Back to Running and a Thank You

My life runs a little bit different to yours (unless you happen to be employed by one of the Brigades of the British Fire Service). It goes: two days on duty, followed by two nights on duty, followed by four days off.

The paid employment gets done in the four duty days and the shopping/housework/gardening(??) and running gets done in the four days off. That period of stand down time is a kind of elongated weekend and it's not unusual for me to forget which day of the week it is. The manic consumption of red wine if I'm indoors or Guinness if I'm out kinda slots in wherever it feels the need to- like after 19:00 hours.

Since becoming involved in the West Highland Way Race my year has changed too: Five months of training followed by the race, followed by weeks of sloth and laziness and then a spurt in the gym in an attempt to replace the muscle lost in the final few weeks leading up to, and including, the race.

A quick check back to last year shows very little running being undertaken at this time and a very sore knee limiting whatever actually took place (I'd forgotten how historical that knee injury was).

Well, yesterday I made the first step to changing my year. I met my mate and 2007 WHW Race finisher, Jon Vann, for a slack eight mile run over Epsom Downs Race Course. And a very enjoyable run it was too- no fights with the Tadworth Taliban onboard their expensive race-horses and no signs of any lingering damage from last week's endeavour bar some tightness in the tendons.

This has motivated me to keep the train rollin' and look for a distance race to supplement the planned River Ayr Way in September (Mrs Mac and I are running together-aren't we, Lee??).

I've got application forms for the Self Transcendence 24 hour track race in Tooting in October (my pal Ian Beattie is running and I've offered him a subversive bed, so if I can get a place it'll give him the opportunity to laugh at me and throw grapes at my head each time he laps me); and for the Caesar's Camp at the beginning of October- 30, 50 or 100 miles.

Today's post is gonna be short because I've got to lay my head down, sans vino, in order to get it off the pillow at 05:00 to do another day of 'other-jobbing.' I suppose Tom Jones will have left now, but who knows who else might take up residence in the suite next door? At eight-grand a night I doubt it will be someone known personally to me, although I have heard that the cost of a night at Her Majesty's pleasure is close to that, so while my compatriots may not be residing in comparable style, it's costing us just as much, Dear Reader!!

Before I go I'd just like to publicly thank Eddie and Linda Welsh, the parents of Mrs Mac. I know what you're thinking:

You're thinking that I'm gonna comment on how accepting they've been of a tattooed ne'er-do-well with a number of failed relationships behind him; of a person that, if he moved in next door to you, you'd groan as you caught the first glimpse while peeking behind your net curtains; of a person who comes from the Lofty Wiseman school of gardening (I'm sure I saw a Japanese soldier who ain't aware the war's over squatting beside my nettle bush); of an Englishman.......

Well, you're right, I am. But I'm also gonna tell you that two nights before the West Highland Way Race I was in a pub in Strathaven with Mrs Mac, Eddie and Linda. There were a collection of Strathaven Striders present including Tom Wilson who was regaling me with the history of various parts of the West Highland Way.

When I asked him how he'd gained such an insight into the route he told me it was from a book now long out of print. Drat, I thought. I'd really like to read that.

Fast forward to last Sunday. I'm happy to have finished the race, exhilarated that the DNF is slain, and chuffed that in the eyes of Mrs Mac's parents, the tattooed, English, crap-gardening neighbour from hell ain't a quitter too.

Then Linda hands me a package. What can it be? It's too public to remove me from her daughter's life with an improvised explosive device (yet!). I open the package and my heart melts- I'm the owner of a copy of the long out of print Tom Weir's Scotland.

My heart melts further when I open it and Eddie has created a poem for me. He says I need to read in in Burns fashion.

I'm working on it.

Some hae pole and cannae dance,

and some hae pole and vault it.

But whit you pirate did the day,

ye simply cannae fault it.

People say and people dae,

and others cannae hack it.

Oor admiration kens nae bounds,

ye simply cannae whack it.

The Green, Green Grass of Home

So this time last week I was running on the West Highland Way. In fact I had been running for fourteen hours by this hour.

How things can change in one week, huh? One moment you're among the grandeur of the mountain scenery travelling steadily over the trail rigged in running gear, the next you're in a smog-laden London sitting in a hotel rigged in a suit.

Now the opportunities of my job to be suited and plotted up in a hotel are few, if they exist at all. That's 'cos I'm doing a spot of 'other-jobbing' and am in a place I can't name looking after someone I can't identify. But this spell of supernumerary employment should take care of the bloody parking fine that I picked up last year that has grown larger than Alistair Darling's nose after the budget.

What I can say is that yesterday I met a very pleasant cabaret singer from Wales called Sir Thomas Jones Woodward OBE. You may know him better as Tom Jones.

There I was, standing at the end of the very palatial suite within which was located my charge, when along came this large group of people. At the back was this fella in a grey sports jacket, wearing Ray Bans and sporting a Don King curly hair do. Immediately the words rang in my mind:

'The old home town looks the same, as I step down from the train, and there to meet me is my Mama and Papa.....'

