The Well-Tempered Clavier

It is becoming increasingly apparent that this charity film night that we have been thinking of organising for our Marathon des Sables gig is now ESSENTIAL.

And why, oh why, would that be?

Because, speak it softly, I think that although there are now only two members of Team Titanic, it is altogether possible that half the team (at least) may not be able to finish this desert romp that we have so set our hearts upon.

And, as I’ve already mentioned, at least if we have a charity film, then we won’t have to hand back all the sponsorship money - which would be mildly irksome if, for some unfathomable reason the Doogie contrived not to finish the race merely on account of BEING TOTALLY UNPREPARED AND NOT UP TO THE JOB!

Ahemmm… Where were we? We were talking about films that might be suitable for our charity film night at the Dominion in March.

I called up the Doogie; I thought it might be politic to keep him in the loop about this film night, though I make these phone-calls in much the same manner that you would do if you had been requested to phone up your grandmother’s cat. It might be polite. It might make some people happy. But the conversation is going to be pretty much a waste of time from start to finish.

“Hi Doogie,” I said. “Just finalising the details for this charity film night that we’re organising.”

“Oh very good,” he said. “Well done.”

“Have you decided yet what charity you want to run for?”

“No.”

“Fine. Got any thoughts about the film we should be watching?”

“Well I was hearing about this film last week. Have you heard of Lawrence of Arabia?”

“Yes, rather surprisingly I HAVE heard of Lawrence of Arabia.”

“Well apparently it’s not a bad film.”

“Very good, Doogie. It may surprise you to know that not only have I heard of Lawrence of Arabia, but I have actually seen it. It goes on for one hell of a long time and, more to the point, there is not a single woman in it with a speaking part.”

“But it’s supposed to be set in a desert!”

“That’s good, Doogie, it IS set in a desert, but nevertheless, this is definitely a guy flick and seeing as it’s the women who are going to be in charge of the social diaries and it’s the women who are going to be coughing up for this event, then it’s probably best if we go for a film that the women are going to like.”

“Like what? Sahara? I like Sahara! Or The Mummy! I like the Mummy too! And I like the Mummy 2, too! That’s very funny, isn’t it?”

“I’ll bet you like the Mummy 3, too.”

“There is no Mummy 3.”

“Shut up and listen,” I said. “The film that we are going to be watching is Shakespeare in Love.”

“Coo.” The Doogie is momentarily silenced. “Shakespeare in Love? What’s that about?”

“It’s about a guy called Shakespeare. Wrote some plays.”

I can envision Doogie still trying to grasp the concept of this film. “Is it set in a desert?”

“No it’s not,” I said. And then inspiration strikes. “But in the very last scene of the film, there is a beach which looks like a desert. Will that do you?”

“If it’s got a bit of desert in it, then that’ll be fine.”

Time for another of those perky, uplifting calls that I so live for with the Doogie. We had a long run over the weekend, and you know, it’s good sometimes just to check up on your old running buddy - just to see that they’re still fit, hale and hearty, and that they’ve been stretching properly. By the way, that is one of the few disadvantages of being a young ‘un like the Doogie: you can’t be bothered to stretch, your muscles get tighter and tighter and then TWANG, your Achilles has gone and that’s you down £3,600 and out of the Marathon des Sables for another year.

He answered the phone in the usual cheery, chirpy fashion that reminds me why it was that, three years ago, I first signed up to do the Marathon des Sables with Doogie.

“Yeah,” he says. “What do you want?”

“Hi Doogie,” I say. “How are you?”

“Stiff as a bloody board. Why are you calling?”

“Just because,” I said. “I’m not just here for the bad things in life. I’m here, even on those days when you’re not out training - which, now that I think of it, probably accounts for most of your week. I’m just calling for a natter.”

“Okay.” The sound of scrunching. Oh my sweet aunt - he’s onto the crisps. Crunch-crunch-munch. The sound of Doogie eating crisps in my ear can send the hairs juddering up the nape of my neck.

“Doogie - dearest Doogie,” I said. “Can you please, please do me a favour and not eat crisps while I am talking to you on the phone? You’re making me feel ill.”

Munch-munch-munch. “What did you say?”

“Stop eating those bloody crisps! You’re driving me crazy!”

“Cooo,” he says. “Tetchy.” He now does something which I find is, possibly, even more irritating. Very softly in the background, I can hear the crisp packet rustling. He delves into the packet, quietly places the crisps into his mouth and then starts to sort of suck and chew on them.

“Who taught you table manners?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Nobody. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing - nothing at all,” I said.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “How are we going to get down to Farnham for this Pilgrim race?”

“I don’t know. I thought you were organising it.”

“Trains and planes are pretty pricy these days. Have you seen how much the sleeper is?”

“Don’t tell me - we’re driving.”

