Notes From a Small Town

Apart from the period in my life where my residence was dictated by Her Majesty (Armed Forces, not Pleasure) Ive spent my 42 years in the area of London geographically defined by the Thames to the north and ensnared elsewhere by Beelzebubs playground, the M25. In that stinking metropolis it is not unknown for those that live next door to be entirely unfamiliar. Take the time that I lived in my flat in Peckham: I remember one day being slightly miffed that my neighbours had been a little inconsiderate when closing their front door. The noisy gits had never spoken to me so I just put the intrusive noise of their door slamming down to their obvious rudeness. The attending police officer had a look of utter exasperation a few hours later when I explained my non reaction to the burglars that had made off with my neighbours telly after reducing their front door to matchwood with a sledge hammer. To make an unfortunate situation worse, the noisy neighbours had vacated the place some weeks previous and the newly arrived victims seemed really nice. Well right now Im in a place that has as similarly a transient population as the capital and burglars need no sledge hammers. Im in a tent, in a field near a small seaside town called Filey in Yorkshire. Mrs Mac and I have identified the sweeping golden sand of the local beach as the prime running location and Im off in a bit to indulge before the holiday makers rise and attempt to fill every square inch of sand with cigarette butts (note to self: upon gaining power of the country in the burgeoning vacuum left by the collapse of our political system under the weight of duck houses and flipped homes, invoke a law making littering by smokers punishable by death). But before I make you suffer further my lack of paragraph and apostrophe (blogging by mobile. Sad? Yes. Limited? Even more) Ill give you todays observation: When youre stepping out with a burd from a small town in Scotland be prepared to find that everyone knows everyone else. Be further prepared to meet her estranged husband, complete with new beau, in the only local supermarket. Be prepared also to shuffle uncomfortably from foot to foot while you search your library of small talk before negotiating a route past his trolley with your own. Be prepared again, and again, to nod and smile as you pass in frozen foods and then that one that houses kitcenware. Of course in London (other major cities are available) before we divide the house, savings and pension we can claim Sainsburys or Tescos as home turf and never suffer such ignominy. Right, wheres me running shoes...

Remote Blogging

This is an attempt at posting from beneath canvas on a campsite near Filey in Yorkshire. Why am I doing this? I hear you ask. Well, my argument is that the Essex based, sawn-off shotgun in the boot, bling king Mike Mason instructed me to and I aint got a penchant for being surrounded by reinforced concrete in a motorway flyover support. I expect, however, that Mason will take me to task over my avoidance of the use of the paragraph and apostrophe. Forgive me Mike....my knees have been remarkably pain free of late, they would benefit from not having a masonry (excuse the pun) drill bit driven through them at high speed on hammer action. Excuse me too, Dear Reader, but Im limited to my mobile phone and options are few. So considering my limitations my intention this week is to post short observations, hopefully some may be running related, but some may not be. By the way, I went out for a run with Mrs Mac yesterday-some very nice hills-but she said we were out for a wee doner! WTF? Where Im from thats a small portion of processed lamb in pitta bread from Khalids Kebabs. Anyway, digressions, digressions. Observation today is: Yes, as the years tick by a lack of hirsuitedness may render optional hairstyles few. But avoid allowing your nine year old daughter freedom with your clippers and access to your pate. Cos the only option then is a number one skinhead and you end up looking thuglike at official gatherings. Laters.

Goodbye Dario

Please excuse me if I refrain from frivolity in this post but there must be times for serious contemplation and reflection.

The eponymous tag-line of this blog is: 'An incongruous runner's attempt at making sense of the West Highland Way Race.' So when the life ends of the man that has dedicated his last ten years to ensuring that I, and others like me, can spend one weekend a year indulging our love of ultra running, in a beautiful part of Scotland, under meticulously planned and risk controlled conditions, it must be time to pause and reflect.

Well yesterday Mrs Mac, Eddie and Linda Welsh and I, and I'd guess around 200 others, gathered at Falkirk Crematorium to say goodbye to Dario Melaragni who left us on Sunday 12th July at the age of 46.

The West Highland Way Race family, identifiable by their race attire and Buffs, were guests of Dario's 'other' family of blood and marriage. The chapel was packed with a good many filling the area outside.

Garry Milne, the race director of the Devil O' The Highlands foot race, WHW Race family member and long time friend of Dario, opened the proceedings with a reading of 'Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep,' then Gary Merrylees, Dario's best friend, remembered the life of this remarkable man.

Diana Mellings, Dario's sister, then recounted Dario's early life which demonstrated the man's attention to detail even as a small child that built Lego spaceships, which went on to make our race such a success. She asked us to imagine a mental image of Dario and remember him with that. I couldn't help the memory of Dario and I, outside my house last year, dressed in West Highland Way Race garb, drinking whisky and trying to get a photo of us with my pirate flag.

