Because running isn’t a spectator sport.
The answer, of course, is no. The question only comes up because, before the veterans' track meeting at Leckwith, Richie Bullen declared to Mick McGeoch "Look at him! Did you ever see anyone so desperate to be a vet?" He was referring to me. I opened my mouth to answer, but I've got tonsillitis or something, and can't really speak. To get the full effect of the rest of this article, you should therefore imagine it being read to you in a secretive whisper by Mariella Frostrup. Mick, the master of race statistics and so forth told him that I was a vet already. (And I still am.) "Then why aren't you running? " demanded the lad from Birmingham. I'd say I opened my mouth to answer, but we've been there already.
As someone who follows local races, I'd quite like to see Vet (or 'Masters' as the British Veterans Athletic Federation have recently voted to call themselves) age qualification revised upward by 10 years (and by fifteen for women). Improvements in health over the last couple of generations have rolled the onset of the third age back to the sixth decade. There may be fewer 40-year-old four-minute milers than 18-year-old ones, but not by all that much. (See current British Vet's records and Eamonn Coughlan's sub-four performances.)
As someone who takes part in local races, I'd like to have seen Vet qualification rolled forward to parity with women five years ago, so I could have enjoyed my annus mirabilis (when I was 35) with the added bonus of competing in a new category. The only thing getting faster is the rate of my falling apart. As it is, like Paul Morris, I've hardly competed since my 40th. Dave Lloyd is even worse. He hasn't run since he ran the Castles with a stress fracture.
Gordon: doubts about future in the Premiership.
It's even spreading to the rest of my family. Gordon the cat (pictured) ruptured the cruciate ligament in the knee of a hind leg jumping off a wall. (The three-breakfast diet may have been a factor — the vet says he weighs over a stone.) I can't see him passing a medical for Manchester United now. Still, he reacted like a true athlete — he lay on the ground, and growled and lashed out at anyone who approached, just like Mark Lewis-Francis.
Gordon may not exhibit much common sense, but he is shown here putting the smart veteran's adage Slowing down is nature's way of telling you to stop into practice.
Julie Scholey and Holly.
Julie Scholey promised her mother that she'd get married before her daughter Holly Cruikshank started school. Even with a gun to her head, Scholey (as she was, is, and always will be to us) doesn't do things by halves. She and Pete hired a room at Llanthony Abbey, while most of us camped in a field next door at Court Farm. Pete's relatives contributed to the bagpipe playing and kilt wearing at City Hall, while Julie's brother (also called Pete) is a Master Brewer and arrived with several barrels and bottles of specially brewed 'Holly Cruikshank' ales. Neither those nor the champagne ran out, which can only mean that there was a lot of both.
Many of you would think that camping, Wales, August, unlimited alcohol, and lots of men in kilts can only lead to unpleasantness, torrential rain, and a sleepless night. Those of you who thought that would have been wrong, however, as nobody seemed to get carried away, and the marquee was still there in the morning. It didn't rain, and there were games of rounders and cricket until the light packed up around 9.
Most of the runners among us managed to get up on Sunday for a reasonable length trot, and there were no noticeable hangovers. Everyone, in short, had a lot of fun. Holly can now go to school knowing that her parents are respectable at last, as the whole affair seems to have been legal and binding — though the ceremony was practically inaudible to everyone present, and Julie claimed that she fought back laughter throughout (though it looked a lot like a soppy smile to me).
It was always going to be fun: almost any time with Scholey and/or Pete is. After so many years together, it can hardly be called the start of anything, so I hope that Pete's carefully folded kilt, Scholey's crumpled-up wedding dress, and the messages written on the marquee remind the couple of a wonderful weekend, and that their lives continue as happily as before.
Last updated 13 April 2006
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