tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26871206734520797582024-03-14T01:57:58.265+00:00Watching the TrailsJuliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-59154302042313641862017-03-14T18:01:00.000+00:002017-03-14T18:02:21.196+00:00What the non-runner did next....<span style="line-height: 20px;">We all know how it goes. You do a first race at a distance, or achieve a PB, or some specific target, like that fabled sub-3 marathon. And the first thing that's said is "congratulations", and the second is "so, what's next?"<br /><br />Of course, it was no different after Edinburgh Half last May. The appropriate response should *probably* be a faster half, or conceivably a marathon if I was feeling ambitious. Most people got the answer that I had a place in the relay for Jedburgh.<br /><br />The very inappropriate answer was D33, George's 33 mile ultra marathon in March.<br /><br />Two people got that response; Kate, and Donnie my trainer. He paused for a few seconds, said "we'll have to put some run walk into your training plan" and started the session. No stress, no drama, no fuss.<br /><br />I knew I couldn't deal with the noise if it was public. I had absolutely no idea if I *could* even get to the starting line, if I could train for it without breaking. I needed it to be my call, right up to the last minute, whether I stood on the start line or pulled on a high viz and marshalled. Once it was public, I wouldn't have that choice. All those ultra nutters I spend my weekends hanging around with would have had something to say, just too much pressure that would make it all too much.<br /><br />So I didn't tell anyone. I messaged George a few months later, asking if I could have a place without putting my name on the start list "I don't know if I can....but I don't know that I can't any more". No problem.<br /><br />Don't look at my training log if you want to see how to train for an ultra. I have never had so many coughs and colds as this winter. Work was ridiculous, leading to weeks when the only training I could do was on the two days of the weekend. The increase in duration of the longest runs didn't creep up as they needed to. My longest ever run remained the <span class="glossary">WHW</span> training weekend from a few years back of 15 miles.<br /><br />So this January, it was time to go back, add a few miles on, and do another the next day.<br /><br />Six miles in, I started getting pains across my lower stomach, like period pains (I don't suffer normally from anything linked to my ovaries - if you need a description, imagine someone attaching a burning rope to the inside of your hip bones and pulling it tight...). Each hill or set of steps became harder and harder, by eight miles there was only walking. I could shuffle my feet a few inches, but I couldn't bend my hips in any way. Try even walking up or down a slope or steps without your hips. There are no flat parts on that route. I got slower and slower, cold and wet, as I couldn't move fast enough to keep warm. Fortunately someone we knew drove past at the exact moment the trail edged the road and we bailed. Alcohol and ibuprofen helped. The next day there was only a dull ache, I walked along the forestry road instead for a few miles but with enough uncomfortableness to know I'd chosen wisely not to run. Diagnosis, hip flexors strained or overworked by the unfamiliar terrain.<br /><br />Then a work trip to India happened. I knew before I went that there was absolutely no chance of running outside while I was there: heat, pollution, traffic, inappropriate clothing, unaccompanied western woman...so treadmill it was, fitted in as best I could in early morning sessions, trying to do <span class="glossary">intervals</span> or hill sessions. <br /><br />Three weeks out, and my longest run remained a half marathon distance. I seriously contemplated telling George I wasn't running, that I'd marshal instead. I'd be gutted but well, I wasn't trained. <br /><br />I couldn't bring myself to tell Donnie that I was giving up. So one last big weekend, 30k on the Saturday, 20k on the Sunday, basically the full race distance over two days. I plotted routes, planned food and drink to try out. Storms Doris and Ernie arrived in full blast.<br /><br />I ran six miles out along the canal into a headwind so fierce it brought me to a stop repeatedly, getting firmly soaked. And my hips started seizing up despite the utter flatness of the towpath. I ran walked through the university grounds, past the hotel being built with a dedicated entrance for the Scottish national football and rugby teams, then walked up the hill to Currie and onto the Water of Leith. I tried running a few times and my body refused, so somewhere around 11 miles I gave up and caught a bus home, mute with pain and frozen hands, thinking I could put the distance into the next day instead.<br /><br />Sunday promised better, I left home in sunshine, but by the time I got off the train it was pouring with a strong wind across the exposed canal. And by seven miles, my hips were seizing again, forcing me to walk almost the entire route. Nowhere to bail out of this until 13 miles at Ratho, missing the bus by minutes then spending the next hour defrosting but not drying out in the pub.<br /><br />I knew then that I wasn't going to be able to do it if the weather wasn't on my side. For whatever reason I wasn't strong enough to cope with the combination of rain, wind and cold. For this to happen, everything was going to have to go right. Some things I can control, some I can't, there was no reason to stress about them.<br /><br />Last weekend before the race. No stupid distance, no risking of breaking myself, but a 20k loop along the canal and river. Frustrated by unexpected closures of paths that sent me up unplanned hills, there was a little more walking than desirable, but the day was glorious, blue skies greeting the sunrise.<br /><br />Then <span class="glossary">taper</span>. No more running. I discovered that taperitis is ridiculously potent as the dining room floor exploded in piles of kit and possible drop bag fuel. I freaked out about cutoffs and how to get to the race (no runner parking in the park carpark and I wasn't altogether sure I'd be able to drive afterwards anyway). Redwinerunner (who had known since the Autumn) sorted me out with a lift from the Shanksis. <br /><br />I planned an early exit from both work and Edinburgh on the Friday. I failed miserably, leaving the office only minutes before five, still needing to pack before heading north. I got to within ten miles of Stonehaven before I realise I'd forgotten a coat.<br /><br />A couple of medicinal gins in the Station with George, Karen and the Munros before retiring to my room to decant Irn Bru into baby bottles for drop bags. You can keep your flat coke, the orange nectar beats it hands down. <br /><br />I slept reasonably well. The weather gods were smiling on me, with possibly the warmest March 11th ever, with the lightest of breezes, and only a chance of rain the morning. I'll take that. I was there the year the temperature never got above freezing, where we spent our entire shift at half way stood ankle deep in frozen mud.<br /><br />No early start to be away for registration meant I even got breakfast, forcing down coffee and toast before my lift arrived. Minty pulled up, my bag went into the boot and I squeezed into the back seat alongside Mrs Shanksi and RWR. Chatter, chatter, and no one commented on why I was dressed to run, carrying a pack and finish line bag.<br /><br />Until we parked up outside Duthie Park, got out and the penny dropped. I don't think I've ever seen anyone look quite so shocked and delighted at the same time. I seem to remember we were half way across the park before MrsS mentioned The Fling next year(!)<br /><br />Collect my number from a santababy outraged that she hadn't known about this before, realise I don't have safety pins, then bump into the legendary twins of Fiona and Pauline who bound up from their chairs to hug me with beaming smiles at the realisation I'm holding a race number. Actually, would you mind pinning it on for me? (One day, I may acquire the ability to put a race nunber on, for the moment it's a great delight to always have a friend around to assuage my helplessness).<br /><br />It's all slightly surreal. I'm here, I have a number, I'm going to start. I have absolutely no idea if I'm going to finish, if I can make the cut off at the 3/4 point. In the meantime, drop bags to be handed over. Jane and Carol are collecting for half way; again the moment of dawning comprehension that I'm wearing a race number, that I'm not marshalling (I'd been waiting all week for someone to ask why I wasn't on the list and no one did) before delighted smiles and hugs.<br /><br />Later in the pub, a friend will tell me that when he arrived to register, all he heard from every second person he spoke to was "Julie's running!".<br /><br />Well timed joining of the toilet queue, seek out the sweeper (another ultra friend Elaine, wife of Sandeman of the tartan shorts) who I'm going to be spending a lot of time with! More hugs, more good lucks, race briefing, then suddenly it's time to group up for the start, there's the horn and were away. Oh fuck, it's really happening.....<br /><br />Trot, trot, out of the park, watching the stream of runners disappear up the zig zag onto the path, breath rasping, heart pounding, even though I'm as slow as I want to be. I thought there might be others starting at this pace but clearly not as they stretch out in front, the gap opening quickly until only one or two remain in sight. A few late starters - "I was in the toilet when I heard the horn!" - speed past, then I'm alone. <br /><br />Those first miles are uphill. Not very uphill but enough for me to feel it, the old railway route rising up through the west of the city. Various leg muscles twitch and whimper, calves cramp, pins and needles settle into a foot, then at around two miles it all settles down, legs turning over into a regular, if slow, tempo,breathing lightly but controlled. It sometimes happens that way on a long run, the body grumbling for a few miles before settling down. <br /><br />Three miles dead on forty minutes, slightly slower than I intended but that's fine, it's more level now, just keep tripping onwards, start with the psychological calculations: 3.3 miles is only just ahead and that's 10% down, I've only got to do it ten more times, er, no, I don't like that too much, what else is there? The diversion for the ring road is about six miles so just after that will be 6.6 miles and that's 20%, and only about a mile and a half after that is the quarter way through....yes that's better. Let's run to the diversion at least.<br /><br />E catches up. We agree that in general I'm an unsociable runner, I train almost entirely alone, I'm quite happy knowing that she's somewhere behind me but not too close, but that, once we're past the turn, I may want a bit more prodding. <br /><br />Bits of the route are past scheme housing but as we climb further out into the suburbs, these give way to older villas, frequently looking out over the Dee valley spread out below them, houses built when this was a busy railway for the professional classes to commute into the city. There are snowdrops everywhere, great clouds of white alongside the path. I wonder if the speeding front runners even see them.<br /><br />The path isn't busy, although there are plenty of dog walkers and cyclists out. The forecast rain starts, lightly at first but with increasing intensity. I think about stopping to put a rain jacket on and think better of it, it's too warm still for a jacket and I'm in a rhythm I don't want to disturb. Six miles buzzes at almost exactly eighty minutes, an even pacing that delights me. If I can just keep this up...I ignore the question of whether it's likely that even pacing of 33 miles is possible. <br /><br />The diversion is a somewhat cruel descent of a few hundred yards of black Tarmac, crossing the roadworks creating the long-awaited Aberdeen bypass. The sites are busy with men and vehicles, weekend working? An expensive practice on a construction site, so a contract that's determined to make a deadline.<br /><br />At the crossing of the public road, two of the Stoney girls are waiting, bouncing up and down with delight. I walk up the steep slope towards them, grinning with their infectious optimism, while still cursing the completely unwelcome ascent. This is supposed to be a flat route, ffs.....<br /><br />Shortly afterwards, I'm even more disturbed to find the end of the Tarmac as the path changes to rocky ground with mud. What? This wasn't in the deal! I know it's muddy at half way,but I thought the rest of it was Tarmac. Oh well, all that towpath training will come in useful. <br /><br />I'm even less impressed when the path turns ninety degrees and goes uphill. Well this definitely isn't the old railway line route. And my hips are just starting to niggle. No, you're not doing this to me, you're not....<br /><br />At the top I'm even more confused to discover that the route is along a road. A quiet narrow road, but still a road. Up ahead, through the rain, I can see a green gazebo, we've reached the first checkpoint. Keziah is bounding up and down and I'm delighted to see that Sandra and Ian are still here, when I expected them to have long gone back to prepare for finish timing. The male marshal is looking slightly concerned which is explained when the rest of the team start giggling and tell me that my face is a bit red... My hair has leaked in the rain (there may be the slightest touch of artificialness about my hair colour.... <img alt=":-O" src="https://www.fetcheveryone.com/images/icons/icon_shock.gif" style="vertical-align: middle;" /> ) which doesn't surprise me. I'm given tissues to scrub at it, joking that the so long as the race medic doesn't see me looking like I've got a terrible head injury, it'll be fine. Aaaah, that would be Sean who's actually stood in front of me, isn't it, who I've known for years....<br /><br />Sandra chases me out (quite politely for her) and we set off up the road, finishing off the maltloaf I've swiped from my bag. I'm not really hungry but I know I need to eat. The Irn Bru was genius by the way, as were the lumps of smoked cheese - the rest of it went the way of most novice drop bag contents.<br /><br />I'm behind schedule now; not badly maybe ten/fifteen minutes but as we walk, my hips cramp and I realise I'm not going to be able to maintain the pace I did in the first section. I don't think I'm going to make the cutoff at the three quarter point for five and a half hours. Seventeen miles to worry about that, just keep going. It's still raining, up ahead I can hear a stream gurgling alongside the road. It's only when I get underneath do I realise that it's the electricity crackling around the pylon lines in the damp air.<br /><br />E has done the route a few times and tells me that there's a downhill coming up, just ahead where the trees start. There is indeed and as I run down what feels like miles, all I can think is that this is going to make me cry on the way back. At the bottom, I completely miss the clear stream of water flooding across the road and get wet feet.<br /><br />From here, the path zig-zags through fields. There's some running, some walking and I start thinking about when I might start see the front runners coming back. I decide that if I can get to ten miles I will be happy, a little target met. <br /><br />Target met. Just before the wee wee woods (not me....) and the turn up to the village, the fast guys start coming back towards me. God, they're good, still flying over the ground after nearly twenty three miles.<br /><br />I dint know how I'd feel about the pure out and back, that I'd get to see every single runner. But it's brilliant. I suppose it might be different if there's a volume of runners passing in both directions, but there's only me and E behind me. There's one slight disadvantage though. You know that feeling when you see another runner - especially one you know - coming towards you - and you absolutely *have* to check your form, up the pace? I got over that feeling pretty rapidly! <br /><br />It felt like almost everyone wanted to say well done, congratulations, keep going. Or to offer high fives and hugs. I lost count of how many people called out to me by name, do I really know that many people in this special little world?<br /><br />There are a lot of double take looks as well. It's not until past thirteen miles that E gives in to a fit of giggles and tells me just how much colour has streaked across my face. A quick look in the forward facing phone camera and I'm laughing just as much. It isn't a delicate smudge around the hairline, more an extra from casualty or a very bad glam rocker, inch wide streaks of bright red down my jaws and covering one entire eye socket. I have a selfie; I'm not sharing it.<br /><br />The fallen tree after Drumoak is evil, two separate branches to be stepped over, it's good stretching. There is mud and more puddles, less clean than the first. I'm heard to mutter that if I wanted to run cross country, I wouldn't have entered an ultra. <br /><br />The miles stretch out, the oncoming runners thin out and eventually we pass Ray heading back from the halfway point. (The Halfpint point is depleted this year with neither Halfpint nor flapjack, normality will have to be resumed next year, it's just Not Right). Carol runs out to meet us, fizzing with excitement, how are we, what do we need?<br /><br />It's past four hours, there is no way I'm going to make the cutoff at the next checkpoint. My race is over. But I've just covered well over sixteen miles, my longest run ever, not the one I wanted but still an achievement.<br /><br />I don't know how to give up, to say I'm quitting. I point out the cutoff to Johnny Fling and Noanie who are marshalling, hoping that one of them will tell me how to do this. Instead I get told "well you're not staying here, off you go". But....<br /><br />Don't ever expect sympathy at an ultra checkpoint, especially not from a couple of race directors. I might just have done the same....<br /><br />So back we go along the trail we've just come along, neither of us quite sure what happens now. I start wondering if I could get twenty miles out of the day, that would be something. It wouldn't be too far past the road crossing where Angela is, I'm sure she would give me a lift back. I'm not hurt, not injured, I'm still moving, just not quickly enough.<br /><br />A deep breath and I tell E that I'm going to bail at the crossing.<br /><br />And the first of the day's miracles happens. "If you want to keep going, I'm happy to stay with you."<br /><br />Oh.<br /><br />"It's not like you haven't put in some long shifts over the years for the rest of us".<br /><br />Oh.<br /><br />Angela says about the same. With added swear words.<br /><br />I know but I can't ask people to do that. If I keep going, all those people at the checkpoint and the finish are going to be forced to stay long beyond the time they signed up for. When I asked George for a place, I said it would only be if I thought it wouldn't stop him getting to the pub on time. That's a good few Guinness that won't be drunk, a rugby match that won't be seen.<br /><br />But, oh I so want to. I'm sore but I'm not in pain, I'm still moving. Maybe I could...<br /><br />Not my decision, not ours even. So E calls Karen and asks. And more miracles happen. <br /><br />Helen will come out to the checkpoint to cover the last miles with me if I still want to go on from there. Other people agree to stay on, giving up more hours.<br /><br />And I keep going. There's maybe not a lot of running but there's some. Short stretches, counting to a hundred, with each number representing eight steps. And I bloody well make sure I run through that twenty mile point.<br /><br />We talk, of everything and nothing, of families and work and holidays and friends. E picks up the few scraps of rubbish left behind by runners. She talks about her first triathlon, of standing at the start with her friend, two middle aged women on cheap bikes, surrounded by young skinny men with gleaming carbon fibre. Of panicking in the water and swapping to breast stroke to recover for a few minutes, only to realise that all around her, those young fit men were being rescued from the water, unable to complete the swim section. Of turning into the finish straight, hearing the cheers and cowbells and finally realising that she actually could.<br /><br />The hill is far shorter than I remember going back up and I don't cry. We both nip behind a hedge for a comfort break and I mentally thank Donnie for all those squats over the last two years...<br /><br />Then we turn the corner and there's the checkpoint with not only the Munros, but Elaine and Ann. I can't believe they've stayed on, an hour and forty minutes beyond the cutoff. I've got gin and ginger beer, yells Helen, which do you want? That woman knows me too well...<br /><br />The ginger beer was awesome. As was the Irn Bru, and the ginger shot drinks I'd bulk bought and stashed in drop bags. A refill of water for my flask and time to go.<br /><br />E apologises and asks if I mind if she gets a lift back from here. Mind? She's just done twenty five miles at someone else's speed and already been out for as long as she might have expected the full day to be. <br /><br />I've probably run more miles with Helen than anyone else. She knows me. I don't get away with walking for any longer than she considers appropriate, especially once the Tarmac restarts. Let's be honest however, running here is a relative term. There's the correct movements and cadence, but it's only producing a pace around 15:x. Still, when walking is at half that speed, it's an improvement. <br /><br />Just as we come into Culter, I ask if she's got her phone to hand. Why? Because in a couple of hundred yards, I'm going to have completed my first marathon and I'd like a photo of the moment. Even if it involves standing still for a minute. Time? Nah, who cares.<br /><br />The miles tick on and so do the hours. Seven hours, eight hours. I've been running for EIGHT hours, how did that happen?<br /><br />The rain has long since gone and the suns out. The path is busy with walkers and cyclists and children learning to ride their first bikes. And children awestruck at tadpoles, asking mummy why those frogs are kicking one another? Mummy, why is that lady's face red? :-0<br /><br />Kate texts again, as she has done all day (despite it being boypie's birthday) and I get told off for texting back when I should be running. I only say "I can't..." once and get rewarded with "la, la, la," as she heads off and I have no choice but to follow. <br /><br />The infamous signs pass that repeatedly state Duthie Park to be three miles away, despite being spread over two miles. Thirty miles. Oh my god, thirty miles...<br /><br />It takes thirty two and a half miles before "MTFU" is uttered. Sweepers don't do sympathy, who need it? There is an alarming feeling in my little toe, I can't decide whether there's a massive blister developing or I've lost a toenail. I don't want to think about taking my socks off. <br /><br />All the landmarks from the way out disappear, the bridge over the main road, the cemetery and then the glass houses appear. And quite suddenly the penny drops, for the first time I actually know I'm going to finish. Something must catch in my breathing becuase I'm firmly told that I can stop and have "a moment" now, but I am absolutely *not* allowed to cry until after I finish. <br /><br />Down the zigzags to the park gates and a yell from behind; the Sandemans in their camper. Through the gates, into the park, still running. Oh good, they've used the time to take the marquee down and dismantle the arch, sensible people.<br /><br />Who would have thought a dozen people could make so much noise? And I probably drown them all out when I throw my head back and roar my way across the last few yards...<br /><br />There are a couple of videos on Facebook so there's no point in denying that I hugged George and sobbed and sobbed. And then hugged everyone and tried to apologise for keeping them waiting for so long and sobbed a bit more. No lass left behind....<br /><br />And then I got to sit down and drink the half bottle of fizz I'd stashed in my finish bag. It was delicious. (There was a lot more fizz later but that one tasted the best).<br /><br />What did I learn?<br /><br />My body is so much stronger than I ever dreamed of<br />My mind is even stronger<br />You can do anything with your friends beside you<br /><br />I ran an ultra. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;">:-)</span>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-71481610419947298502013-03-23T23:22:00.000+00:002013-03-23T23:22:23.661+00:00There Will Be Weather......so says the Lord of the Bridge every June in Milngavie.<br />
