Old Git as she prepares to exit the place. Really should have taken off that Harry Potter Invisibility Cloak - clearly a man's fault entirely. As this scene of attempted murder is witnessed, several  'friends' find the sight of an Old Git being mown down by a woman irresistibly hilarious. One flame-haired harpy does a High Five with a female who hides from the camera as she does so. A supposedly-responsible Marshal joins in the fun. The Old Git survives. The culprit drives off. She is forgiven by a saintly Old Git. She is a woman driver after all.

Outside Race Central, part of the elite Race Management team chats. One points out the need for grey hair as a condition of seniority; he is unconvincing to his female audience. Two other Grey Owls are relaxed as they contemplate an event where nothing can possibly go wrong. A Strathearn Harrier about to take part in the event laughs as a non-running colleague realises he's forgotten to get his Marshal's vest.

Then there were the loos. Normal people cross their legs; runners cross their arms or stand with legs wide apart. Some practice a half-squat. All are impressed by the scrubbed-clean state of the facilities and determine to leave them (more or less) as they find them. They leave the usual donation in gratitude. Everyone is content to find they have hydrated properly. It is remarked that there's no Mirror in the Ladies; torn up Strathearn Heralds and Perthshire Advertisers suffice.

The photo session continues with the usual contribution from a distant cousin. Happy as she always is, her exuberance is heightened by the flood of adrenaline created by the approaching climax. The race is also about to get under way.

Inside Race Central, the hustle and bustle of race registration is captured as swarms of runners press their case whilst a man hustles and a woman adjusts her bustle. The sad demise of the local red squirrel population is highlighted by the stuffed remains of the last such creature to be born alive in captivity. The highlighting also captures the glow-in-the-dark costumes of the squirrel museum curators. The male curator is renowned as the last known native speaker of red squirrel.

To confirm their happiness together, and as a sign of good manners, the couple pose for the camera. The son of Morris is also a renowned dancer [blogs passim] - with bells on. Unlike the Irish Morris dancer, who fell off the bonnet on the M1, no mistakes will be made this day.

Soon, the participants assemble. One of them emerges from his overnight accommodation having found that cardboard boxes are indeed quite warm and comfortable. His pad will be spruced up and made ready again for the next impecunious visitor to Strathearn by the local friendly skip hire company tomorrow morning.

All too soon, the queue for the loos reaches back to Race Central. One man clutches himself desperately whilst others affect nonchalance. Our skip-per gives the camera a shy smile as he readies himself for the challenge. Anticipation mounts.

A small problem now arises. The inflatable Start, brought by the inflatable car and trailer, has let itself down. It got an inflatable Finnish pregnant last month in Helsinki and is ashamed. Two carers, known in the trade as Startlings, are spoken to by the resident doctor who prescribes anti-depressants. The Start feels better and picks itself up off the floor whilst the resident D.J. and Coarse Commentator is just fed up (a big breakfast probably). As we all survey the leaden skies, we realise things are looking up.

So finally, full of drugs, the Start reveals its full majesty and defies the wind to knock it down. We become a little concerned that the wind may respond to this challenge.

Now the excitement reaches fever pitch. Marshals show their excitement as happiness bubbles up over every face. Men sport bandanas in a vain attempt to look cool. Black bin-liners abound as runners fear getting too cool. They need not fear - 'rubbish' is a more likely reaction than 'cool'.

The Race Director and the two Senior Race Marshals check out that the pipers have remembered their notes. He will also accept a cheque made out to cash. A doleful rendition of the theme tune to "Marathon is now Snickers" soon fills the air. The runners snicker. It is as though marathons have never changed after all.

One piper turns to rob Bolton. He realises this is wrong, however, and redirects his attention to Liverpool where they know more about that sort of thing. Refocussing on the day at hand, the pipers discuss the exact angle at which the feet should be held; is it 75 degrees or 15? Between them though, they agree they've made the right angle.

Only minutes to go. Nervously smiling men, indifferent women, nonchalant confidence, shivering spectators; all human life is there. Whilst Sunny Strathearn has gone AWOL, Cool Comrie holds sway. If only it were more Mediterranean - well, Comrie ("Shaky Town") does have earthquakes like Italy; the same people get drunk here as they do on holiday in Spain; the Banks speak the same language; we've got the Sun seven days a week. Much the same, really.

If only the Official Photographer would appear so we could get some proper stuff. Then, appearing only to be an O.P.'s grandchild when in fact he is THE O.P., the Cameraman  Extraordinaire pops up with his pop-up to get the stuff that matters. The participants will be rewarded with FREE Race Certificates - alongside seductive offerings promoting the spending of money. The O.P. is hopeful for lots of business. The O.G. is hopeful for lots of laughs. They agree - both would be nice.

Then it is time for The Assembly to assemble. Dr Race Director will lead the throng throughout the thoroughly thought-through thread that thoughtfully thrusts thunderously through the thickets that thaumaturgy throws thankfully thrice. Circulation is the Good Doctor's forte and circulate they will. The Start will hold its breath whilst it sees its customers twice. Prodigious.

We're OFF!!. Like a low-rent Madison, the runners are led a merry circuit whilst spectators get the chance to cheer twice. What fun!! Maybe next year, Our Revered Leader will get an Electric Bike - powered by wind turbines, of course.