A resplendent Murdo McEwan, sporting a Munro Society tie and a Hardmoors 110 Buff (as a representation of disappointed absentee, Jon Steele) read from Corinthians, followed by Elish Angiolini, Dario's friend and Personalfit protege, who read a moving personal tribute.

After hearing a recording of Dario's favourite musical artist, Bruce Springsteen, doing a very appropriate, Born to Run, the official proceedings were brought to a moving close by WHWR family member Jody Young, rigged in full highland regalia, who piped us out with Highland Cathedral.

The wake, which was held at the Inchyra Grange Hotel, gave the collective an opportunity to celebrate Dario's life over a few whiskies. Gilian, Dario's wife, remained courageous throughout as she was introduced to so many Buff-clad race members. It made me laugh when she said to me: 'Ah! You're the scary pirate-man!' and I was honoured to note the limited edition Pirate Buff, that she wore around her wrist. I really hope that we, as a race family, can maintain contact with Gilian.

I was disappointed that the hotel didn't stock Glengoyne Malt but I hope Dario was happy with the large Glenfiddich I bought him (an old regimental tradition) which remained on the bar until Fiona Rennie kindly decanted the liquid into a wee hip flask to be poured into the head of Loch Lomond next week. Thanks, Fi. xx

So what now? Well, I'll find it difficult to delete Dario's number from my phone. I'll also find it difficult to delete the shortcut to his business Personalfit, at the top of my blog.....so I think I'll leave them in situ just now. There are discussions abound regarding a fitting and lasting tribute to the man. These will, no doubt, continue until a consensus is reached. But I felt a close 'family' affinity at the event- something I think Dario would have been proud of creating. I would imagine a similar feeling at the annual Bob Graham Reunion Dinner and Dance, and I wonder whether we could do something similar? Davie Hall The Polis, has already mentioned it on Ian Beattie's blog:

Nice to see so many people turning out for Dario. It would be nice to see them again under happier circumstances maybe a tribute dinner in aid of his favourite charity?

I'll have a word with a few of the family members I'm in regular contact with and with the committee and see what they think.

Anyway, at present I'm plotted up in Mrs Mac's gaff with a plan for some camping action starting this weekend. Mike Mason, who left his Essex-based criminal empire in the safe hands of his Lieutenant, Ernie The Blade to attend Dario's funeral, had a quiet word with me and I've been instructed to continue blogging whilst on holiday.

Normal service will resume shortly.

Watermen, Lightermen and Proteges

So Mrs Mac has fled the south for her native Strathaven. Before she skipped off we managed to fit a joint run in on Ashtead Common which is an area of ancient woodland of around 500 acres just the other side of the tracks at Ashtead station.

The rutted, hard, baked clay which threatens to turn an ankle gives way to the softer and more moist going under foot once you get among the trees. The springier ground helps bolster your gait as you experience the subtle, dappled light. All this beauty seems to help increase your pace.......well, that's what I reckon anyway....

That all sounds kinda Runners World-ish so it's probably better to just say that me and Mrs Mac had a short run together yesterday which was lovely. And while she was stretching her ITB (this, in fact, became a session of chatting to every person that happened to pass-I'm gonna have trouble with her) I performed a set of ten sprints over a 75 metre distance followed by some Billy Big Bollocks press ups.

So now I'm back at home and herself is in Caledonia. There was the possibility that she would have the joy of seeing me getting properly filled in again this weekend 'cos I got an offer to do battle in the squared ring down in Southsea. Unfortunately (or so I thought at the time) I was working so couldn't make the weigh-in. An offer of another outing between the ropes has been made, and while I'm not doing any boxing training at present, I'll probably take it if it means looking like a wuss if I don't.

I've begun to wonder about this magnetic draw I feel toward pugilism. My uncle, Peter Waterman, was a British Welterweight Champion (that ain't the producer of cheesy pop nonsense that goes by the same name by the way) but I don't think that's enough to infect my genes.

So what about the surname, Waterman? Well, I've known for sometime that it's a London name derived from the Watermen and Lightermen of the Thames. These fellas used to earn a crust by unloading boats in dock and ferrying passengers across the Old Father. Apparently these chaps liked a barney and were no strangers to putting their hands up but is that enough to become ingrained into my DNA?

Maybe so. I found this picture showing 'one of the miseries of London-being assailed by a group of Watermen.' Well, fuck me! Things ain't changed too much....I remember the time me and my brother were in a boozer in Camberwell and these fellas got proper large so we....oops!! almost said too much!!

Anyway, while I'm accepting that a genetic link to the Watermen and Lightermen of the Thames may indicate a preponderance toward controlled aggression, I've found an outlet for my own free-handedness- it involves coaching others in the Noble Art and I urge you to press play on the video below.

