Author: The Author

SHAP SUMMIT – JOHN o’GROATS TO LAND’S END TEN-MAN RELAY

Some time after eleven p.m, at a roundabout south of Carlisle, the radio crackles into life and delivers a series of inaudible messages. Blearily, Alastair Taylor peers out of the van window to see several so-called co-ordinators rushing vaguely around. Iain groans, crawls out of his sleeping bag and exits to help. Minutes later Van Three, warning lights flashing monotonously, rolls into view and past. It shelters a scarecrow figure from the inevitable headwind. Francis strides out briskly and demonstrates surprising energy by smacking the roof of an overtaking car as it squeezes past his hip-bone. He waves encouragingly at the rattled driver.

Forty-five minutes to changeover. Angus, looking grey and far from co-ordinated, staggers into the dormobile, climbs straight into the top bunk and flakes out immediately. Bert drives off, one-handed as usual, while Neil chats into the microphone. Charlie Middleton and Alastair struggle to their feet, shove on their crumpled gear and lace up battered training shoes. They pause to shout encouragement at Tony as he fights on down the endless stretch of tarmac. His loose-limbed track athlete’s style seems incongruous in this setting.

Van Four travels five miles down the route and parks outside a deserted garage with a vast car-park. Alastair creaks down the backstep and commences the so-familiar routine, automatic now on his third JOGLE. Stretching exercises up against the van – hamstrings, Achilles tendons, then hamstrings again (try to touch the toes and eventually reach mid-calf). The stiffness is only partial as yet – just wait till the last day, when legs will set like concrete within ten minutes of stopping running.

After jogging around in circles, and a visit to the next field, the adrenalin begins to build up a little. A few medium pace strides, some knee-lifting and Alastair discovers that he can touch his toes again.

The night is mild, the atmosphere invigorating. Pity about the headwind but they ought to be used to it after four hundred miles. Traffic is sparse, so it is easy to spot the travelling fairground moving steadily through the darkness towards them. Green, white and orange, radiating light in all directions, Van Three trundles by, they cheer, and then clamber into their own Van Four which follows close behind.

With ten minutes to go they synchronise watches over the radio, then drive ahead for the final ‘sprints’ before this, the fourth two-hour session. (On the last day of the relay, they will endure seven painful warm-ups in only fifteen hours!)

Sure enough, Francis, the elder statesman, insists abruptly that they take over three minutes early (and who are they and Greenwich Mean Time to argue?) The Van Four Show is back on the road again. Two miles before Kendal in the cool midnight, Alastair soon eases into a stride pattern rather faster (he hopes) than the eleven miles per hour target. The first five minutes in the glare of the headlights seem less effort than usual. Right on schedule Van Four overtakes and he strives to accelerate to his partner and the haven of the dormobile.

Charlie’s familiar figure chugs along like a souped-up traction engine, puffing and blowing rhythmically but generating a lot of power. All too soon for Alastair, it’s his turn again and this time the strengthening breeze dictates treadmill formation. Traffic-permitting the van slips past the runner as soon as possible after changeover, and then tackles the awkward task of providing shelter without hindering progress. Bert is on the stopwatch, lolling indolently against the kitchen sink beside the open rear door. He ‘talks’ driver Neil into the appropriate place where he can see Alastair in the mirror and the runner can avoid asphyxiation from the exhaust fumes. Too close to the back-step, and he will bruise his shinbone and lose pace – too far away and he will lose the windshield and the incentive of ‘chasing’ this mechanical rival. There is only a ten yard gap between these extremes – and to keep the vehicle in the correct position, a delicate touch on brake and accelerator is essential. Neil’s sensitivity to the demands of the job had improved to the extent that self-obsessed paranoid runners like Charlie and Alastair have stopped moaning about his driving. Indeed even the volatile Bert seems content with his co-driver (apart from a couple of explosive outbursts.) It amazes Alastair how little friction there is in Van Four, despite the predictable stress caused by lack of sleep.

As Neil gentles the pedals, Alastair forces adjustments to the speed by means of hand-signals and urgent gasps. Bert muses and occasionally checks the watch. Meanwhile Charlie sweats into Alastair’s towel on the bed, relaxing as completely as is possible in a mere five minutes and, sometimes, glancing without much interest at his partner’s straining figure.

Sleepy Kendal blinks and they are past. The session is gathering speed – the road merely undulating despite the fact that the first sign has been espied bearing the short and ominous place name ‘SHAP’. In past JOGLES, so the legend has it, this well-known mountainous stretch, snowbound and icily windswept, had caused a severe slump in pace, hypothermia and even frostbite! According to the gutter press, this is a ‘crucial crunch crack-up crisis point’ in the relay – but the Van Four men are determined that things will be different this time.

Extra stimulus is provided by Iain, who is timing them from the link car. Typically he invents a fifty yard shortcut across an overgrown roundabout at one a.m. “It’s okay – there’s a faint path!” Alastair steams across and narrowly avoids breaking an ankle on the dimly glimpsed grass tussocks which have to be negotiated after the ‘path’ disappears halfway. Undaunted, the crafty co-ordinator reminds them that they are nearing the mid-point of the JOGLE itself, and threatens to play his dreaded bagpipes to celebrate, if they can pass the landmark. On checking the schedule, Alastair calculates that they can just make it before the end of their stint. The challenge is zany enough to appeal.

Consequently they push harder and stride out faster. Bert and Neil join in the team effort – muttering words of encouragement, driving extra carefully, and grunting diplomatic assent to semi-coherent chatter from psyched-up runners. Van Five makes an appearance, enabling them to bash on, secure in the knowledge that Jim and Alan will take over on time. Three-way wisecracking starts on the radio between Ronnie, Bert and Neil – mutual agitation brought to a fine art by now.

Last half hour, past Shap Village, and the real hills have appeared – long relentless drags winding over the fells. The temperature has dropped with the gain in altitude and a cutting Arctic wind whistles into them, chilling their sweat-stained teeshirts. A grey cheerless place and an insane time to be running. There is an air of unreality about it all – the pool of light sliding along the tarmac behind the floodlit vehicle, the lone figure struggling to keep up, pursued by the shadows of night. Tiredness eats insidiously into the whole body, but can be ignored if the incentive is sufficient – and they really want to reach ‘halfway’ before handing over. Every five minutes is a flat-out effort. Thirty seconds to loosen up and get into full stride behind the van, then fighting on uphill at maximum tempo, fists punching rhythmically, oxygen sucked hard from the icy air until ‘Three minutes gone!” is called. Then an attempt to maintain pace until “Thirty seconds!” when the comfort of the windbreak is brusquely removed as the dormobile accelerates. It leaves the runner alone to stride out of the darkness to his team-mate before bouncing up the step and crashing heavily onto the bed. Purring engine, reeking exhaust fumes, the sobbing of straining lungs, throbbing head, dry throat and a sour smell of perspiration – these are the impressions of a leaden-legged Jogle runner nearing the end of his stint.

An athlete’s sense of time can become acute – and poor Bert is cursed after forgetting the ‘three minute’ signal – a vital psychological crutch for a suffering cripple whose wish for speed is only matched by his desire to rest his weary bones.

At five minutes to two, a weird sound, blown down the wind from a distant lay-by, tortures their ears. As Charlie grinds on up the inevitable slope, Alastair can pick out through the windscreen the unlikely figure of Iain, pacing back and forth in the gloom, piping a piercing pibroch. Without thinking, Alastair bullies Neil into a quick acceleration and jumps out to join a puzzled Charlie. The two of them run the last fifty yards to the ‘mid-point’ of Jogle 1982. Then Alastair completes the final half mile to Van Five.

Exhilarated, they collapse into their dormobile. Ian declares that at his rate they’ll take three hours off the record! (He doesn’t know that they’ll have to cover an extra ten miles missed out on their schedule). The link car departs and the four men gather to share their impression of one of the most satisfactory sections of the relay. Their friendly chatter in this remote peaceful place is disturbed rudely by a commotion in the upper berth. A tousled Angus emerges from dreamless sleep to ask the time and establish his whereabouts. He’s missed the entire session!

Ten hours later near Whichurch in ‘The Bull and Dog’, real ale pub of the trip, they interrupt the hilarity to rush out and cheer their team-mates. Jim and Van Five roll past, en route to their Club’s new End-to-End record (Seventy-seven hours twenty-six minutes eighteen seconds for 850 miles). While Neil, Bert, Alastair and Charlie sip their third pints of Wem Ale, the Jogle seems hugely enjoyable and they wouldn’t have missed the experience for anything. Such is the benefit of resilience and a poor memory!

1982: Donald Ritchie and Colin Youngson in ‘The Bull and Dog’, Shropshire.

INTERNATIONAL EXPERIENCE

A few aged locals leaned against the time-worn but solid bar of a bistro in small town outside Antwerp. Communication was limited. It was Friday noon – time to sip reflectively at a couple of glasses of pils and to daydream, peering absently at the dust motes dancing in the beams of weak Autumn sunshine straying through the portions of window not covered by painted advertisements for beer.

Peace was dented by a squeaking of brakes as several vehicles drew up outside. Then the swing doors crashed open and more than twenty customers squeezed inside onto scratched chairs round circular tables in the cramped little dining area. Regulars raised eyebrows at the appearance of the incomers, who were nearly all sparely-built with prominent cheekbones. Skin-colour and style of clothing varied considerably – suits and blazers contrasting incongruously with jeans and tracksuits. The plump little extrovert who was clearly in charge certainly sounded Belgian – but who were these others?

The magic word ‘Marathon’ explained all, as the well-fed fellow confidently started to run up a considerable bar-bill by ordering drinks and lunch for his party. Anyone who kept in touch with the sports news was aware that the sixth and biggest ‘Internationale Antwerpen Marathon’, one of the highlights of the Septemberfest, would take place on Saturday evening. So these must be the invited competitors! Assorted nationalities, obviously – must be from all over Europe.

Alastair Taylor couldn’t help grinning as he relaxed, his tonsils tingling from his first good mouthful of ice-cold Belgian lager. His gaze took in the traditional décor, yellowing posters, curios (wasn’t that the figurehead of an old sailing ship?) and sawdust on the bare floorboards. Then he enjoyed the sight of shining silver beer fonts and a gantry packed with multi-hued unfamiliar liqueurs, mainly flavoured gins. Just the sort of place he liked; and the company he preferred – other runners. Pity he couldn’t speak much French and German, let alone Dutch, Belgian, Danish, and certainly not Polish and Turkish. Thank goodness for the Irish and for his British team-mate, Mike Durham.

Mike was talking now, animated and relentless, the words pouring out. He’d hardly stopped chattering since they’d met at Heathrow Airport. Alastair hoped the Englishman’s legs would lack the stamina of his mobile mouth. He could not rely on the truth of Mike’s claims to be unfit and injured in many minor but significant ways. Not surprisingly the Turks had only each other to talk to, and the French seemed rather aloof. Yet Pidgin English (with an American accent) plus meaningful gesticulation seemed to enable everyone else to cross the language barriers.

Alastair remembered in the past, managing to communicate with a Finn by exclaiming “Lasse Viren!” with thumbs up and vigorous nodding. The response had been “Brendan Foster!” and the conversation had continued with reference to football teams, Scottish kilts and whisky. Of course marathon runners the world over had their obsession in common, so there was no problem discussing current fitness, injuries and training distance per week. (Some exaggerated but others cagily admitted to much less than they had really run.) Most competitors seemed cheerful and carefree, yet Alastair noticed how few accepted a second beer and how many switched to fruit juice or bottled water.

The meal was excellent: plenty of crusty white rolls to go with home-made onion soup, tender medium-rare steak (a Belgian speciality, possibly marinaded), lots of fresh salad and bowlfuls of boiled potatoes. Then fruit and ice cream, (“Great after a race – it cools the blood,” said one of the Irish.), coffee and Danish pastries. Enormous quantities of food disappeared rapidly into apparently famished bodies. Almost a perfect menu, thought Alastair, although a syrup sponge and custard would have provided even more fuel.

Mike and he chatted amicably to the other athletes, especially the three from Eire. Every other national team had only two runners, but the Irish were from the same Dublin club and hoped to win both club and international team prizes, as they had succeeded in doing the previous year. Alastair found listening to Gerry O’Neill particularly easy, partly because of his delightful Dublin accent – the total inability to pronounce ‘th’ other than ‘t’ or even ‘d’. The bespectacled Gerry looked rather staid (and indeed he turned out to be a college lecturer) but was in fact an eloquent and amusing person with a wide range of opinions and a considerable knowledge of running. He had won the Antwerp race three years previously in a personal best time which was precisely the same as Alastair’s. They also shared a love of that creamy black nectar Dublin Guinness.

Jim McIntyre was a witty talkative man too – but although Diarmid McDonnell seemed pleasant, he was rather withdrawn and serious, the gauntness of his face evidence of many tough training miles and exhausting races. Indeed on paper he was one of the two fastest men in the race, the other being the Belgian Peeters. The best times of the top fifteen participants ranged from 2 hours 13 minutes to 2 hours twenty-two – so a close contest was guaranteed.

At the thought of the race, Alastair’s already full stomach tightened further. Throughout the meal, despite the light-hearted atmosphere, he had felt an inner tension. At seven p.m. on Saturday night, in twenty-eight hours time, the marathon would start, and he expected it to be competitive and strenuous. Not that there was such a thing as an easy marathon, the sheer distance made sure of that – 26 miles 385 yards or rather 42 kilometres 195 metres. Alastair remembered that he would have to think in terms of five kilometre sections rather than five mile ones.

He was glad when the party split up and were conveyed to their accommodation. Some who had competed in Antwerp before were enjoying the generous hospitality of local families; but Mike and Alastair had adjoining single rooms in the Eurotel. Alastair was relieved about that because he needed time to rest and then concentrate. Having agreed to meet Mike for a jog (“A SLOW one, mind!”) in a couple of hours’ time, he went back to his room and lay on the single bed.