“It’ll be really good fun -”

“Yeah - about as much fun as the last time we drove down to a race.”

“Exactly! And we can stop off at the Westmorland Farm Shops again and have a couple of their Growlers!” [Westmorland Farm Shops, by the way, is a service station on the M6 just close to Penrith, and it is the best service station I have ever been to. By far. Their speciality in the farm shop is the Growler, a beef pie with horseradish, but they do at least another 15 types of cold pie. I could not recommend the place more highly - though I’m told the shops are better on the route south than when you’re heading north.]

“Oh yes,” I said. “The famous Growler!”

“And I hear,” he said, “That they’ve got a new pie with a new recipe. It’s going to be called the Brazilian Growler.”

“Ha ha.”

“It’s a very funny joke, isn’t it? Ginny loved it.”

The Doogie and I were out running Edinburgh’s Seven Hills this morning - hardly a cloud in the sky and Doogie, for once, was not moaning.

In fact… in fact the Doogie was EXCITED. Next month we’re going on another little training run in Farnham on a stretch of the Pilgrim’s Way. Sixty-six miles in a couple of days and, much more excitingly, we’ll be spending one night in a gym with the other 220 runners. Ear-plugs can be quite handy.

“But have you seen the race email??” says the Doogie. Very eager.

“No - what does it say?”

“It’s amazing!” he says. “I even got you a print-out! Read this!”

I stop running. I read. This is what the Doogie is so excited about: “In regards to bathing facilities there are plenty of showers though these will be shared meaning males and females will be showering in the same blocks. Please do note however that each cubicle has a door you can easily lock for privacy.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “So you’re excited, are you?”

“Yes!” he said. “Very!”

“And what are you going to do in these showers?”

“Well I’m just going to shower. But maybe I’ll drop the soap. Maybe I’ll offer my shampoo. There are lots of possibilities! Did I tell you about my six-pack?”

“Yes, you did tell me about the six-pack. But I thought you needed 30 minutes in the gym to put the pack into position.”

“True,” he said. “Hopefully they’ll have a gym there.”

“Tell you what. Why don’t you stride through the shower-room and then, accidentally-like, drop your towel. And there you are - floundering around, naked as the day you were born, trying to pick it up.”

“Brilliant!”

“The hotties are just going to love you!”

Later, we were running down Arthur’s Seat, the last of the Seven Hills. We came across Sara Whitby and her buddy Jane Raven. Introductions were made - the Doogie stands there slobbering and sweaty. In social situations, it’s usually best when he keeps his mouth shut.

“Tell me,” says Jane. “You two look very similar - are you brothers?”

Ahhhh! Such sweet music to my ears. And strangely enough, we have heard this before from another couple of runners - who actually thought we were twins.

The Doogie visibly blenched. Perhaps it’s because I just happen to have 12 years on him.

“That’s right,” I said to Jane. “We’re brothers!”

How I love to see the Doogie squirm. Boy was he squirming!

Eventually he comes up with a suitably acidic response. “He’s my dad!” says the Doogie.

We continued to jog. “So how’s my little brother getting on?” I asked.

“I don’t look anything like you,” he said. He’s hurting. Real bad.

“Well - Jane certainly thinks we’re brothers. Very intelligent woman, you know.”

“Maybe it’s just because we’re both really sweaty -”

“Yeah maybe - and maybe you just haven’t aged quite so well as some people round here…”

We have been wondering what are the perks of running 60 miles a week - apart, of course, from suddenly becoming God’s Gift to Women.

One of the more noticeable perks is that I can now guzzle down whatever I want - second helpings? Yes please! - and I can also drink bottle after bottle of Barolo, and yet still the weight drops off me. I reckon I am seriously weighing what I used to weigh 20 years ago; if only I’d kept all my ultra-cool drain-pipes.

So, it has been quite a fillip this New Year to see that most of my friends (Charlie Ottley please note) have turned themselves into the most obscene porkers, with bellies that bulge over too tight trousers, while meanwhile… well basically I guess I look like I’ve got a tapeworm.

“Any other perks to all this stinking exercise that we’re doing?” I asked the Doogie. We were on a light seven-miler round Arthur’s Seat and the Innocent Railway.

“Well I’ve got a six-pack!” he said.

“You’ve got a six-pack?” I. Was. Incredulous. “You’re joking!”

“No mate - it’s a real six-pack.”

“Well let’s have a look then.”

“No - I haven’t got it now. Takes about half-an-hour working on my abs in the gym - and THEN I’ve got a six-pack.”

“Really?”

“I like to look at myself in the mirror. I like to touch myself -”

“Okay,  okay! Too much information, Doogie! Any other perks of this training?”

“Ummm,” he said. “Well, I don’t sweat so much. The ladies… when they see me in the gym… they’re checking me out.”