This Presidente type person is my latest protege.

Cometh The Hour........

The Brady Bunch is back on tour. Yep, after returning to South Chelsea on Friday to mix it with the natives an uneventful shift saw me return home to prepare for the arrival of Mrs Mac and her son and daughter.

Regular readers of this blog will be familiar with our joint preponderance of offspring. When we’re all together the simple task of leaving the house to visit the shops becomes a major logistical operation. Hannah and Madalene will be tearing around like whirling dervishes ensuring that their hair is festooned with half of Claire’s Accessories catalogue of clips and baubles and the boys will be shuffling about sifting through the recently assembled mountain of shoes for their trainers.

Today I am back in South Chelsea, another thus far uneventful shift, having left the Brady Bunch at my gaff preparing for a shopping trip to the Royal Borough of Kingston Upon Thames where Mrs Mac intends to spend the £75.00 in John Lewis vouchers that she recently won.

I got into work early enough this morning to manage a quick run along the river. Saturday mornings are always pleasant as at that time the natives are yet to rise- imagine Will Smith’s character travelling a deserted Manhattan in I am Legend.

Contrast this with a not so pleasant week-day in Battersea when the natives have stirred and fill the pavements- imagine Simon Pegg’s character negotiating a zombie filled North London in Shaun of the Dead.

Anyway, the flat route is approximately five miles long and a pressing 09:00 roll call and lack of hangover sees me back in the station within 35 minutes. My two most recent post-West Highland Way Race runs have confirmed that my road shoes, a pair of Mizuno Wave Inspire, have suffered from being worn to tackle this year’s race. I don’t think that the delicate mesh upper and shock absorbing heel were designed to be knocked about by the rock and root-strewn path along Loch Lomond nor encounter the sharp type-one aggregate that now covers the path toward the Braveheart car park.

The procurement of a new pair of shoes will have to wait, however. We’re away camping soon and the cost of taking the Brady Bunch on holiday is significant. And before that we have an un-missable appointment in Falkirk on Thursday to celebrate the remarkable life of Dario Melaragni, the Godfather of the West Highland Way Race. It’s not often that an individual’s passing sees the coming together of two entirely separate families-one united by blood and marriage, the other by the common bond of having tackled one of the country’s hardest foot-races.

But it’s more than just that, I think. There are 493 people that have finished the race but they won’t all be in Falkirk. Some are geographically very distant; others will be involved in events that prevent their attendance; sadly, some are no longer with us; but although ‘family’ members, a number won’t feel the magnetic draw to see The Godfather one last time as they never allowed the West Highland Way Race to get under their skin.

I did. In 2006 Keith ‘Corned Beef’ Hughes told me I would. Did he see something in me? Something tangible and recognisable? A weakness maybe? I don’t know, but there’s certainly an affinity that I feel with other ‘family’ members that drove me to spend most of Sunday night on the phone, calling as far afield as Spain and Australia.

I think there’s definitely something in Debbie M-C’s comment: ‘I often think it's a cult.

Into Dust

It's time to embrace one of the oldest and noblest of pirate traditions and break out the rum. The wine is all drunk and the Wray and Nephew is calling me like a penniless whore.

But before I give in to my Jamaican mistress and the whole gig gets bandy I need to apologise to you, Dear Reader. Things have been melancholic of late and I'll not labour the reason why, but my desire to indulge in this blogging nonsense has been tested. My intention in stating that in my last post was not to fish for compliments like a saddo but simply to express how I felt.

That said, I very much appreciate the lovely comments requesting that Subversive Running continues in its existence. All I can say is: 'Wow! You dudes are easily satisfied!'

But what has been missed is the fact that I have little say in whether Subversive Running continues or otherwise. That executive decision is taken by an Essex based life-takin' law breaker by the name of Mason. I daren't do anything without his permission or my liver will appear in the lion's food in London Zoo.

Mason got on my case today. I got a text from him saying:

'Oi, Waterman, get yer thumb out of your arse and run. If you don't and I have to cross the Dartford Bridge you'll regret it you scum suckin' knob-cheese.'

If you're unfamiliar with Mike you should know that he runs the show in Essex. Ronnie and Reggie? Pah! They were pussy cats compared to The Mason. But his cover is as a mild mannered executive for Ford and a member of the Benfleet Running Club.....Don't be fooled unless you fancy decorating the inside of a Range Rover with your vital organs.

Anyway, I followed Mike's instruction and ran. Eight miles across Epsom race course taking in a few lung busting hills. I'm not sure about time/distance/splits/all that shit because I don't give a fuck about all that bollocks.