Dozing for a while was possible but then his mind drifted inevitably onto the coming test. Alastair knew he would have to be especially cautious in this marathon – a follower rather than a bold front-runner. His preparations had been less than ideal – how could they be otherwise when he had received the letter inviting him to represent his country in the race only ten days earlier? Still, this had been a very good year so far, and he was sure that his general fitness would ensure a much stronger performance than he had managed in his third marathon three years earlier.

On that occasion, he had made several errors – training hard until a couple of days before the race and then running the first sixteen miles too fast. To make matters worse, he had been using a better runner as a windshield when his more experienced opponent had demanded that Alastair share the work into a strong headwind. Foolishly he had obeyed and inevitably had been unable to respond when, with a derisive chuckle, the tactician had swept away to victory. Gradually Alastair had ‘hit the wall’ – particularly badly in the last couple of miles.  A curious shivery increasingly weak feeling had come over him and he couldn’t have cared less when he lost his second place with four hundred yards to go. The final lap, in front of an embarrassingly large crowd, had been a dream-like slow motion very careful run/walk, as performed by a shorter anorexic version of the Incredible Hulk. A ‘friend’ had timed the last lethargic two hundred metres which took Alastair no less than eighty aching seconds!

Alastair was sure he had learned from that experience. His training had improved in quantity, quality and above all consistency, with the results that his times had improved from 5000 metres right up to the marathon. April, May and June had been a marvellous time for him. Three months of solid training, getting the balance right between long distance runs, speed work, hill work, time trials, races and recovery sessions. Two weeks before his chosen marathon at the end of June, when he had broken right away from his training companions in the final few miles of the long Sunday trail, Alastair had proven that he was succeeding in ‘peaking’ correctly. After all they had only run sixteen miles, whereas he had managed twenty-seven!

Following a week of easy running, he had managed to complete the ‘pre-marathon diet’ with scientific exactitude. Without more than a cup of tea for breakfast, he had run a steady but tiring eighteen miles before completing the ‘bleed-out’ process by trudging ten miles a day on Monday, Tuesday and early Wednesday. During this time he had eaten only protein and fat – no carbohydrate. Wearily clambering into the shower after the final session, feeling like an exhausted deep-sea diver whose oxygen cylinder was almost empty, he had consoled himself with the thought of rest and stuffing himself with the stodge which his leaden body craved. He weighed himself before breakfast and last thing on Wednesday night – and was mildly startled to note a thirteen pound weight gain! Potatoes, pasta, rice, bread, cakes, biscuits and precious little protein plus lots of fluid – he went from feeling starved to satisfied to bursting to rather sick! By Thursday evening he had reverted to a more cautious and normal mixture and was feeling fit if plumply moist.

Sure that the extra blood sugar (glycogen) was safely stored, Alastair was very careful to jog only three miles and eat light easily digestible food in the twenty-four hours before the race. He stuck to white bread in preference to wholemeal since he had no time to waste on ‘pit-stops’ during the actual marathon.

In future years, Alastair would come to believe that the ‘diet’ regime was too strict and that most of the advantages were psychological (“I have suffered more than these guys and therefore will the stronger in the last miles.”) Perhaps he had been in such good condition that he had been sure to run well anyway; perhaps the theoretical extra fuel could be pumped aboard without the ‘draining’ stage. But at the time he believed in the whole process with the faith of a Christian Fundamentalist.

No matter the reason, the June marathon had gone like one of the dreams that runners really do have. Alastair’s training partner, also in the form of his life, had run very strongly into a slight breeze during the first half of the out and back course. Alastair simply had to shelter and hang on. On the return journey he had waited for the right moment to attack and then, when his opponent had shown a slight sign of strain at nineteen miles (he had cursed a tardy water station attendant with unnecessary vehemence), Alastair had made the break. He felt calm, strong and in control all the way to twenty-five miles, by which time he had a lead of a minute. A slight jolt of cramp had worried him at that stage, but he had kept going well enough to preserve his lead into the stadium, round his ‘lap of honour’ and through the tape, taking four minutes off his previous best for the distance. A day to remember always. As someone once said, “If you want a race, sprint a hundred yards; if you want a real experience, run a marathon.”

Lying on the bed, Alastair smiled at the memory. But his happiness faded as he admitted to himself that fitness had been lost since then. July had been a holiday month. Then he had been called up to run a ten kilometre track race, followed almost immediately by and ‘adventure’ – a thirty-six mile ultra-marathon, no less. That had been satisfactory, for a masochistic whim. But the problem was that the ‘ultra’ had been precisely three weeks before the Antwerp race (to which Alastair had no way of knowing he would be invited).

So there had been no question of ‘peaking’ for this one. Had his legs recovered properly? He hadn’t even done ‘the diet’. Caution, patience and of course luck was going to be essential.

The ‘jog’ with Mike was less than ideal. Alastair was wearing his racing shoes and socks but had no desire to run hard. Mike talked his way through the first mile but then grew strangely silent as, hardly surprisingly, the pace edged upwards. After a couple of uncomfortable miles, Alastair was content to take the shortest route back to the hotel and leave Mike to impress himself further. Some team-mate, trying to give a compatriot an inferiority complex!

A wander round the diamond-selling area of Antwerp was followed by a light meal and an hour lingering over a single beer and enjoying the ‘crack’ (that is the high speed witty conversation, otherwise known as blarney) of the Irish. If Alastair believed what he heard, everyone was at best half-fit for a wheelchair marathon and consequently treating the race in an extremely low-key manner. Then he went back to the room to read for a while before an early and optimistic attempt to get some sleep.

Naturally Alastair spent the night worrying, swallowing to check if his throat was sore, having hot flushes, and making conscious attempts to calm pre-race nerves and to relax his body from toes to brow. Occasionally he dozed and had that repetitive nightmare in which transport to the start line breaks down, racing shoes are forgotten and the runner arrives five minutes too late! Eventually he did manage four hours of deep sleep from dawn onwards. Fortunately he was not over-concerned because he had heard the wisdom that it was the sleep you got the night before the night before that counted – and that had been eight hours solid.

A solo jog after breakfast (just a couple of slow miles, but enough to reassure a hypochondriac that his ankles had not gone wobbly overnight) gave Alastair a chance to check the weather. It was overcast, cool but not too breezy and therefore favourable for a marathon.

At three p.m. he had his final ‘top-up’ meal – two white bread jam sandwiches washed down with a pint of glucose drink. Then a steady intake of bottled water (not fizzy). Having dressed for battle, by fastening his chain mail (or more precisely his number, secured by several safety pins) to his vest, Alastair tried to relax completely for a while. Several visits to the loo later it was five-thirty and time to meet the other invited athletes in the hall.

A bus arrived and they reached the town square an hour before start time. Two thousand club runners and joggers were already there in rows, restlessly shifting like cattle in market pens. The more fortunate ‘elite’ were escorted into a nearby building to rest, stretch, jog up and down or go out for a thorough warm-up. With twenty minutes to go, Alastair drank a mug of black coffee without sugar. He hoped that it was true that caffeine not only gave one a smooth rapid start but also made it easier to metabolise fatty acids for energy later in the race. Then he checked that the tape on the pressure points of his feet hadn’t slipped, ensured that his racing shoes were tied firmly but not too tightly, stripped to his vest and shorts, made one last precautionary trip to the toilet and eventually reached the line with five minutes to spare.

A few nods, handshakes and muttered good wishes were exchanged, but each athlete seemed to be lost in his own private world. Alastair was vaguely aware of crowds of spectators on either side and, above his head, the festival lights outlined against the darkening sky. Then the start controller gave a ten second countdown, everyone bent forward in readiness and the gun was all but drowned by the simultaneous beep of two thousand stop watches and a stampede of expensively-shod hooves.

With a nervous rush, Alastair managed to avoid being trampled to death and then settled down behind the two hundred metre specialists. By the two kilometre mark a group of thirty runners had separated from the herd and were making progress at a reasonably fast but sensible pace. The Dane Lauenborg was a maverick with his own ideas however – he had shot off very rapidly and gained a fifty metre lead. His pursuers were not disposed to panic, but were keeping their eyes on him and the gap steady.

Alastair was relieved that on this occasion the organisers had not provided ‘pacers’ – men who were paid to shield the leaders from any headwind and to make sure that certain fast split times were achieved all the way to 20km or 25km. Since he was unsure about the state of his fitness, he preferred to rely on the caution or commonsense of the others to run at a less ambitious speed. This might enable him to store as much energy as possible for the later stages. He hoped that the Dane might falter and be reabsorbed into the main bunch – and so it proved.

The course chosen for the race was an irritating one, twisting through the streets and suburbs of the city. Although there were some steady drags uphill and other undulations, the route was fairly flat but Alastair found the constant corner-cutting a nuisance. A major problem which slowed the pace considerably was a series of cobbled sections which were slippery and treacherous in the damp, increasingly dark conditions. A stretch of dual-carriageway was rather exposed but usually buildings helped to shelter competitors from a cold breeze. The leading group fanned out craftily to gain maximum protection from any wind that did slip through and try to sap their strength. A six kilometre loop was followed by two laps of a fifteen kilometre circuit before another tour of the first six kilometres, this time to the finish.

During the first 10k there was some pushing, heel-tapping and elbow-work to avoid, as runners manoeuvred for position. On downhill stretches with a following wind the pace seemed uncomfortably rapid, but of course the group slowed considerably on hilly windswept sections. Alastair stayed at the tail-end of the bunch and kept out of trouble, since he knew how difficult it would be to regain contact if he were tripped. A twinge of cramp in his left leg unsettled him at eight kilometres but a few stretching motions (karate contortions carried out on the run) seemed to solve the problem. Some opponents tired themselves by putting in a fast burst to every refreshment halt – they seemed to have a desperate thirst for such a cool evening. The drinks attendants were so inexperienced that each station turned into a cursing, shoving, rugby scrum of heaving bodies and flying elbows and cups of liquid. Alastair, glad that he was well-hydrated , saved energy by ignoring it all and, moistened by a misty drizzle, plodded dourly up the middle of the road. The 10k mark was reached in 33 minutes 15 seconds. Alastair was coping fairly comfortably with that speed and was pleased to note that the leading pack was down to about ten men. Obviously some of the invited athletes had not been lying about their lack of sharpness!

Positions were unchanged at 15k – no wonder after a slow 5k split of 17.39. He was content to follow the pace and concentrate on his own form. Was he ‘belly-breathing’ properly (his stomach going out as he breathed in and vice versa)? He knew that if he lost his breathing rhythm and started gasping, sucking air into the top of his chest, he might get a ‘stitch’. Was his stride length economical and appropriate to the gradient (shorter uphill, longer downhill)? Were his arms swinging in a controlled fashion and were his hands lightly closed, not clenched? Was he the correct distance behind the runner in front and was anyone liable to tread on his own heels? Was he looking where he was going? Was he alert but as relaxed as possible? How comfortable did the others seem and when might he himself consider making a positive move?

By 20km they were eight. One of the Belgians had slipped behind and then poor Jim McIntyre had succumbed to cramp. Since he was the last counter in the club team, he felt compelled to struggle on to the finish more than twenty minutes behind the winner, but had the consolation that the Dublin outfit did retain their title. The others did not pause to commiserate but swept on dispassionately into the night.

At 25km, Alastair felt a little tired but had happy enough that he could maintain the tempo that the leading group was setting. Quickly he assessed the condition of his rivals. Diarmid McDonnell looked very easy indeed and his compatriot and club-mate Gerry O’Neill was breathing hard but seemed strong. Mike Durham was speechless for once but rolling along smoothly. Peeters, the local favourite, was still there but not looking at all composed – he kept rubbing his side and shaking his head in reply to anxious (and, to Alastair, incomprehensible) inquiries by his supporters. The other three were drifting off the pace almost imperceptibly: Altun, the short dark impassive Turk; Lauenborg the big Dane, who seemed to have lost his initial drive; and Rottiers the Dutchman. Apparently the latter was ceasing to respond to the hysterical prompting of his coach, the rotter, who persisted in appearing on a bicycle, indulging in illegal motivation.

As his body plodded on automatically, Alastair’s mind wondered what DID motivate distance runners. They might continue training and racing because the sport was addictive. If a few sessions were missed, the runner couldn’t sleep normally, complained about having cold feet in bed, became less relaxed and more neurotic, couldn’t eat or drink in the usual quantities and generally suffered from withdrawal symptoms. More positively, it was only right that any human being should try to develop to his or her potential (in this case mainly physical) to the maximum. Yet, no matter how hard people trained, the extent of their improvement was limited by their original talent. And very few were blessed with the world-record-breaking, Olympic-gold-medal-winning gifts of an athlete like Sebastian Coe. Without such talent, success could be only within certain bounds. Most distance runners, of course, came to accept their own frailties with a cheerful philosophical tolerance. They were motivated to keep on racing, Alastair decided, not just because of the company of friendly rivals who might share a few beers afterwards, but mainly because of the joy of swift movement, the excitement of the contest, the challenge to their own self image, and their sense of themselves as free adventurous individuals in a mundane society of constipated conformists.

Spectators huddled in overcoats or under umbrellas, and wished they had a hipflask of cognac to make the cold rain more bearable. They could see only a procession of ruddy-complexioned inappropriately-clad characters clattering round the Antwerp cobbles with manic determination. Even the friends or relatives they had come to cheer failed to fascinate. The sight was hardly worth missing an evening in the warmth. And the leaders, that dwindling band of eager ectomorphs, loping more lightly, undoubtedly seemed, in their dedicated, deadpan way, more demented than the rest.

Inside the mind of a contender it was different, however. Alastair’s fatigue was growing, but he was making a decision to take a chance, to gamble or what the newspapers call ‘glory’, to go for home with a third of the original distance still to cover. It might not seem sensible, considering his lack of peak form, but it would inject some drama into the race, and his own life. Foolish, perhaps, but fun. Maybe he would over-reach himself and probably he would lose, but he might just succeed – and if he did fail it would be in a bolder, more cavalier fashion. Consequently he looked ahead and, picking out the 28 kilometre signpost, which was positioned at the bottom of a gradual climb (one of his strengths), he steadied his breathing, gathered courage and concentration, sidestepped the front rank of the bunch and accelerated into a higher gear.

