Happily Ever After
Life in The Rural Retreat with a beautiful wife, three cats, garden wildlife, a camera, a computer – and increasing amounts about running
Earlier posts can be found on Adventures of a Lone Bass Player, where this blog began life. Recent entries can be found here.
Alloa Half Marathon 2025
by Russell Turner - 11:39 on 17 March 2025
Alloa last year: 2:14:08. Alloa this year: 2:14:26 (chip times). At least I’m staying consistent as old age hunts me down, but the time was a disappointment considering perfect conditions and a target of at least five minutes faster than last year. It could have been worse: I wasn’t the guy stretched out on the side of the road at 10 miles, being tended by two spectators. Whether he’d fallen, collapsed or had a turn I couldn’t tell from the brief sighting I had as I lumbered past. Running’s not for wimps.
The omens had been mixed. The trip down had been a pleasure, Grandson of Seat being notably quieter since the replacement of front nearside wheel bearings (sparing him a possible trade-in), and traffic and roadworks as light as they ever are on the A9. Dunmar House Hotel, however, despite being under new management and more expensive was no less shabby than last year, its proximity to the start and finish line being its main attraction. I was shown to a bigger room than last year, but with a mysterious hum; the bathroom featured the creakiest floor I’ve ever encountered (there was evidence of long-gone flooding, which may account for it) and, as I later discovered, the noisiest shower. On the other hand, the food is still good and the hum disappeared around 8.30pm, so maybe it originates in the kitchen.
Sleep was still hard to come by, despite a reasonably comfortable bed (another foot in length would have been a bonus) and no raucous partygoers (unlike last year). Maybe I can’t drop off without a cat purring cat in my ear.
Next day found just me and one couple taking advantage of the breakfast room’s early opening, although only one of us (not me) chose the Full Scottish option. Half an hour later, I walked the short distance to Lornshill Academy to join the crowd of runners stretching, gossiping and milling around or watching the keenest warming up around the school track. The weather was cool and dry with just a hint of breeze: perfect. Pacers had been promised (I planned to follow 2:10 to begin with) but they were either not there or in disguise. At 9am, when the gun sounded and the racing snakes shot off, I had to find my own pace.
The first six miles saw a few fluctuations in mile times but were covered in an hour – perfect pacing. The only down side was that the course was much more undulating than I recalled from last year. I pressed on, completing 11 miles less than a minute slower than pace. Whether this was helped or hindered by my bold experiment of listening to podcasts for the first time in a race, I don’t know. I muted them every now and then to chat with other runners, so I wasn’t completely anti-social. Knots of spectators cheered us on as we passed through villages and random road junctions. Occasional drivers, held up by stewards and Road Closed signs, glowered at us.
The 12th mile featured the short but steep hill which last year I’d walked up. This time was no different, although I do regret not even trying to run it: I’d been looking forward to the break too much. I did run the rest after reaching the top, even though the final stretch was mostly uphill, at a more forgiving gradient. Back on school grounds, I crossed the finish line to be rewarded with water, a banana, my fourth medal of the year, and a gaudy yellow shirt. That was my 14th half marathon done (plus three virtual ones).
For a while I watched later finishers run the final stretch. Some showed unhurried, perfect form; some showed drooping exhaustion; a couple appeared to be wearing invisible suits of armour, such was the stiffness of their gait. Smiles and grimaces were shared equally among all styles of finisher. I’d managed smiles at the end but suspect my form was less than perfect.
Back at Dunmar House, I made the most of my late check-out time (£20 extra; free last year, the shysters), braved the raucous shower, packed and then ventured into the bar for a late Sunday roast where I chanced upon the breakfast couple. She’d got a PB (it’s rude to ask the time) and he’d been left behind but both appeared content. Both are running the Carlisle HM this weekend, so our paths might cross again, or at the finish of the Edinburgh Marathon. They’re not running but live in Musselburgh where it ends. The Scottish running world’s a small one.
Will I return to Alloa? Possibly, but probably not to Dunmar (although the food is good). The date clashes with the annual Wakefield 10k; it seems right that I should run in my home town at least once, gigs permitting. Next in the diary is Carlisle. I’ve run back-to-back HMs twice, both times completing the second one faster. Let’s hope that history continues to repeat itself.
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