Back in 2006(!), I had A taking me around the Scottish Gas 10k, setting the pace, ignoring my whines, and bringing us to the finish in a decent 47 minutes and 20 seconds. Last year it was my turn to set the pace for a newbie. The goal was under an hour, but as a result of pandering to whines I brought us home four minutes later.

This year I was alone entering the Scottish Gas 10k and my goal was to finish in under 50-minutes. By the first kilometer marker I was 24-seconds slow and, while I put in some sub-5m kilometers, I never regained that time. I passed the 9km marker at 45:24 (back to 24-seconds too slow), but I was tired and that final climb up the path behind the Scottish Gas building needs time in the bank.

My timing of my time: 50 minutes 47 seconds. So close to the goal that I should be ashamed to fail by so little (glass half empty). Ack, gives me something to do next year (glass half full).

Knackered, of course.

In May I bought a mark 1 MR2 with the plan of using it as a near disposable track day car. Thursday finally saw me on the track in it at Knockhill taking their Performance Driving experience where I hoped to improve my ability. For the first two laps I drove with the instructor saying very little. Then we swapped places. He drove and I managed to only swear once. Then five laps with me driving and the instructor instructing.

"You're very good at the hairpin."

I was told this the last time I was at Knockhill. That should be a compliment, but being told that you're good at the slowest part of the circuit isn't the one I'm seeking.

The MR2 is lovely in the corners. It's not an Elise (well, it was 1/30th of the price), but it's a reassuring car that, the one time I lost the back end, was easy to recover. On the straights it's a bit of an old nag. Twice I caught one of the Seat Leons on the track and was let past, but on one of those occasions, midway down the back straight, the MR2 ran out of acceleration.

After five laps we pitted to drink some water and discuss my driving. I got out of the car to find smoke coming from behind the wheels.

The instructor dismissed it as, "just the brakes".

Some water and an explanation of how to take the chicane (as a right-handed corner) later, we returned to the car. I put my foot on the brake pedal and it dropped to the floor. Not spongy. Not soft. The pedal just dropped.

It took half an hour for the brake fluid to cool by which time the instructor and I had agreed that my 22yo MR2 was just not up to the job. Okay, if I was using the car on track then better brake fluid would have helped, but is any road car really up to the job?

Knockhill gave me credit to go on another driving experience. That's very good of them. Especially given that I'd had a third of the time on track and that it was the car I'd brought that caused the problem.

Paintball at Go Ape organised by GBU's Entertainments Committee. Only 11-people signed-up to go. That surprised me.

I'd heard that getting hit by a paintball hurt and the safety briefing at the start added to my worries, so I spent most of the beginning of the first game, CTF, hiding behind a big tree. A shot in the back (which could only have come from a team-mate tired of my cowardice) calmed my fear. Getting hit by a paintball's not nice and I'm sure it has the potential to be dangerous, but I've had worse. I've got a round bruise where one of the two paintballs (both in the back hit me), but the worst injuries are the insect bites.

HARRISON FORD
Wow. Considering that the first movie revolved around a magical box made by God that melts faces when opened, it’s really astonishing that this movie managed to be so incredibly stupid by comparison.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull: The Abridged Script

That is the film.

A year ago I ran my my first marathon and declared it to be my last. Yesterday I ran my second Edinburgh marathon.

The route was ever so slightly different from last year: starting on Waterloo Place rather than Princes Street and having all those extra bits on the way out rather than on the soul-sapping way back. The change to Waterloo Place is thanks to those overly focused leaders who want to give Edinburgh a tram service is so dearly doesn't need and, hopefully, only a temporary move. Princes Street has more space for the 13,000-odd runners and as many supporters with their pushchairs.

The change to the course past Port Seaton was a huge improvement. Last year's run U-turn 100-meters past Gosford House, the run around the House to emerge at the same point you entered, and the run up to Longniddry with another U-turn to run back down were nasty. This year the run up to Longniddry was done on the way out (unpleasant rather than nasty) and the run around Gosford House was the turning point to come back. Once around Gosford House it was an almost direct run along the main road to the finish at Mussleburgh. That's all you want by that point: to finish. You don't want a detours and U-turns.

I ran the first 17-miles at so close to exactly the 4-hours pace I'd planned that I should be pleased. However, by mile 13 I knew I wasn't going to be able to keep up to the end. For the next few miles my plan of racing myself mile-by-mile, aiming simply to complete each mile in slightly over 9-minutes, worked. Then we turned off the main road to run around Gosford House to run uphill on a dirt path. I couldn't keep up the pace, gave up the goal of running a 4-hour marathon and went to my backup time of beating Sean's time from last year. It got worse from there.

Sean, wisely, chose not to enter the marathon. NT and A both pulled out earlier this month with injuries. Which means I can only compare my time of about 4:34 with last year of (me 4:50, Sean 4:26, and A 3:40) and the fact that act about 24-miles I was passed by a gorilla wearing a tutu. A horribly slow finish.

NT had come to the finish for support and to help me back into Edinburgh on the buses made available (at a cost) by the organisers. The queue for the buses was very long and stationary, so when my sister 'phoned offering a lift home I took it. A little mean of me since I knew the state of the traffic, but I really couldn't wait in that queue for a bus that would take me to the wrong end of Princes Street. A mile's walk may not sound much, but by this point I was slumped on the pavement.

I'm angered that I didn't even manage my backup time, everything below my waist aches, and I now know that men reach an age where they should wear a hat when in the sun.