'Hello Tom,' I said.

'Hello,' said the great man, in an accent as thick as the carpet.

Then he disappeared into his suite with his entourage. I saw or heard no more from Sir Tom that day and I reckon the 'Do Not Disturb' signs suggest he was tucked up in his scratcher dreaming of a woman called Delilah.

However, I arrived back in the same location today, this time in grey slacks, Ben Sherman shirt and hand-made blazer. This day is bloody hot and I'm very happy that my charge has apparently chosen to stay within these palatial and air-conditioned walls.

This gives me the opportunity to occasionally wander along the corridor to Tom's suite where earlier, I witnessed the arrival of a rail-full of sparkly and tight-fitting clothes.

Upon their arrival, Sir Tom himself opened the door and had the look of a child at Christmas.

Unfortunately I've seen no more of him today but have been lucky enough to hear a dressing up session occurring within his suite where the man from the valleys scuttles off to try on the newly delivered clothes and an assembly of admirers tell him how well that shirt goes with those shoes.

I've learned that our man is playing Glastonbury tomorrow, so I can assure anyone attending the mud-fest that Tom ain't chosen his rig lightly!

I can't help but wonder at how Tom Jones seems to have transcended musical styles and generations and remained cool. A kind of Murdo McEwan of the pop world.

I also wonder how much Tom really longs for the green, green grass of home. After all, after fifty years of Vegas, Paris, Rome and the place we were at today, would Pontypridd really draw the curly-headed one home?

I don't know. All I can say is I'm home now, among my own green grass (most of which is sold on street corners in little placcy bags) and have been for a week......but I'm sure that my beating heart still resides in the highlands where I left it seven days ago as I ran that magnificent race.

Or is this all just emotional nonsense? Brought on by a very demanding and life-signing event? I don't know, but I think if my heart has actually managed to dislodge itself from the highlands, it ain't gonna get much farther south than Strathaven.

Terms of Endurance

London seemed an almost alien place upon my return on Monday evening. My extended stay at Mrs Mac's gaff caused me to go native and litter my language with expletives and regular renditions of 'by the way.'

But while I may have managed to shake off the oft commented 'by the way,' it remains a fitting segue to carry me into last weekend's endeavour on the West Highland Way. Yep, this year's lunatic 95 mile race from Milngavie to Fort William.

What can I say? Well, there are race tales aplenty on my brother's and sister's blogs, many of which are shown on the list on the right. From these you may gain a real understanding of how ultra athletes engage with, and complete this race. From mine you may gain an understanding of how a half-witted interloper manages to keep going and gain a finisher's goblet. But my story is also that of my pal and comrade-in-arms Martin Hooper the Paratrooper. Now this is a man not given to written communication so you'll not read of his accomplishment unless he uses it in mitigation against some minor military crime or other. So this is our story:

Race preparation was cavalier to say the least. The usual visit by the team (runners and support) to Morrisson's in Fort William resulted in a serious depletion of the store's beer and wine stocks. Mine and Martin's pre-race indulgence in our purchases probably fail to fit in with any published Ultra race plan, but at the time everyone else was doing it so we applied the peer pressure principle so favoured by youth offender apologists.

Pre-race sleep strategy is also something that I'll work on in the future as I didn't do too well in the days running up to the race. And to top it all I spent the evening before the race in a double bed with Martin Hooper the Paratrooper. I urge you to understand that our relationship is a firm and solid one of friendship and brotherhood. There's certainly no need for any oil based lubricants nor tickets to see Kylie. But the bed spaces were few in our accommodation in Corpach so we thought it best to allow the others to have joint 'noisy' rooms while Hooper and I had a quiet darkened one. Of course with Darrel Jacobs on hand any bed-space in Corpach village was subject to the Indian's night time audible interference, so it made little difference.

The race began with the usual foray in the car park and we were off through the town and into Mugdock Park. We were aiming for a four hour arrival in Balmaha, which we hit pretty much on cue, although for a while we were concerned about the sub-20 hour runner that was with us! For a while we had Mark 'Drama Queen' Hamilton and Keith 'Corned Beef' Hughes behind us too but before long they covered us in dirt and gravel like annoying, penniless street urchins as they swept past majestically (gits!).

By now it was morning and we made a slight navigational error as we left Balmaha car park. I knew it was a short hop down the road and then following a track uphill. Unfortunately we headed up a track a little too early that left us looking at the car park we'd just left, so a quick double back in time to allow Karen Donoghue to laugh at us and Big Davie Hall to engage us in pleasant chat. Davie told me how he'd been a village cop in Luss, which was in view across Loch Lomond. Now, that place is about as big as my garden (although much better kept) so Davie must have been able to cover his beat in a stride and a half! I likened him to Hamish MacBeth and he covered Martin and I in dirt and gravel like annoying, penniless street urchins before sweeping past majestically (git!).

