Iain Maciver writes …

IT WAS an amazing sight in the Saturday morning sunshine. About 550 women wobbling in close formation outside Lews Castle College. I had chanced upon the Women’s Cancer Challenge.

Mostly tucked into unfeasibly tight Lycra, they had come from all around the island to run, or merely saunter round the 5k route to the mouth of the River Creed and back to the Castle Green.

There were all sorts of people milling around. Tony Wade had it all going like clockwork and had succeeded in getting Charles Nicolson, the president-in-waiting of Moldova, in the role of official starter and announcer.

It was just a fantastically inspiring atmosphere, being there with all these happy, fit people. And Rod Huckbody.

Then I met Mrs Tony Wade. Long before they became famous in the Western Isles, she was a gold-plated sporting legend.

Does the name Kirsty Wade ring any bells? I thought so. Back in the 1980s, she was only Britain’s top woman middle-distance runner.

On her mantelpiece in Crowlista, Uig, you’ll find not one, nor two but three Commonwealth gold medals. The 800 metres in Brisbane in 1982, then the 800 metres and the 1,500 metres in Edinburgh in 1986. I think I read she also ran in the Summer Olympics. Probably in 1992.

When I asked the Uig Olympian if she still felt competitive at these events, she pooh-poohed the very idea and claimed she was never that competitive. Not really, she insisted. Crikey, just imagine if she had been.

A big question was exercising the minds of many of these women as they limbered up. Should they or shouldn’t they be wearing make-up? You may guffaw, but it is a real dilemma if you are a sensitive soul who will not step outside your door without enough slap to spruce up a CalMac ferry.

There is always a risk that trotting back round Cuddy Point the temperature could soar so that those lovely blusher-enhanced cheekbones could start to melt and head south. It’s not a good look, crossing the finishing line with a face that has turned not only fiercely crimson but which has avalanched down to your chin.

However, many of the women took the chance and slapped it on, anyway, so they looked serenely radiant, of course. Well, they did at the start, anyway.

A Manor Park housewife found a mirror and was in shock on seeing her own post-race glow and vowed to go “au naturelle” if she was ever persuaded to take part again.

On the way out, I bumped into Margaret Chico and her sister Mairi. They seemed to have none of the slightly faux-Botox look of the lasses who opted for warpaint. Margaret, I thought to myself, will tell me how she chooses foundation that keeps her looking cool, but she confided that she would never reach for the trowel for an event like this. But that’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone.

Make-up or not, I have to salute the plucky women who took part for cancer research. They raised something like £32,000 in the first couple of years they did this, so I hope they do just as well for their gallant efforts this year.

The glorious sunshine meant that everyone could finally get to work on their gardens. We had a late start this year. I don’t think we’ve had two dry days in a row since I put the mower in the shed back in September. So when I got in from the Cancer Challenge, there was this racket all around our street.

All you could hear was this constant roar as our neighbours in Lewis Street and Keith Street, and of course all the posh people over our back wall in Plantation Road, were strimming, clipping and resorting to Anglo-Saxon phrases as they started up their long-idle mowers.

It’s actually a very reassuring sound that tells me that, despite everything bad that is happening, the cycle of the seasons is unchanging. Whatever else is going on with North Korea, the collapse of confidence in our politicians or our fear of swine flu, Nigel Scott has got his strimmer out, so all is well with the world.

It went on until the evening or, to be precise, until 6.40pm. Then the noise just faded away as the whole country packed everything into its garden shed and put its kettle on to get ready for Britain’s Got Talent.

The night before, I met Calum Angus and his brother Iain from Shawbost and Poomba from Leurbost. We discussed all the usual big issues like the grim future for politics, our grim future without Sunday ferries because of people who insist on quoting certain biblical texts while completely ignoring others, but we kept getting back to the really massive question that was gripping the nation: was Susan Boyle going to throw a wobbly?

Those of us who had staked a couple of bob on her were really worried. Most were saying it was going to be the dancers. Or the wee blone who started crying. Then George Gawk piped up, saying he thought that Paul Potts fellow was in with a good chance.

However, Susan was gracious in defeat and I lost my shirt. My own wife can be so like her. Not that she goes around swearing at cops in Church Street – well, not that I know of, anyway – but she, too, can fly off the handle.

Whenever I go to get something for the tea, I always end up buying fish of some kind, but she’s not so keen. A couple of weeks ago, we had fish loads of times. Then, on the Saturday, I came home with even more fresh fillets. Mrs X did the Susan Boyle stamping thing, grabbed one and flung it at me.

It went skiting past my left ear and ended up skewered on a picture nail. Oh dear, I thought, the whiting’s on the wall.