The effect was instantaneous: like human magnets the two Irishmen immediately increased their pace to match his but the others fell behind. Alastair pushed hard right over the summit of the gradient, then slowed for a few metres before kicking again. This time he could ‘feel’ one of his opponents losing ground, could hear a heavy footfall and heavier breathing fading away. He glanced sideways and saw, as expected, the calm grim face of Diarmid McDonnell. Side by side over the cobbles they strode into the darkness. At 30km (1 hour 41 minutes exactly) they were eighteen seconds clear of a group of four pursuers: O’Neill, Durham, Peeters and Rottiers.

Having achieved the desired effect (although dropping McDonnell too would have been preferable) and feeling the strain of his exertions, Alastair was content to coast alongside Diarmid for the next few kilometres. To be more accurate, he was relieved that the Irishman did not counter-attack. He tried to control his breathing and to conceal from his rival the tiredness he felt draining vitality from his limbs. He remembered reading about a great race in the past – the barefoot Ethiopian Abebe Bikila and the Moroccan Rhadi competing for gold in the 1960 Olympics, fighting along the Appian Way through the night to the finish under the floodlit Arch of Constantine. On a scale less grand, perhaps this was to be his own starlit triumph…… But as he mused vaingloriously they passed the 35 km marker and, peering over his shoulder, he was chagrined to discover that their speed had slackened and O’Neill was only ten seconds down! (Rottiers and Durham 22 seconds behind but Peeters cracking up).

Alastair’s reaction was instinctive – that of the hunted animal. He dug in deep and raised the tempo once more. McDonnell followed closely but to Gerry O’Neill it was a bitter blow. Seeing the leading duo drifting back, he had mustered his remaining strength and forced himself ahead of his companions, striving to bridge the gap to Diarmid and the Scotsman. The effort hurt but he had been succeeding, and was looking forward to taking a breather once he had regained contact, when Alastair saw him coming and went away again. It was not to be Gerry’s race and he knew it. When Mike Durham came past he could offer little resistance.

Mike the Englishman reckoned that the leaders were on the road to self-destruction. He himself was the only person near the front who had stuck to steady even-paced running and he was confident that his economical strategy would succeed. Already he had cruised past one Irishman and he could see no reason why he couldn’t overtake the other one and Alastair Taylor as well before the end – especially since something like a fartlek session seemed to be developing up front!

Indeed the fastest five kilometres of the marathon was turning into a duel. Alastair had ceased to care about the risk of blowing up. He had forgotten that he had no carefully-garnered extra glycogen stores this time. He had one single objective – to drop McDonnell – and was trying everything he could to achieve it. And Diarmid was responding with similar spirit. First one man surged into the lead, while the other refused to give in, resisting the temptation to restrain his opponent by grabbing his sweat-stained vest. Soon the pace slowed again because the leader was tiring and realised that his attempt to escape was futile. Then the hunter became the hare and tried to surprise the greyhound by breaking away at an unexpected moment.

Attack, fail, hang on, attack again – the seesaw battle continued. And all the time, Mike Durham, mobile war correspondent, observed the conflict and moved steadily closer to the scene of the action.

A shadow of doubt was creeping into the mind of Diarmid McDonnell. He knew that his personal best was faster than Taylor’s and that his international experience was greater. But the uneven expenditure of energy was unsettling him. It had been a disappointment when Gerry had been left behind. Irish chances in the team race had looked very good. Still, marathoning was essentially a sport for the isolated individual – and victory might still be his. Perhaps the Scotsman was weakening.

Alastair was near exhaustion now. He realised that each surge was shorter then its predecessor, that his determination was ebbing with his physical resilience. Yet he persisted automatically. At least McDonnell would know he’d been in a race. His sight was blurred, dimmed by darkness, dazzled by streetlights. His thoughts were becoming dazed – this was moonlit madness. At 39 km Diarmid went into the lead once more – and Alastair could feel himself beginning to lose touch. Was his body refusing to fight – or was his mind accepting defeat? The effect was the same. With a dull resignation, Alastair watched McDonnell edge away from him.

At 40 kilometres there was a six second, growing gap. Alastair could do no more. The route suddenly swung round a bollard in the middle of the street and went back the other side. To his horror Alastair saw that Mike was only about ten seconds behind, waving encouragingly to his team-mate! Compatriot be damned – one thing a Scotsman hates is losing to an Englishman. At least the Irish are fellow Celts!

The final run-in was a desperate struggle for Alastair Taylor, as he flogged his knackered steed up the finishing hill. Diarmid, his ears ringing with cheers, was savouring the delicious taste of victory, while Alastair could only create a crick in the neck caused by panicky glancing round at the pursuing Mike. Seventeen seconds after McDonnell took the tape (2 hours 20 minutes 51 seconds), Taylor flopped over the line, with a comparatively fresh and very frustrated Durham a scant nine seconds behind. Gerry O’Neill, a minute back, was fourth, Rottiers fifth and the rest, as they say, ‘nowhere’. Both Britain and Eire had four points, but Alastair and Mike won the team prize because they had completed the course before Gerry.

Applause, handshakes, congratulations, flowers, presentations, photographs, interviews. Showers, rehydration, food, beer, dehydration, carousing, collapse, bed.

A reporter for a Belgian newspaper dismissed the Antwerp marathon as a typical procession, with a group of runners following each other round the route, before a sprint finish.

One individual perceives Truth, or Beauty, differently from another. Alastair’s viewpoint contrasted with the journalist’s verdict. His ‘international experience’ seemed to him arduous, enthralling, disappointing but undoubtedly worthwhile. Even at the depressing hour of four a.m. on Sunday morning, as he lay slumped with a hangover, too tired to sleep, in a hot bath, trying to soak the interminable twitching out of his battered legs.

GLORIOUS MUD!

As he surged smoothly over the tussocky crest of the first steep little hill, only four hundred yards after the start, Jim Alexander sensed that, on this day, success would come easily.

Masochistic old-timers might scoff at the conditions but Jim loved cross-country running – of this variety. Modern World Championships tended to be run on similar courses – fast, dry and undulating. As soon as he had stepped off the team bus and surveyed the route, which snaked round the resilient turf of a seaside golf links, Jim had felt a stirring of optimism mingled with the usual tension.

For late January in the South-West of Scotland, the weather was exceptional – mild and sunny with a cool breeze. Proximity to the sea (plus the greenhouse effect?) had kept the snow away. And most miraculous of all – he was fit and ready to defend his County Championship title. Six weeks of serious, satisfying training, uninterrupted by injury or illness; six days of easy jogging; some brisk striding; deep untroubled sleep; a comfortable journey. No wonder he felt so vibrant.

Road-Running was Jim’s forte, and cross-country racing like this could be even better. Unlike tarmac, the grass cushioned the impact of foot on ground and reduced the likelihood of muscle bruising. He had felt alert and controlled during his warm-up. The stretching had been without strain. At the start, without hesitation, he had managed to glide powerfully into his best racing stride.

Of course his confidence was increased by precise knowledge, not only of his own excellent form, but also of the opposition. He had beaten them all before, and had no reason to suppose he could not do so again. Indeed his only slight worry had been Ewan Cameron. Since the latter was a deep mud specialist, Jim felt that on this springy surface victory was almost assured. Furthermore, he had a secret weapon! While cruising around inspecting the course, Jim had laughed aloud when he realised that spikes were unnecessary. He could sneak a slight advantage by wearing racing flats and running at least half a mile (per two mile lap) on the tarmac path which paralleled the route indicated by the marker flags. In a three-lap race, that could be a decisive tactical move, since road running tends to be a little faster than running on grass.

Everything, but everything, went to plan. Five minutes (and one mile) into the race, Jim was dictating the pace. Ewan was tucked in, panting very hard but refusing to give way. The rest were fifty yards to the rear and fading. The last half mile of the lap offered the alternative surface, and Jim put in a fierce burst of speed. This left Ewan, whose spikes on the bumpy turf lacked the traction that Jim enjoyed on the firm path, drifting ten yards behind. Ewan fought his way up to Jim’s shoulder by half way, but this merely delayed the inevitable, because the effort drained his reserves. Inexorably, Jim drew further and further away – a greyhound outpacing a terrier. At the ‘bell’ he was almost a hundred yards in front and the gap continued to grow. The final circuit was virtually a lap of honour. ………………………………………..

KEEP PUSHING – BREATHE DEEPLY, FAST, RHYTHMICALLY – LEAN INTO THE HILL – SHORTEN STRIDE LENGTH – INCREASE CADENCE – LIFT THE KNEES – FLOW DOWN THE OTHER SIDE – LOPE – THEN DRIVE AGAIN – WORK HARD – FLOAT, FLEET-FOOTED – COAST, MORE EFFORTLESSLY THAN EVER BEFORE.

CONCENTRATING – REALITY REMOTE – THOUGHTS JUMBLED – SHOUTS FROM THE SPECTATORS – CAN’T GET LOST – KNOW THE ROUTE THIS TIME – PERFECT UNDERFOOT – NOT LIKE WALLOWING IN USUAL SLUDGE – NOTHING – PUFF – LIKE IT FOR – COOLING – SHOULD BE WARMING – THE BLOOD –SO FOLLOW ME – CAN’T CATCH ME! – WEARIER NOW BUT – LAST PUSH FOR THE LINE – FLAT OUT TO THE TAPE- GLO-O-O-RIOUS MUD!

Light-headed, exultant, his ears ringing with cheers, Jim punched the air and slowed to a jog. He managed to control his breathing – and grinning widely, shook hands with an exhausted Ewan before easing his way out of the crowd for a gentle but joyous warm-down. Cross-Country Running seemed the finest, most delightful sport of all. …………………………………………………………………………

Four weeks later, however, things looked very different. The omens seemed less than favourable. Jim was not comforted by the likelihood that holes in the ground might swallow him up. The Inter-County Championship was a major fixture. Jim’s county was defending the team title. The first nine individuals would represent Scotland in the Inter-Area match versus Wales, Northern Ireland and the Auld Enemy, England. And he felt absolutely dreadful.

For a start, he had been injured. The week after his County race, bursting with over-confidence, he had run too far, too fast, and strained an Achilles tendon. Reluctant to rest, he had trudged on grimly, suffering increasing pain. Inevitably, he had been forced to take five days off to treat the affliction. Stretching, strengthening and that vital athletic aid, the packet of frozen peas, had repaired the damage. Cautiously he experimented, finding the tendon tender but serviceable. Then he succumbed to the prevalent ‘flu bug!

Another six days of sweating, snuffling, sneezing, coughing and complaining, drinking gallons of water, consuming umpteen grams of Vitamin C – and Jim was ready to start again, only one week before the Inter-Counties. Had his stamina been affected? Was he fit to compete? These questions were about to be answered but Jim wished the examination had been postponed.

To make matters worse, torrential rain had lashed the countryside for a fortnight. The course designer, judging by his creation, was a sadist. The route looked awesome. Road Racers (like Jim) regarded it with repulsion. Track ‘Fairies’ felt faint. And Mud ‘Puddlers’ purred with pleasure and sharpened their long ‘claws’.

A muddy field on top of a potential ski-slope was the chosen site for the start. After four hundred yards of precipitous descent, the flags veered sharply to the left. The track narrowed before plunging into half a mile of tree-lined corridor, where only jet-propelled karate experts would find overtaking a simple matter. A series of alarming switchbacks ensued, and the sadist had subtly included a number of right-angled turns before a ‘killer hill’ and the obligatory ploughed field. Then, for the delectation of the crowd, An arduous steadily rising drag of a finishing straight. Three laps of chocolate-tinted ecstasy, totalling seven and a half miles. An alien landscape liberally lubricated with millions of melted Mars Bars. At least there weren’t any steeplechase barriers to negotiate.

Jim sighed with desperate resignation to his fate as he inspected the ground conditions. These seemed to be an attractive mixture of marsh, swamp and quagmire. The phrase ‘missing, presumed drowned’ occurred to him. Nevertheless he went through the pre-race routine, trying to create some heat in his wind-chilled body by plodding stickily round the course. Unfortunately he cooled down again during the lengthy queue for the inadequate toilet facilities. With five minutes to go, he shoved on his spikes (only medium length, alas), stripped off and tried a few perfunctory strides. What a surprise – the start was delayed by ten minutes as ‘jobsworth’ officials explored the formal niceties of the rule book, while runners cursed and hopped up and down, nursing their burgeoning chilblains. An icy drizzle began to seep from heavy-laden clouds.

Tenth was the position in which Jim had finished the previous year (on another ‘soft’ circuit) and consequently he had missed out on the representative team by a single place. He had hoped to make it this year or perish in the attempt. The latter seemed more likely. However, when the gun fired, he launched himself into a manic attempt to fulfil his faltering ambition.

Struggling to sprint on a treacherous unstable surface, Jim lurched uncertainly down the slope. Disaster was avoided, just, when he managed to hurdle an unfortunate rival who had tripped and sprawled headlong prior to perforation by sympathetic but preoccupied runners. Soaked, mud-splattered and punctured, the poor fellow lay there in shock, like a discarded tea-bag.

Reckless leaders with longer spikes than Jim slalomed round the left-hander into the forest tunnel, leaving him trapped, slithering and helpless. He was unable to pass slower competitors who were throttling back for a breather after an optimistic “Hello, Mum!” start. Frustrated, he was caught in the traffic jam until emerging into the open at the three-quarters of a mile mark. Then he zoomed furiously up the first of the hills, and proceeded to overtake madly. Amazingly, these tactics, brave yet burning fuel extravagantly, seemed at first to be correct. By two miles, Jim had climbed up into the first ten and desperately tried to cling on.

