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.

Edinburgh Marathon 2025

by Russell Turner - 17:41 on 29 May 2025

Four days on from the Edinburgh Marathon, the stiffness has just about left my legs – the longest they’ve taken to recover from a run; the blow to my sporting confidence will take longer to overcome. Was it the wind? A virtual marathon four weeks earlier? Inadequate nutrition? Or a 30-year-old head on a 66-year-old body? Maybe all of the above.

When I signed up for the marathon, several months ago, I put an optimistic 4:59 as my estimated finish time. A few weeks ago, I still felt that was possible; closer still, I downgraded my estimate to 5:15. Even as the weather forecast grew steadily worse, I thought that at least I’d do better than on my only other Edinburgh attempt: 6:05 after injury and inadequate training.

So 6:22 was tough to take: only eight minutes ahead of the sweeper vehicle. “Any marathon is an achievement,” I was told, but it doesn’t feel like one. To finish exhausted in a fast time, or happy in a slow one, is one thing; to finish exhausted in a slow time seems pointless. My marathon future remains in doubt.

But enough of the self pity.

Having learned from my last Edinburgh outing, when after-race transport back to Auld Reekie was such a faff, this time I went halves with Squirrel James on Stoneyhill Steading, an Airbnb in Musselburgh (Matchgirl stayed home, cat-sitting), within walking distance of the finish line at Pinkie Playing Fields, close to the racecourse.

Stoneyhill Steading

The premises weren’t quite as rural as I’d imagined from their photo, but the interior was restful and welcoming and I’m sure would have received the Matchgirl stamp of approval. The urban surroundings had the bonus of a Chinese takeaway five minutes’ brisk walk away, which meant I was able to enjoy special satay while awaiting the late arrival of Celtic fan James, who’d had a disappointing afternoon at the Scottish Cup final.

He arrived in time for a delayed dinner and to plan for the morning, which began with a 10-minute stroll to Musselburgh Library, outside which we caught a bus to Princes Street packed with other runners, giving me first use of my pensioner’s bus pass. What a treat.

Nearing our destination, from the top deck we could see a colourful swarm of half marathon runners, whose race had already begun, the majority clad in vests or T-shirts despite the weather forecast, causing me to question my long sleeves. Too late now. Anyway, most would be out for just a couple of hours. I’d got proper running to do.

Off the bus, we walked past the Scott Monument then made our way to George Square Gardens where the slowest runners were assembling in the Black pen. James, who’d decided to start with me, eschewed his place in the Pink pen. Before joining the throng, we deposited baggage, made use of facilities, then sheltered from the wind while tutting at the runners who chose to warm up as if they were about to begin an 800m race.

Countdown began, and at 10am precisely the hooter sounded to begin the marathon. Twelve minutes after that, the stewards holding the rope which kept Black pen runners in check began a slow walk towards the start line, which we crossed 21 minutes after the hooter, cheered on by a decent number of placard-waving spectators. Conditions were dry and sunny, despite the showery forecast, but wind was definitely in evidence.

Race plan was to run the first couple of miles, which took us through the Old Town, past Holyrood and into Holyrood Park where we walked through the first water station. After that it was 9:1 run/walk at 11min/mile to the end. Easy.

At five miles we turned on to the seafront esplanade which runs through Portobello and Joppa, the part of the course I’d enjoyed most last time: villas, ice-cream and amusements on the right, the Firth of Forth on the left. The wind blew but the sun shone. All was well.

Things changed at around 10 or 11 miles, after Musselburgh Racecourse, as the legs grew heavy and the quads stiffer. My pace slowed, leaving James to pull away. The run/walk became more ragged, the occasional brief shower became a little heavier.

The real change began at Prestonpans, around 12 miles, where a vicious burst of hail coincided with increasing wind. James, a mile ahead, found inadequate shelter in a broken bus shelter and seriously considered giving up, he told me later. Only the logistics of getting back deterred him.

From there, the next five miles of exposed coast was not much fun; pace slowed even more as walk breaks became longer. I distracted myself by chatting with similarly struggling runners and looking forward to 17 miles when we got away from the coast with a two-mile loop through the grounds of Gosford House where trees would keep the wind from us, which they did. The downside was that after 19 miles we had seven left, running fully into gales gusting up to 48mph.

Gosford House

It could have been worse. Returning the way we came meant I could see the tail-end stragglers, three or four miles behind me. None of them appeared to be enjoying the experience. Not far behind them, the sweeper vehicle inched forward.

Five miles to go. I exchanged a few words with a guy as I passed; a little further on I encountered a girl seated on the pavement, being encouraged to stand by a random runner. She did, and the two ran on together. A little later still, the guy caught me up and joined me for the rest of the race. He liked my pace, he said.

He was Nimaj (I think), a 23-year-old Londoner on his first marathon. “Everything hurts,” he told me, several times. He’d completed half marathons and made the mistake of running his HM pace for 13 miles. Newbies – what can you say? My legs were no better than his, and my walking pace – usually a brisk c15min/mile – had slowed so much that people were walking past us.

Further on we re-encountered Pavement Girl, now seated in the middle of the road, declaring she couldn’t move. “This is the worst day of my life,” she exclaimed, with typical Gen Z lack of drama, as Nimaj and I helped her to her feet and watched her continue with the random runner who was now her partner. We saw her again with two miles to go, crying at the side of the road, and again with a mile to go. The fact that she stayed ahead of us should have rankled, but I didn’t care.

Somewhere along the way we also crossed paths with a dick on an e-bike whose passenger was shooting runners with a water cannon. They must have been very proud of themselves.

With half a mile to go, the Weather Gods played one last spiteful trick by sending a brief but vicious squall of freezing rain into our faces. “You can do it!” called a couple of little old ladies who’d obviously finished, collected their baggage and were on the way home. We just kept our heads down, into the wind, and toughed it out until the squall petered out, running the last third of a mile in a storming 14m/m. I’ve walked faster.

Across the finish line, we shook hands. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he claimed, as we parted. I’m sure he could, but having company for the last few miles certainly made a difference. I’d hoped to see Pavement Girl too, to see what state she was in, but she’d disappeared. Shame.

Medal, goody bag (including unwanted shirt), water. I wandered toward the baggage wagons, to be turned back by a steward who pointed to the cordoned-off area where bags were to be collected. There were so few left I’d not noticed them.

The 1.4-mile walk back to Stoneyhill took 35 minutes. James, who’d finished in an impressive 5:13, had sensibly not hung around for me. We swapped horror stories and moans, compared aches and pains, then had a very late Indian takeaway to celebrate, which may have contributed to a very poor night’s sleep, although sore quads were mostly to blame. It had been a memorable marathon.

This time, when I said I’d never run another marathon, I meant it. I even deleted all the training runs from my Google calendar that concluded with the pencilled-in Yorkshire Marathon, which I’d decide whether I was doing after seeing how Edinburgh went. Then I reinstated them, and tweaked them to suit the Dales HM, for which I am booked, and the Yorkshire 10 Mile, which would replace the marathon. Then I untweaked them. 

So I might do the marathon, or I might not. Maybe I can’t help myself. There’s plenty of time to decide. Or maybe I need someone to stage an intervention.

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