What I do know is that it appears that my body has recovered from the West Highland Way Race. It felt all springy and bouncy and my lungs seemed to work well (springy and bouncy is about as technical as it gets, Dear Reader. Refer to Runner's World if you want a better definition).

So now, before I get all aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrr and practice my pirate-isms, I'd like comment on the articles concerning Dario that were published in The Glasgow Herald, Scotsman and The Sun.

My opinion is that none of them do the man justice. More worryingly, the authors appear to have simply lifted detail from the WHW Race forum and the blogs. There are many individuals who have been associated with Dario and the race for many years who might have important things to say; none, other than Garry Milne and Adrian Stott, have been quoted.

After reading the Herald article I felt moved to take the author to task over his malapropisms. This I did via email.

I hope he knows I'm linked to Mike Mason and takes the hint and doesn't end up as dust.

Innocence

As I sit here in the Station Officer’s room in Battersea I wonder whether this blog has had its day. It started as an idea as I was running with my pal, Jon Vann in 2007. We would meet at our rendezvous for our run, invariably early in the morning and often after having consumed a significant amount of alcoholic beverage the evening prior. Discussion often got round to the race blogs, which at the time were fewer than today, and how they contained a mine of information regarding routes, times, kit etc. We’d laugh and remark how a blog written by either of us would contain detail of how much wine we’d drank the night before and how severe the resulting hangover was.

Subversive Running began after Doc McIntosh launched Brian’s Running Miscellany on the world. I told him I was thinking of writing something a little more alternative and he replied:

‘I’d read your subversive blog.’ And so it was born.

Now I feel less inclined to write frivolously (I’ll not labour the reason why) and the amount of running I do would result in few posts.

But while I ponder the future I have a story that I would like to share with you that made me smile at a time when smiling is a bit of a rarity.

There I was in the 1.25l Bad Boy returning from Tesco with my three youngest children. They all knew Dario and remembered him as ‘the funny man that could work out which day we were born on.’ They had heard of Dario’s death from ex-wife/partner (no.3) and were firing questions at me regarding the detail.

After explaining to them that he had died while running in the mountains Charly asked if his life might have been saved if a doctor had been on the scene at an early stage. I explained that a medical professional was with him but specialist equipment was needed to help, if it was at all possible.

After having a mumbled discussion with my son, Ewan, Charly said:

‘Me and Ewan know what should have happened. If the government had put a doctor with his equipment in a little hut on every mountain in the country Dario might have been saved.’

I smiled at their innocence.

‘Yes, you’re right, that would have been helpful,’ I replied.

Laters.

He Was a Friend of Mine

Dario Melaragni

This blog would not exist if it were not for the West Highland Way Race and the West Highland Way Race would not exist in its current form if it wasn't for the tireless, enthusiastic and professional work of 'The Godfather' Dario Melaragni.

I had the mother of all shocks yesterday to hear that Dario had suffered a probable heart attack whilst running on Lochnagar. Despite the sterling efforts of a small band of West Highland Way Race Family members that were accompanying him Dario died there on the hill.

Death is a matter of fact in the jobs I've been employed in since leaving school, I meet it more often than many. It's been suggested by a particular person that this has hardened my approach to loss and the heart that beats in my own chest is a dark one.

That's not true. My heart broke when I heard of Dario's passing and his voice rings in my head now and I can visualise his energy and animation. The depth of loss I feel is too great for me to put into words and there are others that will do it in a significantly more eloquent manner than myself, Mrs Mac being a case in point. But I know that the loss to the ultra running community is great. I know also that the loss to the West Highland Way Race Family is even greater. However, I can only imagine how Dario's family are attempting to cope with their loss today.

On a personal level Dario, the race and the Family came into my life four years ago and the part they play in it now is significant, to say the least.

But now Dario has gone and I feel an emptiness that keeps changing places with disbelief. What can I say? I'll miss you, buddy. I'll even miss your appalling choice of colour when designing the race buffs.

I'm reminded of last year when I had the honour of having Dario stay with me while he was working in London. I'd had a bet with Mike Mason that I could get photographic evidence of Dario smiling:

'...we had a bottle of Glengoyne malt whisky, my favourite tipple and an excellent tool which I realised might enable me to win my bet with Mike Mason and turn the Dark Godfather into a Ray of Sunshine. Okay, maybe that's pushing the envelope a bit...at least get him smiling a bit.

However, it wasn't long before Dario and I were steaming through the whisky and I got lost in tales of past races; of the lunacy of one Mad Jim Drummond; of stories of Kate Jenkins, Lucy Colquhoun, Murdo McEwan and Jez Bragg. In my stupor, (yes, I've considered the possibility that Mike and Dario were in cahoots) the only picture I managed to procure is the one below. Yes it's grainy, yes it's poorly focused and yes it's taken at night- but I'd say it shows the Race Director crackin' a smile.'