Suddenly success began to slide away as Jim did likewise, losing control on the slick churned-up morass, as he made a futile attempt to turn right at speed. Face-first into the mud he tumbled, to lie spread-eagled in the bog for a moment, before scrambling up and dashing off in pursuit of elusive glory. Fifteenth.

As he wheezed up the north face of the steepest climb on the course, Jim began to flag. His rivals seemed to be growing stronger. Forcing his way doggedly through the viscous clay of the ploughed field, he was dismayed to note Ewan Cameron passing him, cruising light-footed over the surface and moving steadily towards the leading group. “I beat that guy out of sight a month ago!” Jim thought disconsolately as he trailed fifty yards behind Ewan at the end of the first lap. Still two circuits to go! Seventeenth.

By now visibility was obscured by heavy swirling snowfall and the race became a nightmarish procession of demented vest-clad wraiths, with steam rising like ectoplasm from their lean forms. They stumbled in slow-motion through a barren Icelandic notion of hell. Having glissaded nervously down the sheer drop, Jim was relieved to reach the haven of the tree-lined avenue. Fatigue gnawed at his aching limbs as he realised numbly that he had no chance now of selection for Scotland. Another time perhaps, on a totally different surface. Yet he strove to maintain his effort, to slog on regardless. At least his county could retain the team title, he reckoned. Ewan and two others were in front of him; and the first six home would score. Eighteenth.

Crash! Another belly-flop onto squelchy mire, at one of those damn corners. What made it worse was the fact that he had anticipated, and tried to avoid, such a slip. Under the slush, the ground was surprisingly hard. The jarring winded him badly. He felt like a boxer left gasping by a body blow. Grinding uphill once more, Jim felt bone-weary. Dimly he glimpsed an ex-international runner, now over forty years old and therefore a’veteran’ splashing eagerly past him and surging powerfully through the glutinous muck of a farmer’s field. The old so-and-so seemed to be enjoying himself, Jim mused sourly. Last lap. Nineteenth.

CAN’T BELIEVE LOSING TO A VETERAN – AND EWAN – HORSES FOR COURSES – COMPLETELY KNACKERED – THEY SHOOT HORSES, DON’T THEY?

SKID DOWN THE SNOW CLIFF – SLUSH IS SAFER THAN MUD – FOUNDER IN A DEEPER STRETCH – SUPERGLUE – CAN HARDLY SEE – STILL NOT THE ONLY ONE CRACKING UP – SURELY ONE OF THE LEADERS OVER THERE – COLLAPSED AGAINST A TREE – JUST STARING AT THE SNOW – OTHERS WALKING – ACTUALLY PASSING SOME – OTHER OVERTAKING – NOT THAT IT MATTERS MUCH.

GRUELLING GRADIENTS – SAGGING DOWN AGAIN – CAREFUL – ROUND THE BEND – TOO TRUE – GRUNTING UP THE KILLER – SPIKES WON’T GRIP – FALLING UPHILL NOW – INTO THE ICY MARSH – WHAT NEXT? – SIDESLIP – ACHILLES WRENCHED – BODY DROOPING – DRAINED – LUMBERING THROUGH HEAVY SLUDGE – LAST TIME – NOT SO GLORIOUS MUD – WALLOWING ALL RIGHT – HIPPOS WOULD LOVE IT – NEARLY CRAWLING ALONG – INTO THE STRAIGHT – KEEP IT STEADY – OH NO! NOT NIGEL! – RAISE A CANTER – ELBOWING TUSSLE – STRIVE FOR THE FINISH LINE – WILTING – MADE IT!

Utterly spent, Jim hauled himself into the funnel, leaning heavily on ice-encrusted ropes. He plodded slowly past the recorder in twenty-third position. Glimpsing Ewan chatting to a county team-mate, Jim wandered over.

“Good one, boy,” he muttered, “Where’d you finish?”

“Sixth!” Ewan exclaimed happily, “Made the Scottish Select!”

“Lucky sod. Still, we must have won the team title.”

“Afraid not, Jim. Didn’t you see Ian and Alex spectating? Dropped out with a lap to go.”

Incredulous and suddenly very angry, Jim reeled away. All that effort for nothing! Despite his own problems, HE had managed to complete the course! How dare those two lose him the team prize – he’d tell them EXACTLY what he thought of them!

Wearily he collected his sodden tracksuit and headed for the showers. Inevitably a long queue had formed outside. The guy that had won the race was well down it. No privileges even for champions. Already, word was being passed that the water was going cold.

Glumly, Jim eyed his fellow so-called athletes. Haggard and hollow-eyed, they slouched, stamped or shivered in clammy running gear, their legs smeared by clotted mud and with slimy liquid oozing from their shoes. Some were gazing around vacantly; others talking obsessively about their own personal adventures.

Involuntarily, Jim started to laugh out loud. He knew that he must look the same as the others – dishevelled, filthy, ludicrous. The whole event was a farce! The joys of truly amateur sport! He could even feel sorry for the drop-outs, realising that they would be depressed for days because they had let the side down. At least he had finished.

Thank goodness, it was the end of his cross-country season. Triumph or disaster, as Rudyard Kipling had perhaps implied, should be met with modesty or calm resilience. Never mind – a couple of days off and he knew he would be glad to start training again. Things could only get better. Perhaps he’d aim for the Isle of Man Easter Road Running Festival – excellent real ale and a chance to get some revenge on Ewan and the others.

Shaking his head, and still chuckling hysterically, Jim made visible tracks in the direction of a wash-basin. Open-mouthed and bewildered, the shower queue watched his departure.

“What’s he got to laugh about?”

“Mud on the brain, if you ask me!”

GETTING ON

Once more, Gordon Bruce checked his digital watch. Still five minutes to go. Surrounded by restless, lightly perspiring bodies, he felt cramped and weak-kneed. Nervously he tried to stretch his hamstrings, touch his toes and test his shoelaces, all in one motion.

As the crowd shuffled forward slightly, he unbent rapidly and had to wait for a sudden giddiness to pass. Surely those were merely ‘butterflies’ in his belly? He just couldn’t need to go to the loo again? Four minutes left. Relax, he told himself. Try the deep breathing, jog on the spot, think of something else – anything. ……………………

How had he got involved in this public display of masochism? His parents certainly wouldn’t approve. He could just imagine his mother’s critical tone. “Grown men – and women too! Prancing about in their underclothes. And on the Sabbath! Just a waste of time and effort!”

They believed in hard work all right, he reflected sourly, but only for money. Behave yourself, he’d been told, pass your exams, wear a tie, cut your hair, polish your shoes, go to church, find employment, settle down.

Even his father, a silent morose man at home after another long day selling expensive cars to ungracious but wealthy businessmen, had nodded approvingly when Gordon had landed his first job with Taxcon Oil. After all, Mr Bruce had expected his boy (a prefect at a fee-paying school, no less) to have no difficulty clearing the hurdle of youth unemployment. ………………………………………………………….

A loud bang jerked Gordon back to the present and the mass of folk around him steadily gained forward momentum. The Aberdeen City Marathon was on its way at last. Mildly startled, he gathered some concentration as everyone wheeled right into the Beach Boulevard and ground smoothly and confidently, like eager lemmings, up the incline into Union Street.

Already the leaders were stretching away fast but Gordon had positioned himself near the back of the field. It was his first marathon and he had been warned to start slowly. More than a thousand ‘athletes’ were in front of him. Glancing round as he found space to run and settled into a rhythm, he smiled wryly at the wide variety of body types participating in the race. They ranged from the frankly obese (such effort for so little pace!) to the near-emaciated whippets of the leading pack. Were they that shape because they ran fast and far – or vice-versa?

By now Union Street (so quiet at 9 a.m. on a Sunday) had been traversed by the tail-enders and most competitors had swept downhill along Holburn Road. As he turned left onto Riverside Drive and passed the Duthie Park, Gordon felt relaxed, calm and free. Already (he knew he had been over-cautious) he was moving gradually through the field, leaving behind the kamikaze starters, publicity seekers and unreasonably optimistic.

There were two theories about how to cope psychologically with the strain of marathon running – one adopted by self-centred masochists (the leaders) and the other by less-obsessed individuals, like himself. The former concentrated hard on their running style, monitoring every muscular complaint, implementing race tactics and ensuring that maximum performance would be achieved [although the plans of mice and (marathon) men……..]

Gordon, on the other hand, preferred to opt out, to disassociate his mind from the discomfort of the body, and make progress while considering something else. During training, he frequently ‘woke up’ several miles further on, his feet keeping to the route (however tortuous) while his mind contemplated romantic possibilities, dreams of the future, or simply what he would like for his evening meal and how good a cool beer was going to taste after he had ‘earned’ it by completing his run. On this occasion, however, he continued explaining to himself exactly how he came to be taking part in the Aberdeen Marathon at all. ……………………………………………….

Young Executive in an Oil Firm sounded glamorous enough. As he discovered in the next few years, the work was repetitive and very tedious. It involved an endless stream of office jobs performed hastily to a tight schedule in a claustrophobic air-conditioned hell. His workmates seemed to have a vocation for such tasks. Certainly they arrived bright-eyed and early and didn’t seem to mind being kept behind after office hours if there was another petty crisis to solve.

Over a series of fattening boozy expense account lunches, Gordon came to realise how keen these people really were – desperately ambitious workaholics who saw themselves as a new breed of dedicated heroes. They talked about their work, possessions and social adventures, compared holidays and hi-fi systems, cars and cocktails, salaries and sex-lives, waistcoats and wigs. Gordon was the odd one out.

When he met Jean, he believed he saw a chance for happiness at last.

………………………………………………………………………………

A jolt, as his feet stumbled over quayside cobbles, forced him to keep his mind on running for a change. A slight drizzle had made the uneven surface greasy and treacherous. But after slithering about for a moment, he found that shortening stride length, leaning forward a degree or two, and maintaining a faster tempo, enabled him to deal with the stones quite efficiently. He was continuing to pick off stragglers and revelling in the competitive situation.

Gordon was cruising along – the engine seemed in tune, the fuel supply plentiful and the driver well motivated.

At six miles he passed the Beach Ballroom again and received his share of the crowd’s cheerful, envious or insulting comments. The route wound round the Broad Hill and up a narrow tenement-lined avenue to King Street, before plunging down Market Street and back into Riverside Drive. Then came the most testing hill – up Holburn Road, left onto Great Western Road and then out the North Deeside through Cults.

Halfway in one hour thirty-one minutes, Gordon noted as he strode into a slight cooling breeze. A heaviness in the legs was noticeable, but the effort wasn’t too intense, and his movements remained rhythmical and almost automatic.

…………………………………………………………………………

Jean. An image of her face, animated and smiling under that unruly mass of flaming red hair, passed briefly through his mind. That was the girl he had fallen for – the lively non-conformist who seemed so happy to move into his flat at the first tentative suggestion. She had been even more dissatisfied with her secretarial post (also at Taxcon) than he was with his executive one.

Gordon reasoned glumly that, caught up in those first few weeks of novelty and passion, he had never guessed that Jean’s wildness was superficial. Subconsciously at least, she must have yearned to escape into the conventional role of wife and, above all, mother. Soon she announced that she was going to have his child (which seemed strange, since he thought the Pill was fairly accident-proof). Trustingly he’d arranged a quick Registry wedding – and then the trouble really started.

During the rest of her pregnancy, Jean had been busy preparing for the birth. The flat was redecorated and a box-room transformed into a tiny nursery. She attended ante-natal classes (and insisted he accompany her) with a near-religious fervour. Her diet was planned in scrupulous detail, while he was left to exist on junk food – and her nightly exercise routine would have exhausted Jane Fonda. All good for the baby, and quite normal, he’d supposed, quashing his doubts. But after the birth (natural, straightforward, without drugs) – he’d found it a very emotional occasion – Gordon had begun to realise his true predicament.

Jean had become utterly different from the fun-loving extrovert of only a year before. Getting on with her was very difficult for Gordon by then. She was remote from him, obsessed by her baby girl (Tamsin – her idea). Jean spent her days fussing over the child, and chattering endlessly on the phone or over countless cups of decaffeinated coffee to other ‘young mums’. Then she collapsed grumpily into bed, claiming to have a tension headache and to be totally exhausted because she’s been looking after HIS daughter.

Gordon had been rejected and excluded. He had tried to share domestic chores, help with the baby and give his wife some time of her own. However his efforts were criticised as clumsy and inadequate.

Eventually, he had given up. Once again he felt trapped, having to withstand the strain of an unsatisfactory marriage as well as that of an enervating job. He began to suffer from every clichéd mid-life symptom (at the age of 25) – nervous stress, constant tiredness, depression, and either insomnia or the sleep of the dead.

Sometimes things seemed so bad he had to laugh. Was he a character in a soap opera?

It was when a colleague also laughed, ridiculing Gordon’s expanding waistline, that he started trying to reverse the process of deterioration. At school he had been reasonably adept at rugby, so it seemed a good idea to take part, one Friday evening, in the casual game of football organised by a few of his sportier workmates, before they headed for the pub to celebrate the weekend.

It was hardly a success. After several moments of competence (his co-ordination was still there at least) he found himself blowing hard, and eventually went over an ankle, straining his Achilles tendon. He limped miserably off the pitch, but got some measure of enjoyment from the hot shower and some good-hearted banter in the bar afterwards.

Once the injury healed, he decided to achieve fitness cautiously, in gradual stages. Some of the Taxcon employees were in the habit of jogging two or three miles at lunchtime. He made up his mind to join them after a few tentative solo trials.

It was tough at first. He could hardly run more than 400 metres without gasping helplessly and having to stop. His limbs ached for days. But gradually the muscular pains eased and some breath control returned. Yet his ego suffered when, trying to participate in a group run at work, he discovered that much older men could converse fluently while sailing effortlessly away over the horizon, leaving him speechless in their wake, floundering like a novice in a coracle.

A strange determination made him keep trying. He realised the benefit of gentle, yoga-based stretching exercises, and found physical tiredness much easier to withstand than the nervous exhaustion he had been enduring for so long. He slept much better, his appetite was keener, and yet his weight started to return to normal, pound by pound, as his metabolic rate increased.

