Alloa and Birnam

At the start of my annular weeks sabbatical in the highlands, the youngsters dragged me to the Alloa (allo, allo-a) half marathon. I didn’t even have the motivation to enter myself, and for anyone that’s tried that, it’s truly a voyage of discovery. Four of us arrived in the town amid a threatening sky and swelling breeze. A typical March day in the Ochils. I did this little beauty a good few years ago. The missus was training for the 2005 London Marathon and did a sub 2hr affair. I think i did a 1:22 or 1:23 or somit.

Missy L had a glute injury and couldn’t run, so contented herself with cycling up and down the high street. After the great toilet hunt in the leisure centre, a story which will no doubt be told and serialised in a later blog sometime in the future, Me, Miss C (who we refer to as Miss Speedy) and the missus joined the throng at the start and before we could secure our headbands and leg warmers, we were off.  

We clipped along at a 6:45/mile pace and it was a bit uppy and downy for the first 3 miles before diving down into some wee town where the pace shot up to a rather uncomfortable and unsustainable 6:20/mile. I was still in step with Speedy at the turn at mile 6, where you come into a long flat straight that the romans look like they designed and it doesn’t waver in elevation or direction for 4 miles. Quite dull and straight into the wind. It ground me down. Ground me down and spat me out.

At mile seven, I reached for a gel and my running partner sauntered off in front, no doubt chasing some of her club mates down. At 8 mile I told myself I was going to be fine, but knew inside I was lying and at 10 miles I was witness to a grisly, perambulatory breakdown with impeding terminal decline when the pace started creeping into the 7 minute mile territory as the road rose back into the outskirts of Alloa. This is crap, I thought; I do this pace every day of the week training. But the tank was empty. Its an age thing.

There was a canny crowd at the finish, but by then the damage was done and I flopped over the line for a 1:28. That said, I was happy enough with the run and celebrated at the Moulin Inn with a couple of swiffties and a bar meal. The puddings are bigger than the main courses, which is good if you like your puddings. I don't know why they don't do proper chips though. The Speedster had taken 2 minutes out of me and as I finished she was there, reclining beside the medals eating grapes and fanning herself on a chaise-longue and looking at her nails. 

The week rolled on, Miss L left midway through the week, and, by Saturday I was rested and raring to go. It was a cracking warm day and we headed down to Birnam for the hill race. There was a good crowd and we signed up and paid our £10. We'd met Adrian (the organiser) and a few friends halfway up Ben Vrackie earlier in the week. Mrs Mac decided it wasn’t for her, but me and Speedy Joe took our places after a number check. We set off up the hill and dug deep for the long steep slug, trying to break into a jog where the gradient eased, but without much conviction.  At the top I was tucked in behind the youngster, but had a sudden bout of unexplainable energy and took up the chase, knowing that the big sweeping downhill was just around the corner. I caught 2 or 3 on the way down and flat out, worked hard along the final mile to outsprint a lad who wasn’t giving up easily and it was 12^th place for me and 1^st lady for the youngster who wasn't far behind.  

The tea and cake was welcome as was the burger and blackcurrent juice at the Birnam Inn after the presentation. We could have camped on the grass outside the pub all afternoon as the lazy sun gave us an early taste of summer, but it was off down the road for the long drive south.  More short hill races I think this year. I’ll have to work on the stamina if I’m thinking about anything longer.