Martin and I arrived in Rowardennan and a gap opened up between us. It never became too large but it was enough to find myself alone and falling asleep on my feet at 07:00 in the morning. My poor pre-race sleep plan was coming home to roost and I wondered how on earth I could keep going to the end. I battled on nonetheless, swigging mouthfuls of Coke and hoping the caffeine would waken me up. Unfortunately my tolerance to caffeine is high in the extreme so it never touched that groggy feeling of tiredness.

As we approached Auchtertyre Farm (approximately half way) it became apparent to me that, in my sleepiness, our times had begun to slip to the point where, if we didn't pull ourselves up by the boot-straps, we were in danger of being timed out! My God!! The horror hit me! I could be timed out by my own girlfriend, who runs the Auchtertyre Farm checkpoint! This was enough to push me on although seeing her emerge from the forest a while later and say 'chase me' quickened my pace further.

A confirmed 4kg loss in weight at Auchtertyre indicated my hydration and nutrition were pish (this I knew....everything going into my mouth resulted in a feeling of nausea and an old internal injury which causes rampant acid reflux was having fun with my oesophagus so food and drink were occasional, to say the least).

Regardless of the weight loss, on we pushed making good time to Bridge of Orchy and then we had a good running stint over Rannoch Moor. While at Kingshouse Mrs Mac came to see me and for five minutes I lay my head in her lap and entered the blissful world of deep sleep.

Dragging myself out of that perfect place and onto the slopes leading to the Devil's Staircase was hard. The five minute's kip was glorious but insufficient to eat into the desperate tiredness I felt. I fell asleep on my feet often as we climbed Satan's Steps and staggered about like a drunk (normal form for a Saturday night!!) as we descended into Kinlochleven.

A further 30 minutes kip in the van at Kinlochleven recharged our batteries enough to push hard up the hill to the Lairigmor where Hooper and I made up some ground and some places. Unfortunately these were all lost at Lundavra where essential foot maintenance was vital. Never mind, we knew we would finish at this point even though Hooper's feet were ribboned, his knees were cattle-trucked and his legs were swollen.

As we made our way to Fort William our support crew lad, Chrissy Jenner joined Martin and I which allowed me to skip off with Big Al to try to make a few of our lost places up. We met Lucy Colquhoun coming up the hill from Fort Bill so we stopped for a short blether. It was a shame she wasn't running (she was supporting Richie Cunningham) but she told me of Richie's magnificent performance and of the other four top placed runners, all of whom had covered themselves in glory.

As I approached the Leisure Centre a vision of loveliness appeared (no not the bloody shop-keeper from Mr Benn- it was Mrs Mac) and she accompanied me in to the finish. The reception at the Centre was so unbelievable it (almost!! I'm a man!!) brought a tear to my eye. Ian and Alison Beattie, Tim and Muriel Downie, the Welsh family, Murdo and Jo McEwan, Richie Cunningham, Dario, all of my support crew and lots and lots of West Highland Way Race Family and friends were present to cheer me in. Thank you my friends.

Martin came home a while later and I must take this opportunity to hail that man as a hero. He was well and truly busted on that run but he kept going and kept smiling (my own sense of humour dissolved quite early on). His body ain't built for running-it's more suited to standing by a fast flowing river in Canada and sweeping salmon from beneath the surface of the water with a pair of great big paws.

But he endured nonetheless. I wonder if he used the same mantras as me to keep him going:

Murdo McEwan's 'dig deep';

Winston Churchill's 'never give in';

Ranulph Feinne's 'each step a little closer';

Tim Downie's 'are you gonna be a wanker again?'

Inspirational Woman Inspires an Inspirational Man to Motivate

Ok, so I said yesterday's post was my last before the biggest race of my year and the one which inspired me to start this blog- the West Highland Way Race. But you'll probably not be surprised to see that I couldn't resist one last post.

I'm sat in Mrs Mac's sitting room, just had breakfast and feel a bit woolly headed after her and I larged it last night in the pubs of Strathaven. My mission was to dually carbo load and hydrate. Mr Arthur Guinness produces a substance that meets both these criteria and he provided a few pints of that stuff last night.

I spoke with my support crew who, as we speak are trucking north on the M6 with my fellow WHW Race runner, Martin Hooper the Paratrooper. I then decided to check the West Highland Way Race forum one last time and a posting by a great WHW Race veteran motivated me to a final blog post.

Twelve months ago I was shifting through the West Highland Way Race at a reasonable pace. At the half way point I was on course for a sub 24 hour time and was weighed by a very attractive woman at Auchtertyre Farm. She told me that my weight maintenance and hydration tactics we 'perfect' before sending me on my way (twelve months later I'm sitting in her house and look forward to being weighed again at the half way point).

Then I began to feel awful. Vomiting began at Bridge of Orchy and hallucinations began as I crossed Rannoch Moor. The seemingly ever-present pain in my left knee bit harder and by the time I reached the 75 mile(ish) point at Kingshouse I was in a very wretched state.

I tell myself that my withdrawal at Altnafeadh was justified by the diagnosis of Campylobacter a few days later. But at the back of my mind there's a voice that says:

'You could have carried on....you should have carried on.'