Steady jogging seemed to be therapeutic. His other worries were absent while he concentrated on simple forward movement or let his mind wander as his body settled into rhythmical progress. Once he was able to talk during training, he discovered the common bond between all runners – a mutual understanding and sympathy, engendered by a shared pleasure (and sometimes a shared discomfort).

A discussion with a training partner could take on a confessional nature. It was as if the run took place in a time capsule, quite apart from the pressures of normal life. It seemed natural to impart confidences and mention personal problems, secure in the knowledge that the listener would refrain afterwards from malicious gossip.

……………………………………………………………………………..

Gordon had to muster his concentration during the grind up to Milltimber Brae. He was puffing by the top, but seemed in better condition than most in the straggling crocodile of runners stretching before him. Gaining speed on the twisting left-hand bend, he flashed past several other competitors whose legs couldn’t absorb the extra strain of downhill racing.

……………………………………………………………………………………

It had been near the end of the Duthie Park ‘Fun Run’ only six months previously when he had come upon an ability to push himself more fiercely than the average jogger. Half a mile before the end of the four mile trail, which undulated over grassy hills, round tarmac paths past beds of brilliantly coloured flowers, he had noticed a workmate (one of those who had obviously relished running away from him in the early days) plodding along only twenty yards in front.

A rush of competitive energy had given his weary legs new life. Feeling like a fresh thoroughbred racehorse flying past a ponderous broken-winded Clydesdale, he had accelerated hard to the finish, more than thirty seconds in front of his astonished rival. It had been a minor breakthrough and Gordon’s confidence had grown considerably.

Shortly after the fun run, he joined the local athletics club. After listening to advice offered by experienced runners and the distance coach, he mapped out a two-month training programme aimed at a half marathon in June.

The first Wednesday that he took part in the pack run which started down King Street and up the promenade, he got quite a shock. With an effort he hung on until the Bridge of Don, without managing to chat freely like his club-mates.

However the route swung right, then left up the long drag to Balgownie, the talking stopped, the pace increased dramatically, and they seemed to vanish with the casual rapidity of deer escaping over the skyline. He was left a disconsolate straggler. Not knowing the trail he lost contact with the others, and found it awkward to trudge back to Linksfield Stadium, very tired indeed.

Perseverance paid off after a few weeks, though. A longish run at a slow speed on Sundays (15 miles through Hazlehead and Countesswells); a track session on Tuesdays; six repetitions up a steep hill on Thursdays; some steady recovery jogging on the ‘easy’ days; and he found himself keeping up with the main herd during the Wednesday night ‘race’.

Self-respect was his main reward and the esteem of others. His club-mates seemed to admire natural talent, speed and stamina but, most of all, wholehearted effort. Gordon enjoyed their friendship and the harmless mickey-taking in the pub after the Wednesday run.

His general morale was much higher now. He felt stronger and more relaxed, physically and mentally. Not only had he found an escape from the stresses of work and home, but he had also gained resilience, and was better able to deal with such pressures. Alienation was no longer a problem now he had some companionship and shared common goals with others.

And yet, more significantly, he began to develop an independence, a self-reliance, he had not achieved before. Gordon thought of running as a purposeful activity with very real benefits. ……………………………………………………………………

Now these qualities were really being tested. He knew that the size of challenge he faced (in the 26 miles 385 yards of the full classic distance) would be, oddly, more than double any minor trouble endured, while completing the half marathon.

Passing other runners was harder now, since the gaps were greater. At 23 miles, on Riverside Drive once more, he began to experience the symptoms of ‘The Wall’. Scaremongering veterans had done their best to ensure that he knew exactly what could happen if he ‘hit it’, although he has assumed their horror stories were exaggerated.

Yet it worried him, now that the sun had broken through, that he had begun to shiver with cold. His feet and legs were jarred, sore and stiff because of repeated contact with hard tarmac. There was a dryness in his throat, a pounding in his head, and his whole body felt weak and leaden, as if the air he was parting was becoming as resistant as water.

Briefly, Gordon lost control. He doubted if he could keep going. Several acquaintances had been sceptical about his ability to complete the distance. Maybe they’d been accurate in their judgement. He faltered, lost momentum and had to walk for a few yards. But this slight respite was enough – he wasn’t going to quit without a struggle. Grimly he broke into a slow trot and regained rhythm and purpose.

Progress was possible, after all, and he was glad he had eaten properly in the days before the race (potatoes, pasta and white bread, mainly, with only toast and jam four hours before the gun). Drinking a couple of pints of some electrolyte preparation that morning, and topping up with water and a cup of strong black coffee in the last hour, had ensured a good start. Despite heavy perspiration, he had managed to remain well-hydrated, taking frequent sips at the drink stations and enjoying a refreshing sponge when available. His preparation had been sensible and thorough. Now it was paying off.

Over the cobbles for the last time, keeping well away from the harbour’s edge, and he was past the 25 mile point. Up a nasty little hill and round an army cadet (acting as a marker). He ignored the final chance to take in some liquid, because by now he could hear the applause of the crowd at the finish.

Wiping sweat from his face and, with an automatic gesture, passing a hand through his hair, Gordon took a few deep breaths and, turning right onto the boulevard, tried to run powerfully to the banner and the time clock. He overtook a fellow sufferer and crossed the line, with the announcer’s hoarse voice bawling congratulations through the loudspeaker. Two hours, fifty-five minutes exactly. Not bad for a first attempt.

Although his legs were stiff and awkward, he felt as if he were floating, a permanent grin on his face. They were right – just being able to stop WAS great! He demolished three cartons of orange squash, and was chatting eagerly to a club-mate (each attempting, simultaneously, to tell the story of HIS race), when a pram came to a half beside him and he was surprised by a warm embrace.

It was Jean, more vibrant than he’d seen her for ages, saying well done with what sounded like sincerity! She hadn’t expected him so soon, and seemed glad to have a successful (and still healthy) husband. Together, they wheeled Tamsin’s chariot across to the changing tents.

Gordon was tired but content. He recognised that the sensation of strength and control, of achievement and self-respect, was mainly an illusion. This glow would pass, he knew, like all joys (and sorrows), but seemed all the more precious for its transience.

Getting on would always be a struggle, but now he knew that perhaps struggling well  was what was important – and he had proved to himself that he was capable of that.

“I’ll show them,” he thought, with a surge of defiance. But first, the beer, the bath, the bed and the sleep – of the truly alive.

FUN AND GAMES

As the battered blue Volkswagen careered northwards, the three students tried to relax. Surprisingly for early July in Scotland, weather conditions were sunny and still.

“Fine day for the Highland Games,” exclaimed Alan Simpson, “Hope it doesn’t get any hotter, though, or I’ll melt during the road race.”

“Tough luck,” laughed Tony Harris, “You should stick to real athletic events. The grass track will be drying out nicely for me.”

“You’d better hope those lunatic bikers don’t cut it up,” commented Charlie Middleton, “Not that I care. The track will seem as smooth as a snooker table, if I reach the finish of the hill race.”

“There, there, Charlie,” soothed Alan, “We know it’s your first attempt at hill running. But if you’re a good boy and don’t break your neck on that nasty terrifying vertical descent, I might even buy you an ice-cream!”

“You really know how to cheer someone up,” Charlie moaned, “I’m dead worried about this, you know.”

“Never mind,” said Tony, “You’ve just got pre-race nerves – we all do. Think of it as an enjoyable challenge to overcome.”

“Anyway,” Alan added quietly, “With Dad driving you might never reach the start. Let that be a comfort to you.”

Old Jim Simpson, Alan’s father, said nothing, as was his habit, and concentrated fiercely on his task. Gradually the others lapsed into silence also. They coped with the stress of the journey by dozing, watching the road unfold rapidly, or even praying, when absolutely necessary. Jim was sixty-one years old, and as fit as most thirty-year-olds. He was extremely hard-working and prided himself on his smart attire and politeness. From the shining toes of his formal black shoes to his immaculately combed hair, he was every inch a gentleman. But although he never swore and had no real vices, Jim was a demon behind the wheel. The Beetle roared up the middle of the road, dominating the white line and skidding violently round corners. Its engine, which normally ticked over like a contented sewing machine, protested as Jim’s foot pressed ever harder on the accelerator, searching for the power of a souped-up Ferrari.

Almost the worst recurrent situation was when the Volkswagen was baulked by a slower vehicle. Jim could not overtake because of bends or oncoming traffic. He fretted ferociously about road hogs and cripples and imbeciles. The worst situation, of course, was when he declared with grim intent, “Right! Next straight I’m going to get this blighter!” His unhappy passengers knew he would be true to his word. He would not be deterred by minor obstacles like the three ponderous Furniture lorries thundering relentlessly head-on towards the bonnet of the overtaking Beetle, apparently ready to crush it contemptuously under-tyre as if it were truly an insect. Miraculously the Volkswagen escaped without a scratch. Possibly because of the communal prayer and wail, or Jim’s frequently underestimated steering skills. By the time they arrived at the Games car-park, the three athletes had little need of a warm-up, they were sweating so much.

“Never thought we’d make it!” gasped Charlie.

“Didn’t trouble me at all,” lied Tony, “A few hours rest in Intensive Care and I’ll be ready for the trip home.”

“I was not aware of any difficulties, gentlemen,” asserted Jim in a hurt tone.

“Anyway, we’re here now, so let’s get changed and ready to run. The road race starts in half an hour,” Alan cut in, “Okay if we meet afterwards in ‘The Red Dragon’?”

There was general agreement, because the pub, which had once been famous for selling the most northerly real ale in Britain, was one of the main reasons for attending this particular festival. Poor Charlie, still travel-sick, muttered dismally, “I could murder a pint right now.”

Once he had been convinced that real hill runners had no need for Dutch courage, the three younger men departed with their kitbags. Old Jim strolled off to buy a programme and spectate from a sunny vantage point.

For a Highland Games, the setting was perfect. A closely-shaven grass track was marked out on a broad undulating expanse of lush parkland, with acres of open ground to accommodate athletes and onlookers. Between the main road and the arena was an avenue of mature deciduous trees and the town gardens – fountains, topiary and vivid flower displays. Behind the Games venue, the land rose abruptly into a series of small steep wooded hills, culminating in a lofty tower dedicated to Admiral Nelso. From there one could view the fertile farmland and forests of Moray, against the backdrop of the blue Cairngorm Mountains.

Encircling the track were hundreds of folding chairs, painted white, with spacious marquees for changing and the sale of local produce. To one side a small funfair adjoined the car-park and public conveniences. Directly opposite, a whitewashed rustic pavilion served refreshments and provided first aid for over-enthusiastic competitors. Few required it. This was a delightfully low-key amateur occasion.

Sightseers applauded a Pipe Band as the musicians marched proudly, heads high and kilts lilting, round the track. The stirring strains of ‘Flower of Scotland’ rang out. After they departed the announcer, a local worthy with a dreadful sense of humour and unbearably boisterous bonhomie, welcomed everyone to the Games. As he chuntered on amiably, Jim Simpson ignored the tannoy and inspected his programme. He skimmed through the list of events, identifying only the order of his favourites. Cycling first; the ‘Heavies’; and finally the Sprints. He sighed with satisfaction as he settled down to survey the high-speed drama of the Grass Track Cycling, which seemed to him almost as thrilling as Formula One Motor Racing.

Starting proceedings was the shortest sprint, the 800 metres. Ten kamikaze bikers lined up, clad in full Tour de France gear – long thigh-hugging black shorts, multi-hued shirts and obviously inadequate leather crash-bunnets. The gun fired and they charged madly into the first bend of the two-lap race. Although the surface of the well-cut grass was quite dry, moisture lurked just beneath. The centrifugal force of ten sets of tyres, cornering at speed, started to churn up the edges of the track. Surprisingly everyone stayed in the saddle but a lean young daredevil, trapped at the back of the pack, swerved into the outside lane and attempted to surge past before the end of the straight. He succeeded in doing so but omitted to plan his next manoeuvre – negotiating the curve. By dint of skidding off the ropes and digging his right heel into the turf he managed to prevent himself from ending up in a startled sunbather’s lap. Unfortunately he over-corrected and sped into another rider’s rear wheel. There was a clash of metal, some muffled swearing, and both men and their machines, hopelessly entangled crashed into the fence. Without a sideways glance, their heartless rivals slewed round the wreckage and shot down the home straight into the final circuit.

As the bell rang a stocky figure, with brown bulging thighs as thick as pregnant telegraph poles, hurled himself to the front and made a long burst for the finish line. Judging by the way he slung his bike round the bend, he must have been super-glued to his seat and his tyres metal-studded. Straining every muscle he zoomed into the last hundred metres – and then could only groan with disappointment. A cool confident figure, who had slipstreamed his ever move, switched on maximum power and swept past to win by a wheel’s width. Rolling easily into a warm-down lap, he accepted congratulations with poker-faced grace.

Old Jim shook his head admiringly, thinking that cyclists were tough, fearless gymnasts and certifiably crazy. Later in the afternoon there were four more races for him to relish. In the Senior 1500 metres, one hardy hero slalomed helplessly through sludge into the crowd. The Junior 1500 featured the collision of two youthful hopefuls – one buckling a back wheel, the other a collar bone. The 6000 metres was without incident apart from a repeat victory for the last-minute ‘kicker’ who had snatched the 800 earlier. But the “Deil Tak the Hindmost” was a fitting climax to the series.

Seven scarred Samurai survived to endure the torments of this particular circle of hell. The name of the race sums up the callous lack of sympathy for losers in sport. After a smooth start and a preliminary tour of the track, the fun begins. On every second lap there is increasingly frantic jockeying for position followed by a bunch sprint. Last one over the mark is eliminated. He peels disconsolately over to the sidelines while the rest of them start the 800 metres build-up again.