Of course, in reality Dario smiled often. And laughed too.....often at his own poor jokes! How I wish I could hear him telling one of those crappy jokes now.

I'll miss you mate. Rest well.

The Romper Room

Voltaire said:

‘I may disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.’

Well, I’m a firm believer that your blog is your blog and you should write what the hell you like on it. Of course if something is written that’s particularly inappropriate or abusive the author will end up being taken to task over it sooner or later anyway- either by the associated hit counter registering zero or getting a good shoeing late one night in a dark alley.

I also think that if readers take the time to comment on your posts their comment should remain live regardless of the criticism that might be directed toward the author.

Who cares about blog critics anyway? In another life I’ve had criticism directed toward me by individuals that do it rather well. Sammy Clarke, my old Troop Sergeant, was often critical. If his criticism got really animated (usually over some matter regarding discipline-fighting with police dogs and the like) he made you an offer: either march yourself up to see the Squadron Sergeant-Major or spend five minutes in his ‘Romper Room.’

The Romper Room was the troop cage, a room on the tank park created from welded steel mesh and covered in DPM scrim. If you opted for five minutes with Sammy you generally emerged with an imprint of his size ten boot on your face and urinated blood for a few days- distinctly better than being charged by the Squadron Sergeant Major, believe me!

I see old Sammy at the Regimental reunion every November. How we chuckle as we remember the sound of splintering ribs and cracking teeth!!

Anyway, back to blog critics- sometimes rather than criticise per se they may point out an error of fact. Take ‘Anonymous’ for example:

‘Not sure that's quite right as Thursday night you were spotted with two elder gents in The Slug in Clapham Junction consuming several pints of the black stuff followed by several whiskies ... not sure that's classed as Ribena!!’

I’m pretty sure I know who ‘Anonymous’ is-if it’s the attractive burger seller, you tinker!!! If it’s Paul Davis- you git!!!

‘Anonymous' is right, I was in the Slug and Lettuce in Clapham Junction later that night with my mucker Phil Emberson, a man who’s forgotten more about technical and specialist rescue that I will ever know, and Paul Davis (Daisy), a possible contender for ‘Anonymous.’ Both are elder gents in that they are a little more experienced than myself, but both are extremely young at heart.

But I never said in my post that I wasn’t out that night-just that my post earlier that evening was accompanied by Ribena and tea and my planned run the next day did not take place……ahem….that was because of the later consumption of ‘black stuff followed by several whiskies.’

Anyway, it’s time for me to skadoodle. Before I depart I’d just like to say that my own blood family have never been very close to me. I found brethren within Her Majesty’s Armed Forces and it hurts each time I read or hear of a brother ascending to the Green Fields in that hell-hole that is Afghanistan. I found brothers and sisters within the West Highland Way Race Family too and remark every day at how they have taken me to their bosom. It hurts also to lose one of them.

Here’s to you, my brother. You'll never be forgotten.

A Dry Post.....Honest!!

There was a suggestion that my last blog post was created whilst under the influence of high percentage ABV vino. While a betting person might regard their money as safe if placed upon the likelihood of a subversive evening of blogging with wine, last night this was not the case.

No vino, no Guinness, and no whisky lubricated that particular blog post......just some Ribena and tea. This was due to two reasons:

1. I was due on duty in South Chelsea the following morning to engage with the natives of Battersea, and they've been all frisky just of late.

2. I had intended to run before work taking in the majestic Old Father Thames and the Royal Chelsea Hospital- the home of the Chelsea Pensioners.

So a dry early evening and absolutely zilch on the telly drove me to my PC. I wondered why the suggestion of an alcohol influenced post might have been made and a slight suspicion was confirmed by Mrs Mac who said:

'There's rather a lot of swearing in it.'

I didn't think there was until I read it through again. Of course the smidgen of Irvine Welsh upped the cuss-count but there were a few cattle-trucks and merchant bankers of my own in there.

I will attempt to moderate the colour of my language in future but I have to say that whilst insuring the safety of the residents of SW11 today we had a shout that made me laugh my fuckin' tits off.

So we were called to a man in the river at Wandsworth Bridge. Off we shot up the road, blues and twos wailing. We arrive at the scene a few minutes later where there are a good number of London Ambulance Service personnel, another fire engine and a large crowd of Battersea's residents who are apparently 'between jobs.' All are looking into the river that was to have hosted my run that morning (can you guess it didn't?).

A bystander relates to me what has occurred:

'A geezer was in PC World and he nicked two hard-drives and a memory card. The security bloke spotted him and chased him so he legged it over to here. He jumped over the wall and into the river to escape by swimming away.........but the tide went out a few hours ago.'