Watching the successful finishers win their prized crystal goblets made the fact that I'd failed to get my third even harder.

Failed. What an utterly depressing and soul shattering word.

Well, anything that is guaranteed comes with little worth and reaching the finish of a 95 mile race across the highlands is definitely not guaranteed. Failure is an ever-present option and this makes the race's completion something to be applauded. Motivation is hard to find when you're in the dark, both literally and metaphorically.

I read the great WHW Race veteran's post and I hope he doesn't mind me repeating it here 'cos it's motivated me.

Yesterday I went along to the talk in Edinburgh by inspirational yachtswoman Ellen MacArthur that I flagged up in an earlier thread.

For further talks around Britain see http://www.roundbritain.org/index.php/audience/

It was very interesting, and there were certainly quite a few parallels between her experiences and ultradistance running experiences. In the question & answer session at the end someone asked her if she had ever considered giving up.

"Never" was the response.

If you are feeling a bit downhearted and self-sorry and blistered at some point in the next few days, it may help to think about this, and to adopt the same mindset............. She was going solo unsupported non-stop around the world for about 70 days with a maximum of 3 hours sleep in a 24 hours period. "Giving up" might not have been a very practical option in the circumstances.

But if you are feeling wretched, and your support vehicle is right there, ready and willing to whisk you off to a hot bath and a beer or two, you may have to dig pretty deep to resist the temptation and continue on to the end to win your hard-earned finishers crystal goblet. Think about it........ You may have to dig pretty deep, or give up........

Murdo McEwan

Head For The Hills

I went on a road trip to Edinburgh today for lunch. This is a trip that would usually take seven or eight hours so regardless of how nice the steak sandwich was and how pleasant the company was this is a thing that would be beyond the reach of my 1.25l Bad Boy.

But as I'm currently resident in Mrs Mac's gaff in Strathaven it was a mere skip and jump down the motorway and into Scotland's capital city. I considered donning a false beard and slouch hat to avoid ex-mother-in-law (no.3) but then realised she's dahn Sarf so I was free to Lord it down Princes Street and into St Andrews Square without fear of being flailed to death with a besom.

I was early so a swift double espresso was the order of the day. I'd have preferred a moccachino with double cream but any contact with dairy produce causes an unpleasant reaction that would cause Gillian McKeith to hoot like a scabby old owl and require an industrial cleaning company rigged in chemical protection suits to enter the sealed off public loos in St Andrews Square tasked with a multi-million pound bio-hazard operation.

Before long Keith 'Corned Beef' Hughes was in attendance, dapper in his suit, followed by Neil Ambrose and Carolyn King, Ian Beattie, Murdo McEwan, Ian King and Stan Bland. A proper meeting of West Highland Way Race Family veterans and newbies and a very pleasant lunch ensued; an examination of the ubiquitous Harvey's WHW map was undertaken; and the imbibing of water took place........yes, water. But not by yours truly, Dear Reader. I have found it impossible to desist in the consumption of caffeine or alcohol as race preparation and have decided it would actually be harmful for me to do so. Here's why:

The avoidance of caffeine would have prevented the guzzling of two cans of Red Bull and the necking of four Proplus tablets on Sunday possibly causing me to crash the Caledonian Challenge support car. Not a good day out. Better to suffer the heady effects of a massive and sustained intake of caffeine in all it's forms.

The avoidance of alcohol will prevent me from celebrating Mrs Mac's new job this evening possibly causing her to lose her rag and whup my sorry arse with some Jap Slapping karate moves. Not a good day out either. Better to suffer the intoxicating effects of some Chateauneuf Du Pape possibly followed by a pint or two of Arthur's Black Gold.

Anyway, this will be my last post before the West Highland Way Race as I'm off to Fort Bill tomorrow to await the arrival of my support crew. That's the band of crazies that masquerade as humble citizens of London and they'll be heading north tomorrow. I've tried before but am unable to control them. My God!! The BBC are gonna be in attendance! Head for the hills my friends.

In their honour I've posted something musically appropriate.

The Meteors, Get Off of My Cloud. Be afraid, very afraid.

The Caledonian Challenge

I told you that my next post would be from Scotland and, after a hiccup, indeed it is.

Yep, despite likening myself to the all conquering hero and haggis-muncher botherer, Edward Longshanks, I still breathe and have avoided a visit to the Glasgow Infirmary to arrange the removal of a rusty shank from my being.

What have I to say, then, about the Caledonian Challenge? Well, it's a 54 mile trek from Gairlochy, 8 miles outside Fort William, to Tyndrum, following the West Highland Way, to be completed in under 24 hours. It's a 'challenge' rather than a race and therefore attracts walkers rather than a hardcore group of ultra runners and as such has occasionally received critical comments from those of us involved in the ultra running community.

What else I have to say is that I supported Mrs Mac on said event this weekend and experienced something that demands respect. Not the type of respect that half-witted rude-boys from South London insist upon before increasing the knife crime figures.....I mean real respect.