Run4It indeed. It is later revealed that the leading runners are promised great things if only they can catch the Good Doctor and touch his lucky thingy. Fortunately for G.D.'s sister, no runners manage it and she is safe.

The runners depart. A Harrier races for a position at lightning speed as his blurred image hides his expression of determination. Follow his progress later.

The lonely pipers wonder if they have been misled into believing that the runners are indeed on a circuit of the camp. One ceases wailing and commences waiting. His colleague just groans as his bag collapses but a big puff soon has his lips working again.

But YES!!  'Tis the Good Doctor on his trusty steed as he leads the Crieff-cum-Sheffield leader through the Start for the second time. The 2nd and 3rd placed runners are optimistic; they are soon to be disillusioned as they watch #64 disappear into the distance.

Then our knee-bandaged Harrier appears once more, bravely battling his severe injury and pledged to do the Club proud. He beats four and a half hours and is a credit to all who know him - and probably to the rest of the human race.

Then two lady Harriers appear. One regrets borrowing her friend's bra as she desperately seeks to stop it riding up under her chin. Her friend wisely considers what the Old Git will say about her. She need not worry; as another owner of a white baseball cap, the Old Git knows the value of making an important fashion statement.

Two more lady Harriers appear. As one chats, the other rehearses her auto responses as she listens to something far more entertaining on her MP3 player. What, in any case, could two women possibly have to talk about that is worth the risk of interrupting such an important activity as the inaugural Strathearn Marathon? Nothing, clearly.

Harriers now come thick and fast; some cannot manage both. A self-admittedly under-prepared participant pants by. His minder precedes him; none will mess with HIM. A mercurial lady wearing Hermes underwear is unaware how qualified she is for Greco-Roman events. She flies onwards with hopes of silver.

#9 and #53 appear together. They are both local. They are vying for the prize of First Proper Local Through The Finish - though they are presently ignorant of this. Eventually, the Harrier will be triumphantly second behind someone else; could it be that #9 hoped that the extra fluid he carried would make the difference? Whatever could have been in there? Urine samples would tell us - if only the organisers could find that part of the hedge.

And so our last Harrier passes the ranks of the papparazzi. He consults his watch. He consults it again. HIs lightning-speed brain computes his progress so far. It's really going very well. Should be fine.

On the basis that one circuit of Cultibraggan is enough, one lady dives into the facilities to check she is ready for the rest. A male runner is unbelieving of this necessity. Perhaps the lady is overdoing the hydration regime. Perhaps.

A group of runners forming a mini-peloton seem to be ready for a team effort. Lady visitors from sunny Yorkshire lead the way with determination. They carry all before them.

Eventually, our Lady Of The Loos emerges just in front of the back marker and, with one final check she is in good array, races off to catch the leader. Or not. Later, runner #2 is revealed as a serial marathonist. One morning he has cornflakes for breakfast, next it's oaty crunch and then it's wheat biscuits. Definitely a serial.

This race will become renowned for its friendly and ever-helpful Marshals. Many examples are to be found around the 26.2 mile course ready at all times with a cheery wave, a friendly word and a lovely smile. My wife did not pay me to say this about her (but I'm dead meat if I don't).

The Strathearn Marathon, as with Life, has its ups and downs. Eventually however, as it draws to its end it has its own epitaph. This isn't it. It is, however, the Court Knoll or Dunmhoid, the Judgement Mound. It has absolutely nothing to do with the event but that's no reason to ignore it as we pass by (even if all the participants do).

Soon, the leading runner - and eventual winner - hoves into view. So fast is he that he will probably hold the Course Record time for at least the next year. Rumours arise that, despite his avowed loyalty to the City of Steel, he originates from around these parts; a likely story. Still, we Lancastrians will welcome even Yorkshire folk (through gritted teeth if need be) so well done Will.

Since space is limited, we would direct our dear reader's eyes to http://www.flickr.com/photos/tanconsult/page6/ for further examples of the photographer's art as participants safely pass Comrie graveyard. Pics will remain there until at least 30-Sep-12.

We should include as a tailpiece our penultimate finisher who bravely carried his dodgy knees through some of the finest terrain that Perthshire can offer. And the last shall be first and... No they won't - not on our results list anyway - but plucky strugglers have the sympathy of this writer who knows from personal experience the pain and suffering of tail-end charlies. We deserve the medals - we're the ones out there on the road or trail for longest.

Beyond the graveyard, the Finish looms. More photos are taken (by the O.P.). Prizes are awarded and distributed. Records are set. Food and drink are consumed. Visitors go home. Helpers clear up. No-one dies (but the publicity is missed). Almost no lessons are learned since, astonishingly, there are almost none to learn. Frightening. Maybe there's an export opportunity. Maybe.

Was this more fun than taking part, I ask myself? Yes & No - but definitely less painful. Maybe I should take part one year and save someone else from being last. Maybe I should use the course as a training run before the next Big One. Maybe. Probably not.....

If you're reading this and you took part (or even if not) and any photos take your fancy, electronic originals in all their 4Gb (or so) glory can be had just by telling me which ones you want and where to send them (electronically only I regret; prints cost money....). Comment here, FB me, or email to tanconsult"usual symbol"gmail.com ("usual symbol" beats the scammers who trawl for email addresses so just change it to @).

This blog will (probably) resume normal service with events in September. Can't wait.