A quick look onto the muddy and shopping trolley festooned foreshore, which was four metres down by the way, confirmed the hapless thief sporting two newly broken legs and hollering louder than a market trader at packing up time.

The attached video was made available to me by an Ambulance Service colleague who filmed the event for training purposes. We, of course, are strictly forbidden to carry cameras or mobile phones whilst on duty and are punishable by death if found to have recorded operational events.

It shows the HEMS chopper fighting to take off against the river with the alleged computer thief on board.

Enjoy. I did!!

The Return of an Old Pal

You now how it is. Sometimes you meet someone for the first time and you know from the outset that you're gonna get on with them.

If it's a bird some might argue it's sexual chemistry (if it ain't and the feelings are the same you're probably a poof-house). If it's a fella more likely you'll pick up on his deeply ingrained familiarity with the etiquette of the public house; or maybe his obviously encyclopedic knowledge of boxing.

This very thing has happened to me upon meeting particular individuals involved in the West Highland Way Race. At least that's what I like to believe anyway......there's an equally good chance, that I'm deluded and those very same individuals say:

'Oh no it's that bloody pest Waterman again.....quick, let's hide behind the sofa and pretend we're not in.'

Or maybe:

'If that mug Waterman sets one foot in Essex I'll 'ave his fuckin' knee caps.'

But regardless of the unrequited love demonstrated by recently repatriated emigres from Romania, I have an example to support my argument:

There I was in 2006, about fifty of the ninety-five miles under my belt but with a knee that was swollen and painful and restricting my forward movement to little more than a crawl. As I stumbled along up comes this Australian fella.

'Hi guys,' he says to me and John, my support runner. 'My name's Keith and I'm the sweeper. I've caught up with you and that means you're last.'

I immediately warmed to Corned Beef's dismissal of any polite formality. My affection for him was further cemented when a car drove past where the track nears the road just outside Tyndrum. A brown arse was sticking out of the open window and a chorus of:

'Waterman, you wanker,' ripped through the highland silence as Darrel returned his naked posterior to the safe confines of the vehicle.

Keith didn't bat an eye-lid, just said:

'Your support crew, huh?'

Well, today I was reunited with another fella that possesses a similar ethical persuasion to myself; a man educated in the similar masculine scimmages; an earthy individual with a love for life; a man who has a deep love of art....so much so that a good percentage of his body is covered in it.

I refer to Mr Frances Begbie, a hero of mine ever since I read of his exploits in Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. Welsh's original heavily set pit-bull of the Hibernian terraces was replaced by a more diminutive, yet equally ferocious, Robert Carlyle in Danny Boyle's take on the book. But rather than water the psycho-casual down, I reckon this gave Begbie's character even more appeal.

Well now the man's appeared again- this time in Welsh's new book of short stories from mainly out of print anthologies and magazines, Reheated Cabbage.

Check him out, it's Christmas Day:

That fuckin Sandra. Nivir mind the fuckin turkey, stick that fat cunt in the oven n wi'll be feedin half ay fuckin Leith through until next Christmas. Ah dinnae ken aboot stuffin it but, ah'll no be volunteerin fir they fuckin duties anywey. Nae fuckin chance.

Ok, so it might not be your cuppa if your preferred reading matter is Mills and Boon or the National Geographic, but at least after reading Irvine Welsh I can kinda get a handle on what the hell Mrs Mac and her family are saying to each other.

I always wondered who this fella 'Ken' was they kept referring to.

All Those Moments Will Be Lost In Time......

It seems the effects of running the West Highland Way Race are still with me despite feeling fitter than a butcher's dog......one that keeps falling asleep often right enough, but a butcher's dog nonetheless.

Today I headed out for the gym where I had a treadmill session planned. I know that respected commentators on running often suggest that any action performed on a treadmill is cheating. I don't agree. It's different than running on a trail or road in that you're moving forward to overcome a force that's driving you back. But the fact that it's so bloody boring and the digital read-out in front of you taunts and teases with your real pace/height gained/time spent, it makes it a proper mental battle.

At least when running sans Garmin an 8.5 mile run is always 10 miles and your 9 minute mile pace is always 8. This is, of course, a given. Even the post-run use of Map My Run and the confirming OS map and bit of string tell lies.....that route is definitely 10 miles.

Anyway, I digress.....back to the treadmill session. There I am, standing on the machine in shorts and running vest. I see my reflection in the window in front of me and realise how much that feckin' race has taken out of me- I see a skinny tattooed geezer looking back. Think Spud out of Trainspotting.

I swear that when I left London for the Land of Jock I had love-handles and weighed in at 75 kilos (11 stone 8 lbs). I could bench press 80kg for reps and 100kg for a single. Now I wilt at the sight of an Olympic bar and reckon I could fight at my old battlin' weight of Light-Welter.