But I should allow herself to tell you what's what since she got the blisters. And she's said she will so keep an eye on her usually dormant blog for an update. Right now she's plotted up in her bed with rakes of skin hanging from her over-sized feet so expect not too much too soon.

But until then, make do with a bullet pointed, supporter's account and pics:

• Team Strathaven was made up of Mrs Mac and Ma, Anne Thistlethwaite and Lorna.


• Support was yours truly, Eddie Welsh and Tony Thistlethwaite.


• The event is brilliantly organised.


• There are a fuckin' lot of walking poles.


• It's a shame so many competitors chose to disable themselves with 4 season boots and 70 litre bergens when a pair of decent running shoes and a Sainsbury's carrier bag would have sufficed.


• It's a lot different supporting than running.


• Is it cheating as support to spend a couple of hours in the Clachaig Inn while the girls are struggling out of Kinlochleven and over the Devil's Staircase?


• Linda Welsh demonstrated that when you're at your lowest ebb, all is not lost. This she proved while lying supine on a Thermarest at the White Corries and I was considering requesting the services of a Royal Navy Rescue chopper. Twenty minutes later she was up and flying.


• Marvelling at the beauty of the landscape at 04:00 as I ran up the hill from Bridge of Orchy to meet the girls- and realising that if you have the privilege of your five senses and a functioning body, this delight is open to anybody.


• Realising that there are procedures in place under the Mental Health Act to detain people that run up the hill out of Bridge of Orchy at 04:00.


• Having the living proof of the existence of the West Highland Way Race Family pleasantly shoved in our faces when George Reid and Karen Donoghue arrived at Brodie's store to cheer on Team Strathaven.


• Not disappointing George and Karen in the belief that I'm a half-wit when they couldn't locate me at Brodie's and I alerted them to my presence by locking myself in the support car and then actuating the alarm as I attempted to release myself.......... at 07:00 on Sunday morning........without knowledge of how to turn off said alarm.


• Having further proof of the existence of the West Highland Way Race family texted to us in messages of support from Ian Beattie, Mark Hamilton, Dino McInness, Murdo McEwan, Keith Hughes, Dario, Martin Hooper the Paratrooper, Rosie Bell and Irene Wilson.


• Team Strathaven crossed the line in 23:27 to rapturous applause and a pair of midge net clad pipers. Quality.

So, Mrs Mac is now wandering about like Douglas Bader considering her next event (after saying 'never again' yesterday I told her it wouldn't take long) and I'm preparing for a return trip to the scene of her triumph this coming weekend.

I'm kinda hoping I can find within myself the same level of courage, spirit, determination, guts and drive I witnessed this weekend past.

Laters.

I Know I Said My Next Post Would Be From Scotland But I'm Preparing The Ground.

Sometimes some things seem like a really good idea at the time. This is usually sometime around midnight when you’re lost in the haze of the wine (did you spot it…..the ATE reference?). Then you wake up in the morning, often the best dressed man in bed, remnants of last night’s kebab stuck between your teeth, and as you attempt to rub away the throbbing inside your skull, memories of last night’s events flood into your mind and you think

‘Why did I do that?’

What excuse did I have then, for posting a historical diatribe about a long-dead king that made it his mission to subjugate the orange haired race of skirt-wearing maniacs living north of Hadrian’s Wall when I had partaken of no alcohol whatsoever and the sun was high in the sky?

I can only put it down to a self destruct pedal my foot occasionally locates that sends me careering headlong into an inevitable smash. Only this time it’s not a brick wall or tree that will stop my reckless advance but someone like Irvine Welsh’s chib-waving, alcohol-soaked lunatic Frances Begbie, or the swamp-residing, blackened-tooth, English-flesh-favouring cannibal, Sawney Bean.

What do Begbie and Bean have in common? They’re both Scottish, that’s what. As are my former friends Davie Hall, who called me a ‘Sassenach’, and Mark ‘Drama Queen’ Hamilton, who called me an ‘English Prick.’ Not exactly as dramatic as having a beer glass pushed into your face a la Begbie; or watching Sawney Bean and chums feast on your still warm liver, but cutting nonetheless.

But more remarkable was Mrs Mac’s response. Instead of planning my early demise when I arrive on her doorstep later on today, she just sighed and said:

‘You really do talk a load of old nonsense. Sometimes I think you get something in your head and make it fit what’s happening in your life. Take your last post. You’ve obviously been going round with Mr Benn in your head for ages.’

Contrite is the word I think…..yes, contrite. That’s what I’ll be when I arrive in the Land of Jock later. And charming…..I’ll try that too. Luckily for me I met Mrs Mac’s Ma and Pa in the winter when long sleeved shirts were de rigueur. Charming would have been harder to pull off had it been summer in a tee shirt that revealed an over-indulgence at the local tattoo parlour.

So, contrite and charming will be my mantra as I head north later. My 1.25l Bad Boy is packed to the gunnels with running shoes, socks, Vaseline, Maxi-Muscle products, Ibuprofen and head torches.

Cally Challenge and West Highland Way Race here I come. Watch out Sweaty Socks, Longshanks’s heir is on his way!!