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No-one said it in March. After all, this is Scotland. The only guarantee is that there will be weather on any given day, and lots of it.<br />
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First up, <a href="http://antarcticodyssey.co.uk/loch-katrine-running-festival/" target="_blank">Loch Katrine Running Festival</a> last weekend. This was a charity day organised by Audrey as part of her fundraising for Alzheimer Scotland, part of her <a href="http://antarcticodyssey.co.uk/" target="_blank">Antarctic Odyssey</a> challenge. I know mad people but running a marathon, then a 100km ultra .... in the Antarctic? Go check her page out, see what you think. <br />
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Anyway, the Festival was a no-fuss 10km, a Half and a Full Marathon on the shores of Loch Katrine, one of those little tucked away bodies of water nestled in the Scottish hills. Apparently some years ago, there used to be a 12km race held here but nothing recently.<br />
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I wasn't involved but, having realised I was definitely going to be in Scotland that weekend (oh the bliss of a new job that doesn't involve travelling every week...) I emailed a few days in advance and asked if I would be useful. We agreed that I'd come along and help the willing-but-inexperienced friends and family at the start/finish. You can never have enough marshals after all...<br />
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So on a cold Sunday morning, I'm driving west in the darkness, trying to work out if I have not enough or too many layers on, enough gloves and buffs and hats in the bag. The car park is almost empty, not long after 7am, no sign of 250 runners and entourages about to descend. It won't last.<br />
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The cafe had promised to open early but with no signs of life, we make the decision to hold registration at the picnic tables, trying to shelter from the intermittent wind that rips up the gorge. It's cold and no-one yet seems to have invented gloves that allow their wearer to do things like write and sort through piles of race numbers.<br />
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Glancing down the entry list for the full marathon is like looking at the start list for an ultra. Most of the competitors are ultra runners, heading out for a long training run (or short if you're Richie Cunningham...), although there are a few others from the saner group, including Smout and HappyTimes. Nice to see so many old friends and put faces to a few names I've not met before, such as Flip, Sarah and Bob.<br />
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By the time we've finished registering the marathon runners (about 50 of the 60 entrants), the cafe's opened and the other races are being registered indoors, in the comfort of the roaring fire. I'm not jealous. But I have discovered the hot air blower in the ladies toilet which is going some way to defrost my frozen fingers.<br />
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Even the tough ultra-nutters are sheltering from the wind, albeit next to the ice-cream stand.<br />
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Smout asks if I have a spare buff. I have - one of my treasured (if not quite earned through sore legs) WHW buffs. I. Want. It. Back. <br />
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Like herding cats, we round up the marathon runners for their briefing and start. A few words and they're away down the private road on the north side of the loch. <br />
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And breathe... Or maybe not, as there's a flurry of late starters, caught out by a combination of last-minute pitstop and the race starting a minute or two early to avoid standing around in the bitter cold. Four in total, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation as they chase after the disappearing pack. Even the "lead bike" turns out to be "tail bike", pedalling after the brightly coloured pack as they disappear round the curve of the loch.<br />
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(There is however grumbling from the friend of the last of the four who had been sitting in the his car during the briefing. The runner was "a favourite to win" but now "his head's messed up" by having to chase instead of lead. I miss the complaints. I'm not sympathetic when I hear about it - he chose not to attend the race briefing, it's his own fault. Is that harsh?)<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kjg0nLiEY38/UUYRU_myKSI/AAAAAAAAA04/y4eXPwIB01Y/s1600/DSCN0472.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kjg0nLiEY38/UUYRU_myKSI/AAAAAAAAA04/y4eXPwIB01Y/s320/DSCN0472.JPG" width="320" /></a>The half is due to set off 30 minutes later and we barely seem to draw a breath before I'm yelling in the cafe again and rounding them up. As the larger group (ninety or so) congregate at the pier, the air starts to fill with small snow flakes. Oh my, this could be fun. The hills across the loch are dusted white, we've alternated between sunshine, cloud, wind and stillness all morning. <br />
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It doesn't settle and by the time the 10k runners head off a further 30 minutes later, there's bright sunshine, their shadows etched clearly onto the tarmac.<br />
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As the last of the massed runners leave, it's time to plan for the finish. The timers are organised, lined up in a perfect funnel between grass bank and brick wall, one calling number and time, one writing, the third keeping an independent track of positions. With all three races taking an out and back on the same route, there will be overlap between the finishers of each race with the only distinction the number groups. <br />
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Note to runners: when we tell you to make sure we can see your number, we mean it. Clearly displayed full size on your chest/stomach please, not folded on your outer hip, on your back, or pinned to your t-shirt which is under three other layers of tops and waterproofs. You make our lives harder and we can't give you accurate race times. Then you sulk because your Garmin says something else. And while we're having to spend time and effort sorting you out, we're distracted from dealing from the other dozen runners that came in right after you.<br />
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No frills finish lines are simple - a medal (with ribbon to denote the particular race), a tunnocks bar and a glass of water. Plus a few bottles of wine for first male/female finishers in each race. But how long? The disadvantage of a "new" race, on a undulating/hilly course is that there's little reference. I'm guessing at 35 minutes for the 10k and 90 for the half. However when asked about the marathon, I stupidly think that "they're ultra-runners, they're not fast road runners" and estimate 3:30. Er.... the picture above shows at least two very good reasons why that was a very stupid statement.<br />
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It feels like we've barely breathed when we spot the first bright spot of lycra heading back to us. The 10k winner finishes in about 37 minutes, voluble and delighted, chattering away in what transpires to be unintelligible Hungarian. He and his wife are working at a nearby hotel and she begged for a late entry for him. Good choice though.<br />
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No let up from then on, a constant stream of runners coming back in. We're very nearly caught out when the winner of the half finishes less than 15 minutes after the winner of the 10k, the staggered start throwing us all. 1:18 on a hilly course is impressive - even more so to realise that this isn't an "official" race, won't count for official PBs, anyone truly "racing" is doing so purely for their own satisfaction.<br />
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More and more runners, more wind, hands and feet edging closer to frozen, a few cars coming up and down the lochside road. Then the marathon "lead bike" appears, pedalling furiously - what's going on, we're not even at three hours - to tell us the marathon winner is approaching fast. I *know* how fast Richie runs on hills; why am I surprised that he can also run a sub-three road marathon? And look like he's just been out for a gentle jog at the end of it? Gerry is only a few minutes later.<br />
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More and more runners, colder and colder, feet and hands now aching and painful despite the thick padded gloves. How the marshal with bare hands is managing to write numbers and times I can't imagine. The ice cream kiosk is selling hot soup which is blissful. And as time progresses, the runners change from those who enjoyed their unaccustomed day out on a new route to those testing themselves physically and suffering from the distance or conditions. Never believe that a lochside route is flat; there are some quite tough hills on this road as it weaves its away around the shoreline.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UVgW2SlU7Q8/UUY4D7XSrGI/AAAAAAAAA1I/vVos8FnyjQ8/s1600/last-man-home-loch-Katrine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UVgW2SlU7Q8/UUY4D7XSrGI/AAAAAAAAA1I/vVos8FnyjQ8/s320/last-man-home-loch-Katrine.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo from James Watson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The one and only DNF of the day arrives in a returning marshals' car; Flip, unexpectedly and painfully crippled by random foot pains and unable to walk without agony. Finally we are waiting only for one runner - the inimitable Ray McCurdy - and Robin, the sweeper for the day. The snow has started again, now in heavy swirling flakes that start to cover the ground and remaining cars.<br />
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Of course, on driving home, the snow disappears within ten miles and I have sunglasses on for the stretch past Stirling. Don't you just love Scotland?<br />
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Loch Katrine was intended to be a one-off but, despite the weather, it was a great race, through amazing scenery. Lots of requests for it to be repeated next year - ask Audrey nicely if you'd like to have a chance to join in next time.<br />
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This is how good it really looked : <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/112197983712122257352/albums/5853756425079518497" target="_blank">photos from Charles Gordon</a><br />
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Fast forward a week and it's time for the new ultra season to kick off up in Aberdeen. I love George to bits but his lovely race always clashes with the final day of the Six Nations. The day it clashes with the Calcutta Cup, I won't be there, but until then...<br />
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I don't learn from previous years. Instead of sensibly travelling up on the Friday night (and not indulging too heavily in the pre-race partying) I'm driving up on the Saturday morning. To make things even earlier, I'm giving Christina a lift up. Setting the alarm for 3.45am is not a pleasant experience...<br />
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So up in the dark and cold, heading north as the light starts to break over eastern Scotland. The thermostat drops north of Dundee as the landscape fills with snow. The race route had been covered in snow earlier in the week but the last update from George says it's cleared, leaving only small patches of ice, and a cold and wet forecast for the day. When we stop for a toilet break at a random service station, it's almost as cold inside as out, an icy wind cutting through the dawn.<br />
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At Duthie Park, there are a few cars and vans in the car park - which was only re-opened the day before - with the race registration/start/finish now at the top of the slope. No downhill sprint for the line this year.<br />
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And it must be cold; George doesn't have shorts on. I'm not sure I've ever seen George in anything other than shorts or a kilt.<br />
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Time to start on registration. Jane and myself scoring off names and handing out numbers, Sarah on the clipboard, Karen and Les dipping in and out, George here there and everywhere. So many familiar faces from the last few years, and new faces to put to names known only from facebook. A nervous looking Scott, wondering what his irrepressible Antonia has got him into now. The massed invasion of the Stonehaven Running Club. (Later in the day we will talk of normalisation but I still wonder if there is anyone in the SRC who hasn't been infected with the ultra madness?). Ray starting his latest SUMS series as dishevelled as ever. Audrey running rather than directing this week. The Pirate having actually trained, and Ada having barely run all year.<br />
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There are special numbers for three runners: 33 and 330 for twin brother and sister Alex and Katie "celebrating" their 33rd birthday by running 33 miles, and 40 for Caron celebrating that "life begins..." birthday.<br />
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In the blink of an eye, it's nine o'clock and the 240 or so starters are massed on the wide path. A few words from George (now appropriately kilted) and they're away. No pause for the checkpoint marshals, the last bits into the cars and we're away. With a last minute change of plan, I'm driving and Laurie navigating to our first stop, the Tesco store at Banchory for our last access to indoor facilities and a stock-up on warm food. The rain and sleet has already started, it's going to be another cold one.<br />
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Johnny Fling and Kynon are just at the half-way parking point (a residential cul-de-sac) when we get there and the process of carting shelters and tarpaulins and water and dropbags along the muddy path begins. Not forgetting the priceless ultra flapjack (I manage to sneak a piece this year ... oh wow). <br />
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After the first load I volunteer to sort the drop bags rather than carry. I'm becoming an expert on this. On searching for the tiny number scrawled on yet another Sainsbury's carrier bag. Of giant sports bags containing enough food and clothes for a week's holiday. Of bags with no number at all. Of discovering the bag of goodies from Noanie for the marshals.<br />
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Already the path is muddy, getting worse as the precipitation seeps through the trees. By the time the main pack of runners come through, this will be inches deep, even after John has shovelled lumps of it away using a tea tray. The tray will need to go back to Morrisons afterwards :-0<br />
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We plan our roles: Kynon down the path calling out numbers, John and HP on times and writing, me on finding drop bags ready to hand over as the runner approaches. Ah well at least I get to keep my gloves on - both layers of them. Yes it *is* that cold when you're standing around.<br />
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And in no time at all, the first runners arrive and we're off. At first singly but close together, then in twos and threes and groups, the mud deepens, the rubbish bags fill, the flapjack vanishes, the chatter gets longer and more time-consuming as runners take a break before the homewards leg. Minty arrives almost shivering in a short-sleeved t-shirt and bare hands, but refuses my offer of gloves; I'm sure the fact that they're bright pink has nothing to do with it. John M arrives holding an umbrella over Helen and we joke that he's escorted her all the way from Aberdeen like that. I'm not quite sure what kind of massage he delivers on her glutes and thighs but it's certainly, um, intimate!<br />
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Almost the last to arrive are a group of three girls from north-east England. Clubmates of Flip, they never intended to complete the full event and two leave here to go in search of Morrisons and the bus back to Aberdeen. Somehow they don't find the supermarket which is only a few hundred yards away.<br />
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The sweeper bike arrives just ahead of the last runner and when we've seen him safe away, it's time to start packing up. Other than the mud and churned up ground, there won't be a trace of our presence here once we're away, every scrap of rubbish bagged up and taken away.<br />
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Laurie and I are far more bedraggled on this visit to Tesco, leaving a trail of mud and water as we try to defrost under the hot air dryers and inhale doughnuts in the car. Then it's back to Aberdeen and a miraculous parking space by the pond.<br />
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The finish line is in full swing now and little for us to do but shelter from the wind and cold. Somehow I end up in possession of George's phone and handing over a few foil blankets - to both finishers and under-dressed wedding guests heading for the Winter Gardens - before old habits take over and I find myself as barmaid. If you ever want to be hear the words "I love you", hand an ultra-runner an opened bottle of beer.<br />
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Officially there was no beer. We did not hide it all when the police came visiting, of course not. :-)<br />
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I've missed the fast runners but there's far more joy in seeing the slower runners finish, those who've battled the elements for hours longer before achieving something that was inconceivable months ago and still in doubt at breakfast. Running, jogging or walking, they all cross the line to be enveloped in a George hug before being given the most unique medals in Britain (made by <a href="http://www.craftrocks.co.uk/" target="_blank">this talented lady).</a>.<br />
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When they're finally all home, we pack up and dismantle, drinking our own beers before heading south to Stonehaven and the legendary after-party at the Station. The drinks take away the pain of the rugby results and soothe the aching legs.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7oZNy7h8Ty4/UU430eQzwFI/AAAAAAAAA1Y/9n5Ec4BCrpc/s1600/D33+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7oZNy7h8Ty4/UU430eQzwFI/AAAAAAAAA1Y/9n5Ec4BCrpc/s320/D33+2013.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo (and medal earned) by Neil Harkness</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the morning, it's still cold and wet. There was indeed weather.<br />
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<br />Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-33336233484705221362013-01-29T17:37:00.002+00:002013-01-29T17:37:47.056+00:00A Slippery Slope...<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Where did the rest of 2012 go? In my case, disappeared under a lot of different stresses all arriving at once, time spent keeping my head above water and little else.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">What was the very first sentence of this blog? "I'm not a runner". It was true when I wrote it but, er, well things have changed a bit since then. There are of course runners and runners...</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">For someone who'd never covered more than ten miles (on the flat), it was definitely a case of having eyes bigger than my tummy to sign up for the WHW </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">training weekend and a 15-ish miles run up and down the Way. Mind you, caught in the heavy snowfall on the motorway on Friday night, I was more concerned about getting to Balmaha in one piece than surviving the run. Good distraction approach...</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">At the <a href="http://www.oak-tree-inn.co.uk/" target="_blank">Oak Tree Inn</a>, I was directed to a simple but comfortable room in the neighbouring cottage. Tucked into the eaves, it was a very clever use of the space but the steeply sloping ceiling promised an instant headache for a careless standing out of bed. After idly watching a programme about the unintelligible poetry of Rabbie Burns, I picked my way back through the snow and slush to the bar, now full of many familiar faces, a subset of the small and friendly world of the Scottish ultra family. A few drinks and an early night, falling asleep to the sight of snowflakes falling onto the roof-light above my head.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">To be awoken by the sound of heavy rain, that ceased before the daylight came and I could see the view across the loch instead. Breakfast and more chatter and change into running clothes, checking and re-checking the contents of my rucksack. Numerous last-minute trips to the ladies before gathering in the bar and outside, joined by the runners coming just for the day. In all, maybe fifty runners in total, some planning on 30 miles to Inversnaid and back, some to Rowardennan and back, and a few variants. A few words, a few group photos and away down the road, a flock of bright-coloured runners against the snow and slush.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Along the tarmac (bar the traditionalists sticking to the snowy path behind the wall) and up onto the trail. Yes, hills are a good excuse to walk but that doesn't stop them being hills. At the top, Fiona is taking photos of the amazing view and takes one of myself and Pauline:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Far more experienced and sure-footed than me, the rest of the back of the pack heads off down the slope while I carefully pick my way down the slightly slippery rocks. Sean-the-Lord-of-the-Bridge, as bike-riding sweeper for the day, is just behind me and I suspect he's going to spend a lot of time today looking at my back. I curse the mud and tree roots while picking my way along the flatter trail, catching occasional bright flashes of colour ahead in the trees. The view is amazing across the water to the snow covered hills and it's a real effort to watch my feet on the uneven ground.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Just before the beach, Sean tells me he's going to head onwards up the trail and come back in a while to check on me and any of the late starters who are still behind. Down on the shore, we catch up with Heather who I've met a few times supporting her partner Peter. We agree to join forces and travel together, both being reasonably new and slow runners. Without this, I think we would both have had a much lonelier and slower day, keeping one another going with chatter, laughter and shared food. We run and walk as we feel fit, not always associated with the steepness of the path or the depth of snow and slush. We curse and swear at the muddier bits and the depth of slush, vocally expressing our sentiments at feet rudely soaked in mud and freezing water, and laugh and giggle at the sheer joy of being able to do this. Chastised by an oncoming walker - "aren't you supposed to be running?" - we jointly declare ourselves to be on a food break, both well trained to eat and drink before we feel hungry or cold. And somewhere in the day, we realise that at some point over the last 18 months, we moved from being the outsiders, the newcomers, to being "old hands".</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">The distant hills disappear behind what looks like fog but proves to be a icy rainshower when it crosses the loch. I briefly think of putting a jacket on but it's passed within a few minutes before we get more than a little wet. The further north we go, the deeper the snow gets, although it's been well tramped down by the runners ahead of us. There are only a few hardy walkers out, despite the now-beautiful day, but we pass a few clusters of tents perched under the trees. I'm heartily grateful for my warm room and hot shower.