The telemetric heart rate reader tells me I've a resting pulse of 86.....WTF????!!!! That was down in the fifties before the race!! This reminds me of when I joined a new gym after the 2007 West Highland Way Race when the inductor told me that my blood pressure was so high I'd become a modern leper and was to infect none of the equipment with my explosive vascularity until I'd been given the all-clear by my doc!

WTF, I thought........I'm a fuckin' ultra runner!!! (OK, by definition maybe. Better to describe me as a fella that's managed to keep in front of the sweeper a few times).

Anyway, back again to the treadmill. Despite the frighteningly high heart rate I begin my session. Twenty minutes at level ten on the hill programme at 12 km per hour. Piece of piss.

Or so I thought until I was on the third hill, fifteen minutes into the session. I realised that unless I hit the stop button there was a danger I was gonna be dismissed from the machine and deposited behind it like a useless bit of litter.

Sweat ran off me like tears in rain (oh man....standby....I've waited an age to post it), and I stumbled off to perform some pathetically light squats. However, it made my day seeing the bloke with the 'Don't get big, get massive' top on. He was wearing a beenie hat....in the gym.....in the middle of summer....COCK!!!!

I realised that while I'm probably pathetic I've a long way to go to descend into the basement of deluded taudriness that houses Don't get big, get massive's collection of gym hats.

Anyway, despite my poor showing on the treadmill and despite my high heart rate (maybe it's increased 'cos Mrs Mac has buggered off home and my heart's leaking.
Cheesy? Maybe. Err.....Mrs Mac...that messy thing we were talking about....) I still feel fit and properly up for it.

Ready even to watch C-Beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate.

Laters.

Either I'm Too Sensitive or Else I'm Getting Soft

If it appeared that I struggled to earn my money in my previous post, what with larging it with celebs and the like, I can guarantee you that every penny of the salary earned for performing two night duties came at a price that seemingly rose faster than the price of unleaded petrol on the forecourts.

After the first fifteen hours where Battersea's Fire Rescue Unit crew spent a considerable amount of time and expended an enormous amount of energy, sweat, and possibly later, tears, at the devastating and tragic fire in Camberwell, the fire station's open day went ahead as planned.

For me, this involved going off duty at 09:00, but then working at the open day until it was time to return to duty at 18:00. Chasing Battersea's most formidably bold but elusive rug-rats around the drill yard as they disassembled the fire engine, attempted to liberate the contents of the cash tins, and appeared to make a mental inventory of the bicycle store, created a tiring nine hours 'off.'

Mrs Mac had made a long journey south across Hadrian's Wall (note to the long-dead Emperor: If the wall was supposed to be a barrier to the race of ginger-haired skirt wearers from Caledonia, how come there's an inordinate amount in London that empty the shelves of Tennants Super and shout at the traffic?) with her wee daughter Hannah and had then plotted herself up in my gaff while I was at work. She then attended the open day with wee Hannah and my babies where she won the top prize in the raffle. Yep, the Brady Bunch matriarch struck lucky!

After bidding me farewell she made off in my 1.25l Bad Boy waving her John Lewis vouchers above her head on a mission to drain my home's wine stock.

And I went back to work. If there was some kind of secret ingredient in the burgers that were on sale at the open day, it livened up the natives of Battersea to the point where they called us for assistance eight times between 18:00 and 23:00- a flat fire; an RTA; two rubbish fires- and I don't even remember the rest- before being redeployed to Lakanal flats in Camberwell until 04:30.

As I returned to the fire station, more exhausted than a set of Vanessa Feltz's bathroom scales, I had a plan to close my eyes and re-energise for an hour or two before preparing the station for the oncoming day watch. I didn't reckon for the spawn of Beelzebub that knocked on the station door after locking himself out of his flat.

Now, there's a line in Bob Dylan's song If You See Her Say Hello, (what a crackin' excuse to post a Youtube clip!) that goes:

'Either I'm too sensitive, or else I'm getting soft...'

It rang in my mind as I dragged my crew out for the tenth time in a shift to re-acquaint the Lord of Flies with his abode.

If you're sensing that all of this has resulted in little (well....none) running being done, you'd be right. I managed about seven hours domesticus with Mrs Mac and the Brady Bunch before she had to return north and now I can feel my systems beginning to shut down.

Much needed sleep is creeping up on me like a thief in the night but I'm fighting it and sipping a glass of vino collapso. No power-drinking this evening.......

.........just a wee snifter and a spot of Bob Dylan.

Where is My Mind...Again?