“It must be a very low-grade gym that you’re a member of.”

The Doogie ran his fingers through his hair. He does that sometimes when we run - especially when there’s a woman coming in the opposite direction. “Hello lady!” he called to the twenty-something woman who was out jogging with some guy.

“Hello lady?” I said. “Have you gone mad?”

“I thought it was two women!” he said. “I was going to say, “Hello ladies!” and then I saw that it was just the one, so I had to say, “Hello lady!”

“You sound like a Thai escort girl.”

“Oh I know!” said Doogie. “I like wearing all these skin-tight clothes. The lycra shorts. I like them! Sometimes at night…”

“I DON’T WANT TO KNOW!”

“And people they just… they just look at me differently now. Once I tell the ladies that I’m running the toughest foot race on earth this April, they just -”

“Turn to putty in your hands.”

“Sort of - I mean Ginny doesn’t like it, but you know, I think it’s all these endorphines and pheromones that I’m chugging out -”

“You’re like a dog on heat!”

“That’s right!” he says. Happily. “I AM like a dog on heat. My sex drive’s gone through the roof!”

“And it was already pretty high to start off with.”

“Who told you that?”

“Anyway - I’ll bet Ginny’s really pleased.”

“She is! At least she says she is!”

A phone call from the Doogie-Monster. He leaves a message. It sounds urgent. I call him back.

“Hey Bill!” he says.

“What’s happened now?”

“Ahhh. Yes. Well it’s just about your blog.”

“What about my blog?”

“Well… Ginny’s not happy. She doesn’t think you’re being strictly fair to me.”

“But she’s married to you! She knows you’re a whinger - even more than I do! Even Chicken McMicking says you’re a whiner!”

“Well that’s as may be,” says The Doogie. Somewhat primly. “But she has also come to appreciate certain other of my qualities which you have yet to understand.”

“This is all sounding faintly disgusting,” I said. “Can we save it for the desert?”

“Anyway!” he trills. “I’ve had a… A GOOD IDEA!”

A good idea. From the Doogie-Monster. Well. I suppose it’s possible. In the same way that it’s possible that there may yet be some parallel universe out there where I have somehow contrived to end up marrying the Doogie and having his children.

“Yes?” I said. A tone of, I don’t, world weariness. Maybe ennui. Just, you know, a general tiredness with life.

“It’s great!” said the Doogie. “You’re gonna -”

“Don’t tell me. I’m gonna… LURVE it.”

“Yeah, that’s right man!” he said. “You’re gonna LURVE it!”

“Well hit me.”

“Well it’s like this, see?” he said. “We’ve forked out £3,600 for this desert run and we’re going to get a whole load of sponsors for our chosen charities -”

“What is your charity?”

“Don’t know yet, but anyway, the point is that I thought we might, ought, perhaps to consider the possibility that we, I mean I, might not complete the race.”

“Yeah - bit of a bummer having to hand all that sponsorship money back.”

“So what I - we - me and Ginny were thinking is… why don’t we have a film night?”

“A film night?”

“Yeah! Put on some film at the Dominion. Lay on a few drinkies. Kind of like a cocktail party. I could make a speech if you like. And then…”

I was catching up. Fast!

“And then if we don’t finish the race, we still get to keep the money!” I said. “It’s brilliant! We just say, ‘Thanks very much, hoped you enjoyed the film. Sorry we got blisters and pulled out of the race - but they were hurting real bad’.”

“So…” said the Doogie. “You like it?”

“No, I don’t like it,” I said. “I LOVE IT! This is going to be great! It’s going to be fantastic! It’s certainly a better way of making money than having to tramp through the Sahara!”

“Okay,” says the Doogie. “What movie are we going to show? Ice Cold in Alex? The Rise of the Phoenix? The English Patient?”

“Hmmmm…” I said. “Now that… that is going to need some thought…”

Two very different runs at the weekend - with two very different characters.

First up: The Doogie. I had to drive out to his home in North Berwick, plant my younger son, and then wait for him at the Marine Hotel.

“I’m going to be grumpy,” he’d warned me the previous night.

“I’ve never known you anything but grumpy,” I replied. Tartly.

Anyway - he did not disappoint. He arrived ten minutes late and immediately started moaning about children or some twaddle like that. Is that why we run - so that I can listen to him bellyaching about his kids?

“Can we talk about something else?” I said.

“I’ll be glad when this is all over.”

“What - this run? We’ve only been going for ten minutes!”

“No - not this run. The whole Marathon des Sables stuff. It’s boring.”

“Well it’s lucky you’ve worked that out before we got to the desert.”

“It’s just boring. Running is boring.”

“Yeah - but you, of course, are not boring. Have you paid up your two grand yet?”

“What two grand?”

“The race money that is due on Monday.”