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Heading up from the isolated boathouse, we pick our way up an unnervingly steep and snowy hill and try not to think that what goes up will need to come back down on the way back. By a bridge, we meet a runner heading back who stops to ask how we're doing and promises us it's ten minutes to Rowardennan. Ten minutes at what pace, I wonder, and spot a sign by the path that says 2k. Perhaps a little more than ten minutes...</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">On now tired legs, we spot the Rowardennan chalets and agree to run the last stretch along the road to the pub where we know the other "short" runners are gathering. Inside, a roaring fire makes it almost *too* warm as we leave puddles of melted snow and gulp down cans of coke. For the first time, I understand the attraction of a cold alcoholic pint on a long run... And resist </span><img alt=":-)" src="http://www.fetcheveryone.com/images/icons/icon_smile.gif" style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Two hours twenty-five for about seven and a half miles (my Garmin says a little more, Heather's a little less). Try not to think too much that there's the same distance to do heading back, and no way of bailing out. Ssshhhh, what the legs don't know won't hurt them. Quick trip to the ladies (no, I still have no wish to imitate a bear) and back we go, legs a little stiffened from the break.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">In the wintery sunshine, lots of the thinner snowfall has melted and there is far more bare track and rock underfoot in many places, sometimes replaced by mud and puddles. Although there's more walking, and it feels harder than the northbound leg, we seem to reach remembered landmarks quicker. A trio of fast-moving runners come past and tell us they turned at around ten miles which is reassuring - being passed here by the 30-milers would be *very* discouraging! There are more walkers out now, including a very burly man, carrying a tiny pug in a pink coat down the steep puddled steps. Everyone we pass is friendly, exchanging greetings and often stepping to the side of the path to allow us to trot past.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Up in the deeper snow of the woods, we stop to talk to a couple who ask if there's a race on, having seen a number of runners. We explain it's a training weekend for the WHW</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;"> race and they ask if we're doing it... </span><img alt=":-)" src="http://www.fetcheveryone.com/images/icons/icon_smile.gif" style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;"> They ask where we've run from and when we tell them Rowardennan, ask if we were dropped off there to run back. When we explain that we ran up from Balmaha, they're very impressed and congratulatory. Sometimes it takes an outsider to remind us that whilst we may be slow, and we may be running much shorter distances, it's only as a comparison to the mad people we know, rather than the world at large.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">The steep hill is still covered and even slippier going downhill. If I had the brains I was born with, I'd have stopped and put Yaktrax on but I don't. I therefore have nobody but myself to blame when my feet slide out from under me and I land firmly on my backside in the snow, skidding a few feet down the slope before coming to a stop, flat on my back and helpless with laughter.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">The legs are tired now but not complaining too loudly, knowing that at ten miles they'll be stopping. After all, that's what's always happened before. It takes until the middle of the twelfth mile for them to catch on and register their dislike of this strange occurrence.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">On a stretch of road, we hear two runners behind and automatically up the pace a little to see how long we can hold them off for. Had I realised it was Thomas the Crazy German, I would have known better than to try, even on fresh legs. "Looking good girls, are you enjoying yourselves?" he calls out, as he and his companion disappear into the distance. None of the other full distance runners will pass us until the foot of Craigie Fort.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">The running parts are slower, shorter and less frequent now, focused on reaching a particular tree or rock, not always successfully, but we pull one another along as the miles tick over. Earlier, we'd talked of entered races and aspirations and I'd said that, despite suggestions, I had no intention of running a half this year. But as the Garmin bleeps, Heather points out that I've just completed one anyway, and there is a heavy-legged victory jig to celebrate. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">And I have to point out that Heather is doing a half-marathon this spring. As her first-ever race. And her second? Glenmore 12 in September ... now that's in at the deep end!</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Most of the snow has gone now, leaving behind mud and puddles. No energy to avoid them now, just splash through and deal with cold and wet feet by the knowledge that warmth is less than two miles away. And force the legs to keep going, although they now feel solid and heavy, aching from thighs to ankles. Heather stops to stretch out a cramped calf on the painfully steep ascent of Craigie Fort (oh, to be weak enough to have cheated and run around the flat footway) and I keep going in fear of not being able to start again if I stop, but knowing she'll catch me up shortly.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Three or four full distance runners pass us on the climb over, looking equally tired. Heading southwards are an increasing number of walkers despite the approaching dusk. They stare at us strangely, two women in bright lycra with wide smiles and unsteady gait and I wonder what they're thinking. Casting aspersions on our sanity, no doubt...</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Down on the tarmac and we agree to run the final stretch back to the Inn. The road seems much steeper than when we ran down it five hours earlier but that final hidden burst of energy keeps us going and, with wide smiles, we run together to the gate to be warmly greeted and congratulated by the earlier finishers, both outside and inside.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Heather heads for a hot bath and clean clothes. I head for the bar, wanting a pint of Koppaberg and hot food. In that order. </span><img alt=":-)" src="http://www.fetcheveryone.com/images/icons/icon_smile.gif" style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">After an hour, I hobble carefully back to my room and exchange muddy and stinking clothes for a hot shower. I'm wise enough to keep moving and ignore my legs demands for complete immobility.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Back to the bar through the now torrential rain and drink, relax and chatter. A taint to the evening of bad news and worry from elsewhere, but not my story to tell. Old friends and new, a camaraderie like no other.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">My legs ache although not intolerably. I may have a little more sympathy for the stiff-legged hobblers in June. But don't bank on it.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">The commonest question of the evening? Did you enjoy that? Not sure that "enjoy" is quite the right word but, oh, I can't wait to do it again!</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;">Tis a slippery slope, in more ways than one....</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;"><i>(photos from Fiona R, John K)</i></span>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-64556269346451018292012-07-24T19:45:00.000+01:002012-07-24T19:45:57.783+01:00Striding Out....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's never a good moment when you realise that you've volunteered to marshal a race that's being held on the day after your birthday. But the <a href="http://clydestride.webnode.com/" target="_blank">Clyde Stride</a> is four weeks after the WHW and, with the timing of midsummer's day this year, that's the way it worked out. The birthday - my 21st again, as it has been for quite a few years now - was spent being utterly spoilt and indulged at <a href="http://onespa.com/" target="_blank">OneSpa</a> in Edinburgh. I failed entirely to remain conscious throughout the treatments and had to retire hurt after only two cocktails in town afterwards...<br />
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So after all that rest and relaxation, I <i>should</i> have been raring to go on the Saturday morning. Instead I managed to switch the alarm off and only properly wake up ten minutes before I was due to leave the house. Panic!<br />
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One strong coffee later, I was heading west along the M8 at a speed not <i>entirely </i>compliant with Scottish law, when I got a text from Lee, the super-lovely Race Director. Did I have a stopwatch as she'd forgotten hers? Um, yes, but it's 20 odd miles east... 24 hour Tesco?<br />
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Miraculously I don't get lost turning off the M8 and find myself pulling into Morrison's car park outside Partick Station at 7.30am, with a whole 15 minutes before registration is due to start. But instead of the hive of activity I'm expecting, the place is deserted. Christ, she's not changed the start location and I've missed it? But there is a small group of fit skinny looking people in the corner, so it's clearly not me.<br />
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Wearing last year's bright blue race t-shirt, I wander over and say hello. Among the group are Norrie, who's volunteered to help rather than run, and brought the family along in support. Their day has also started badly with the car over-heating and having to be abandoned a few streets away.<br />
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A few more runners arrive and, just as I'm assuring someone that Lee will probably arrive any moment, probably taking the corners on two wheels, a white van pulls into the car park (on four wheels I hasten to add) and it's all systems go. Tables and paperwork out, cardboard boxes for collecting drop bags, we fetch and carry and all's ready to go. Muriel's here to assist with registration as well, so she and I do the individuals, with Norrie's son taking on the relay teams.<br />
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Then it's into auto-pilot, ticking off names, handing over numbers and safety pins, having a craic with the familiar faces, greeting old friends, calming a few nervy novices who are now wondering what the hell made them think running 40 miles was a sensible thing to do. Our international runners are there too, among them Gerry Craig's brother Michael who has flown in from Singapore for the race, cutting it very fine with a late Friday arrival in Scotland. Someone wishes me happy birthday but is gone before I can thank them. A familiar name checks in and I have to think whether it's the Hewitson of <a href="http://www.westhighlandwayrace.org/downloads/2012_hewiston_jeff.pdf" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">The infamous banana blog</a> <span style="background-color: white;">(if you haven't read it yet you really should; you may never look at a banana in the same way again) but fortunately for my composure, it's the other brother.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">A passing gentleman (who has clearly been imbibing Buckie for breakfast) proffers a pound coin, wanting a safety pin and a number. He's very polite and very insistent; fortunately Muriel manages to dissuade him and he wanders off, dancing and singing. Only in Glasgae...</span><br />
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Whilst leaning over to the low table, I'm rudely assaulted by a slap on the backside. I turn round in outrage to be greeted by the giggling figure of Sandra. "I couldn't resist" she says. Assault on a marshal indeed, and in full sight of the Chairman of Scottish Athletics too. What is this sport coming to....???<br />
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Sophie also stuns me by turning up in a normal number of layers of clothing - only a t-shirt rather than the layers of insulation and waterproofs that she's famous for.<br />
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Stan is sweeper this year and wants to be reassured that Ray isn't running. The legendary McCurdy has however taken a late entry and is here and ready to run. Stan groans and threatens to go and buy a dog lead from Morrisons. Shortly later, he comes past with a line tied between him and Ray. I'm laughing too much to get the photo the sight deserves.<br />
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Grant Jeans was another late entry but by the time Lee has swept all the runners away for the briefing, he's not turned up. He arrives with minutes to spare, so we take his drop bags and shoo him round to the start.<br />
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Then it's down to the road and towards the underpass. After some further herding - yes, you <i>do</i> have to start by running uphill! - they're lined up ready to go. A few words from a race sponsor and the air-horn sounds, sending 130 or so runners off on their 40 mile journey.<br />
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Back at the cars, we finish tidying up, removing every trace of our presence from the station forecourt (and probably picking up some rubbish that was there before). Behind four vehicles are piles of drop bags to be transported along the route. Some are already in my car boot but Norrie helps me to load the remainder. Whilst doing so, we find a small box labelled as a present to the marshals for CP2. Noanie Heffron has left a box of sweets and treats for each of the checkpoint teams and I'm ridiculously touched. We always get lots of verbal thanks, but this is a first.<br />
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Loaded up, I head for Strathclyde Park via a food and fuel stop at Asda and a bizarre out and back along the M8. What kind of idiot contractor doesn't let you turn left off the Kingston Bridge onto the new M74? Ah, that'd be my lot actually...<br />
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It's strange getting to the checkpoint and finding it completely empty. Last year, it was in full flow when I got there but at 10am I'm on my own. Which is a bit disheartening when I lift the boot lid and realise just how many bags there actually are, which all need to be sorted and laid out in some logical manner. I'm about half-way through when the Giblin support crew arrive and Paul's mum Josephine comes over and starts helping, along with a young girl who I guess is a grand-daughter. Many hands make light work and it's soon done. Even the two unlabelled bags have their own position, though how their owners expect to distinguish the generic supermarket carrier bags from the others is beyond me...<br />
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At which point I start getting a little concerned about the lack of other marshals. From Lee's plan, I'm expecting the McNeills here but there's no sign of them; has the car let them down again? Fortunately before I need to start worrying about how to deal with a checkpoint single-handed, Karen R arrives. Soon there are plenty of vehicles arriving as relay teams and support crews get set for the halfway point.<br />
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Lee's race brief was pretty clear that NO-ONE was to park in the hotel or Beefeater restaurant but to use the public car park behind the hotel. I've assumed that this area is the public car park but it's not and when Lee arrives, her first task is to send all the vehicles packing. Oops. There will be another issue here later when the manager of the restaurant comes over to complain that there are support cars filling up his car park, to the extent that genuine customers are unable to park. These races rely on the goodwill of landowners and businesses to exist; it's so easy for a thoughtless crew to ruin that goodwill by being too lazy to walk a few hundred yards to a sensible parking place.<br />
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To our surprise, the first runner through is Donnie Campbell, which isn't quite what we expected based on the positions at CP1. Not sure he has any business running that fast only four weeks after the WHW either... Sadly Grant has pulled out very early on and arrives with Dave, in surprisingly good spirits.<br />
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Paul Giblin arrives later than expected, totally covered in mud. Legs, face, head, arms - all are covered in a layer of brown sludge. It's not clear quite how this happened - while other runners have clearly splashed through some substantial muddy puddles, none are in this state - but it looks like he's dived head first into a swamp.<br />
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Ian B was supposed to be running but had to pull out yesterday after a tooth extraction (the exertion would pose a strong risk of re-opening the wound and bleeding). Despite the challenges of supporting Sandra and Susan, he's relaxed and cheery, having had a second breakfast between checkpoints. I pick his brains about running with asthma and different forms of inhalers - currently it's not working for me at all. He picks up a tweet from John K who is "<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">At Strathclyde Park watching Clyde Stride Runners go by. #clydestride</span><span style="background-color: white;">". We assume he's only yards away from the checkpoint, but is actually some distance away in the park. Still, he and Katrina come over to join us, which is the first time I've seen them since the WHW.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Talk turns to potential winners and someone mentions the blond dreadlocked guy who "appeared out of nowhere", won this last year and then disappeared. Paul Raistrick did in fact win the Glen Ogle but, at the time, none of us can remember his name and are reduced to describing his appearance. Given that one of his most outstanding characteristics was his extremely toned and buff torso, it may not be too surprising that the females in the group get accused of lechery. As if. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
My stupid watch is too vague to take times from (very pretty but totally impractical) and I'm using my mobile to record times (having synchronised it with Lee's stopwatch after the start). Between runners I rest it on the flat top of the fencepost by my side to avoid holding it. This works fine until I look up and can't see it. There is frantic searching of the surrounding area to no avail. I then look at the bin bag also hanging from the post and, with a sinking feeling, start to wonder if it's been knocked in by accident. Fortunately for me, Dave is willing to search through the detritus and recovers the phone. Thanks Dave, that's definitely a few beers I owe you...<br />
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Most runners have their numbers clearly displayed to the front, although a few have it on the side of their shorts which is not great when we're trying to read it as they run into the checkpoint. But the relay runners are posing a different challenge. Their team names are hand-written and only legible from quite close. Also, quite a few clubs have shown a distinct lack of originality going for [name of club] team 1, [name of club] team 2, etc. There frequently isn't enough time to read the whole label before the runners away and on several occasions I find myself jogging over to the incoming runner to clarify the name.<br />
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There are a couple of withdrawals here, but fewer than last year. Stephen T pulls out deciding that it is too much too soon after a tough WHW, an older man (Fraser?) recognises a pulled muscle and heads off to phone his wife for a lift; both experienced runners wise enough to know when to walk away. The last runner in, staggering alongside Stan, is Audrey, who was marshal here last year. This year she is defeated by the run and curls up on the grass with apparently every intention of going to sleep right there. Sometimes it's just not your day, sometimes 20 miles is as far as your body will take you.<br />
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After her husband and friend have helped her away, Karen, Dave and I clear up every last scrap of rubbish left behind and all the remaining water and foodstuffs. The road crossing marshal comes back with her signs, which I'm relieved to see are the two missing from my car (I really should have taken them out of the boot after the WHW but I'm sure Sean won't mind them being re-used in a good cause!).<br />
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Back onto the M74, forgetting how quickly the turn off to Lanark appears (if that was you I cut up, sorry....) and down the country road. Climbing up into the village of Kirkfieldbank, I see two runners on the pavement, the first looks like Gerry Craig which throws me as I'd expect him to be finished by now. Not until I've tooted the horn and gone past do I remember that I'm much earlier than last year as all the runners cleared the checkpoint much earlier.<br />
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In Lanark itself, there is a long queue of stationary traffic. A recovery truck is clearing up after an accident - right outside the police station. Time for a bite to eat while I wait. <br />
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Through the town centre and I'm vaguely surprised to see a relay runner on the pavement; surely the route doesn't come up this high? Later, that runner is going to be the cause of much fuss, but for now I'm more interested in the fact that the car in front is Dave's. I frantically beep at him when I think he's about to make a wrong turn ... only to lead both of us down a cul-de-sac. Hmm, that's two lots of beer I owe you, yes?<br />
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Driving through New Lanark itself - such a contrast to the grubby town above it - there is clearly a rather smart wedding in progress. I'm not sure what these dressed-up women in heels and fascinators, and immaculate men in kilts will make of the sweaty muddy runners that are about to pass in front of them. Hopefully no-one will interrupt the photos...<br />
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On the grassy stretch by the river, the finish line operation is in smooth progress, with Lee's family in full control, down to the young cousins handing out personal goodie bags. Best of all, there is coffee and the legendary tablet. There is also beer but that will wait until later. The first three runners have finished; Donnie taking first prize and proving that a WHW weeks earlier is no barrier to achievement. For some people anyway!<br />
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Shortly after, more runners start arriving, Gerry in 5th place then not-so-normal-runner Andy in 6th, trashing a few WHW demons as he does so. A Scottish Athletics news item the day before had pointed out his 2nd position in the SUMS table and I tease him about where he'll be on Monday - the leader Gareth Mayze being otherwise engaged on Anglo-Celtic Cup duties in Cardiff. He's not biting, pointing out that he struggles to train consistently due to family commitments and his "taper" included climbing hills to have a picnic and eight hours gardening the previous day. Hmmm, so what might be achieve with just a few months structured training...?<br />
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A few more WHW devils will be vanquished today, amongst them Louise Jones who hurtles across the finish with the wide smile that seems to be her trademark finish.<br />