Plastic Bollocks Travels North

He was known as 'Scottorum Malleus.' To most of us making a ham-fisted attempt at interpreting Latin, that might translate as 'plastic bollocks' (malleable scrotum) but it does in fact translate as 'Hammer of the Scots.'

Yep, Old King Edward I was also known as 'Longshanks' 'cos he was 6'2"- that was bloody tall in the 13th Century- and he must have presented a pretty formidable character when he ascended to the throne in 1272. Like many of the Royals in those days he liked a punch up too. Not for him the photo-shoot opportunities of blatting away with a GPMG at some imaginary target in the middle distance so favoured by our own wayward, bastard Royal love-child, Harry. Nope, Longshanks got on his horse and met the enemy face on with chib in hand.

In fact, it was while he was opening a can of whup-ass on the French in 1297 that he got wind of William Wallace's victory at Stirling Bridge. A quick rain-check with the Frogs and Longshanks was back in Blightey amassing a force of 25,000 infanteers and 3,000 cavalry.

Then he began the long journey north, over the Emperor Hadrian's Wall and into the Land of Jock where he kicked arse in Falkirk. William Wallace scuttled off into the woods calling for his mum and Longshanks rode back south in triumph.

Why am I burbling on about a long dead King and probably insulting my Caledonian based readers? Well............

Firstly, I like history and am awaiting the result of my request that the London Fire Brigade sponsor me to undertake a Masters Degree in First World War History.

The Brigade sponsors a number of candidates every year in subjects that will provide a benefit to the job. How will an in depth understanding of German imperialism and rabid nationalism assist me to extinguish fires, I hear you ask? Well, here's how:

My job will benefit from this course by improving the standard of my written work which has increasingly become an essential part of the Watch Manager role. The depth of my understanding of key historical events that shaped today's landscape, both metaphorically and physically, will increase and this understanding can be passed on the the people that I work with and meet during the course of my working day. Studying outside of the Authority environment about matters not wholly related to my job keeps my mind active and encourages critical thinking- both essential skills needed to effectively do my job within the fire brigade. Also, modern study techniques increasingly rely upon the adept use of computers which will further my ability to operate the Authority's computer systems. Lastly, I believe that a better educated individual, and ultimately work force, allows for an understanding and a promotion of the Authority's ideals.

What d'ya reckon? I reckon Gordon Brown's got more chance of not soon requiring the removal men.

Secondly, like Longshanks I'm preparing for a long ride north across Hadrian's Wall. My chariot will not be of the four-legged kind but an increasingly battered Ford Fiesta 1.25l Zetec, and my aim is not to defeat the Scots (well, hopefully some of 'em that are running the West Highland Way Race) for I come on a mission of peace, love and support.

Peace 'cos Mrs Mac and her family are all karate black-belts; love 'cos I ain't seen herself for a couple of weeks; and support 'cos she's doing the Caledonian Challenge on Saturday.

My next post will be from the Land of Jock. and if you're guessing my historical diatribe above and a bit of cut n' paste action from my sponsorship application are evidence of a lack of blogging material......you'd be right.

Then as if by magic, a shop-keeper appeared

If you happen to be of a certain age you’ll remember the bowler hat wearing adventure seeker that lived at number 52 Festive Road . He was an ordinary fellow, living an ordinary life, in an ordinary suburban house and his name was Mr Benn.

He used to go off to a fancy dress shop where this geezer in a Fez would appear. Mr Benn used to get rigged in some outfit or other and pass through a door into the Wild West, outer space, or a medieval village. After helping out some poor unfortunate, old Mr Benn would ‘accidentally’ make off with a bit of their kit after the Fez wearing shop-keeper re-appeared. If he tried that now he’d be in front of the local magistrate on a shop-lifting charge, but those were simpler days.

Well, it seems that I’ve been travelling into Battersea in the recent past to fulfil the role of a clerk or some other kind of shiny-arse. My transport has sat in the appliance bay, fuelled, checked, and filled with water ready to go. But the bells have not sounded and I’ve travelled home again at the end of the shift with an increasingly shiny seat to my trousers and sore fingers from typing….

Then as if by magic, a shop-keeper appeared and I became a firefighter!! In the last two weeks we’ve been inundated with jobs…..the latest being a low level block of flats in Wembley that was struck by lightning…..twice!! This caused the pitched roof to burst into flames and require the attention of around 100 of London ’s finest.

This type of action keeps the lads docile and content. They tend to get frisky when it’s quiet and start challenging each other to differing extremes of sporting endeavour while subjecting one another to varying degrees of scathing verbal abuse.

I'm not sure if it's the recent bout of hot weather that has rendered lively the natives of South Chelsea and the surrounding environs. It's certainly the freaky changes in weather that appears to have caused the violent storm that put paid to the block of flats in Wembley.

But with regards to weather during the forthcoming West Highland Way Race, according to Stan Bland it appears that luck will be on our side: 65%+ confidence- Cloudy skies with outbreaks of rain, temp 12-14 degrees C. v light winds 0.79mph- 2.7mph. Consistent forecast over entire route.

