Glen Ogle

As I hobbled to the pub after completing the Glen Ogle 33 Ultra Marathon last week I said to Mrs Mac:

'One of these days I'm going to actually train for one of these races and show every one what I can really do.'

Talk is cheap, Dear Reader, but I'm not sure for how much longer I can put my body through this. For most of the attendees at the GO33 it was a short, end of season race, just seven miles longer than a marathon.....a mere walk in the park. For me it was my longest run since March's equidistant Dee 33 and my third run beyond 10 miles this year.

My preparation for this race began a month or so again when a medical professional told me that my ultra running days are over. This was obviously a simple tick in the box for her and the successful deletion of a malingering fuckwit.....she obviously has more deserving cases of asylum seeking HIV sufferers to concern herself with than this tax-paying UK citizen...that's what your average Daily Mail reader might say anyway..... not me obviously.

The next stage of my race preparation came with a whirlwind, four-day visit to Miami where I slept for about five hours complete. In the drinking stakes I managed to smash every American I could find into an early bath, and while I stood in glorious victory on the bar I wasn't exactly shoulder to shoulder with other ultras runners.

The final episode of my race preparation occurred the night before the race when Mrs Mac and I arrived in Strathyre, the locale for start and finish of said race. We checked into a fine B&B that accommodated Mason (dog) quite happily (by the way, why wouldn't you accept a house-trained, four legged hound in your establishment when you'll happily house a two-legged Londoner who recently shit the bed in a cottage in Devon?) and hot footed it down to the pub.

We spent a pleasant evening quaffing ale and chatting with other ultra runners. For me the detail became slightly blurred after the eighth pint but I do remember being surrounded by friends at 01:30 and satisfying myself that it was not just me that would be on the start line in a little over six hours. I remember too forming the letter 'L' on my forehead with thumb and forefinger when I discovered that everyone else in the bar except Norrie McNeill were race officials and didn't have to run a step the following morning.

The race itself started on a bastard hill. I wish someone had told me about this which might have prevented me haring off like an idiot.....although to be fair, it was probably my only opportunity to look good.

I ran for some time with Mark Hamilton and Stan Bland and shot the breeze. Both are West Highland Way pals who I feel a close bond with. In reality they tolerate me like I tolerate the educationally subnormal bloke that pesters me at the fire station......and in a similar way they ran off and left me with a never to be fulfilled promise of: 'Don't worry, you'll catch us up.'

I ran the rest of the race alone. The relationships I managed to form with the individuals that ran past me are probably on a par with those that are created by the struggling actresses that consider Ron Jeremy a sweetheart. But I cracked on and ate up the miles like Vanessa Feltz in a Krispy Kreme Donut factory where the fire alarm has just gone off.

I managed 26 miles at a decent pace then felt the pain of a man that's been properly on the piss for the best part of 2012. Then at about 30 miles I felt so much pain that a walk in was on the cards. This bothered me not because all I really wanted was to record a finish which I did at over six hours. How much over six hours is on the public record and I care not to look at it, just that I recorded a finish.

My plan now, Dear Reader, is to train for one of these races and show everyone what I can really do. And that plan is live and well in my brain......however, in front of me exist a bottle of wine and an almost eaten chicken kebab.

Laters.