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Another one seems to be dead and buried when I see Sandra running down the steps, only to stop at the gate and not continue despite my frantic shrieks. Then I realise, she's waiting for Susan so they can run in together.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vgOtLwpx_F0/UA7jPSfqNEI/AAAAAAAAAz4/VPMfjkZmbLE/s1600/Sandra+++Susan+(Lorn).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vgOtLwpx_F0/UA7jPSfqNEI/AAAAAAAAAz4/VPMfjkZmbLE/s320/Sandra+++Susan+(Lorn).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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At the height of the busy-ness, a problems arises with the relay teams. The team that finished first is the one whose runner was off course in Lanark. The second placed team (by two minutes) are aware of this and not particularly content. They had been 15 minutes ahead at CP3 and think the other team must have run short. Unlike the club road races they're probably more used to, there's no way of judging this. Logically the runner has probably run further (and certainly had more climb than necessary) but nothing can be proven and he doesn't have a Garmin. The issue recedes, returns, recedes, returns, until Lee has to step away from greeting finishers to try and resolve it. As someone who delights in greeting every finisher personally with their medal and a hug, this makes her very sad. <br />
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I'm doing my best to cover in her absence, assisted by Norrie's son (the Clan McNeill ended up here, rather than CP2, after borrowing a different vehicle) and hopefully nobody feels too hard done to. In the middle of this, two worried parents approach me about a drop bag that couldn't be found at CP2 and they think may be in my car. I'm sure it's not but we can go and look later.<br />
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When I can step away from the finish, I take the father down to my car and we confirm the bag isn't there. Apparently it contains a phone and wallet; I bite my tongue at the idiocy of putting such items in a drop bag, but do point out that the mobile phone should be in possession of the runner, not sitting at a checkpoint. Dad tells me that the son thinks he put the drop bag in a van, but that he also thinks he saw penguins on the run... Well the penguins are clearly a common ultra runner's hallucination, but the van is probably the one containing the finish line bags. We go and investigate the pile of bags and a very relieved dad spots the missing back-pack.<br />
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"He's never even done a marathon before" he tells me. Nor has the son really done any training it seems. i never learnt his name but if he can do 40 miles on no training...<br />
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Quite a few runners today appear to have missed out on the marathon stage of their progression up the distances, going straight from the 13 miles of the Half directly to an ultra. I'm astounded. And yet... I know more people who've run an ultra than who've run a marathon. But then again, I hang around with some very mad people...<br />
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Like Tim Downie who pauses feet from the line to strike a Morecambe and Wise heel-clicking dance pose, only to be cruelly overtaken by Dave Etchells, who is not missing the chance to get one over on Tim (I should point out that they are the best of friends) by putting his foot down and sprinting to the line. The rest of us collapse in laughter.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Prize-giving starts and is interrupted over and over again by new arrivals who have to brake sharply to avoid the crowd who have stayed to cheer. The ladies winner is Charlotte Black, wearing a jacket that indicates she's travelled down from the Shetlands. Second is Rosie Bell, fresh from her WHW triumph.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">After prize giving finishes, there is still a flurry of runners coming in. I drive two familiar faces up to the railway station as the shuttle bus has finished and miss saying goodbye to Ian, Sandra and Susan, Andy and Jo Rae. It might have also helped if any of us had known where the station actually was and not had to ask a pedestrian.</span><br />
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Nine hours twenty two minutes after leaving Partick, <span style="background-color: white;">Stan arrives with three runners together, all grinning and happy - Noanie, Dave Egan, and Alan.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Then there is the final tidying up session, dismantling of gazebos, more lessons on asthma and running from Soph and a last beer. Behind us we leave some mud where there was previously grass.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">But scattering to the four corners of the compass are 195 runners who've all had a great day, whether they ran 10 miles or 40. The Race Director and her team are pretty happy too...</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Additional photos from Colin Knox, Gerry Craig and Lorn Pearson</span></i><br />
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<br />Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-87586890623828049482012-07-07T22:49:00.001+01:002012-07-07T22:49:17.030+01:00The Wettest West Highland WayWhat a weekend....<br />
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Unlike last year, I'd known for months that I was marshalling this year's WHW race. Early in the year, Sean put out his usual call for "volunteers" and sounded pleasantly surprised when I jumped at the chance of being at Kinlochleven again. Midge central, the longest checkpoint shift ... but from my point of view, the most time to actually see the race come through and past, to watch rather than be frantically busy, time to talk to support crews if not the runners themselves. Being indoors with access to proper toilets and hot water is also a plus, I find...<br />
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In the days running up to the race, the British summer was in full flow. Quite literally. As usual, the declaration in deepest southern England of drought conditions and hosepipe bans prompted the heavens to open and torrential rain to ensue. Scotland seemed to be doing a little better - more than once I found myself leaving Edinburgh airport in bare legs and sunglasses only to arrive in Hampshire sodden and shivering. I'm half-Scottish now; I really should know better.<br />
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In the run-up, the Facebook group page exploded as bored runners tried to fill their taper hours with something other than psychosomatic injuries and frantic list-writing. Have I done enough? Should I go for one last long run? What's this pain in my foot? How do you keep your feet dry in the rain?<br />
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And sadly, the last few names were scored off the start list. How agonising to have to pull out only a day or two before the start.<br />
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John K and I spoke briefly on the Wednesday about the checkpoint and we agreed to change the time process slightly for Kinlochleven, as opposed to earlier checkpoints, to ensure we captured the departure time of runners. Just in case...<br />
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And then ...<br />
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<u>Friday</u><br />
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A day off work and a chance to pack bags and make sure I have everything I need for the checkpoint - pens, highlighters, scissors, food, small clock, change of clothes, midge repellent. Midge repellent! I bought some last year and used it on WHW and the Devils races - it worked superbly, at least on the bits of skin I remembered to apply it to - and I know there's plenty left in the bottle. But I can't find it anywhere. I practically demolish the spare room in trying to find it but it's gone to that place where the "other" odd socks go. A flying trip to the nearest outdoors store where there is the choice of some feeble looking wrist and ankles bands or a bottle of Deet. I lie to the assistant about having used Deet before in other countries and being fully aware of its lethality and safe use.<br />
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There is another slight hiccup to the days plans, although not mine. All the goody bags and merchandise are at Run & Become's store in the West End of Edinburgh to be collected by van today. Unfortunately some builders working on a neighbouring property choose today to discover a WW11 cache of grenade and ammunition and the entire area is sealed off. Immutable Chinese whispers have turned "grenade" into "bomb" and I become quite nervous to calculate that this is only a few hundred yards away from me. The situation is not helped when the heavy rain turns into thunder....<br />
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I'm not going to the start this year. I don't have accommodation booked and I'm still tired from work. Better to get fully prepared here and head across country on the Saturday morning to pick the route up at Crianlarich.<br />
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But FB and Twitter are starting to fill up with excited updates as runners and support crews gather. The Red Wine Runner (supporting Mrs Shanksi this year) is travelling back from Poland and only landing in Edinburgh on the Friday evening. Cutting it fine. But even that is surpassed by the support runner for Keith Hughes who is flying in from Perth (... yes, the one in Western Australia!) on the Friday afternoon, running the later sections with him before returning to Amsterdam on the Sunday afternoon. Unless aliens are planning on joining a future WHW race, there won't be a longer trip to take part than that one...<br />
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I'm not going to Milngavie. I'm not.<br />
<br />
Until about half-ten when I go "F*** it, I'm going". It's only about fifty-odd miles. Each way.<br />
<br />
So I find myself hurtling down the M8, knowing that I'm going to get lost when I turn off the motorway, that the patches of bright sky that still shine in this last hour before midnight are going to disappear behind clouds very soon, and that I really can't bear not to see the race start.<br />
<br />
At Milngavie, the station car park is as packed as ever; cars, vans and motorhomes squeezed into every available parking space and more besides. I can spot the beautiful vintage VW motorhome of Martin Hooper as I walk up to registration. <br />
<br />
It's past midnight and technically registration (in a different and much larger room than last year) is over, but there are still plenty of people milling about, chatting, using the toilets. I'm greeted by John K with a hug and the words "I thought you weren't coming here?" I will hear this several more times tonight...<br />
<br />
Davie Hall is also here and warns me that the A82 lochside road will be busier than usual as the heavy rain has caused another landslip at the Rest and Be Thankful on the A83, resulting in all traffic being diverted past Loch Lomond. As always I'm struck by how many people are working here - registration, goodie bags, merchandise, checkpoint packs, safety teams - all people that the runners will only notice if their jobs are done poorly or not at all. Sean spots me and I find myself agreeing to take scales and timing sheets up to KLL on Saturday - which now means I have an earlier deadline for leaving home after a later night...<br />
<br />
Andy strolls in looking entirely cool in sweatshirt and cut-off denims. I don't think my description of him as my "normal runner" can last much longer and I don't expect to see him at my checkpoint as he should be through whilst I'm trying to rest in Fort William.<br />
<br />
Down in the car park there are so many familiar faces. Last year I knew only two people - only one of which will be here tonight - yet this year, every few moments there is another person greeting me by name with hugs and cheery words. How the world changes in a short twelve months...<br />
<br />
This year I'm close enough to hear Sean's safety briefing clearly. The infamous line "there will be weather" has never been more apt. Although dry now, the forecast is for unremitting rain and showers throughout Saturday. There are very few bare legs or arms on display already. <span style="background-color: white;">The Carnegie girls - Fiona, Pauline and Sue - are wearing ponchos over their bright running clothes. Tim is even more basic, keeping dry under a black bin bag.</span><br />
<br />
Briefings over and more last minute greetings. Sandra introduces me to her crew of Joopsy, Susan and son Stephen. (We have a friendly contest scheduled around wearing heels for the Sunday night party, the choice of which is causing me much anguish.) Antonia looks like an overexcited schoolgirl who can't wait to get going and asks me take a photo of her and her crew. Dave, Lee, Wee Hannah and Mason, this year supporting Martin Hooper and big David Ross on his first WHW race. Lucy supporting Richie as he attempts a third successive victory and already in possession of a cow bell to send the runners off in a cacophony of noise. The Shanksi's down from Stonehaven with RWR and her boyfriend Kynon. Carrie, finally making the start line after two previous years of injury. Probably many more whose names have now blurred from my mind. So many people and all of a sudden it's barely a minute to one and I need to be by the underpass. I want to see the runners set off towards me, rather than looking down on them from the grassy bank.<br />
<br />
Walking through the underpass and the sudden ridiculous thought that this is the one and only time I will ever pass through there at a race start with the likes of Richie and Mike Raffan and Andy <i>behind </i>me.<br />
<br />
There are clusters of people up the steps, at the top of the ascent and even within the underpass - I hope they can run quickly when it starts but Sean walks through clearing the way, making sure everyone understands that the runners route needs to be entirely clear.<br />
<br />
Countdown starts, the tension peaks, then the night explodes with the klaxon and cowbells, and 172 runners - silhouettes against the underpass lighting and their headlights - charge towards me, up the steps and off into the night. <br />
<br />
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<br />
Five minutes later it's raining again.<br />
<br />
<u>Saturday</u><br />
<br />
I collect the scales and paperwork - a brief moment of confusion about whether or not there should be a list of runner's names and numbers - and marvel again how rapidly the car park can empty of vehicles. Heading east in the now heavy rain, the M8 is thick with fog that wasn't there only a few hours before. <br />
<br />
Once home, I'm wide awake and struggle to sleep properly. I wouldn't have missed the start for all the world but it's close to four am before I sleep which isn't a good preparation for the weekend. Ho hum, at least I'm driving and sitting, not running or walking.<br />
<br />
When the alarm goes off only a few hours later, the first thing I do is reach for the ipad and check FB and twitter. I'm bitterly disappointed to see a picture of a red and swollen ankle; the cause of the totally-mad-but-very-lovely Fiona McDonald having to withdraw very early on. (How early on I only discovered later - she fell after barely a mile and a half but plodded on to the next checkpoint to retire). She's cross, frustrated and upset that her race has ended so early - I think I'd be bawling in a ditch somewhere.<br />
<br />
Essential weekend supplies that I haven't yet got include jaffa cakes and Irn-Bru. (The diet is suspended for 48 hours). I nip into a little Tesco's on the way out of town and am delighted to spot Smidge midge-repellent by the tills. I know supermarkets sell everything these days but I wasn't expecting that. A complement to the Deet, I grab a bottle.<br />
<br />
I've forgotten about the Highland Show by the airport and find myself stuck in stationary traffic for far too long. I'm even eyeing up the central reservation, wondering if I can do a u-turn but the numbers of police vehicles around suggest this might not be wise. Come on people, I have a race to get to!<br />
<br />
Even in the worsening weather, there are still the usual dithering tourists on the A82. Yes, your car is capable of travelling at more than 37mph, no, you don't really need to brake every time the road makes a slight bend and it's really sodding bad manners to speed up on the only straight bits of the road that I might be able to overtake on! As for motor-home drivers.... oh dear.<br />
<br />
However the car responds to the occasional request for a burst of speed to fly past the offending vehicles and I manage not to get any later. Poor car - it normally spends all week parked up in Edinburgh, doing less than 20 miles a week. In the last week, it's been driven from Edinburgh to Leicester to Sheffield to Basingstoke to Edinburgh to Milngavie to Edinburgh. And now it's going to Fort William and back.<br />
<br />
Once through Crianlarich I start playing the usual game of trying to spot the runners. In the driving rain there are no bright flashes of colour to be seen out on the Way. Nor are there many walkers it seems. In fact, it's not until I've gone through Tyndrum and climbed up into the valley into Bridge of Orchy that I start to see movement. Mostly dressed in dark clothes with long leggings, there are a few bodies jogging comfortably north along the route. They're too far away from the road (which I am not paying quite enough attention to for the conditions) for me to identify, but when I spy two bare legged runners running together, my brain instinctively says "oh, that's Sharon Law". A moment later, the other part of my brain points out that a) she's not running in the race this year (having been selected to compete for Scotland again in a few weeks) and b) she's heading in the wrong direction. (In the days later I discover that yes, it absolutely was Sharon who, along with the Consanis, decided to come along and have a run south along the WHW to encourage the competitors and make their own unique contribution to the event).<br />
<br />
The rain is relentless now and the visible puddles and mud make it clear that it's been raining all night. At least last year, the race was mostly dry until late Saturday afternoon so the runners covered much of the course before getting sodden - hell, Richie probably never saw the rain at all. This year, they will have been wet and cold all the way through. It's well past midday so that's over eleven hours already. And just ahead of them now is the bleak expanse of Rannoch Moor; not a place to be wet cold and tired on.<br />
<br />
"It's going to be a war of attrition today" I say to Sean when I stop at Bridge of Orchy to see how it'd going. "No need for compulsory check kits though this year" he replies.<br />
<br />
Stupidly I'd thought that the rain might deter the midges but the evil black beasts are ever present, many of the supporters standing on the bridge watching the foaming torrents covered from head to toe, wearing nets. I pick up my race fleece and head onwards, hoping to drop into Glencoe to see Karen R who's marshalling there after breaking a bone in the Fling.<br />
<br />
There are patches of white high up on the mountains - snow not yet melted by the summer of washed away by the rainfall - and up at the ski centre, the weather is no longer vertical rain but horizontal. Camped out on ground to the side of the car park, Karen and George have a gazebo pegged out over the rear of the estate car and a small low tent pitched to the side (the sort that looks like a blown-up sleeping bag). It should be a great idea but the squally wind gusting down from Rannoch Moor is threatening to rip it out of the ground and send it flying down to Glencoe valley. And this is in a position seemingly sheltered by the mountain itself and the trees behind the car park? How bad are conditions out on the moor?<br />
<br />
In between trying to restrain the gazebo, Karen tells me that the first two runners have been through and the third is expected soon; his support crew parked up just down the track. The leader is a runner called Terry Conway; not a name any of us know but there is some association with the Lake District it seems. Added to which, he came through the checkpoint 30 minutes before Richie's time from last year.<br />
<br />
Mental arithmetic time. If Terry can maintain the pace over the Staircase, he'll be in Kinlochleven 30 minutes before Richie was last year. That's 2.40pm less 30 minutes puts him there at 2.10pm. Which is just about the time that Jez Bragg made it when he set the course record... I'm not a stats geek; I only know this because I'd looked up times only a day or two before while agreeing with Lesley what time the checkpoint needed to be open. I'd made a joking remark that 2.00pm would be fine, unless someone was after the record. Looks like someone is...<br />
<br />
Think I better get a move on; it's a long haul round to Kinlochleven through Glencoe. The low fuel light is starting to flash on the dashboard but I suspect I don't have time to stop and fill up. I didn't expect to be racing a runner along this stretch.<br />
<br />
At the community centre, Lesley and the doctor are mostly set up but nervously awaiting the papers and scales. On a "just in case" basis, the surgery scales have been brought over in case I didn't make it in time. There are crews already here and the buzz of an imminent arrival. Peter Duggan wanders in - he's seen some of the times being posted from checkpoints and thinks "something special" might be going to happen. Lesley tells me that it seems Richie has pulled out and I'm disappointed that his run of great finishes and two wins has come to an end.<br />
<br />
Last year I never got to see the leaders at all, this year there's no doubt of it. But even so, I'm still caught a little by surprise when he sprints into the checkpoint. The first thing I register are the shorts and bare legs, hardly the most appropriate for the weather? He looks fast and happy, like he's just jogged a 5k, not 80 hard miles in brutal weather. He's in and out so fast we almost don't catch his time. 12:59 ... Christ, that's ten minutes ahead of Jez.<br />
<br />
A few minutes after he's gone, John K rings to warn us that we may have an early arrival. You're a bit late, I reply, he's been and gone. You do realise that he's ahead of the record? On a day like this?<br />
<br />
John asks if we can text the times of the first three runners through to him so he can update Twitter, and then to start phoning through times in batches. I remind him that I'm leaving for a few hours but Lesley will be in touch.<br />
<br />
I have good intentions but some Australian walkers come into the centre and start asking about the race. They are doing the traditional multi-day walk north and heartily glad to be stopped for the day. Pete keeps them entertained for some time.<br />
<br />
Paul Giblin's crew are waiting for him to come in as second place. Consisting of the Giblin family, they've become a familiar and popular sight at many ultras over the last year or so. On last year's WHW, Paul took a wrong turn coming into the village that cost him an hour in time. His sister tells me about shouting at him in the checkpoint when he was angry with his mistake and needed refocussing. Everyone has fingers crossed that he won't do the same again this year.<br />
<br />
He arrives safely but now an hour behind Terry, having lost time from Glencoe. I wonder if he took the descent a lot slower in a deliberate plan not to get lost. Whatever the reason, it doesn't seem likely he's going to catch the leader; barring a major drama up on the Lharig Mor.<br />
<br />
It's now gone 3.00pm, I need to get away from here. By the time I've bought fuel (the garage owner tries to tell me that this is the first day it's properly rained in Lochaber this year and I really can't decide if he's being truthful or merely bored of telling tourists about the three legged haggis) and queued at the multiple roadworks on the way into Fort William, it doesn't seem likely I'm going to get any sleep this afternoon. Just as well when JK gets his phone numbers mixed up and phones me twice (on two different phones) trying to call the checkpoint.<br />
<br />
Before leaving we'd debated long about Terry's possible arrival time into the finish line. Jez's record is 15:44 but with what is widely held to be an incredibly fast final 14 miles. I probably <i>should</i> go straight back to Kinlochleven but I'm only a half mile away from the leisure centre and it seems crazy to miss what may be the only year I ever get to see a race winner. As for seeing that record broken...<br />
<br />
As I park up, I'm really sad to see Sandra standing on the steps with her crew. I was under strict instructions to give her a hug at Kinlochleven and then kick her out. Same as last year, her ankles have let her down. But this time much earlier and she pulled herself out at Auchtertyre. She's smiling but there's an undercurrent of bitter disappointment in her voice.<br />
<br />