However, the weather ain't so clement on Mont Blanc apparently. I got a text last night from my WHW Race Support Crew O-I-C, Lee Byatt who is presently en route to the summit. It said:

'3,800 metres up, spending the night in a mountain hut. Hope to summit on Thursday. Never doing this again, fuckin' terrifying.'

I replied:

'Well done mate. You're a long time dead, so (providing the summit attempt doesn't kill you) this experience will live with you forever.....but if you do die can I have your top-box?'

Anyway, while Lee languishes on Mont Blanc I'm doing something I rarely bother with- packing early. I'm off to the Land of Jock on Thursday and will not return to London until the West Highland Way Race results are on the site.

I'm hoping a shop keeper will appear and turn me into a decent runner before then.

Laters.

6th June. Everybody.

Today was the anniversary of the biggest invasion ever seen on the face of the earth-when the forces of tyrrany and evil were met head on by the best a generation had to offer. 6th June 1944. D-Day. Attached are pictures I am honoured to have taken during a trip to Normandy. I have no other comment to make today other than my mucker Keith Hughes has now entered the massed ranks of WHW bloggers. Go the Corned Beef!!!
http://gekstar.blogspot.com/

Dead Moles and Energised Hoopers

Alcohol is a mean and spiteful mistress. She glams it up in the evening in her silky seductiveness with promises of fun and laughter combined with the releasing of an elusive inner vision. Then in the morning you discover all she's done is cause you to behave like a complete cock, robbed the contents of your wallet and booted you in the head (OK, so I know that these are qualities more attributable to a wife rather than a mistress but you get the point, right?).

So as Martin Hooper the Paratrooper and I set out on the last long run of our West Highland Way training plan (8 hours on the South Downs), it was with the decision that my affair with Mrs Cabernet-Sauvignon was at an end. Ok, I know I said previously 'no wine for me' but the combined stress of Charly's Duke of Edinburgh training weekend falling on the same date as Mrs Mac's Cally Challenge; and Charly's mock GCSEs falling in the week preceeding the WHW Race, drove me into the arms of Mrs Cab-Sav.

As Hooper and I ran along the South Downs Way he pointed one of his bratwurst-esque fingers at something in the grass and hollered:

'Fuckin' hell, look at that!! It's a dead Womble!'

After explaining that those tedious glove puppets off the telly aren't real I explained to the minimally educated Hooper that the unfortunate creature that had stopped us in our tracks was in fact a deceased mole.

As Hooper lumbered off up the track laughing and shouting: 'Suffer, you mole...ha, ha...' I felt an affinity with the velvety coated fella. He was lying in the sun with his legs pointing north....a similar position in which the Subversive Runner awoke on the morning of an 8 hour run. And suffer I did for 8 bloody hours. chasing Hooper up the hills which he consumed like a bull on heat in a field of legless cows. He also consumed the banana bread the lovely Phillipa had made for him while I made do with a bag of crisps and a Turkish Delight from the shop.

But never mind, the running is all done now and injuries are absent. Phillipa is baking more bread while I'm busy comparing Sainsbury's own Turkish Delight with Cadbury's.

We can do no more now so it's taper-time. And the first day of my taper has been spent undertaking a wee bit of extra-curricular employment. I can't say too much about it other than it's a bit of Close-Protection action and I found myself driving the car-pic attached- rather than the 1.25l Bad Boy. What a beast! Forget that it's my first time in an automatic and bunny-hopped up the road with a car-load of body guards as I searched for the clutch with my left foot- after getting the hang of it I was J-turning like a pro.


The proceeds from said employment should go nicely toward paying for a trip to Scotland to support my gal on her Caledonian Challenge; followed by a pre-race meeting in Edinburgh with Ian Beattie and Corned Beef Hughes; and topped by the West Highland Way Race 2009!!

Can't wait!!

The Formula for Excellence and a Genetic Also-Ran's Birth into Mediocrity

There’s a formula to achieving sporting excellence, I’m sure. The first part of that formula might be regarded as:

• Be genetically gifted.

Right, genetically gifted I ain’t. I’m a strict middle of the pack runner/struggle-with-anyone-remotely-talented-boxer/all-round-shit-sportsman. This I know and I’ve been around on God’s green earth long enough to accept it and just get on with it. In fact I’ve recently put together a reasonably sound argument that states that struggling sports-persons sometimes achieve more than the greats like Jez Bragg or Lucy Colquhoun. How? Well, here’s how: If Jez and Lucy are genetic giants in their field they will always win. The test for them is either about beating records or battling against a significant other only if there happens to be another genetic giant in the field next to them. But they will always wow us with their performances regardless. Please don’t see this as an attack on either’s sporting excellence ‘cos it ain’t-it’s merely meant to put into perspective what the middle of the pack runner achieves in coping with pain, exhaustion, mental doubt, and sometimes tolerating abusive and tedious sweeper runners, take this for example: ‘…we chased, hounded, cat-called and kicked Big Jim all the way to the finish…on that occasion DQ and I skipped around his lumbering bulk like a pair of light-footed schoolboys mocking the class fatty.’ I rest my case on point one.

