High Spirits, Sore Legs

An exhilarating mix of mental euphoria and physical pain was my reward as I finished the 2003 Great Scottish Run half-marathon. I must reluctantly admit that I did not quite meet my ambitious goal of 1:40, but did finish with a respectable time of 01:51:28. Of the 6000 who ran the half-marathon, I finished a decent 2294.

Sunday morning was an absolutely gorgeous sunny day, which perhaps were not the best conditions for a long-distance run as the sun had the lot of us sweating within minutes of starting. The course was equally as gorgeous as we ran through the streets of Glasgow’s city centre (where traffic was banned for the morning), through George Square, past historic buildings, and through the fields and forests of several public parks. A nice touch was the lone bagpiper who was stationed at every second mile marker, belting out Scotland the Brave and the like.

I think I knew going in that I hadn’t properly trained for this challenge. A typical run for me is about 7-8 miles, so needless to say shortly before the 9-mile mark the energy reserves began to wane rather dramatically. I had been keeping a steady pace of 8 minutes per mile, but that pace promptly disappeared as my legs starting turning into the texture of jelly. I watched the runners who I had coyly passed a few miles back smugly return the favour. I couldn’t even calculate what my next time benchmark should have been as my brain had decided to shut down all logic thought processes and focus on more pressing actions - namely that of getting one foot after another. After the 11-mile mark I felt I had been running so long that surely I had not noticed the 12-mile marker pass by and that I was making for the finish. When the big, neon green 12-mile marker promptly appeared in my vision, I thought I was going to cry.

On a typical run, I turn on the sprint jets to finish off strong and this had been my plan for a grand finish here as well, ensuring that I would make up any lost time. However, that was not to be since: (a) I was too busy concentrating on not passing out and (b) let’s face it, there were no jets to turn on.

Apparently Fiona had procured a prime spectator spot right near the end where she was cheering me on. I couldn’t tell you though – everything was a blur save for the most beautiful thing in the world at that moment: a sign with the word “FINISH”. I think Fiona put it best when she said “I was going to take a picture of you as you crossed the finish line, but you looked sick and white as a ghost and I didn’t think you’d have wanted that picture”. Too right.

But what an experience! Afterwards, while feeling my life’s essence seeping back into me while sprawled on the grass, I decided I actually felt pretty damn good and vowed I’ll be better prepared for the next one.

By the way, Robbie finished only a few minutes behind me, and he had trained even less due to his recent move to Edinburgh. Much respect.

And Mike – you weren't kidding about post-race stair climbing.