There is a moment of panic when a large 4x4 parks in the line of sight across the car park. I trot over to stand on the grass bank where I can see down the road. Someone else is far more pragmatic and asks the driver to move.<br />
<br />
There are crew down on the pavement watching out for the winner, I keep scanning my watch as the seconds tick away. Oh god, it's getting close. Why don't I have a watch that tells the time properly instead of making me guess at the minutes and seconds?<br />
<br />
Suddenly there's a frantic semaphore from down on the road. He's coming! I yell across to the waiting group at the centre doors. No doubt now, the record has gone. Here he is, flying across the car park at a pace most 5k runners would envy, up the steps, greeted by Ian and the whooping and hollering of the small group who have just witnessed something very special.<br />
<br />
15 hours 39 minutes 15 seconds<br />
<br />
95 miles in horrendous weather<br />
<br />
Jubilation over, I call Lesley to tell her the news - you have no idea how many times we'll get asked about finishing times through the night - and reassure her that I'm on my way back. On the drive alongside the loch, I even see a patch of blue sky and sunshine. It doesn't last long.<br />
<br />
Back at the checkpoint, there have been about nine runners through, including the first withdrawal - sadly from the third placed runner. How frustrating to be doing so well, but to have to pull out through injury. Despite the fast pace of the early runners, this is a lot fewer through than the same time last year. No women either; this time last year Kate had been and gone, with Debbie and Sharon not far behind, showing why they run in their country's colours this summer.<br />
<br />
Two runners - Charlie and Ed - come in exactly together. This is unusual for this position in the field, normally it's much further back that runners group together for moral support. I assume it's a fluke of timing and only much later do I realise they've covered the entire course side by side, finishing in joint 10th position.<br />
<br />
The clock ticks over at six o'clock, allowing competitors to have a support runner, being four hours since the leader. Only one person has even asked about this so far and sounded quite relieved that their runner was too early, clearly not relishing the threat of 14 miles in the continuing weather.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later the first lady is through. Rosie Bell, I know the name if not the person. Hot on her heels, barely a minute behind is the second, Gaynor Prior. (Before I came to Scotland I'd never heard of ultras but, to reinforce the small world concept, Gaynor lives in the small village next to the small village I spent sixteen years living in prior to moving to Edinburgh.) Gaynor's crew asks about the permissibility of a support runner, Rosie's doesn't and the two women leave, mere seconds apart, but one with a support and one without. This prompts some debate in the checkpoint - is there an advantage to having the moral support of a de facto pacer? Should there be a separate time period applied to the women - these two will not take overall placings, but they are certainly competing for the ladies' prize. <br />
<br />
Shortly after Ross Moreland comes through, there is a lull in the incoming runners and I take the opportunity to phone John and give him timings for the runners that have come through already. He's also able to confirm to us the runners who have withdrawn earlier in the course; some familiar names among them, amongst them David Ross, Bob Steel, Louise Jones. So disappointed that people I know and like have been defeated by the day.<br />
<br />
I start to spot familiar faces in the support crews - brown clad HBT girls supporting Carrie on her "third time lucky" race entry, HappyG supporting Andy... wait a minute he should have been and gone already? No, he's had a bad section and struggled for some distance. But when he arrives at the checkpoint, looking utterly bedraggled in a red waterproof, he still has the character to strike a pose as he comes through the doors. Right now shift your arse out of here and go get that goblet, Mr Normal Runner!<br />
<br />
Antonia is also having a tough time and I spend quite some time chatting to her fiancee Scott. I've seen him at a few races but not really spoken; this evening we have a united desire to see the small blonde New Zealander collect her first goblet. Unfortunately I actually miss her coming through the checkpoint as I've gone on a food run to the neighbouring chippy to get supplies for myself and Lesley!<br />
<br />
My apologies to the runners who came through while we were eating chips - we did try to keep them out of sight, but the delicious smell was irrepressible!<br />
<br />
More familiar faces: Terry Addison (the first of the Kirky crazies) and his support crew, Peter Macdonald whose wife (and final section support runner tonight) Heather I first met on the banks of the River Ayr late last summer. The checkpoint's starting to get busier with both crews and runners avoiding the continuing rain by heading indoors. Peter Duggan has been out for a run along the route (other than this, he spends almost the entire night at the checkpoint - even when you don't run the race, it still has its hooks into you, it seems...) and spots a familiar face amongst the crews. I know less than nothing about mountain climbing (other than that I get vertigo on a step ladder and have absolutely no desire to find out what effect a cliff face or narrow ridge would have on me) but apparently "Scotland's best climber" is part of a runner's support team.<br />
<br />
Donald arrives in the infamous and legendary tartan shorts. And he's incoherently talking complete and utter gibberish. I'm half convinced his wife Elaine is going to pull him from the race but she tells me he's actually in better state than last year. I'm decidedly unconvinced by this, especially when he picks up my bottle of Deet and repeatedly sprays it directly into his face. Um, I'm really *not* sure that's edible.... Once again I'm astounded by what this race can do to people mentally and physically.<br />
<br />
And what not so normal people can do in return.<br />
<br />
Into the later hours of the evening and the "rush hour" begins. Runners come through every few minutes in varying states of physical and mental energy. Last year Lesley and I took it in turns to look after runners; this year we're joining forces and most people get the two of us working as a tag team - I bring the runner to the scales and call out their number and weight, Lesley reads off the race time and writes it down. This year the cards are in zip-loc bags - a great idea to keep them dry, but a bloody pain in the arse to get open. More than one gets ripped apart in frustration, sometimes even by the marshals.<br />
<br />
I get to have a craic with most runners, be it teasing them about how effective their diet has been (when they're showing a weight loss), promising them there's "only a half marathon left" (well, give or take a mile or so), making a younger male runner blush when I tell him not to strip off too far before he gets on the scales. And occasionally there are slightly sharper questions, maybe asking runners for their childrens' dates of birth when the scales show a weight gain and they're showing signs of tiredness that may just be the result of 80 miles hard work in twenty-plus hours, or may be the start of a serious physical problem...<br />
<br />
Around this time, the casualties start coming in and the doctor starts patching up blisters and soreness. Through the night I will see far too many feet that have been wet for twenty four hours or more; it's really not a pretty sight... But there are also an increasing number coming in with painful ankles and shins. Much later when we talk about it, the consensus is that the wet and slippy conditions have put massively increased strains on the soft tissues around the ankles in trying to keep the body stable on unstable terrain. Unlike last year, there will be a lot of withdrawals at this final checkpoint; runners who recognise that they can go no further, that the weather and their bodies have said enough. It's bitterly sad to watch - one young runner is practically in tears when I cut off his wristband and all I want to do is hug him and tell him it's okay. Instead I ask if he wants to see the doctor and help him through.<br />
<br />
At times during the night, the checkpoint looks like a casualty station with bodies stretched out on chairs, on the floor. But there are no major issues and no summons for the doctor from the mountain rescue team either. The bad weather is presumably keeping many of the tourists off the paths and summits.<br />
<br />
Karen and George are in, whilst waiting for Johnny Fling to arrive. Right now, Karen has the thing I most want in the world - ginger beer. Fabulous. When John arrives, he is as cheerful and mad as ever. (I have since seen a race photo of him dancing in the rain at Inversnaid ... it sums him up perfectly). He wants to stop and chat but his support team are having none of it: "No time for that!" and he's hustled out the door with George's foot only a metaphorical inch from his backside.<br />
<br />
Adrian Stott (of Run and Become) arrives. A man who has a very large collection of race finishes, some from the years when that didn't earn you a goblet, merely the satisfaction of knowing what you had achieved. When he ran the winter ultra last December, I'm sure he said that it was his first ultra in several years. Some things the body - and mind - doesn't forget. Although, rather inappropriately for a member of the race committee, he's not easy to pin down long enough to get onto the scales and his weight card retrieved!<br />
<br />
Midnight comes and goes without us even noticing. This time last year, there were only isolated runners coming through and it wasn't difficult for Lesley to leave around one. Tonight we're still busy with the weather slowing most of the pack down. It will be nearly 2.30am before she leaves and only then because I convince her to. In the few minutes between arrivals, I'm trying to keep up with Facebook and Twitter to get the race news. With no wi-fi signal, this is being done on the work's Blackberry. I have yet to confess to my boss but will no doubt have to do so when the bill arrives.<br />
<br />
Kynon arrives to wait for Mrs Shanksi, the rest of her crew with her on the long walk over the Devil's Staircase. We chat for some time but he's looking exhausted, as do many of the support crews. When he gets a text indicating what time they will be arriving, I suggest he lies down on one of the mattresses in the sports hall and sleeps for an hour or so. I promise to wake him before Vicky's due in (he's under orders to have a cup of tea waiting) and warn him that he'll be evicted from the bed if it's needed for a casualty. We all worry and fret about the runners being awake and on the go for so many hours but the time frame is just as bad for the support crews. No wonder so many of the old hands use two crews.<br />
<br />
John K had told me he wouldn't be at Kinlochleven but has been convinced to visit by Dino, the Race Princess and legendary Race Control of previous years. Added to which he wants to see the progress of some of his local runners, mostly Silke and Caroline, who are hunting their first goblets after years of supporting their respective husbands. Mostly he's enjoying the new challenge of Race Control but his logical mind is immensely frustrated by runners who seem to vanish at one checkpoint, only to appear at a later one. Or worse, those who he has been told pulled out at Glencoe but are still coming into Kinlochleven as competitors. Sometimes it's like herding cats...<br />
<br />
When Silke arrives, her crew seat her at the end of the pool table we are using as our marshal station and fuss around her. She looks like a queen holding court. She also looks like a woman on a mission; nothing is going to come between her and her goblet this weekend.<br />
<br />
Just before 1am Fiona Rennie arrives. She's probably the only runner outside the top ten to have the same arrival and departure time, standing still only long enough to be weighed. I haven't learnt yet, I instinctively still ask her crew to let me know when she leaves, only to be told "Ah'm going now". Another warrior queen that will stop for nothing before Fort William.<br />
<br />
Ten minute later, a dark-haired woman hobbles into the centre on stiff unbending legs but with the widest smile. She's the tiniest slip of a thing, in a field of small and slender athletes and I swear she barely reaches my waist in height. How can this tiny creature cover 95 miles? But Lesley will complete her race, even if she doesn't manage to collect her goblet in person.<br />
<br />
After ten, every runner leaving the checkpoint is supposed to be accompanied, either by their own support runner or by buddying up with another competitor. It's not actually easy to police, but many runners are with their support by the time they reach us anyway. Even so, we spot a couple who seem to be leaving alone. They're pulled back and reminded of the rules. The explanation is a little challenging when the runner (Paul?) appears to speak no English, but the message is finally understood and his son gets changed into wet weather running gear to go with him.<br />
<br />
Not long after 2.00am there is a kerfuffle at the door and Caroline arrives in the midst of her support crew. In over a year of marshalling I don't think I've ever seen a runner in such a state; she can't walk or talk, seems barely conscious, and it takes three of us to keep her upright on the scales. I've practically written DNF on the list already. But Neal her husband is adamant she'll be fine and bears her away to a chair where she's surrounded by the dozen or so family and friends making up her support crew.<br />
<br />
The doctor goes over to investigate and catches her as she falls from the chair. Sweeping her up, he carries her into the sports hall and lies her down on a mattress to sleep, ordering that she's not to be disturbed.<br />
<br />
I've thought through this many times since. I'm not a doctor or a nurse; I have no medical training beyond basic workplace first aid. I'm not a runner, I can't draw on my own experience. But throughout the time that Caroline is in the checkpoint, I can't conceive that she is going to be capable of walking out of the building, never mind covering the 14 miles to the end. Her crew are determined she's going to continue but I can't help wondering if they're projecting their own determination onto a body that's defeated. Are they going to carry her over the Mor? Even with the benefit of hindsight, I still think that - had I been at that checkpoint alone without medical support - I would have refused to let her continue. Not that I think I know better, but that I think it would take considerable medical skill to have been sure that there is nothing seriously wrong with her; that continuing is not going to cause her serious harm. Or worse.<br />
<br />
Ultimately I don't have to make that decision. Doc Ellis talks to her at length once she wakes up and has eaten. Whilst still a little groggy, she can now talk and move without support. His verdict is that she is exhausted, nothing more, nothing less. There are enough people going over the next section with her to be able to carry her out without risking a rescue crew. It's his call to let her continue but I still fret over her until prize-giving the next day. As does he; when he comes into the Nevis Centre, his first question to me is "did she make it?" having first been to the Belford Hospital to see if she was there. The answer is yes, Caroline now has her first goblet.<br />
<br />
I haven't heard her post-race podcast yet. I've been saving it until after I finish this. I think it's going to be fascinating to hear how many different ways a scenario can appear to the people present.<br />
<br />
I'm delighted to see Fiona McD in the checkpoint. Although out of the race herself, she's now joined Vicky O'Reilly's support crew and cheering everyone up around her. Vicky is limping slightly and the doctor is highly amused by the sight of one injured runner being supported round the checkpoint by another even-more-injured runner.<br />
<br />
We're down to the last few runners now. Before he arrives, Charles Gordon's support crew warn us that he's suffering with his feet and is "a bit grumpy". Ah, no wisecracks at the scales for him then. In an unusual piece of medical practice, the doctor offers to craft some temporary orthotics to support his battered feet over the final stretch. Peter (who will be there until we close) fetches some from home that can be adapted as required. But even after all this, and a period of rest, finally Charles has to decide that he can't carry on.<br />
<br />
The final support crew arrive in the shape of Dave W and Dino. Mrs Mac and Wee Hannah are sleeping in the car, DQ is out on the trail, coaching Hooper over long slow painful miles. It's a long wait in the growing light and we eat cake and drink coffee.<br />
<br />
Twenty-seven hours and 39 minutes after leaving Milngavie, Hooper shuffles his way down the drive and into the centre. We have already agreed that he will use every last minute available to him by resting, then leaving at fifteen minutes after five, the last possible time for a runner to clear the checkpoint. But when the time comes, he can't walk. Heartbreakingly, this is the end of the race for him; a man in such physical pain, he flinches with every pulse of blood through his aching and battered feet. <br />
<br />
The fast guys and girls, they make it look easy. But don't ever let anyone tell you that's true - this sport will take you and do its best to destroy you physically and mentally. It's tough at the back.<br />
<br />
The checkpoint finally closes at 5.45am after I've tidied up, washed up and bagged the lost and found items. Breakfast at the doctors' again, deliver scales, stopwatch and paperwork to the finish line, then finally back to the hotel.<br />
<br />
<u>Sunday</u><br />
<u><br /></u><br />
A little sleep, never enough and it's time to get down to the prize-giving. Unlike last year, it's cold and grey still and I choose to drive the few hundred yards. Even there, there are still more things to be done. Goblets to be taken out of their crates and stacked onto the table, race merchandise to be unpacked and sorted.<br />
<br />
Adrian is there in his capacity as runner, as shopkeeper and as reporter for Scottish Athletics. Barely hours after running 95 miles. My respect goes up another notch and I mentally slap myself for feeling tired and whingy.<br />
<br />
Hopefully I will see this many times in the future and I suspect it will always be something special, something unlike any other event. And every year, I suspect there will be those few things that cause the audience to cheer a little louder. This year, there are new champions and a new record to be cheered for, there is a special award for Dino in recognition of her ten years service to the race, there is Ada collecting her goblet in a wheelchair, there is a cheer for Lesley who cannot collect her goblet as she's been admitted to hospital. But the loudest and longest may well be for Pauline Walker (Fiona's twin) as she joins the exclusive ten club, being the first woman to complete ten WHW races.<br />
<br />
Afterwards I help Adrian sell t-shirts and fleeces and buffs and barely get to talk to anyone as they drift off.<br />
<br />
Despite my tiredness, I don't<span style="background-color: white;"> sleep in the afternoon, which is not the best preparation for the evening social at the Nevis Bar. But I mooch along in my best Stella McCartney heels (Sandra and I agree that we have a draw on the heels contest) expecting to last an hour or so.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Ian greets me with the words "So are you running it next year?" That man has a very strange sense of humour...</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
There are lots of drinks and chat and gossip and fizzy stuff with Sandra (we tried for champagne but it obviously wasn't that sort of place...). There are friends and family old and new. I even cope with England going out of the football (it was to Italy, I have divided loyalties!). And sometime after midnight, the bar staff finally throw us out.<br />
<br />
Just to prove what a warped sense of humour Mother Nature has in the Highlands, I wake to bright sunshine and blue skies at 4.30am.<br />
<br />
See you next year? I'm sure we're due a dry one...<br />
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<br />Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-7777213610704362242012-05-24T19:39:00.000+01:002012-05-24T19:39:49.099+01:00A Far-Off FlingI've been told off - there was no Fling blog. Mea culpa, I've been busy, I've been travelling and working too hard, I kept on thinking I'd do it tomorrow or maybe next week or sometime, there's other stuff going on in life. But like running, the first step out of the door is the hardest, so here we are. A few weeks late but someone has to be last don't they?<br />
<br />
This is (sort of) my birthday race. A year ago I hauled myself up Conic Hill and watched my first competitive ultra. All the things, all the people that's led me to...<br />
<br />
Stupidly I made no arrangements for accommodation before or after the race. Work is ... interesting ... at the moment and I was struggling to predict where I'd be on the Friday, knowing only that there wasn't a cat in hell's chance of me not taking a day off. I didn't catch up with John Duncan (the new Race Director) until nearly a week before the event, finally agreeing that I'd be on finish line duties. Deja vu all over again. But this year there would definitely be no Katrina Kynaston; this year she had moved over to the dark side and was running the Fling herself.<br />
<br />
I looked to see if there was any late accommodation but not a chance. The two "big" hotels in Tyndrum take only coach parties, not individual bookings and Tyndrum Lodge had been full for months. I grizzled on Facebook and Bill Heirs offered a spare bed in his room at the By The Way Hostel. Great - no need for a long drive home and a chance for a few drinks afterwards. Don't think I've stayed at a hostel since primary school trips but everyone raves about By The Way; it'll be fine...<br />
<br />
Friday saw me in London, doing battle with the DLR and Tube and thinking wistfully of how much better the scenery and people were going to be 24 hours later. In the early evening I sat at City Airport, watching increasingly frustrated status updates from would-be Flingers trying to fly from Heathrow and Gatwick into Glasgow. And the early notes and photos from the latest mad jaunt of George and Karen on the first leg of their down and up Fling double...<br />
<br />
A slightly late start on the Saturday morning, bags packed and I'm heading west for the first time this year. Too early for midgies, the sun is blazing down with the promise of another glorious day. Does the Fling have a booking for it, a deal with Mother Nature to show several hundred runners western Scotland at its magnificent best?<br />
<br />
In no time at all I'm at Tyndrum, bumping down the road to Lower Tyndrum station (despite being a tiny settlement, Tyndrum has two railway stations. On two entirely separate lines that have no connection; to travel from one to the other by rail involves a journey of several hundred miles) past the finish line. Already there are a few people here unloading boxes and vans, starting to deal with the finishing arch.<br />
<br />
I intended to go and have lunch at the Real Food Cafe - maybe to have the chips I never yet ate - but I introduce myself to a man who looks enough like John to clearly be a relevant. I make the fatal mistake of asking if there is anything I can do to help and find myself eyeing up two tarpaulins and a pile of finish bags that range from small supermarket carrier bags to full scale suitcases. There are nearly 500 individual runners in the Fling and another 200 or so in the relay teams. It looks like each and every one of them has sent a bag through to the finish line...<br />
<br />
So myself and another set to work trying to lay them out in some type of order. Most have numbers attached (in varying degrees of clarity and accessibility), some have nothing and will just go into a pile together - hopefully the runner will have enough wit left after 53 miles to recognise their own, if not enough to put a number on in the first place. <br />
<br />