The second part of the formula might be:

• Use an appropriate fuelling strategy and eat a balanced diet.

Right, yesterday I was asked by Wole Adesemoye, the winner of the BBC’s Last Man Standing how I manage to run at all when I eat so much junk and am engaged in a solo attempt to drain Europe’s wine lake. It should be noted that Wole has undergone a metamorphosis from a bloke that bullied skinny Eton types on the telly to a world authority on sports science and nutrition. Despite his remarkable transformation, the surface of which could be penetrated with the end of an ear-wax encrusted Q-Tip, I decided not to argue with him. This was for two reasons:

1. He’s 6’2” and fuckin’ massive.
2. He’s right.

A third part of the formula might be:

• Get enough sleep.

Right, I’ve known for a long time that I start my day like a dynamo, crash through the early hours like a whirling dervish, and gradually wind-down and burn out like a slowly deflating sex-doll (there maybe more to that analogy than I’m really comfortable with). Yep, I’m a true ‘lark,’ as opposed to Mrs Mac’s ‘owl’ like existence where she starts her day like a spluttering old banger (there maybe more to that analogy than I’m really comfortable with), and then finishes like a Formula One racing machine (I hope that’s spared me a beating).

But what Mrs Mac does that I don’t is sleep through the night for a solid eight hours.

This I can’t do much about and one of the reasons is because the residents of South Chelsea/Batturseah, and sometimes those in neighbouring Cla’am and St.Reatham (many a truth told in jest) don’t let me.

This is my second post from Battersea in two nights ‘cos after the one of last night we were out for the rest of it on an eight-pump fire near Battersea Power Station and tonight we’ve been out for hours on a six-pump fire in Brompton.

Therefore, I’m looking forward to going home tomorrow and indulging part three of my formula above. Then tomorrow night I’ll actually attempt part two of my formula by resisting that devilish cork-screw in my kitchen that calls me at night:

‘Subversive Runner, let’s make twisty love together, plunge my solid porcine appendage into the soft, yielding cork and release the jus de vie’.

Nope, no wine for me tomorrow night ‘cos I need to be up bright and early and bushy-tailed to meet Martin Hooper the Paratrooper for our last long run on the South Downs.

Unfortunately neither Martin nor I will achieve part one of my formula ‘cos we’re both genetic also-rans, but I’ll post a report and maybe some pictures of our run nonetheless.

Laters.

Hope and Despair in Battersea

All over Battersea, Some hope and some despair. All over Battersea, Some hope and some despair. You're the one for me, fatty.

Profound lyrics indeed, but not mine Dear Reader. Nope, they’re those of the kebab-dodging, fella-favouring, mis-hog, Morrissey. And here in Battersea tonight there is indeed some hope and some despair.

There’s me, Station Officer Waterman, hoping for a quiet night so that I can fit some running into the 9 hour break I have between shifts tomorrow without rendering myself a dead man walking for tomorrow’s 15 hour night-shift. Thus far this evening we’ve flown out the doors with blues and twos wailing to an RTA in Chelsea (the REAL Chelsea, not the one south of the river where the residents refer to the former working class gaff as Batturseah) to attend to a woman who had somehow driven her motor headlong into a lamp-post……in slow-moving traffic……in rush hour.

A fire engine from Chelsea Fire Station was already in attendance and as I got my lads to help make the scene safe and attend to the woman’s injuries while we waited for an ambulance all talk was of last Wednesday’s boxing tournament. The new BWB Light-Heavyweight champion, Danny Arter is at Chelsea and he glowed as compliments were showered upon him. The poor woman looked bemused by the chuffed looking young fella with the black-eye as he provided her with oxygen.

Then we were called to a small fire involving a large amount of paperwork. Stacks of papers had been piled into a kettle barbecue and set alight, only for the man tending the fire to lose control of it. I thought it might have been an MP destroying evidence of his flipping and second mortgages but I doubt I’ll ever really know. The gentleman in question was deaf so we had a limited conversation using hand signals. My knowledge of sign language is limited to the hairy-palmed gestures favoured by irate car drivers so I kept my contribution to a minimum.

And we’ve just attended a London bus that had spewed 300 litres of fuel on the roadway. I knew the recovery fella that was already in attendance cos we’ve worked together recovering buses before. A bit of sand and bass broom action and I’m back in the station, ubiquitous cup of tea in front of me.

As I sit here waiting for the next despairing punter but hoping he/she just gets home safely, I wonder how Rachel Jayne Stevenson is getting on tonight- it’s her first night shift in Strathclyde.

Anyway, here’s hoping she’s having a busy night. That might sound odd but I can guarantee she’ll be wanting some action and won’t concern herself with how she might or not might perform in her running shoes tomorrow.

I, on the other hand, ain’t too bothered if the natives of Batturseah have a night off tonight.

Laters.