Some cyclists seem to have that slight but significant advantage in speed which separates a sparrow-hawk from its prey. The fellow who had won twice that afternoon seemed to have the edge on his opponents, such was the ease of his progress into the ‘final’. Exuding class and nonchalance he glided into the ‘recovery’ lap, preparatory to enjoying near-certain success. He acknowledged the cheers of his admirers and then was unnerved by a strange sense that he was on his own. Realising rapidly that there was yet one contest to conclude, he glanced round for his rival and was astonished to spot a short muscle-bound figure, head down, streaking away down the back straight! Eager to avenge his defeat in the first race, the stalwart second-placer had taken his chance and sneaked off very early to ‘go for gold’. Desperately the ‘superior’ one shot off in pursuit and had reduced the leeway to twenty metres with one lap to go. However his finishing burst had been used too soon and he had to rely on staying-power and mental strength to peg back his adversary any further. Foot by foot he strained ever nearer and it seemed possible that he might just win after all. Then two things happened simultaneously. The stocky one somehow managed a last leg-blurring lunge for the line; and the Seb Coe of Northern Scottish cycling sagged (doubtless the victim of some mysterious virus?) his tyres lost traction and he slithered, elegantly of course, to the ground. A victory for stamina and smart tactics – and a warning against over-confidence and lack of alertness. Remembering the title of the event, the response from Jim and the rest of the crowd to the star’s demise was loud laughter! ……………………………….

After the Games, Jim looked forward to telling his passengers about the highlights of his afternoon. He was well aware that they would have been wrapped up in their own events and would have observed little else. However his good manners made it difficult to get a word in. He found them relaxing in that unspoilt wood-panelled traditional Scottish bar ‘The Red Dragon’, which is famed for beautiful booze, a welcoming atmosphere and remarkably untalented darts players. Alan was drenching a marathon thirst with his second glass of orange squash, but had the grace to buy his father a shandy. Charlie was attempting to drown himself in pint-sized pools of real beer – McEwan’s 70 Shilling Ale.

Having lubricated the lining of his throat, Tony stretched luxuriously and drawled, “Well, aren’t you going to ask me how I got on this afternoon? Jim was watching but you two weren’t.”

“Suppose so,” muttered Charlie, “If you listen to what happened to us.”

“Love to,” Tony stated sarcastically, “But me first.”

“Okay – just don’t take too long, big head,” Alan chipped in.

“Right,” promised Tony, “Well it was like this. I felt really good in my warm-up for the 1500, bouncy and loose. That steeplechaser guy was running. You know – Bill Edwards. He looked very cool and easy doing his strides, joking with his mates – perhaps he thought it would be no contest. After all he’d won both the 1500 and the 3000 last year and he didn’t know me from Adam.”

“No wonder – you only ran 4.25 last year,” commented Charlie dismissively, “What a fat sod you used to be, Harris!”

“Fair enough,” Tony agreed, “Though I had a better social life in those days. But Edwards couldn’t have known about my extra training since Easter – and neither did the handicapper! I was off ninety metres in front of scratch. So I reckoned, right, this was my chance to sort out a really good guy at last. Since that coach came to the University pre-season, I’ve been sticking to his schedule like a demented monk. It’s been hard work but I’ve been chipping away at my personal bests and the last two weeks I’ve felt more like Steve Ovett than my old self. My last serious session was on Wednesday: up the clock 200 metres with a minute’s recovery; 400 with 90 seconds; 600 with 2 minutes; 800 with three minutes; and then all the way down again. I was absolutely flying! Massacred Alec Forbes and knocked five seconds off the 800 training ‘record’.”

“Cut out the gloating,” protested Alan, “You know Alec’s just had ‘flu!”

“Yeah, but he’s always pretty fast,” asserted Tony, “And I tell you – I’ve never felt so fit in my life. A couple of easy days and I was set up for this afternoon. Anyway, the starter gets us sorted out and I’m standing on my mark ready to go. I glance back at Bill Edwards and he’s waving at a girlfriend in the crowd! The gun goes and woosh! I’m off like a real bullet, not a blank this time. Bill’s still moving into gear and I must have stolen another twenty yards on him. You must have seen it, Jim! Mind you I didn’t look behind again – just kept going flat out. Three laps to go and there’s only one old guy in front and he’s going backwards. No problems with the legs and breathing controlled. Two laps to go – no hassle. Gets a bit tougher then – some of that lactic acid building up, legs getting heavier but they’re still pumping away fine and I’m in the lead. The bell! I’ve just got to risk a look round – can’t hear any footsteps but still …. What do I see? Edwards is still a hundred yards back! Have to amputate both my legs to lose it now – probably hop to the tape if they only cut one off. Bit of a struggle round the last lap but I was miles in front – at least ten seconds. My time was fast too! In fact if I add on what it would have taken me for the ninety metres, probably I would have broken 4 minutes ten seconds. Not bad, eh?”

“Sounds like a good one right enough, you lucky so and so,” agreed Alan, “Didn’t think you had it in you. Prize okay?”

“Set of reject mugs,” admitted Tony, “But who cares? Anyway, it gets better – Bill didn’t like getting beaten, although he was decent enough to congratulate me. Claimed a shin was hurting but did say I’d have been very hard to beat. Still, he didn’t show for the 3000. It was off scratch, of course, but I was well recovered for it since it was two hours after the fifteen. Just used the same jet-propelled start but settled down quickly and ground out the laps, keeping an eye on the other lads. Had to work a bit near the end but managed to break nine minutes – 8.53. On a grass track that’s pretty good – and another PB of course. I’ve had a great time in fact. Wish they were all like that!”

“I suppose you did run well,” admitted Charlie, “Almost like a real athlete, in fact.”

A real athlete. As they bickered amicably, old Jim sipped his drink and his thoughts drifted back to the Games – and competitors that most spectators would consider to be the real men on show. ………………………………….

Much of Jim’s attention at any Highland Gathering was paid to the ‘Heavies’ i.e. the big men who competed in traditional trials of strength: hurling the Scots Hammer (with the wooden shaft); putting the shot (often a stone); throwing the 28 pound weight for distance; heaving the 56 pound weight for height; and of course tossing the caber.

All afternoon, like a tribe of Mountain Gorillas being observed by David Attenborough these huge individuals padded slowly around the arena, associating only with their brothers and an occasional official (who was almost certain to be a retired Heavy events athlete himself). Jim regarded them mainly with awe, since they seemed to possess immense destructive potential, yet remain such gentle giants. Normal males (let alone seven stone weaklings) felt inadequate just looking at them. Physically, they seemed to be a separate species – the shortest a mere six feet tall but with such breadth of shoulder, brawny biceps and kilt-enhancing calves. Some of the older athletes were notable for well-developed bulging bellies too – but Jim just knew that the fat there would be rock-hard!

They seemed to be at ease, secure in their sense of themselves. If your engine is turbo-charged, if your tank is full of five-star, you can afford to cruise comfortably – the power will be there, should any pipsqueak dare to challenge you. Jim smiled enviously at the thought. With hands on hips and the broadest of smiles, they appraised each others’ efforts with jovial good humour, backslapping, bear-hugs and nods of appreciation.

When it as time for one of these supermen to demonstrate his ability, he moved apart from the perambulating porridge commercial and prepared in a brief and dignified manner. Perhaps stretching a little, loosening a knotted muscle or even jogging a few sedate strides. Then, without sign of strain, he selected his missile and took up the appropriate position. There was a breathtaking surge of strength and speed, an animal roar, and the object arced through the air before plunging, bouncing, denting deeply and resting heavily on the scarred turf. The muscleman ambled back to the brotherhood.

Jim considered the caber to be THE heavy event of the Games. He relished the practised ease with which the awkward length of heavy timber was raised to the vertical then lifted to knee height before the rapid little run and almighty heave which sent the tree-trunk end over to land perfectly at ‘twelve o’clock’ straight out in front of the thrower. Weaker athletes were found out by this implement, and displayed symptoms of stress (or imminent apoplexy): the crimson face, sweat pouring from the brow, dire groans and finally the uncontrolled staggering rush to release the caber – squint.

However Jim was sure that the most dangerous stunt was hurling the weight over the bar. He could hardly bear to watch every time it happened. Nonchalantly, one of the warriors lugged a four stone lump of iron to the mark directly beneath a pole-vault bar. Straddling his legs, with both fists he grasped the ring attached to the weight and swung it backwards between his knees, brushing his kilt aside. Then he hurled the missile skywards above his head, aiming to arch it over the bar. Just before this deadly blunt instrument descended, he strolled away casually, narrowly avoiding lobotomy, decapitation or merely skull-crushing. Jim and the rest of the crowd sighed with relief or disappointment and the next candidate for execution stepped forward steadily. No matter whether the reason for such behaviour was confidence, fearless bravado, lack of imagination or sheer suicidal stupidity, Jim considered the ‘Heavies’ to be a race apart. ……………………………………………..

A race of a different character, much rougher than Tony’s track athletics, also appealed to the mildly sadistic spectator. Jim had been fascinated to watch the more hapless hill runners skidding helter-skelter down the final steep slopes before staggering round the field to the finish of the four mile Hill Race. Back in the pub, he regained concentration, just as Charlie was describing his experience.

“It all began well enough,” he remarked, shaking his head dolefully, “You remember what a good cross-country season I had? The muddier it got, the further up the field I finished. Wind, rain, snow, uphills, cliff edges – it was all the same to me. I guessed the tougher it got, the better. Must have thought I was a hero or something. And I’ve never had any real leg-speed when it comes to the track or the road, so I made up my mind to try the hills this year – I’d be a fell-runner or bust.”

“Well you’ve made it to The Red Dragon,” declared Alan, “So you obviously didn’t bust. What happened?”

“As I said, it was no bother at first. Three times a week for the last month I’ve been doing hill repetitions – even up that monster sand dune at Balmedie. So the steep climb up the winding little path through the woods felt okay, although it was irritating when Mel Ewing decided to run beside me. He kept yattering on about how well I was doing for a new boy, while we were actually hauling ourselves up the scree slope at the steepest bit! Maybe he meant to encourage me but I started feeling inferior because, unlike him, I hadn’t developed an extra lung to talk with while the other two were panting like a pair of Pekinese scaling the Eiger!”

“So what went wrong?” interrupted Tony.

“The uphills I could cope with,” continued Charlie, “And I kept bashing on in third place all the way to the summit of the fourth and final top, round the Nelson Tower – and then the trouble started. When I tried to read the map before the race I just got confused so I didn’t bother and thought I’d simply follow the faster men. But because I was so far up, and the first two (including Mel, who’d got away) were a hundred yards in front, I went wrong on the first downhill. They totally abandoned the path (which wound round backwards and forwards at that point) and disappeared into the undergrowth straight down the hillside. Well, I thought I’d better try to follow them, so I dived off the path myself. It was sheer murder – tree roots and thorn bushes. When I did find the path again lower down I got muddled and turned left instead of right. Didn’t know my mistake until the lad who’d been fourth crashed into me face-first! Then I started straining a hamstring on a slippery descent so I had to slow down on the fastest sections. All sorts of OAPs, weight-watchers and wheelchair athletes started to come past – some of them were crazy on the dangerous bits. I swear those guys can put a foot into a rabbit hole and take it out again before their ankle snaps! What a technique – I’m sure one nutter whizzed past me upside down! My quadriceps were killing me because I had to brake so hard on the really treacherous parts. I only must managed to stop myself falling down a waterfall. When I finally tottered into the field I was frustrated and furious at myself. I charged round the last half mile of park to the finish. Must have overtaken ten on that stretch, but still finished only fifteenth, in a bad temper, with knackered legs. What a sickener!”

Alan managed to stifle the laughter he felt bubbling up and tried to sympathise. “Hard luck, Chas. But don’t give up yet. It’s just a matter of training on the downhills as well as the climbs. Try a few strides on Brimmond Hill when your muscles recover.”

“Maybe,” replied a doubtful Charlie, “Although the way I feel now – absolutely pulverised – I may never be able to run again. What gets me most is how embarrassing it was. The only good thing about trailing in, five minutes after the winner, was that most of the crowd seemed to be concentrating on the big Sprint Handicap, rather me and the other war-wounded.”

Jim smiled to himself as he remembered the event in question. …………………

In a normal hundred metres race, competitors start level with each other and finish apart; whereas in a properly-handicapped Highland Games event, very nearly the opposite may be the case.

Pre-race drills remain the same, however. Jim had observed representatives of the two types of sprinter – short strong scrum halves and big bear-like bruisers – carrying out their routine with stern religious intensity. Swaddled in heavy sweatshirts, whatever the weather, lone figures reeking of embrocation plodded with painful slowness round the outfield, fast-twitch muscles protesting at excessive distance. Then, reluctantly, they completed a second circuit. Ten minutes of rigorous stretching ensued: bending, sitting, lying or apparently trying to fell a tree by pushing it over. Cautiously, they removed a single layer of clothing, and then, self-absorbed and solemn-faced, they strode out monotonously down a suitable stretch of grass, with repetition strolls back to their discarded kit.

At this juncture a few starting blocks (which are seldom in evidence at the Games) were hammered home and painstakingly adjusted until perfect. A series of sprint starts followed, violently punching fists and exaggerated knee-lifts – ecstatic explosions which fizzled out limply after a few anti-climactic seconds.

Finally on this occasion the starter, a natty oldster in red blazer and jaunty peaked cap, called them to their separate marks. These were as much as twenty metres apart, depending on prowess or decrepitude displayed during the previous season. “SET!” In slow motion, rumps reared. “BANG!” At the report of the gun the ‘Scratch Man’ (insultingly named but impeccably hygienic) who had furthest to run, leaped into action just before his less alert rivals. One evergreen competitor, an old bald but indomitable chap in long khaki ‘shorts’, reacted eventually by standing up straight and scuttling stylishly (but with little stiff strides) towards the halfway point. By this time he had been overtaken by a loping lad in a rugby jersey. Meanwhile the faster men were hurling themselves down a tunnel of concentration towards the tape. To a crescendo of shouts and applause, it was snapped by the backmarker, whose legs twinkled like a well-oiled hyperactive metronome as he dipped expertly at just the right moment for him to tumble into an unintentional but well-disguised forward roll. Copying their American counterparts, the more extrovert athletes indulged in a hand-slapping demonstration, but only succeeded in looking like fitter versions of Laurel and Hardy.