“Oh, yeah - that. Yeah. I’m thinking about it.”

“Do you always get out of bed on the wrong side?”

We tramped off to Gullane on the roads and then back to North Berwick on the beach - virgin beaches where nobody ever goes. Muirfield beach is a real gem, but you’ll never see a family there, as it’s quite a hike. The beach is only really accessible via the golf course and, surprise, surprise, regular punters are not allowed to tramp through the course.

The Doogie had several things to complain about. He had wet feet and sand in his shoes.

“I’m going to get blisters,” he said.

“Are you sure you’re cut out for this desert run?” I asked.

“I’m not sure at all,” he said. “I’m only doing it because you’re making me.”

“Me?” I said. “Me?! How old are you - 35?? And you’re blaming me for this desert run?”

“My feet hurt.” A pause. “And I think I need to go. Have you got any toilet paper?”

The next morning, I went for a run with the altogether more civilised and grump-free Angus McLean. My cousin-in-law. We were running The Seven Hills. Angus was very excited.

“I’ve never done the seven hills before,” he said. “Is it going to be fun?”

“It’s going to be more than fun,” I said. “You’re going to love it!”

How refreshing to be running with somebody who is not constantly bellyaching about their feet/stomach/legs/children/general tiredness…

“I’m loving this!” said Angus. We were trotting up Craiglockhart, my favourite of all the hills. Some tough nuts take the direct route, but we go up the stairs, wending our way through the trees with all those hidden bowers for lovers and for dreamers.

“I’m surprised you haven’t signed up this Marathon des Sables bollocks,” I said.

“Naaah,” he said. “You’ve got to be certifiably insane to do something like that.”

Sometimes as I run, I plug in my ear-phones. I don’t listen to music. I listen to books. I have finally got round to Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms. I have at least six copies of the book at home. But I’ve had an allergy to the book since school, and though I have started it many times over, I have never finished it.

And now I am onto another schoolboy allergy: A Tale of Two Cities. Not as good as the Hemingway.

But most of the time, I’m just running and this endless screed of thoughts rolls through my head, as my mind flits from sandy hills and rocks and unending desert, and then onto books I might read or write, and projects that might come off, but probably won’t, but invariably my thoughts return to all things sand.

I occasionally run through the wilder parts of Edinburgh at night - the Braid Hills and Blackford Hill, tramping through woods in pitch as pitch darkness, trees looming in the mist as the wind shrieks through the forest. I have never seen another person there. You’d have to be slightly mad to be running in these places at night.

And I wonder what the plan will be if and when I ever finish this wretched race. Another piece of running nuttery? Cycling? Or maybe some swimming venture. I’m not very good at swimming. Well I’m good at breaststroke, but I can’t swim fast. I’d love to be able to do mile after effortless mile, but so far this skill has eluded me…

A sort of windy-ish day in Edinburgh. Well… how windy was it? Check out this footage on Youtube of a bin being blown down one of my neighbouring streets…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSqbWWRS1lM

Meanwhile… of much more more importance. What would the Doogie say? Would the Doogie come out running?

“It’s windy,” he said.

“So what’s your point?”

“Well it’s wet too.”

“And?”

“And… I don’t really feel like running.”

“God you are pathetic.”

“Well look!” says the Doogie-monster. “It’s freezing! It’s raining! And it’s blowing 102 mph! What sort of preparation is that for the Marathon des Sables?”

“Maybe we should book ourselves a fortnight in the Canaries? Nice and hot. Bit of sand. Is that the sort of prepping you want?”

“Yeah!” says the Doogie. Greatly enthused. “Can Ginny come too?”

“Look - idiot!” I said. “The Marathon des Sables has nothing at all to with heat or desert or blisters or not drinking enough water! It’s about a state of mind. It’s about toughing it out. It’s about… it’s about GRIT!”

“Yeah,” says the Doogie. “And that’s another thing I’m not happy about. You’ve been really misquoting me in your blog. That last one about the pork scratchings. I would never - never, ever - say, ‘I like pork scratchings - me’. You make me sound like a Geordie!”

“God you are a whiner. I so hate whiners. Are you going to be as bad as this in the Sahara?”

“Heyyy! The Sahara??” Still this note of amazement. “Hang on now - how long have we got until we have to fork up the 2K”?

“January 10, my friend.”

“Well… can I see how I feel?”

“Yeah, you just take your time, old buddy.”

So… anyway… in the teeth of the gale, I went for a run along the Union Canal and then the Water of Leith; a cheeky little ten-miler. Blustery. I don’t think I’ve ever been out in such a gale. At least seven trees had been blown over along the Water of Leith, including one huge trunk that now stretches across the river. I wonder… I wonder if I dare climb across it… Slippery. And quite a drop. But I am so tempted.