The post race running is continuing with no indication of any troubling ramifications of having run 95 miles over the highlands. A slack five mile jaunt along the river yesterday showed banjo string-taught ligaments and lead-like legs but I reckon that's minor hangover compared to the seriously disabling effects of years passed.

The actual hangover itself, ie the one caused by the over zealous consumption of alcoholic beverage, is something that stopped bothering me some years ago. It's merely a default condition that's occasionally bettered by short periods of clarity and sobriety that are quickly banished by a wee top-up.

But how do we, as runners, manage that activity? (I mean the one of running, not banishing our few periods of clarity and sobriety), when the weather has been so damned hot. Well for me it's all about dragging my sorry carcass out of my scratcher at early-O'clock and getting the miles in before the sun speeds up across the horizon.

An hour or so in the early morn in running shoes and shorts sets me up nice for a day in uniform. One where I wear black, fuckin' itchy trousers that I defy only by the donning of long johns.

Long johns? I hear you ask. In this weather? Yes, long johns in this m@]her-f@ckin weather!!! I prefer to sweat like a hairy hog than suffer nine hours of itchiness on my sensitively-skinned legs.

Luckily for me I was able to take my heavily encased legs into the outdoors yesterday for the 22nd Great Amazing Children's Party in Battersea Park. Yes it was hot, yes the sun beat down, but the kiddies loved climbing on the fire engine.......or so my lads tell me.....I was plotted up in the VIP tent with Des O'Connor, Elaine Paige, Paul Young, Darius Danesh and Linda Robson. Oh, and some boy bollocks band called Blazing Squad whose photo and autograph I ripped up and called 'mugs.'

I've attached a photo above of the gorgeous Ms Paige sitting on my motor. She was great, a really lovely lady and a good sport, too.

So.....as I sit here sipping a wee glass of vino collapso I'm considering my next move, sporting wise. I should tell you that I've had an invitation to meet another man in the squared ring over three rounds.

I asked Mrs Mac what she thought and the reaction was negative:

'I don't want to watch someone trying to hurt you....I'd rather be a promoter's WAG than a boxer's'

I love her and respect her wishes but I sense unfinished business. After my last foray back between the ropes I've suffered unflattering comments regarding my defence and my ability to remain a biped for two minutes. It hasn't always been that way..... I've experienced the high of having my hand raised by the ref before. I know how it feels to celebrate and not commiserate.

And there's this song.....it's playing in my head.....I can hear it.....it's my ring entrance tune......it's getting more distinct.....I can feel the gumshield between my teeth..... I can feel the sweat on my brow......the adrenaline is coursing through my veins....I'm a gladiator facing death or dishonour.....I'm tapping my gloves together and slipping from toe to toe atop the sprung canvas....

Seconds out....

As Bob Dylan said: 'Play it fuckin' loud'

The River Ayr Way Challenge 2009

The River Ayr Way Challenge 2009

The River Ayr Way is Scotland’s first source to sea route which follows the river Ayr from its source at Glenbuck Loch for 44 miles (66kms) to the sea at Ayr.

The majority of the route is on a built path which passes through a variety of terrain. The run begins from Glenbuck and follows a dismantled railway line over moorland before changing into a more urban landscape as you reach the towns of Sorn and Catrine. The route then changes to become more riverside, woodland terrain passing through Barskimming Estate, the villages of Failford and Stair before finally finishing at the coastal town of Ayr.

The River Ay Way Challenge is now in its 2nd year and welcomes both walkers and ultra runners to participate. This year the event will be held on the 12th and 13th September 2009 with ultra runners welcome along on Saturday 12th to participate.

The cost of the event is £15 per person and helps to pay for emergency support, logistics, water stops and T-shirts.

In September 2008, 23 ultra runners took part in the event. The winning time for this event was 6 hours 24 minutes.

For further details or if you would like to register please e-mail louise.kyle@east-ayrshire.gov.uk

You can also ask to be sponsored for taking part in the Challenge. We are raising funds this year for The Fairy Box charity which exists to help support ill children in hospital, their families, and the medical and nursing staff involved in their care.

At the heart of the charity’s work is the Fairy Box itself – a themed gift box which sits on the children’s wards and which is filled with small gifts of books,toys, and games - lovingly donated - so that parents, medical and nursing staffcaring for ill children can have access to a gift to help dry the tears of a child who is feeling sad or blue in hospital – and so help them on the road to recovery.

Medical and nursing staff are increasingly supportive of using the Fairy Box to help dry tears when a child has had to undergo a difficult or upsetting treatment.

Please request a sponsor form from Louise Kyle by e-mailing louise.kyle@east-ayrshire.gov.uk or telephoning 01563 55471

Entrants can choose to support a different charity if they so wish. If you would like to participate and support and alternative charity please let me know by e-mailing me at the above address

Kind regards

Louise Kyle