Jim enjoyed the spectacle but then listened intently as a tannoy announcement was made about a special event to be added to the programme. ………………………

In the bar of The Red Dragon, after Charlie had told of his disappointment, Jim bought the next round. “Of course I myself will drink only mineral water from now on,” he announced selflessly, “Since I do not believe in over-imbibing and in any case must retain a clear head for the drive home.”

The others exchanged perturbed glances at his but did not comment on their joy at the prospect.

With a heavy sigh, Alan said, “I suppose you’d better hear what happened to me in the Road Race.”

“You mean you didn’t win it?” inquired a puzzled Tony, “I thought you’d walk it.”

“Well there was that local runner Sandy Macmillan,” Alan responded, “But I must admit I thought he was past his best. Anyway there were about a hundred competitors but only Macmillan and I had a chance of victory. A wee bunch of six stuck together on the little circuit round the houses. Since I felt comfortable and wasn’t too sure of the route I just settled in until we hit the country road and started the nine mile loop. First long uphill drag I sank the boot and tried to drop the rest.”

“And did you?” asked Charlie.

“Almost. I pushed really hard for half a mile but I could hear one guy’s footsteps close behind. There was a headwind so I sidestepped and let him be the windbreak for a while. It was Sandy Macmillan of course. He was puffing a lot but going well. Then I tried a series of shortish surges and managed to gain a twenty yard lead. This stretched painfully slowly to fifty yards but it was tough staying clear – he just refused to let me go completely and kept hauling me in on the down-slopes. You would have thought we were attached by a big rubber band. The old nuisance must have been on a course of steroids. Anyway, about seven miles I got sick of the strain of being just a little way in front so I went absolutely eyeballs-out for ten minutes without looking back at all. When I finally glanced over my shoulder, he was a good two hundred yards behind. What a relief!”

“So how could you lose?” asked Tony, mystified.

“Listen and I’ll tell you. I eased back a bit in the last couple of miles, just cruising home or so I thought. One mile to go and Sandy well beaten, I reached the bottom of the hill near the park. There was no sign of any officials marking the route so I followed the main road and suddenly got a shock – I was running past the door of this pub! Ten seconds later I found myself in the main street! Realising too late that there was something wrong, I veered right and sprinted up to the front of the park and tried to find an entrance. I had to force my way through a queue for ice-cream and past a ticket seller before I got near the track. Of course I had flipped completely by then – you know my rotten temper under stress. I was raving like a Rangers supporter after a loss to Celtic, swearing blue-nosed murder at spectators and especially officials. I moaned about the lousy marking on their stupid road race. Naturally, by the time I’d grumped my way round the last lap to the finish, I was fifth. And what I couldn’t believe was when I went up to Macmillan to tell him what had happened. Turns out, he saw me go straight on instead of having the local knowledge to turn right up a lane. Claims he tried to shout but was too far behind for me to hear. Probably a very quiet shout if you ask me. Then he has the brass neck to say this to me. “Pity to defeat you this way, Alan – but a win is a win.” Then he coolly accepts the cup and first prize and saunters off! If I had been him, and two hundred yards behind with a mile to go, I would NEVER have done that – I know when I’m beaten, fair and square.”

Charlie and Tony stopped laughing at Alan’s rueful face and tale of woe to sympathise, to some extent anyway. Alan’s final comment was that he was beginning to see the funny side now and wished he hadn’t sworn so violently at everyone. Perhaps the Games Committee would refuse his entry next year!

“It is my opinion,” old Jim interrupted gravely, to everyone’s surprise, “That members of the Games Committee are totally incompetent and thoroughly untrustworthy!”

“What do you mean?” quizzed Tony, “It’s still a very good Highland Games even if there are a few cock-ups.”

“This afternoon, gentlemen,” James continued with doleful dignity, “Despite enjoying several events as an observer, I was deeply disappointed. My faith in the integrity of my fellow man was dashed. The facts are as follow. At three p.m. approximately, an announcement was made to the effect that, since the weather was clement and it had been noted that numerous mature but sprightly spectators were present, the organisers proposed to add what they termed ‘an extra novelty event’ to the programme. To wit: a ‘super-veterans’ hundred metres sprint for those over sixty years of age. Now I qualify by no less than fifteen months and furthermore consider myself sufficiently fit, because of lifelong attention to matters of diet and exercise. Therefore I made the immediate decision to put myself to this test, which I perceived to be a rare opportunity to measure my condition against that of my peers.”

“Sounds tailor-made for you, Father,” interjected Alan, “If a little short.”

“Indeed, I was aware that stamina rather than speed has been my forte,” Jim concurred, “After all, it was as a miler that I had some success before the last war. Nevertheless I considered that, with the aid of a thorough warm-up, I might complete the course with distinction. I must confess that the prize, half a bottle of my favourite Glenmorangie ten-year-old malt whisky, was an additional incentive. Imagine my discomfiture when, at the allotted time, there came a further announcement. Since only one ‘veteran’ i.e. myself, had entered so far, the judges planned to open the race to those over fifty. My heart sank but I resolved to compete, despite the challenge of mere youngsters. Yet I was shocked when, fifteen minutes later, the sprint was changed to one for over-forties. Finally, after I had spent an arduous  hour preparing by walking briskly, carrying out a series of military callisthenics, jogging and striding, the tannoy had the temerity to tell me that the event was cancelled, because of lack of competitors! After due consideration I proceeded to the Judges’ Tent to discuss the situation. I informed them that I was willing to stage a demonstration sprint if necessary but thought it only fair that I should receive my prize. They were a shifty-looking lot – only one of them dared to look me in the eye. He had the gall to refuse my request, refund my start fee and close the tent flap in my face!”

Tony, Alan and Charlie kept their faces straight with difficulty and shook their heads in well-feigned disgust at this dastardly action. However their deadpan façade was cracked wide open when Jim concluded his story with an air of anguish, saying, “Do you know, gentlemen, it is my firm belief that those scoundrels disposed of my Glenmorangie by drinking it themselves!”

If Jim sought shared outrage then he did so in vain. The three young men hooted with mirth at the poor chap’s chagrin. His expression of suffering was more than they could bear – they giggled and guffawed uncontrollably. Eventually, as the irony penetrated Jim’s righteous indignation, the merest trace of a reluctant grin flickered across his face. It became a rueful smile when Alan declared, “Poor old Dad! Never mind. To help you get over the shock we’ll each buy you a whisky. A triple Glenmorangie and water in a tall glass, please!”

As the barman poured Jim’s rightful reward, Alan soothed his parent and delighted his friends by adding, “Of course, you’ll be over the limit for driving home, Dad, but it’s all right, I’ll have my beer once we get back to the city. We’ve had enough fun – and Games – for one day!”

HOOKED

Sipping at a slender glass of shandy, Brian Mackay lingered wearily in a dimly-lit corner of the near-deserted hotel lounge. He tried to look manly but inconspicuous. Above the distant bar, the ‘polite notice’ ‘RU18?’ glinted. Brian shifted uncomfortably – there was no escape now, but why couldn’t he have arranged to meet her in the safe familiar surroundings of Aberdeen’s ‘West End Soda Fountain’, or even ‘The Mitsuku’, that noisy cramped teenage coffee house? He wondered whether he would feel more at ease in six months time after his eighteenth birthday. Perhaps not. Katy might be a year younger but already had the confidence and glamour of at least twenty-one. Brian averted his gaze as the barman, stony-faced, passed by cleaning ashtrays. Any hotel worker who kept glancing in Katy’s direction, Brian mused sourly, would not be considering ejecting her for under-age drinking.

Life could be so unfair. Sources of joy turned into causes of sorrow. Glumly he considered the roots of his unhappiness. He blamed Doug Stevenson for increasing one variety of stress …………..

On the first day of last term, right after the Summer holidays, Doug’s muscular right arm had barred Brian’s way in the corridor. “Mackay!” he’d grunted, “Cross-country training. Tuesday after school. Meet in the gym. Be there!”

“I’m not sure about that!” Brian had blurted out, startled by Doug’s blunt insistence, “You know we’ve all got too much work this year. Anyway, I hate running in mud – a mile my limit. What distances are these races anyway?”

“Three or four miles. You’ll get used to it – good enough on the track – and I’ll soon get you fit. Who needs to swot until the night before anyway?”

End of conversation. Doug’s natural authority made refusal unlikely and, in any case, Brian secretly admired the older boy’s assured manner, his swashbuckling approach to study, beer-drinking, women and life in general. And he had to acknowledge a yearning to explore his own athletic potential.

A sprinter, Brian was not, having failed in every Sports Day dash from Primary onwards. Oddly he’d kept on trying. And on the occasional longer run, such as a wet winter jog when normal games had been rained off, he had surprised himself by keeping up with the leaders. Third year had been his breakthrough – in the Junior Mile. At least thirty boys had started the race and assorted speedsters and rugby types had charged off round the closely-mown grass track. Proceeding at his own steady pace (because he couldn’t keep up), Brian had pursued strenuously, without excessive optimism. At halfway he was making up ground, but still last. His unconventional father (an ex-miler) had yelled in exasperation, “Come on, you lazy sod, you can do better than that!” which shocked a few sensitive parents but didn’t ruffle Brian, since he was already flat out. Yet, miraculously, he had begun to pass boy after boy, as they paid the penalty for earlier effort or simply gave up. Genetically-acquired stamina plus determination had not exactly triumphed, but Brian and his schoolmates had been dumbfounded when he plodded over the line in third place, not far behind opponents who had been considered in a completely different class.

Two years later, after a ‘training schedule’ consisting of ten minute jogs and a few hardish one lap efforts, Brian had actually won the Senior Mile (Doug having been temporarily injured). Undoubtedly, he enjoyed the thrill of racing, the glow of victory as a reward for effort, and the fact that pre-competition nervousness disappeared during the first strides of a race – whereas ‘butterflies’ before cricket or tennis produced tenseness and encouraged failure. Nevertheless, Brian reckoned himself to be a track athlete. Winter was for hockey – and he could not imagine running one inch further than a mile. Doug, however, had other ideas.

The major innovation in ‘cross-country training’ wasn’t the Tuesday or Thursday run but the Saturday session. Only the really keen turned up, in their kit, on the Beach Boulevard, and then set off on an interminable circle of the Links Golf Course, finishing with a sprint up the Broad Hill, interrupting cuddling couples. Brian found the bumpy hummocks of the ‘rough’ appropriately named and panted muttering onwards. Smoother sections of unoccupied fairway, however, were fine, although he considered the length of the trail appalling – three and a quarter miles.

Yet the resilience of youth ensured that few ill effects were experienced. His rather sketchy training diary contained comments like “Oof! Really puffed but recovered quickly”. As the weeks passed, Brian found himself adding one or two ‘sneaky’ extra runs, usually before supper. He began to time these routes, although he had no stopwatch, and it was difficult to be precise when gasping under a street lamp, squinting at the moving second-hand on a traditional timepiece.

Practice speed increased considerably. Eventually Brian got the better of the more experienced Doug, who was gruffly philosophical about this, but did tend to blame ‘stitch’ rather often. Brian himself was delighted with his progress but far from satisfied. A typical diary entry was “Fast – but not fast enough”. He found competitive training tough, but recovered quickly. He knew he was fitter than ever before, because of the suppleness of his leg muscles, the control of his breathing and a general glow. In fact he felt not only more of an athlete, but also more of a man. Nevertheless he was unsure about success in actual races – and the Aberdeenshire Schools’ Cross-Country Championships were due to take place in late January, which was exactly one week away! His sleep pattern was disrupted by visions of failure; he felt lethargic and worried; and so far he hadn’t dared mention the event to Katy………

Where on earth was she, anyway? Brian glanced at his watch. Half an hour late already! Typical. Probably still in the bath. He could do without this sort of irritation. Was it his fault for being the only member of his generation who tried to turn up promptly? Yet although Brian resented her thoughtlessness, he did not consider giving up and leaving the hotel. He knew he would wait a long time for Katy, such was his fascination with her. Sighing, he settled back, switched on the videotape of his memory and reviewed once again all the episodes (four months worth) of the continuing serial titles ‘First Love’………………….

They had met at the so-called ‘Secondary Schools Dance Club’, where senior pupils from Aberdeen’s single-sex Grammars had the opportunity to start socialising in mixed company. After an hour’s instruction, impatiently endured, they were free to twist or jive to the band. Traditional dances like the waltz or foxtrot, however, did possess one definite advantage – physical contact.

During his Fifth Year, Brian had maintained a perfect attendance record – at the Club. He was tall, thin and initially shy. Nevertheless he had developed a fragile confidence in his dealings with girls. It had been a time of hesitant introductions, clumsy dance-floor contortions, tongue-tied silences (he’d even needed a list of conversation topics!), shy touching, and the sweet stirrings of emotion and the beginning of passion. His cause had been aided by the discovery that he could make girls (one at a time) laugh: because of an ability to compose zany and frequently foolish puns; and an engaging boyish gaucheness. Insecurity lurked just below the surface, however. For example he was anxious that his clothes should seem casually stylish; and he was hypercritical about his nose, which he considered too large and a handicap in the courting stakes.

An evening he would never forget was the first Dance Club in his Sixth Year. During a lull in the music, he had been lounging with his friends, idly surveying ‘the talent’ – the groups of brightly-clad gossiping girls – when he glimpsed her late but impressive arrival. Poised and smiling, with straight back and head held high, she undulated serenely in a turquoise dress across the dance floor to greet her associates, who seemed inevitably dowdy by comparison. She was slim yet curvaceous: a natural blonde with strong regular features and glinting blue eyes. Confident and challenging. “Wow! Will you look at that!” muttered Brian’s mate George admiringly.