Many of the bags have names on as well and I'm quite stunned by how many I recognise. This world of Scottish ultras is small; slightly too large to be a family but perhaps a small tribe instead.<br />
<br />
When all this is done, I retrieve a can of ginger beer from the car and wander back to the finish point where the arch is now up and tethered. I'm torn between sadness and delight to see the familiar faces of George and Karen. Two of the nicest people I know, I'm always happy to see them, but they should be out on the Way, heading north with the other runners. Instead they pulled out overnight, after George fell on the the southbound leg and hurt his knee. No doubt he carried on for many more miles than any sane person would but eventually decided that the damage and pain were beyond dealing with. So no double and no Fling. But Karen tells me of looking at the stars blazing down on them and the snow-topped hills during the night and you remember that, much of the time, the journey far outweighs the destination.<br />
<br />
Then I really am back where it all started, looking at a table with stacks of boxes and bags on. Embryonic goody bags - those things you get handed at the end of a race containing food and vouchers and alcohol and magnets. And every one of them needs to be packed. Several hundred of them for this race. So time to get going on it. Get a head start now, before any finishers, and hopefully we'll never run out, even though I'll still be packing as darkness falls into the evening... Time for the women to start a production line... Even Muriel is here again, packing bags before starting her stint as finish line photographer (not a role I ever wish to sign up for after my incompetence at the D33).<br />
<br />
<br />
This year, the Fling is sponsored by Hoka, makers of the controversial running shoes. To celebrate they've sent their sponsored runners to compete. An interesting dynamic to add these semi-professional runners to the predictions - this year there are no Consanis, no Jez, no Kate or Lucy, in some ways the most open contest for a while, in others the most obscure.<br />
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One of the weird things about the Fling is the staggered start times. It makes perfect sense - and you can't possibly deal with letting 500+ runners loose in Milngavie at once - but it also means that the first person to cross the finish line isn't necessarily the winner. Even more confusingly, there is an option for the older men to join the last wave which leaves at 8am rather than their scheduled 6am or 7am start. Add in the relay teams and it makes it all far too confusing to follow. There is also a problem with the chip timing system: the information from the earlier checkpoints feeds to a server in Holland which is not issuing any data. Without this vital piece of technology, Race Control has no idea what's happening down the course<br />
<br />
Not surprisingly however the first arrival - signalled as always by the sounds of the piper echoing up the path (and a radio call from George on the bridge) - is Emma Roca, the Hoka female runner. There is a camera crew interviewing all the early finishers, which I assume is for some Hoka promotional material but never really find out.<br />
<br />
Not far behind are the second and third females; an Irish sounding girl I don't recognise and Sharon Law, looking as pretty and unexerted as ever. Somewhere there is a bad photo of that girl, but it probably doesn't involve her wearing running gear...<br />
<br />
The first man to finish is Thomas, the Crazy German, who really can't have that nickname much longer, having been selected to run for Scotland later in the summer. This year there are no medical dramas only a few hundred yards from the line and he finishes with a wide grin to be greeted by the Consani family who are his support crew today, Silke his wife is also running the full Fling ahead of her first assault on the WHW next month.<br />
<br />
The mens winner arrives later; someone I've heard of but not met or seen before. Scott Bradley who features heavily in the Adventure Show episode about the WHW Race from a few years ago. He was taken seriously ill after a Hardmoors ultra last year but is now back and racing very well. His father, who has been at the finish for some time and also seems to know everyone, looks very relieved. Scott just looks happy...<br />
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As well as sponsored runners, Hoka have a stall at the finish promoting their product. In the gaps between arrivals, I get talking to one of the team. He tells me that Ludo (their male runner) is not keen on the route, it's "too flat". I make a strange strangled noise... My legs still remember Conic Hill from twelve months ago and all the photos of the ups and downs alongside the Loch and the "roller-coaster" into Crianlarich. "Too flat"???? But after a few more questions, I realise that for some people, anything that doesn't involve going up and down mountains is "flat". I'm stunned and impressed ... and realise how little I still know.<br />
<br />
There's bad news from down the course. One of the women - Ellen - has taken a bad fall near Loch Lomond. It's not clear if she's broken or dislocated her shoulder and there's a long wait for an ambulance, which is not surprising in the location. Despite the heat of the day, both she, and Santa who stopped with her, are struggling to keep warm whilst immobile. Those little metallic heat blankets have since become mandatory kit for the WHW.<br />
<br />
In the early stages, the finishers arrive singly with gaps and there's time to keep an eye out for runners I know. Richie finishes well; whereas last year he was greeted at the finish by his new girlfriend, this year he has a wife and son to welcome him. It's nice to see that fatherhood hasn't slowed him down and I can't help thinking what he's going to achieve in the WHW...<br />
<br />
The lovely Antonia arrives about ten to four. <br />
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For someone only starting her second season of ultras, she's delivering some great performances. Even more interestingly, she's the youngest contestant in the WHW by far. I think back to a drunken conversation at the SUMS presentation last year debating that many of the top Scottish runners only moved to the distance at a much older age - how much better might they be if they had started in their 20's, at the alleged peak of their physical fitness?<br />
<br />
Just behind her is Andy, my "normal" runner from the Devils. Also the man whose tongue in cheek advice led me to run my fastest ever mile a few weeks earlier. Although older than Antonia, he's another newcomer to the distance still learning how good he can be.<br />
<br />
Soon after this the runners start coming thick and fast and I lose sight of who's finishing. I'm also that bit further away from the roadway and have no sightline through the crowds of finishers and supporters.<br />
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Though I do hear the roar when John and Katrina finish. Katrina is a pace or two ahead and I'm sure John is <i>far</i> too much of a gentleman to claim he allowed her to do so. </div>
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Runners arrive in all states and conditions, some battered and bruised, some almost beaten but most managing to run the last few hundred yards up to the finish line. But one of the most striking has to be the runner who arrives in buff, shorts and shoes and nothing else. I'm told he ran the entire course in this state of undress...</div>
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No race would be complete without the Carnegie colours. And no race on the WHW without Fiona and Pauline, on this occasion finishing with Sue in a blaze of smiles as bright as their club vests and as Scottish as the mini-kilts.</div>
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The sunshine lasts all day ... until there's a blast of hail during the prize-giving as dusk starts to fall. I'm still packing and handing out bags, cursing the boxes of pink fizz that have to be opened and lifted. My back and legs are aching, proving my lack of fitness.<br />
<br />
And as day turns to evening, people finally drift off. There are still a few runners out on the course, not least the two Daves who are sweeping the final stretch from Beinglas<br />
<br />
But most of all, out there still is the legend that is Ray McCurdy on his 100th ultra. <br />
It's not over until the fat lady sings. <br />
It's not over until Ray crosses the finish line...<br />
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He keeps us waiting but finally...<br />
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Despite the shortness of my day, I feel I could sleep for a week. But I also feel like celebrating with the "family" so time to find my berth, maybe change some clothes and head up to the ceilidh. Bill's told me which cabin we're in, and I know Fiona McD and McRae are here as well. Unfortunately by the time I get there, it's locked and empty. Ah....<br />
<br />
Too tired to think, I abandon my bags on the porch and go hunting. There is no sign of any of them in Paddy's Bar so I go looking for the village hall. I <i>think</i> it's up behind Brodie's store which is a very dark path by now. Then I can hear the noise of a party and there we are. <br />
<br />
White wine, veggie curry and rice (other than a cup of soup, my first food of the day), friends to talk to and all is right with the world. I no doubt talk nonsense at some point, getting carried away by the adrenalin of the day, but I do at least have the wit not to dance. Fiona is here, and somehow Bill is texting George whilst I'm sat at the same table so I know I will be able to get into the cabin to sleep later.<br />
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There is a presentation for Ray for his achievement - only a few other people have ever achieved 100 ultras. Amongst the awards is free entry to the SUMS races for life, so maybe there will be a lot more than 100... however I think the McCurdy sandwich is the highlight of Ray's night...<br />
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Too long living in the city has left me entirely unprepared for the fact that the road to the hostel is unlit and therefore pitch black at the wrong side of midnight. I manage not to fall over any kerbs or bounce into any cars but it's close. Back at the cabins, I'm totally horrified to discover that I am sleeping in a bunk. A top bunk.<br />
<br />
Climbing into a top bunk may be fun when you're a small skinny child. When you're overweight and middle aged, it's bloody awkward and alarmingly creaky. I also feel guilty about disturbing the three people who have run 53 miles each today.<br />
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There also isn't any bed linen. Due to my own stupidity I don't have a sleeping bag either. Oh well, I'll sleep in my clothes with the single blanket I have in my bag. Good plan. But it's absolutely fecking freezing. I'm told I did sleep briefly as I snored very loudly - I don't remember sleeping at all. When I start shivering to the point that I'm shaking the bunk unit, I realise I can't spend the night like that. Whilst it's cold outside, I swear it's warmer than inside the cabin.<br />
<br />
The toilet/shower block is warm but rank and damp - I can't stay there. But there is a kitchen room in the same building and I doze on a plastic chair. As dawn breaks, I have an inspiration, filling and boiling the kettle to turn it into a hot water bottle. And so Fiona finds me later, hugging a kettle. I fear I may never hear the last of it...<br />
<br />
Next time, better planning....<br />
<br />
I didn't make the Cateran race. But judging by reports, I missed a great weekend. Next year.<br />
<br />
And in just over four weeks, I'll be at Kinlochleven again. I can't wait.<br />
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<i>photos from Muriel and George</i><br />
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<br />Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-29668867258302763792012-03-25T23:06:00.000+01:002012-03-25T23:06:29.874+01:00Out of HibernationI feel like a dormouse that slept through the winter, curled into a cozy nest somewhere sleeping and dreaming of spring, waiting for the next race to come.<br />
<br />
While I was waiting I completed the Marcothon by running every day of December. It wasn't fast and it wasn't pretty - running in a howling gale at Shap summit on the dark of Christmas Eve was perhaps not the most pleasant running experience of my life but it was much better when it was over!<br />
<br />
And then ... finally ... the first race of the SUMS series, the D33 up in Aberdeen, organised by the lovely but mad George. I wasn't going. Really, I wasn't. But it didn't take a great deal of encouragement from a few people to persuade me to offer my services and book up for a weekend in Deeside.<br />
<br />
George gave me the option of helping at the halfway point or being race photographer. I chose the camera duties thinking it would give me the chance to mooch in lots of places and see the start and finish, as well as maybe a few other points on the route. For the last two years, race photos have been taken by the talented Annette but this year she was running instead. Blimey ... I met Annette on Conic Hill in the Fling last year when she was feeding blueberries to Mike and I was sure she'd only run "shorter" distances then, 10k or maybe a half. This is what hanging around with ultra-runners does to you; you start thinking it's normal...<br />
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There seemed to be so many people I knew entering this as their first ultra, either as a challenge to make the first step up to the beyond-marathon distance, or even as a <b><i>very </i></b>long slow training run for a Spring marathon. It's "only" 33 miles, it's flat, it's fun, there's cake at every stop and beer at the finish. What more could you want?<br />
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Friday night and my Facebook home page is full of people announcing that they're in Aberdeen or Stonehaven. I'm still in Edinburgh and wishing I'd booked for two nights, but also knowing that I would never have made it north when I didn't make it back from work until nearly eight. Another 4.30am alarm call which is becoming almost routine.<br />
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It's dark when I wake up with the faintest lightening of the sky on the eastern horizon. It's definitely spring with early mornings that most of the world will never see. As I drive over the Forth, the rail bridge is glowing pink in the early dawn, beautiful and magnificent.<br />
<br />
On the road bridge, the traffic is down to a single lane in each direction and already busy. Overhead, engineers are carrying out emergency works to replace two failed bolts on the top of the northern tower. I know too much about this bridge, about the bolts and bearings that hold it together and allow it to move with the wind and weather, about the cables that pull the platforms into place that are gradually unravelling and snapping. Yet this bridge is barely 50 years old and already dying, unlike the much older iconic red rail bridge next to it now wearing its new coat of paint and finally giving the lie to the definition of a never-ending task.<br />
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The mist and darkness fall away as I head north up the eastern coast, through another part of this country I've never visited before, leaving a glorious early morning of blue skies and blazing sunshine. I'm very glad I remembered the sunglasses. <br />
<br />
What I didn't remember were the gloves which comes as a bit of a shock when I get out of the car at Duthie Park. Hmm, mid-March in Scotland, this really shouldn't be a shock!<br />
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At the edge of the carpark, I find George and Karen setting up the race paraphernalia from a large white van, with a few helpers. There are frames to be erected, canopies to be hauled up and fastened down, generators to be set up, arches to be erected, trestle tables to be set up, race numbers and pins organised, lists, lists and more lists, t-shirts, high-viz jackets, enough food to feed the five thousand... Karen greets me with a big hug and I am allowed to help with a few small tasks ahead of registration, and also take a few photos of the calm before the storm. Well ... I think I do, but the camera has other ideas on the subject, although it doesn't see fit to tell me any of this for a few hours ... more later on this.<br />
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As runners start to arrive to register, I drift into helping with the on the day registration, of which there are a surprising number. Surely no-one just wakes up on a Saturday morning and thinks "oh I'll go and race 33 miles today", do they? Then Ross Moreland turns up and proves that, yes, some people do exactly that...<br />
<br />
Despite the high number of first-timers in the race, I think I probably know every third or fourth person in the registration queues, even though some I've only known on-line to this point. Among the new friends I'm delighted to finally meet properly is Rhona, the <a href="http://redwinerunner.co.uk/" target="_blank">Red Wine Runner</a>, running her first ultra only a few months after the frustrations of her first marathon.<br />
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Among the ultra stalwarts is the legendary Ray McCurdy, seeking to pay his entry fee to hopefully complete his 99th ultra today. George is having none of this and insists on him taking a free entry.<br />
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<br />
<br />
George calls all the marshals together for a briefing, followed by a team photo. We all have "A Games Legacy for Scotland" t-shirts - even George who recognises that his "D33 - Do Epic Shit" t-shirt is unlikely to feature in any mainstream media - which results in some slightly undignified changing. As usual, sizing is a little on the miserly side, and my "female - large" is rather tight and unforgiving. Amongst the team is Andrew Murray, in his first weeks of a post with the Scottish Government promoting physical activity. He was down to run the race but I register only that he's in jeans and clearly not dressed to compete. Only when he tells me that he was hit by a taxi the day before, do I notice the stitches in his forehead, black eye and wrist bandage. My observation skills are second to none...<br />
<br />
George wants photos of the runners coming out through the park gates - when they will still be heavily grouped together - before they turn onto the Deeside Way proper and one of the locals walks me through the park to show me the place. I'll miss the race start proper but will have the joy of seeing the pack hurtling towards me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ljBGz-lB0F8/T2hIt_U_4DI/AAAAAAAAAHg/3JgJLelC2M0/s1600/race+start+(Muriel).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ljBGz-lB0F8/T2hIt_U_4DI/AAAAAAAAAHg/3JgJLelC2M0/s320/race+start+(Muriel).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Race start (Photo by Muriel D)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I find a perfect vantage point just outside the gate and jealously fend off any unwise drivers who contemplate parking there. A minute or so after nine, I see and hear the horde approaching, raise the camera to capture Grant and the following pack, click, and ... "memory full" it bleeps. What the....? Click. Bleep. Oh f***, oh f***, oh f***, oh f***... If you heard this, I apologise... *blushes*<br />
<br />
I sprint to the pillar where I've tucked my bag, grab my mobile and manage to capture a few of the later runners emerging from the park. Some race photographer I'm turning out to be. :-(<br />
<br />
Then it's back across the park to the start line to meet up with Jim who is going to lead me to the 6-mile point for the next photo opportunity. As I walk (and drive, oops) I'm trying to delete photos from the camera, discovering in the process that I don't have a single photo from the early morning. Bloody machine! <br />
<br />
Despite an awkward right turn out of the car park (where did all these vehicles come from? ... 200 runners probably) and the inevitable snail-paced Micra on the country roads, we make it to the crossing by half nine. Across the road Nywanda is setting up the Fetchpoint with yet more food. A quick mental calculation tells me that Grant is likely to be here within 5-6 minutes. I don't know who else will be with him, if anyone.<br />
<br />
Almost exactly on cue, the lead bike arrives, closely followed by Grant and another runner. His face is familiar to me but not well known, and I can't put a name to him immediately.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oK4vAR0R_Kw/T2hIrNdj29I/AAAAAAAAAHM/cTUJb6-uErk/s1600/Grant+++Gareth+at+6+miles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oK4vAR0R_Kw/T2hIrNdj29I/AAAAAAAAAHM/cTUJb6-uErk/s320/Grant+++Gareth+at+6+miles.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grant and Gareth leading at 6 miles<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There is a gap of a minute or two - most runners can't do six minute miles full stop, never mind contemplate them at the start of a 33-mile race - the next runners arrive.<div><br />
</div><div>At the point the camera goes phut and shuts down entirely. Oh ffs, what now? Despite being fully charged yesterday, the batteries are now entirely flat. I'm tempted to hurl the entire thing into the River Dee but don't have time so revert to the mobile phone, knowing that this will have limited charge itself.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It also has a very delayed shutter action; I have to remember to take the photo a few seconds before I want it, else the runners are already out of shot.<br />
<div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wabyQ0eG9Zg/T2hIpqt-EGI/AAAAAAAAAHE/cIuwjOEM5f0/s1600/Annette+at+6+miles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wabyQ0eG9Zg/T2hIpqt-EGI/AAAAAAAAAHE/cIuwjOEM5f0/s320/Annette+at+6+miles.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Annette, Ian & Donna: led astray and loving it</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div>Mike Raffan and Andy are amongst the early leaders, looking like two mates out for a gentle jog, rather than two very competitive runners. No doubt that will come later...</div><div><br />
</div><div>Away from the town and the coastal breeze, it's positively warm and a few of the runners are already sweating profusely. I'm fascinated by the variety of clothing being adopted, from vest and shorts, to long sleeve tops and tights, from sunglasses to woolly hats. Sophie as usual is clad as is for an Arctic expedition with sufficient kit and clothing in her rucksack to meet any eventuality.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The thing that nearly every runner has in common, however, is a smile. Maybe for some of them, it's a forced response to the camera but they all look genuinely happy to be there, to be running 33 miles on a glorious day. Even the tail runners smile and wave, particularly those doing something amazing for the first time.</div><div><br />
</div><div>What is it about this corner of north-east Scotland that produces such quantities of ultra runners? Is there something in the air that encourages it, or is down the influence of people such as George and Mike who treat it as something normal, that everyone can do if they train for it?</div><div><br />
</div><div>By the time Elaine comes through as the tail cyclist, I've flattened the mobile phone and half the remaining power of the works blackberry (possibly inappropriate use of company assets but needs must!). I'm seriously beginning to wonder if I can find somewhere in Aberdeen to buy either new batteries or a new camera before heading to the finish, but Jim has a camera in the car that he offers to lend to me.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Much relieved - George will have his race photos - I make my way back to Aberdeen. Duthie Park is now heaving with children, families and exercise classes and I'm lucky to find a space to re-park the car.</div><div><br />
