From September 2025
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Some say that Celtic & Rangers are grand, but the boys in maroon are the best in the land.
Rapturous cheering drowns out a chorus of boos amidst a desolate Ibrox Park via my Skullcandy’s.
I walk through the door and make my way towards the path sodden but full of optimism. I bypass fellow dog walkers along the canal.
My brain’s neurons paint a picture quality akin to a primary child with numerical equations appearing out of place.
Scotrail, Stagecoach, First bus, Uber, helicopter, private jet.
Public transport timetables compete with kilometre splits, as I ponder if I could have beat any land speed records from Ibrox to Linlithgow.
I unplug and overtake runners and attempt to lessen the impact of my primary kid jacket choice error.
A brief pause on my imaginary Garmin allows a further brain wave substitution as a penalty shootout echoes from Prestonfield Stadium.
Opponents Clydebank would have offered me an exciting fixture to divert my attention prior to hearing the starting gun for the first time since April.
A further tap of the wrist and I allow myself to not regret my 3rd ill-fated decision of the day, I had other things to concentrate on.
Mr Soppitt enters the fray, and I chuckle at his university choice of clothing, him warm and dry in contrast to my sodden self.
After a quick round up of the afternoon’s scores, Mr Soppitt thankfully helps my thoughts change from points tallies to kilometre splits.
The football had finished; I had a race to run.
I anticipate the sound of the gun while gazing towards the open tarmac.
With a point to prove in the B race, if only I were fit enough I could have visited two different places in the evening.
Despite this I allow others to pass, with the plan to remain in the midpack, and pick people off per lap.
With 5 and a quarter laps of a flat cycle track the pace is relentless from the gun.
I overtake and am overtaken in equal measure, until I indulge in an internal dosage of Corstorphine Athletic Club fair play allowing Mr Cunningham to pass on my outside at a corner.
The lactic acid grows; I start to be pickpocketed by elder metronomes and canny youths.
Akin to a 3-0 half time score, in front of fellow community club mates, I soldier on determined to prevent a drubbing.
Reminiscing on an earlier Tynecastle comeback, I do steady the ship pulling a goal back in added time.
With a sprint finish that a 14-year-old Mr Bolt would have been proud off I do earn a pat on the back from a beleaguered Mr Hutchison.
From Ibrox to Linlithgow, both seasons are in their infancy. However, one thing for sure is that project 2nd place and top 70 have begun.