“I’m looking,” replied Brian, hypnotised.

“Classy, eh? A bit out of our league, though.”

“Maybe out of yours,” Brian stated with surprising determination, his eyes fixed on the newcomer, “But I’m going to have a go anyway.”

Minutes later the band returned and launched into a deafening version of an old Chubby Checker twist number. His heart beating like a heavy rock drum, Brian forced his cowardly limbs across to the best-looking female in the hall.

It was amazingly simple. Communicating by means of insistent eye contact and thought transference, a cheerful lopsided grin and a politely loud invitation to dance, Brian succeeded in penetrating the din. The blonde, who seemed coolly acquiescent, was persuaded to join him and the jostling gymnastic throng on the swaying floor under dazzling lights.

Three tunes later, glowing with perspiration and adrenalin, Brian bought her a coke. He discovered that her name was Katy Buchanan. As he listened to her musical educated slightly husky voice, Brian’s captivation continued to grow. And when during their next dance, a slow one, he took her in his arms for that first magical time, Brian was hooked. Some girls shrink away modestly, but Katy was frankly enthusiastic about close encounters of the smooching kind – not only at the Dance Club, but also on the prolonged intimate stroll to her home and a lingering farewell.

That was the start of an obsession for Brian. Katy’s keenness proved more erratic and unpredictable than on that first evening. She could be chilly and offhand; warmly cheerful; or hotly seductive. Brian’s infatuation, however, was complete. He ignored or tolerated negative aspects (her changeable moods, egocentricity, and disturbing interest in the University student across the road). She was beautiful, lively and (often) she wanted to be with him: he could ask no more. When friends commented uncharitably about her flirtatious nature and bouts of big-headedness, Brian paid no heed. His innocent heart was set, absolutely, on Katy.

At first he had no trouble fitting her into his life. They both had important examinations to prepare for, although Katy seemed remarkably relaxed about the prospect. They attended different schools and lived two miles apart, so communication was limited to weekends. (Fridays at the cinema, entwined in delicious darkness; Saturdays dancing or drinking.) Katy had a phobia about being seen in uniform (in spite of the fact that Brian would have considered her stunning in a sack) so they didn’t meet after school. Instead they burned up the telephone wires in the evenings, to bill-paying parents’ indignation. What tantalising, frustrating experiences romantic phone-calls were, Brian thought. To hear the beloved’s voice, without observing expressions and body-language, without any hope of touching at all!

As weeks had turned into months, Katy seemed more certain that Brian had achieved the status of ‘steady boyfriend’. He met her family (and was accepted somewhat reluctantly, since no man could really be good enough for their princess). But problems developed and soon, Brian’s relationship with Katy began to give him pain as well as pleasure.

It was partly a matter of Time. Gradually Katy started to expect that he should be present whenever she wished – that she had merely to snap her fingers, or lift the phone, and he would cancel other engagements and come running. And it was partly a matter of Running. ‘Other engagements’ did not mean other girls (Brian was as faithful as any devoted dog). And he was sufficiently organised to prevent studying from interfering with his love-life. But Katy did not share his enthusiasm for sport – and resented his increasing dedication to running………………….

Well that was her tough luck, Brian thought. She could like it or lump it. But she’d have to tell her about next Saturday’s race tonight. Certainly he was bad-tempered enough not to care even if she did protest.

Glancing up he caught sight of the barman, frozen in the act of polishing a glass. He was staring at the entrance to the lounge. Following his gaze, Brian discovered the focus of attention. Katy, sleek and elegant, posed in the doorway, well aware of the impression she was making and, possibly, seeking him out.

His irritation forgotten, Brian went to her. “Oh, hi,” she murmured, and smiled sweetly, confident of a welcome.

“Glad you made it. Better late than never.”

“Worth the wait though, wasn’t it?” She raised her chin and gave him both blue-eyed barrels. He could only nod and smile helplessly back at her.

Brian led her to his table. Seconds later the barman, tray at the ready, was by their side.

“May I take your order, Sir?” he inquired, leering straight at Katy, who permitted him a glimpse of her perfect teeth. Brian realised that the barman was only in his twenties and resisted the urge to punch him in the face.

Instead he ordered another half-pint of shandy and a gin and tonic. But he couldn’t resist adding, “The service is amazingly prompt in this hotel. How splendid. We both appreciate it.” The barman looked hard at him, his ingratiating grin vanishing but Brian kept his face straight.

After refreshments had been dumped on their table, Katy and Brian were left alone. For a while they talked in low tones, holding hands amicably. Brian enjoyed his shandy much less than drinking in her lovely animated face and inhaling her scent. He was an addict and she was the drug he must have. Then she leaned closer, putting on her most beguiling expression and breathed, “Brian, do you remember before Christmas – when we went to the cottage?”

“Of course I do.” Brian’s mind was filled with Technicolor memories of the weekend spent with Katy’s family at her grandparents’ place in a remote rural estate. Two days of stolen kisses and passionate intimacy. Long walks exploring the countryside had turned into ecstatic investigations into the sheltered woodland and each other. How the fresh air had made their faces shine!

“So you’d like another visit there, wouldn’t you?”

“Naturally,” Brian grinned broadly, “But when?”

“Next weekend, darling. We’re driving up on Friday evening. And I expect you to be there.”

Brian’s countenance became that of a sad white-faced clown. How could he explain to this gorgeous self-centred girl that, on this occasion, he desired her less than participation in a painful three mile pursuit of members of the male sex over mud and cold stone walls? Hesitantly he made his apology.

With uncharacteristic patience, his girlfriend reminded him softly of the pleasures of pine forests. Then, when he tried to make her understand his prior commitment, her disbelief turned to rage. Eventually she rose to her feet and surveyed him with contempt. “Well, if you won’t go, then I know who will – and he’s a real man. I’m going to invite Derek instead. And don’t bother phoning because I won’t answer!” With that she swept out – and Brian was left desolate, his evening ruined.

It was their worst row yet. She did in fact answer the phone but was chilly and aloof. Brian decided he had no chance of making up until after his race – and was agonised to realise that Derek the student might have made his move by then. It was a wretched runner who turned up at Hazlehead next Saturday. Brian had been tormented by nightmares of Derek (a man of the world!) impressing Katy with his suave intellectual personality.

That morning he had been further depressed by an irate P.E. teacher berating him when he called off from a hockey match with the fear-of-becoming-lame excuse that he must avoid injury and save his energy for the cross-country. Feeling both rejected and dejected, he changed into vest and shorts, jogged half-heartedly in a circle and lined up limply for the start.

When the gun fired, he shambled into ‘action’ – and discovered that the other sixty competitors believed in a sprint start. Dourly, Brian accelerated and tried to cauterise his wounded sensitivities by running at a suicidally-hot speed. Rapidly overtaking the others, after half a mile he scorched into the lead – or so he thought. No less than fifty yards in front, and pounding steadily out of sight up a winding path through an avenue of gnarled conifers, was a stocky indomitable figure with similarly tree-trunk legs – Duncan Chalmers, last year’s champion and obviously stronger than ever. A traumatic vision for Brian, which combined with the onset of oxygen debt to slow his momentum, allowing determined Doug Stevenson to reclaim second place.

Having negotiated a slippery dyke and a tussocky paddock, Brian regained some control and, running at his best racing pace, drew away relentlessly from Doug. Duncan was gone, but to finish second in the Aberdeenshire championships would be a fine performance.

And then a weird thing happened – with a mile to go, comfortably maintaining his position, Brian remembered Katy’s parting words, and misery and loneliness swept over him. It seemed logical to slow down a little and let Doug catch him. After all, they were schoolmates and could run in together. Not surprisingly, Doug took the opportunity to leap the final wall and sprint to the finish two seconds in front. It was a frustrated Brian who trudged off to the (freezing) showers, cursing his moment of weakness and vowing never to make the same mistake again.

It was some consolation when, on Sunday evening, a tearful Katy phoned to say that she had missed him, that the student was a pig, and she wanted to meet him after school on Monday, uniform or no uniform. Crushed together in a café, they made their peace and cuddled so closely that the proprietor threatened to throw them out.

Unfortunately this gave Katy the taste for post-school assignations, and she was decidedly less than chuffed to discover his sacrosanct training sessions on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Nevertheless the two of them enjoyed most of their times together for the next few weeks, although Katy pouted somewhat petulantly when Brian said he would be away all Saturday at the end of February. He had an important race, the longest yet, involving four miles of mud and hills.

“I’ll never understand why you want to do a daft thing like that,” she snapped, “Especially when you know it’s Dance Club night.”

“I’m sorry,” muttered Brian, “But it’s the Scottish Schools championships and I’ve trained hard for it. They need me for the team and the bus just won’t be back in time for the disco. Anyway, it is the last race of the cross-country season.”

“Oh all right. Although I expect you’ll start going round in circles on a track after that,” sighed Katy, “It all seems silly to me and I think you’re just being selfish.”

“May I come over on Sunday afternoon?” asked Brian, chastened yet strangely resolute. The only reply he got from Katy was a grudging, “I’ll think about it.”

On Saturday morning, the Aberdeen contingent travelled down together to the championships in Perth. The boys sat in groups with their own schoolmates, and Brian, who felt nervous and restless, envied Duncan Chalmers’ calm cheerful appearance. Even Doug was obviously more relaxed than Brian felt.

There seemed to be thousands of people at the venue, most of them competitors (mainly Juniors), but many parents, teachers, coaches and even a few girlfriends. As the races for the younger age groups took place, and Brian jogged slowly round the course, he felt even worse. One lap seemed never-ending (and he had to race three); the best youngsters looked lightning-fast, so Seniors must be unbeatable; and most of the other athletes warming up were dressed in flash tracksuits covered with badges recording past triumphs. To be precise, Brian was in danger of being ‘psyched out’.

Yet, as he stood beside his two hundred rivals, Brian was determined to try as hard as he could. He had suffered for this and would endeavour to make the trip and the training worthwhile. After the headlong rush, he found himself struggling to hang on to the leading bunch and failing to do so. Up front were more than thirty athletes, and he could see Duncan’s shock of flaxen hair prominent. Inexorably, half a dozen broke away, and there was nothing the others could do to haul them back.

Luckily the trail was fairly dry, less adhesive than Brian had feared. There was a wicked little hill on each lap but plenty of good fast stretches. Gradually he got into his stride and began to move up the field, picking off one competitor after another. Progress was painful, and his lungs were bursting, but if he kept this up the result might be respectable at least.

Nevertheless, the third circuit was gruelling. Brian had never before run so far or so hard. He knew that Doug was chasing, because he had spotted the familiar school strip when he glanced over his shoulder on a sharp U-turn. This time, Brian absolutely refused to wait! Gathering his fading resources, he hurled himself into the final quarter of a mile. Forcing his way past a faltering figure, he floundered over thick mud to the haven of the finishing funnel. Wheezing, he sagged on the ropes like a winded boxer, and queued for a minute or so before an official slapped him on the back, read out his number and added, “Ninth – well done lad.”

Utterly knackered, but just beginning to grin, Brian lay back on a grassy bank. The top ten! Not bad!

His team-mates finished soon and, after changing, wired into tea and hot pies, before peering over the shoulders of the crowd round the results board. Duncan had won! By four yards from a Glaswegian boy after a fierce sprint for the tape. He was a hero but Brian was happy to be next from Aberdeenshire. Doug had come in an exhausted fourteenth. He and his schoolmates were pleased to have finished eighth from twenty-four teams.

When the bus finally rolled away from Perth, Brian wrote in his training diary. ‘Shattered for half an hour but then recovered and felt great.’

During the return journey (broken by a raid on a Forfar chip shop) the atmosphere was totally different from that of the morning. Extrovert high spirits led to community singing and boys from different Aberdeen schools mingled like old friends. The brotherhood of distance runners, fast or slow, younger or older, is a worldwide phenomenon and one to be treasured.

After the fish suppers had been consumed things quietened down. Elation and relief ebbed away and the boys discovered that they were rather tired after all. Dozing or chatting became the preferred alternatives. Brian found himself listening to Duncan and his companions. They talked of joining Aberdeen AAC or of going up to the University next year, of repetition sprints, interval training, fartlek in the sand dunes, thirteen mile runs and forty, fifty or even sixty mile training weeks.

The Running Season never ended, Brian mused. Cross-country, Road Races, Hill Running or Track Athletics – there would always be some event to prepare for. If a distance runner wanted to fulfil his potential, to achieve his own impossible dream, years of dedication, setbacks and successes must ensue.

Brian thought of all this; and then he thought of Katy. He was double-hooked. He wanted to be with her (or some girl he could love) for years to come – for ever. He wanted to be a really good runner. Craving excitement, satisfaction, joy, he had been lured and caught by his own conflicting desires. The barbs bit deep. The peaks and troughs of his life stretched before him like the waves on a windswept loch. And the road’s white line reeled the bus inexorably towards the grey city.

RUNNING SHORTS

A SHORT STORY SEQUENCE

BY COLIN J. YOUNGSON

(Published 1992)

Contents

1) HOOKED – teenager’s first romance and his enthusiasm for running.

(This first tale is set in the 1960s; the others from the 1970s and 1980s. Swan Song is from 2017!)

2) FUN AND GAMES – action from a Highland Games.

3) GETTING ON – running his first marathon cheers up a harassed worker.

4) GLORIOUS MUD! – highs and lows for a cross-country runner.

5) INTERNATIONAL EXPERIENCE – trying to win a fast Belgian marathon.

6) SHAP SUMMIT – key stage in an 850 miles road relay.

7) DOWNHILL – middle-aged runner trains with younger potential star.

8) ULTRA! – novice’s attempt to complete the London to Brighton ultra marathon.

9) INTER-CITY – characters from previous stories combine in a road relay team.

10) REFRESHMENT STATIONS – runners’ pub crawl in Aberdeen.

11) FABULOUS AT FORTY-FIVE? – a factual addition about a significant race.

12)   SWAN SONG

Click on story title to access the tale.