</div><div>As always there is a pause here, everything is happening miles away, although George's phone seems to ring non-stop. The halfway checkpoint report that mystery runner #213 has been through in 1hr 41mins with Grant a minute behind. This is a surprise; there was no-one in the pack expected to provide serious competition to Grant today, and even identifying #213 as Gareth Mayze provides no further illumination. Again, his name is familiar but I still can't place him.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Not long after midday, an STV camera crew arrive. Down by the smelly lake, they interview both George and Andrew, although it's George's words that are broadcast later News comes in that the leaders are through the final checkpoint and there is a possibility that the course record will be broken. Also that there is now a clear gap between the leading pair with Gareth in front and Grant struggling with a back injury.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The minutes tick away and there will be no course record. A helper is sent to stand at the top of the slope to watch for the leader and we all look up to him constantly. We have no priority of use of the park and the paths are full of people enjoying the spring sunshine. Every one of the runners will have to dodge small children, pushchairs, dogs and cyclists, even the winner. The best we can do is to ask people to keep to one side of the finishing slope.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Finally the marshal waves; the wait for the winner to appear is seemingly interminable but finally Gareth arrives, sprinting down the hill to be greeted by a round of applause and a hug from George. The finishers' medals (designed by Annette) are, as ever, unique and wonderful - this year they are branded wood harvested from the carnage of Hurricane Bawbag.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Almost immediately, the tv crew interview Gareth who is remarkably coherent and articulate for a man who's just run 33 miles in a final time of 3hrs 32mins 32 seconds. At a constant pace, that's about 6 mins 24 seconds per mile, which many of the runners I know would be happy with for a single mile...</div><div><br />
</div><div>Grant arrives over ten minutes later, still fast but visibly pained and immediately lies down on the ground to ease his back. It's never good to see injured runners, but still astounding that he can achieve a race like that whilst not totally fit.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Craig Stewart, the third placed runner, comes in at 3:51 and after that they arrive thick and fast, including the familiar faces of Gerry Craig and Andy breaking the four hour barrier, along with the first lady, Rebecca Johnson (second lady at the Glen Ogle 33). I'm pretty sure now that I remember Gareth from that race but it's not until I get home that I can verify this and confirm that he was second placed there.</div><div><br />
</div><div>For the next three hours it feels as though there is a continual stream of finishers, everyone managing to produce a smile and a credible attempt at running to finish. Each crosses the line to cheers and applause, to be greeted by name by George and hugged, prior to being given their medal and goodie bag.</div><div><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oS-yk3bA4lM/T2hIsMvyJGI/AAAAAAAAAHU/z4aU8XqqCx4/s1600/Ray+at+finish+99+(Laurie).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oS-yk3bA4lM/T2hIsMvyJGI/AAAAAAAAAHU/z4aU8XqqCx4/s320/Ray+at+finish+99+(Laurie).jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The one and only Ray McCurdy at finish #99 (photo by Laurie M)<br />
<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>Ray finishes to a chant of "Ninety-nine! Ninety-nine!" and actually seems to smile. Hopefully he'll finish #100 in Edinburgh next weekend to an even louder cheer.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Some of the loudest cheers are for the first-timers, the locals inspired to "do epic shit" including the girl who is raising money for a local special care nursery and has reached her target of a thousand pounds. She crosses the line smiling then bursts into tears. She cries even more when George gives her an additional donation.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So many finishers - 192 in total of the 199 that started - that I can't remember them all. But I remember Mr Shanksi celebrating his 40th birthday, Triplet Dad completing his first with such a wide grin, the Pirate completing another ultra on almost zero training (he swears there will be no more and no-one believes him), big David Ross and two Strathaven Striders finishing with Irish leprechaun hats on to honour St Patrick's Day, Mrs Shanksi having trashed her race-day haircut, Fiona of the Wee Grumpies, Ada, Terry, Bill, Colin (only stopping for 2 photos - unheard of!), Robin, Sue, Anne, Tim, M1nty, John Duncan (the Fling RD), Antonia, IanS, Sand Demon in the infamous tartan shorts, the Rentboy, Soph (finishing last having stopped to rescue a bird from a railway carriage), the young bet-losing squaddie (having stopped to smoke at checkpoints) and many more.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Annette is one of the final finishers and falls into Mike's arms. I suspect I would be more inclined to kill a fiancee that had induced me to run 33 miles but I find myself snivelling and wiping my eyes along with everyone else.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But my favourite finish of the day is Rhona. When I first started reading her blogs (after she supported Mike on the WHW last June) she was a "wannabe marathon runner" who ran her first last autumn, finding it hard, painful and unsatisfying, following an ITB injury. Today she finishes with the widest smile, arms wide and I greet her with a hug, delighted to have been there for the first of what will undoubtedly be many ultra finishes.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rr9_J1yBK2U/T2hItEv7iNI/AAAAAAAAAHY/lT-b5PkjG80/s1600/Rhona+finish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rr9_J1yBK2U/T2hItEv7iNI/AAAAAAAAAHY/lT-b5PkjG80/s320/Rhona+finish.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rhona (photo by Rhona' s dad)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>This is why we run.<br />
<br />
This is why those of us who can't run still want to be a part of it.<br />
<br />
See you at the Fling.</div></div>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-59272271516210121602011-12-11T20:47:00.001+00:002011-12-12T06:59:56.618+00:00Mountains, Miles and MarcothonI keep on thinking that it's the end of the season ... no more races until next Spring. Then, something comes along, and there's "just one more" to be done.<br />
<br />
The Yamaa Trust Winter Ultra was always on the radar. At one point, I was seriously contemplating entering the 10k run from Bridge of Orchy to Tyndrum. However, common sense took over - the West Highland Way in December is <i>not</i> the place to run a first 10k. Dave Scott, who heads up the Trust and is also the Mongolian Consul to Scotland, caught me at a weak moment in the pub after the Glen Ogle 33 and I found myself agreeing to report for marshalling duties at Kinlochleven at 7am again.<br />
<br />
Last year, when I did this as my first ever marshalling trip, it made perfect sense to drive over from Edinburgh and back in the day. This year, I'm looking at the map and trying to work out how to get there without setting the alarm for 3am. I fail. Friday night accommodation it is. No post race drinking for me this weekend though; there are things I need to be back home for.<br />
<br />
In the days running up to the race, the forecast is ... <i>interesting</i> to say the least. Snow, gusting winds, windchill, rain, sleet. Thursday night is spent working out just how many layers I can wear at once, and wondering if runners are really going to turn up for this. Also sulking bitterly that the Real Food Cafe is closed for two months and I'm <b>still</b> not going to get the chips I've been promised since the Fling.<br />
<br />
I've heard so many stories about the "luxury" of the Tyndrum Lodge Hotel but it seems a practical location for the Friday night. What I don't expect (after an infuriatingly slow crawl west from Stirling stuck behind an eejit who thinks his car has a top speed of 30mph) is to see what appears to be a building in darkness with no signs of life. Between the howling wind, torrential rain and abandoned reception, I start to wonder if I've inadvertently strayed into a Hitchcock movie.<br />
<br />
I eventually discover a little note taped to the door of the dining room, saying "Sorry, closed. Food available next door. Check-in next door." Aaah, back out into the weather. Behind the bar in Paddy's is a very friendly man who takes some cursory details before leading me down a lopsided corridor to my room. Oh, I see how this place has acquired its reputation.... This room was quite probably built and fitted out by an enthusiastic, if incompetent, DIYer in the late 1970's and hasn't been touched since. And really, a vanity unit? Oh my.... <br />
<br />
It's also completely freezing cold. The nice man tries to fix this by adjusting the radiator and the valve promptly falls off. We agree that I would be better in another room and he goes to fetch another key.<br />
<br />
The second room is almost identical in build and decor but several degrees warmer. I should, in fairness, point out that it's also scrupulously clean and the bedlinen still has the creases in it as evidence of out-of-the-packet newness. The bathroom has its own challenges however in that it's rather, em, compact. The toilet can only be approached backwards due to the lack of turning space. The sink is, again, in the bedroom.<br />
<br />
Back in Paddy's Bar, food and drink is cheap, good and plentiful. The other customers are an intriguing mix of local families, hikers, posh English students and what appears to be the Tyndrum youth club. Ada arrives later, with Terry and Susan as the Kirkie love bus is parked over the road.<br />
<br />
We finish at a sensible hour and as she leaves, Susan calls back "it's stopped raining". Famous last words.<br />
<br />
When the alarm goes off the next morning, I can't hear either the wind or rain which I consider to be a good sign. It is still raining, and it's breezy, but it's not ... <i>weather</i>.<br />
<br />
The <i>weather</i> arrives about two miles up the road in a furious blast of sleet that rocks the car sideways. It's intermittent but a healthy reminder that this is December in the Highlands and not to be taken lightly.<br />
<br />
There's not a sign of life anywhere, no other vehicles on the road, no distant glow in the sky of reflected city streetlights. On the climb up onto Rannoch Moor, I pull over into the viewpoint car park and stop the car. Despite the weather, I want to stand outside for a few moments and drink in this world of utter blackness where I can't even see my own hands, never mind any sight of human impact. It's awesome.<br />
<br />
Despite being ten minutes late into Kinlochleven, there is no sign of life at the Ice Factor. Dave will quite probably be late for his own funeral so no reason to expect registration to start on time! When we do get started Geraldine is there again, as is Karen the Yamaa Trust administrator who I met at Andrew Murray's book launch. <br />
<br />
With the weather forecast as it is, a number of runners have cancelled or just not turned up, although there are a few late entrants that bring the numbers back up. Most of them I don't know, but I recognise the Loehndorfs - though I'm not convinced Thomas' surgeon and the Crazy German mean quite the same thing when agreeing that he can "run but nothing too strenuous". The love bus gang are joined by Bill (having run his first post heart-attack ultra two weeks earlier and today having "forgotten" to mention that he's racing to his wife) and Mike who's sweeping the first section. Also there is Adrian Stott, amazingly he says this is his first ultra distance race for three years.<br />
<br />
The weather is wintry but not too horrific, although I do take pity on two shivering runners and direct them to sit in my car to get out of the wind. But as the daylight comes through, it's strange to be able to watch cloud banks rolling in across the mountain tops and hiding them from view within seconds. I don't think anyone's going to be complaining about mandatory kit today...<br />
<br />
A brief speech of thanks from Andrew, a quick safety briefing from Dave and just after 8.30, we set off some thirty-odd runners on their run down to Tyndrum. I'm sure Dave tells us we're heading directly to Bridge of Orchy but somehow this includes stops at Altnafeadh and Kingshouse Hotel ...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hQrSfNOIXEs/Tt1KXLgm1MI/AAAAAAAAAGg/4_1HHb26Nhc/s1600/380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hQrSfNOIXEs/Tt1KXLgm1MI/AAAAAAAAAGg/4_1HHb26Nhc/s320/380.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I stop on the way to capture some of the incredible views. It's the first time I've seen this area in winter and it's breathtaking. So's the wind....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fPbIkmrmyxw/Tt1LNACkXVI/AAAAAAAAAGo/FcVX4SrsuF4/s1600/381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fPbIkmrmyxw/Tt1LNACkXVI/AAAAAAAAAGo/FcVX4SrsuF4/s320/381.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Dave diverts to the Ski Centre to put up some marker flags and the three of us head on to Bridge of Orchy. When we get there, another woman approaches us, guessing that the hi-viz jackets we're wearing mean we're part of the team she's also volunteered for. With her are two adorable although noisy dogs.<br />
<br />
Somehow it's already nearly half nine so I don't think it's too early to order coffee at the hotel for all of us. Expecting best instant, we get proper Italian with little chocolates.<br />
<br />
The original plan had been for me to go to Forest Lodge where the WHW comes down from Rannoch Moor but it makes sense for the dogs to go there instead and leave me to the A82 crossing. In the meantime there are road signs to be set up (not that they seem to have any effect on the speeding vehicles), checkpoint supplies to be sorted out (water, crisps, chocolate, etc) but still time to wander down to the bridge and watch the waters tumbling angrily down. None of us are quite sure where the river ends up...<br />
<br />
Although the 10k isn't due to start until 12.30, the first runner arrives not long after 10.30 having driven over from Aberdeen. We adjourn to the hotel for a second round of coffee and sit watching the hillside while we chat.<br />
<br />
I'm not half way through my cup, when the first runner is spotted. Oh f........, and we're scurrying out the door to get to the road before he arrives. It's before eleven, which means he's covered over twenty miles in less than two and a half hours ... with a couple of hills and somewhat inclement weather thrown in ...<br />
<br />
For me, it's the start of an almost continuous four hour stint stood outside at the crossing. The nearby cottages block my view of the hillside so the first sight I have of any of the runners is as they come off the track onto the tarmac. The third runner tries to head off south along the riverbank and I can't catch his attention to call him back. Fortunately he realises quickly that he may be wrong and doubles back to talk to a family of walkers who point him over the bridge towards me. There are many places to expect a directionally challenged runner to veer off course ... but that isn't one of them.<br />
<br />
Fourth and fifth are Andrew Murray and Thomas who arrive chattering away. How do they manage to make it look so effortless...?<br />
<br />
Many times I've heard the expression that in Scotland, you get all four seasons' weather in a single day. Today I can see all four seasons at once. But mostly I can see the "wintry showers" coming down across Rannoch as they block out the mountains, before delivering their cargo of rain, sleet and snow.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yTzXaRhTLW4/Tt5t8KEqRTI/AAAAAAAAAGw/-F9Jx7C2EUY/s1600/383.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yTzXaRhTLW4/Tt5t8KEqRTI/AAAAAAAAAGw/-F9Jx7C2EUY/s320/383.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>And the wind never stops.<br />
<br />
Thank god for a self-indulgent trip to Tiso last weekend, and the acquisition of a fur hat and very expensive gloves (I thought a requirement of keeping me warm and dry, while still being able to hold a pen, was pretty simple - apparently not!). However I probably should have been investing in a new pair of boots as well as the left one is letting in water at an alarming rate, resulting in some significant squelching.<br />
<br />
Ah well, at least I'm only standing here; I'm not running up on the high open ground. I'm the sane one, right?<br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, there aren't too many walkers out today. As usual there's an element of curiosity as to what the race is, and what the runners are doing. Maybe it's the fact that you have to be reasonably hardy to be walking the WHW in December, but there doesn't seem to be the same level of surprise as I've encountered on other ultras. However the white van driver delivering down to Inverornan is sufficiently impressed to give me a pound as a donation.<br />
<br />
Phil arrives accompanied by the first withdrawal - a runner who stands, shivering in vest and shorts, until I quite bluntly tell him to get inside the hotel and get warmed up. There may well be a foil blanket in my car but I don't wish to have to use it! Oooh car ... in the expectation of a long stint in the middle of nowhere I made a flask of coffee first thing and it's still in the boot. I fetch it along with a box of Jaffa cakes (not quite sure why there weren't any jelly babies - poor planning!) but Dave offers to cover the checkpoint for ten minutes while I have hotel coffee (which he's paying for).<br />
<br />
The advantage of the A82 checkpoint is the proximity of proper toilets. It's far too cold to be exposing any naked flesh, and with the number of layers I have on, would probably take half an hour to complete!<br />
<br />
I try not to drip too much water in the nice restaurant area of the hotel, and also not to defrost too much as the weather isn't going to be any better when I do go back outside.<br />
<br />
When I do go back to my post, it's to the sight of Dave handing out my coffee to some runners....<br />
<br />
The 10k runners are a mix of serious and fun runners, including the Gobi United team in kilts ... and two runners dressed as parrots. I can't begin to imagine what any walkers seeing those coming towards them are going to think. Possibly check the flask and assume they've mixed up the coffee and whisky?<br />
<br />
Back at my crossing, the runners arrive at increasingly distant intervals. They've had four, five, six hours out on the hills in some savage weather but they're still going. A pause for food, a brief chat, maybe a bit of friendly banter and they're away for the final stretch down to Tyndrum. <br />
<br />
Thomas comes back with Neal Gibson (who should have been running but acquired an ankle injury on the WHW a week or so earlier). Both Silke and Caroline are still out on the hill, Thomas having finished earlier and now onto support duties. Their purchase of takeout coffee is inspired, especially when I get to hold one of the cups and relish the warmth.<br />
<br />
Eventually the car comes up from the Forest Lodge checkpoint to say that the last two runners (Mark, an experienced competitor and his girlfriend on her first ultra) have just left there so will be here in 45 minutes or so. Everyone else has come through, so the sensible thing would be to head indoors and watch out for them. Unfortunately, my mind is thinking more about the obligations of the <a href="http://debsonrunning.blogspot.com/2011/11/marcothon-2012.html">Marcothon</a>....<br />
<br />
I had thought of running my 25 minutes after finishing here and heading down to Tyndrum, with the opportunity of changing into something more appropriate, but I'm tired and cold and know I won't do it. And I certainly won't run when I get back to Edinburgh. <br />
<br />
But I've just spent four hours looking at the West Highland Way and, well, I've never run on it and this really was where it all began. Seems a shame not to take the chance while it's here....<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UhoS_5bGd2o/TuUL7MDbinI/AAAAAAAAAG4/brgbLobFSWw/s1600/387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UhoS_5bGd2o/TuUL7MDbinI/AAAAAAAAAG4/brgbLobFSWw/s320/387.JPG" width="320" /></a>So my Marcothon for the day consists of a slow jog up the hill west of Bridge of Orchy and back down again. This is not a path, or even a trail - it's an avalanche of lumpy rocks and water tumbling down the hill, and I'm really not dressed for it in any way, from the furry hat on my head to my leaking boots - but it was fun.<br />
<br />
Eventually Mark and his girlfriend arrive; she looks numb with cold and tiredness but still smiling and determined. After they head off up to the station, and on the finish line, there is a checkpoint to be tidied up, rubbish bagged up, signs collected, etc<br />
<br />
Then it's down to Tyndrum and into a heaving Paddy's bar. More coffee and chips (okay not the Real Food Cafe chips but they were <b>good :-) </b>) and chatter with those who finished hours ago, and those who are only just finishing now. I talk to Caroline for the first time and she tells me that when she fell on the final stretch, her first thought was that she might not be able to do her Marcothon. It's not obsessive, really....<br />
<br />
A number of people are staying over in Tyndrum for the night, and there is some serious rehydration already started. Sadly I have to be back in Edinburgh to keep an commitment the next day in Stirling and it already feels much later than five o'clock. By the time I leave, I think I've promised to come back next year.<br />
<br />
When I lose my footing on the outside steps and fall awkwardly, my first thought is that if I have broken my ankle, at least I know exactly where the nearest doctor is - even he's not entirely sober - and my second is that I won't complete the Marcothon. Not a thought I could even have contemplated after the end of last year's event. (Although sore for a few hours, the ankle was okay which is more than could be said for a discoloured and swollen finger).<br />
<br />
***********************************************************************<br />
<br />
On the Sunday morning, I'm heading back up the M9, this time on my way to Stirling University. Overnight it has snowed and the motorway is down to a single lane through to Falkirk. The blizzard that descends on the final stretch is even more worrying. But it passes over.<br />
<br />
Then starts up again as we head out to the track for the Fetch mile race. My previous mile race was on the hottest evening of the year; this one is going to be in a snowstorm.<br />
<br />
As I expect, I'm last by a considerable margin but much encouragement sees me cross the line at 12.13, looking like a drowned rat and not sure whether I want to laugh or cry.<br />
<br />
And despite Hurricane Bawbag, and another snowfall, my Marcothon is still intact.<br />
<br />
Not quite sure what's happened in the last year ... but I'm loving it.<br />
<br />
See you in 2012.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-22494465058851039612011-11-20T20:32:00.000+00:002011-11-20T20:32:00.458+00:00I am Not a Runner - Parkrun<div class="blogpost" style="background-color: white; clear: both; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 5px; margin-right: 5px; text-align: left;">Some months ago, Santababy introduced me to the world of Fetch, where there are a lot of ultra runners ... and also a lot of runners who think in much more "normal" distances.<br />
<br />
There is a little group of Fetch beginners and we've sort of clubbed together to say nice things to one another / nag when appropriate. Two of us agreed we would both do <a href="http://www.parkrun.com/home">Parkrun</a> today - despite living 400 miles apart. What I didn't realise at the time was that it would be a year to the day since I bought my first pair of running shoes - that's one way to celebrate an anniversary...<br />
<br />
Having grizzled on a thread about not wanting to be 10 minutes behind everyone else (last I can handle, but not last by that much), a fellow Edinburgh Fetchie - who I've never met or had any dealings with before - offered to run it with me. How does this happen - that there is an online forum where people are quite happy to put themselves out for the benefit of a stranger they've never met?<br />
<br />
Friday night was spent at a "Meet the Designer" event at one of my new favourite shops, drinking kir royale and buying presents (well, at least one of my purchases won't be going in my stocking...) which is possibly not the best preparation. Lack of food and a late night all contributed to being pretty late out of bed. That's okay, I know where I'm going.<br />
<br />
I do but can I find it?? I've been to Cramond more times than I can count but today I absolutely cannot find the turn down to the river. Eventually I spot a car being driven by someone in a fluorescent top and make a u-turn to follow, gambling that they must be a runner. Phew, moments to spare..</div><div class="blogpost" style="background-color: white; clear: both; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 5px; margin-right: 5px; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pNOCc81sNK4/TslhtVl7tGI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/LPabc3E9cWE/s1600/IMG_0251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pNOCc81sNK4/TslhtVl7tGI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/LPabc3E9cWE/s320/IMG_0251.JPG" width="320" /></a>Lyns and I have exchanged vague descriptions but I'm now convinced I won't be able to find her. She is in fact convinced that I've stood her up solely to make her run it when she's having a <a class="glossary" href="http://www.fetcheveryone.com/blog_other.php" style="border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px; color: #006633; text-decoration: none;">cba</a>.com period with running .... But it seems there is only one shortish blonde with a Fetch buff as a head scarf, and only one overweight 40-something redhead...</div><div class="blogpost" style="background-color: white; clear: both; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 5px; margin-right: 5px; text-align: left;">No sooner have we met than the announcer is talking through the loudhailer. I don't hear what he says, other than a warning about somewhere being slippy and that there is a runner getting married this afternoon, who has brought his wedding party with him for the run. Cue all round cheers.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T4g9K3ii11Q/TslhsZ0IFfI/AAAAAAAAAGI/nR2hoqH1JoQ/s1600/IMG_0250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T4g9K3ii11Q/TslhsZ0IFfI/AAAAAAAAAGI/nR2hoqH1JoQ/s320/IMG_0250.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yy63Cl6X_AM/TslhuNLFHOI/AAAAAAAAAGY/NGhMA02J-Ko/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yy63Cl6X_AM/TslhuNLFHOI/AAAAAAAAAGY/NGhMA02J-Ko/s320/IMG_0253.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="blogpost" style="background-color: white; clear: both; font-family: tahoma, verdana, arial; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 5px; margin-right: 5px; text-align: left;"><br />
Then the whistle goes and I've barely got my fleece off. My arm pouch (car keys, ipod, money, barcode etc) is in my hand which is where it's going to have to stay for the duration. The Garmin isn't even turned on, never mind started and when I try and get it going, I obviously press the wrong button and the screen fills with garbage. Off!<br />
<br />
It's a beautiful day - cold, sunlit and clear with not a breath of wind. The Forth looks like a millpond which must be unheard of.<br />
<br />
Without the Garmin I have no idea of pace. However we're exactly where I expect to be - at the back - and I can see the whole field of runners spread out in front of us, with the front runners sprinting into the distance with every second. At the western end of Marine Drive, a runner comes the opposite way at speed and I jokingly ask Lyns to tell me he's not the leader.<br />
<br />
"No, but we'll start seeing them by that building, at about the 1k mark".<br />
<br />
What??? We haven't even got to1k yet and my legs hurt and I'm panting. Crap. I don't want to do this. I want to stop and go home.<br />
<br />
It's actually past the cafe, and past the 1k point before they start coming back. My brain is trying to do the maths and failing. One of the first of the runners is someone I recognise - last seen delivering a cracking time at the Glen Ogle 33. Now this really isn't fair - how can people be fast sprinters AND fast ultra runners!!<br />
<br />
Just before the left turn, an oncoming runner calls out to me - it's a colleague from work looking far too happy.<br />
<br />
So that's 2k down. I run twice this distance several times a week, how can it be so hard? I can't even see the nearest runners and I'm seriously thinking about walking for a stretch. I've been counting my steps and breaths for what feels like hours and I'm not even half-way. I swear this isn't as far when I walk it.<br />
<br />
Then again ... half-way. One of the marshals catches up with us as he's clearing the signs. "Home stretch now" he says, or something similar. I like that way of thinking and it reminds me of Fiona Rennie. However I'm also trying to ignore the fact that he seems to be walking at nearly the same pace I'm jogging at...<br />
<br />
I should know better than to try and "run" and talk at the same time, but I do manage to contribute something to the conversation between the three of us. Like everyone in Edinburgh he has worked at RBS, like every runner in Edinburgh we have some mutual acquaintances ... and we're past 3k. "Are you enjoying it" he asks. Right now? No. But ask me later and you may just get a different answer.<br />
<br />
The only other runners I see now are the ones who've long finished and are now running back along the front to Edinburgh. I still want to stop and walk but I'm ... blowed ... if I'm going to! Walk/run might possibly be faster but I absolutely want to run every step of this 5k, no matter how slowly. Pride will get you a long way...<br />
<br />
I can see the finish line and it looks miles away. I can see a sign saying 4k and I don't believe it. How the hell do I know people who do this - at twice the speed or more - and keep it up for 40, 50 or 95 miles?<br />
<br />
As we get to the trees, the marshall jokingly suggests a sprint finish. What do you mean? I am sprinting! I think he got the irony...<br />
<br />
Amazingly the finish hasn't been packed away and we still get clapped home. How can an orange spray-painted line be such a welcome sight? Oh bliss - I can stop now.<br />
<br />
Or maybe I shouldn't. My legs are hurting badly and I'm quite convinced that if I stop suddenly, there is going to be an awful lot of pain later and tomorrow. Keep walking, and anyway I have to collect a finish chip and then go and get my barcode scanned. Not that my brain or hands are functioning at all.<br />
<br />
Lyns remembers to stop her Garmin. I don't want to ask - the only 5k I did before was Race for Life, it was 44 .19 and this has felt horribly slower - but I may as well get it over with and deal with the bad news now.<br />
<br />
It might be about 41-42 minutes, she says. I want to hug her. That is amazing. My "pacer" is amazing.<br />
<br />
My workmate is at the finish still and comes over to say hello. As do a couple who look familiar although for a moment I can't place them. Then I realise that they are the retired couple in the ground floor flat of my building. I never even realised that they were runners but apparently today was her 91st Parkrun!<br />
<br />
Everyone disperses and I find myself talking to one of the wedding party, the father of the groom. He cheers me up by telling me that we weren't last as his cousin has just finished. However his cousin isn't on the official results so probably isn't registered (the only reason Lyns shows as last is because she deliberately stepped back at the finish to let me cross first - did I tell you she's amazing?).<br />
<br />
The cafe is open and I sit for ten minutes in the winter sunshine with a much appreciated coffee. I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be, or how I'd rather feel.<br />
<br />
Later the official results are published.<br />
<br />
#239 - First Timer! - has an official time of 41.08<br />
<br />
That'll do me.<br />
<br />
Until the next time, that is...<br />
<br />
</div><div><img height="92" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/f/f5/Parkrun_logo.png" width="200" /></div>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-76302920104243716612011-11-13T09:27:00.001+00:002011-11-13T09:33:56.394+00:00One Year On...A year ago today, I stood in the Highlands and watched my first ultra.<br />
<br />
In no particular order, these are the things I've learnt from runners and running.<br />
<br />
Falling over hurts.<br />
Getting back up hurts more.<br />
Getting back up and running again hurts less.<br />
Everybody has bad days and bad races.<br />
Upright, outside and running is a damn good place to be.<br />
Running through puddles doesn't stop being fun past the age of 5.<br />
Ex-boyfriends are like jellyfish. <br />
Good shoes are not a luxury.<br />
Midgies are evil.<br />
<br />
Sore legs are not a reason not to go running.<br />
Don't ask an ultra runner to decide if you're hurt or have a whingery. They don't understand hurt.<br />
The human body is capable of impossible things.<br />
Running 3 minutes for the first time is harder than running 30 minutes for the first time.<br />
Rain is a reason to go out running, not a reason to stay in.<br />
It doesn't matter how long or short you run; sooner or later your bowels will catch you out.<br />
Runners want other runners to do well.<br />
The inside seam of your leggings will give way at the furthest point from home.<br />
Only normal people have ten toenails.<br />
<br />
It's possible to start running with tears pouring down your face. <br />
It's not possible to keep crying when you're running.<br />
Learning to stretch is not optional.<br />
Being hugged by a hot and sweaty friend at the end of their race is wonderful.<br />
A race has a winner but never a loser.<br />
Never say never again.<br />
Adrenalin and joy will keep you awake for a whole weekend.<br />
Running is addictive.<br />
Despite being an incredibly selfish sport (in terms of time and effort committed to training and racing), ultra runners are generous and open-hearted. Mostly. I'm sure there must be the odd bad egg.<br />
Fetcheveryone.<br />
A mile is a very long way.<br />
Second place to Lucy counts as a win.<br />
<br />
Legends work in supermarkets.<br />
True love will climb Conic Hill to deliver blueberries.<br />
Your soulmate will walk you across the Lharig Mor in the dark and cold.<br />
TTFU.<br />
<br />
It helps to be able to see where your feet are going.<br />
Stopping and restarting is much harder than keeping going.<br />
Here's to the Dreamers - God bless us all!<br />
Run as fast as you can for as long as you can may work for Stu Mills; for most of us, negative splits are the way to go.<br />
The longer the race, the less you compete against others and more against yourself.<br />
A good support crew is priceless.<br />
Too much water is more lethal than too little.<br />
Some people race and some people run.<br />
Being sick when you run is not a big deal, continuing to be sick when you stop is.<br />
<br />
There is at least one person who can run 90 miles on a broken ankle.<br />
There is at least one person who can run 15 miles while having a heart attack.<br />
Runners don't stop because they get old.<br />
Sometimes you run away, sometimes you run home, and sometimes you run in circles.<br />
Jelly babies are a recognised food group.<br />
Dates and crisps are not.<br />
Keep putting one foot in front of the other and you'll get to the end.<br />
There are more uses for vaseline than you really want to think about.<br />
Ultra runners have an inordinate capacity for food and alcohol.<br />
<br />
Hazel McFarlane runs ultras. She's also blind.<br />
Only yoofs and wannabe rappers have white trainers.<br />
The body can't remember pain. The mind will rationalise it.<br />
There will always be someone who can run faster or further than you. <br />
But maybe not both. <br />
And maybe not today.<br />
Finishing last is better than not starting.<br />
<br />
Always run from the heart.<br />
No regrets.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5YECtRd8lN4/Tr-O5gevdgI/AAAAAAAAAGA/Rl8WxRpvEMw/s1600/tired_runner_cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5YECtRd8lN4/Tr-O5gevdgI/AAAAAAAAAGA/Rl8WxRpvEMw/s320/tired_runner_cartoon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-4317696448425751922011-11-08T21:11:00.000+00:002011-11-08T21:11:31.018+00:00Glen Ogle 33 - The Friendliest Wee Ultra<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-14198a16XP4/TrmaT40NEWI/AAAAAAAAAF4/FhM7B7OpR58/s1600/GO33+banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-14198a16XP4/TrmaT40NEWI/AAAAAAAAAF4/FhM7B7OpR58/s320/GO33+banner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I think I'd half offered my assistance at this one a few months ago, probably as a response to how much every enjoyed the first Bill & Mike event at Glenmore (12 or 24 depending on your level of dedication/insanity - delete as appropriate). But having met up with Mike at Andrew Murray's book launch, it became pretty inevitable...<br />
<br />
I'd been toying with another autumn weekend in Glencoe but decided to replace that with a weekend in Strathyre: a place I'd driven through quite a few times over the last year. Mainly at pretty high speed heading for Tyndrum, Kinlochleven, Fort William etc... I remembered it being a pretty little village just north of Callendar with apparently every house on the main road offering B&B. I also had a long standing memory of someone telling me how they'd like to run along the viaduct - but to this day, I can't remember who it was or the circumstances!<br />
<br />
So I booked two nights at <a href="http://www.innatstrathyre.com/">The Inn at Strathyre</a> (on the basis of supporting race sponsors) and watched the entry list grow and include more and more people I knew. Even the Pirate was heading up from London, having made a wager with Tim Downie as to their respective performance. As this would involve some cheek kissing for the loser, he was even threatening to train for this one...<br />
<br />
So, on a dark November Friday night, I'm driving west along the M9 again, having failed miserably to leave work early, but cheered up by watching the firework displays, the most spectacular of which is just off the motorway at Stirling.<br />
<br />
I stop at Callendar for chips, not thinking about the "joys" of small towns on a Friday night... Unable to get a space on the street and trying to avoid the gangs of teenagers on the street corners, I stop in a car park and realise I have to walk past a group of men enthusiastically watering the weeds on a wall... fortunately it's reasonably dark. It's also bloody freezing and clearly several degrees colder than Edinburgh.<br />
<br />
The last few miles are in thick freezing fog and not helped by my satnav suddenly deciding that I should be going to Manchester and stridently demanding that I "make a u-turn where possible". <br />
<br />
The bar of the Inn is packed and, although I don't recognise any faces at a quick glance, I certainly recognise the WHW and Fling t-shirts on a few people! No nonsense about checking in, one of the bar staff walks me up to my room and lets me in.<br />
<br />
I think the appropriate words for the room are "quaint" and "retro". It was clearly decorated in the height of fashion with its butterscotch bathroom suite, red flowered bathroom carpet and louvred wardrobe doors that aren't entirely mobile. But it's spacious, scrupulously clean and warm. And the bed is very comfortable.<br />
<br />
Tim & Muriel are staying up the road but by the time I've unpacked and sorted, are eating downstairs so I head down to join them. Also in the bar is the irrepressible Ada (my unexpected room-mate from Ayr) and her club mates; they are not staying in the Inn but in the "love bus", a camper van parked in the Inn's car park. We're also joined by Scott who is braver than any of us and camping at the site just outside the village. <br />
<br />
A tent. In Scotland. In November. I know I'm a wimp but, even so.....<br />
<br />
Mike & Bill are in and out during the evening as they're still putting up race signs around the course. I've never met Bill before, although he's tagged in a few of my photos from the Devil o the Highlands. He's also the runner who had a heart attack in the Fling and left in a helicopter. What I didn't realise until tonight was that he ran for about 15-20 miles whilst having the heart attack, thinking it was acid reflux.<br />
<br />
By the time the drinks and talk are complete, it's the wrong side of midnight, which probably isn't the best preparation for race day but it's been too nice to leave the open fire and friendly chat.<br />
<br />
The alarm goes off at stupid o'clock, which is still later than Bill & Mike who needed to get out early to try and finish all the signage. Off road ultras are great, but it can be pretty challenging getting race "furniture" to remote locations...<br />
<br />
Outside at 6.00am the village is dark and silent, and covered in a thick blanket of cold wet fog. There is no sign of life anywhere, including the car park where (wrongly) I believe registration is due to start in 30 minutes. This is when I wish I was smart enough to own a torch. Ambling up the pavement, I see a man in running gear standing outside the B&B smoking. This has to be Norry; there can't be <em>that</em> many ultra runners with a nicotine habit. Further up, the legendary Ray McCurdy is jogging up and down the road.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bCEYFYm8mB8/TrmaFvFYBSI/AAAAAAAAAFw/o5ftk2RtfVw/s1600/Go33+mist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bCEYFYm8mB8/TrmaFvFYBSI/AAAAAAAAAFw/o5ftk2RtfVw/s320/Go33+mist.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I head south out of the village and to my right, see lights flickering away far down the picnic site. It looks like something from ET. It's also close enough to Hallowe'en for me to think of tales of Will-o'-the-wisp as I head through the trees towards the lights.<br />
<br />
On drawing near, there are (fortunately) no mischievous spirits, only Mike and Bill and another hive of activity. For novice race directors, they're incredibly well organised and equipped: trestle table, generators, tent, free-standing lights, maps, vouchers, race numbers, even the SA permit pinned to the inside of the tent.<br />
<br />
Soon enough the first runners start arriving; some I know, some I don't, some I know through FB or blogs or photos but this is the first time we've met properly. Amongst them is yakhunter, the author of "This Runner's World" (linked over >>>>>) which has some amazing photography that always reminds me how beautiful a part of the country I'm lucky enough to live in.<br />
<br />
As more and more runners arrive, registration becomes the art of doing several things at once - one hand searching out race numbers, the other ticking off names, whilst independently holding a conversation or pointing out where to put the drop bags. Amazing how many runners can forget their medical forms... but no point getting cross, just hand over a blank form and a pen, and tease them instead. It actually reminds me of working behind a bar, a feeling reinforced when I greet the lovely Antonia (winner of Glenmore 12 in her first ultra season) with the words "hello gorgeous" and the next runner in the queue (definitely in the more senior male veteran category) calls out "hope you're going to be saying that to me". Of course I am...<br />
<br />
Registration done, Mike sounds the air horn and all the runners head across the road to the start point. For the first time I realise it's now daylight - when did that happen?<br />
<br />
In the pause while the race starts, the start/finish line crew introduce ourselves. Geraldine thinks she knows me and it only takes a few moments to realise we both helped at the S2S Ultra nearly a year earlier.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lts5zatLv_0/TrmZvcVGljI/AAAAAAAAAFo/LXa6u-01Qik/s1600/GO33+viaduct.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lts5zatLv_0/TrmZvcVGljI/AAAAAAAAAFo/LXa6u-01Qik/s320/GO33+viaduct.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Bill disappears immediately after the start and we barely see him again for the rest of the day as he's sorting out signs, keeping in touch with checkpoints, fetching and carrying whatever's needed. <br />
<br />
There's no rest for the wicked - or marshalls - and the five of us start on packing up goodie bags. This is where I came in, I think.... Somehow it seems to be getting colder not warmer and I'm soon trying to pack bags wearing pink fluffy gloves. But there's nothing I can do to defrost my feet that feel like blocks of ice on the cold mud. But when we finish the bags and step out of the tent into the sunshine, it feels blissfully warm and we're happy to drink coffee and chatter.<br />
<br />
Davie Hall arrives with the exuberant Millie who decides that my pink glove would make a perfect chewing toy. Which it might if my hand wasn't still in it.<br />
<br />
Suddenly we get the news that the first two runners are through the final checkpoint much earlier than anyone anticipated. As it's the first year, and no-one's run the route before, there are no benchmarks for time and it's a real hybrid of a course, mixing up trail and road, flat and hill. Four hours seemed to be a common expectation for the fast runners but I'd thought closer to three and a half for the winner.<br />
<br />
Even so, I'm still half stunned when at barely twenty past eleven the cry goes up of "runner, runner!" and we see the blonde dreadlocks of Paul Raistrick hurtling along the path and down into the finish area.<br />
<br />
Three hours and 21 minutes to cover roughly 31 miles ... that's a continual pace of six and a half minute miles ... wow.<br />
<br />
The second man arrives six minutes later. Gareth Mayze isn't someone I know but apparently he and Paul had been neck and neck through to the last few miles when Paul just put his foot down and found another gear.<br />
<br />
There's a break of 12 minutes or so until the third male arrives, closely followed by numbers four and five, not one of which has the decency to look like they've been working hard.<br />
<br />
"First lady" comes the cry a few minutes later. "That'll be Lucy" I say without even looking up, and sure enough it is. Another win and record to add to her collection.<br />
<br />
In total, there are fifteen runners finishing under the four hour mark, which includes the second woman and Andy, the "normal" runner who still seems stunned at just how good his season has been.<br />
<br />
There are five of us at the finish line and we mean to swap roles around after an hour but five hours later I'm still at the finish line with stopwatch in hand, calling out numbers and times. The layout of the finish is great in that the runners come round a loop to the finish and we can cheer them down to the line.<br />
<br />
As each hour approaches, I find myself absolutely screaming at runners to make it to the finish before the watch clicks over. There may have even been some bad language ... sorry but it did help some of them, because they came back to tell me so!<br />
<br />
I also find myself screaming at Ian B when he's too busy chatting to notice Sandra coming along the path.<br />
<br />
Antonia finishes in 4.38 which is pretty good for someone claiming not to be fit...<br />
<br />
Tim comes in at 5.49 ... would the Pirate have beaten him we'll never know. (A combination of missed alarms (the dog switched off the mobile ... yes, really!) and points failure have trapped him in London and he doesn't make the race or the post-race drinks.) There will be a next time and a next wager, I'm sure...<br />
<br />
Three Carnegie runners - Robin, Pauline Walker and Sue - cross the line hand in hand with wide grins. But not so wide as the invincible Fiona 2 minutes later...<br />
<br />
At nearly half two I find myself screaming at a female runner who stops yards from the line. But she's deliberately stopped to wait for her friend so they can finish together. What I only find out later is that it was her first ultra and her friend had shepherded her round the route despite being injured and expecting to pull out at 20 miles.<br />
<br />
A woman asks if I know Karen D and gives me the keys to her car so Karen can get to her stuff if she finishes whilst the driver's away. I love this - where else would you give a complete stranger the keys to your car...?<br />
<br />
Karen Robertson finishes and immediately goes into the stiff-legged shuffle that seems to be her trademark after a successful ultra. She tells me she has to work the next day which looks as though it could be ... interesting.<br />
<br />
By three o'clock, there are only two runners left to come back - Jim Drummond and Jim McIntyre. The third Jim - Jim Robertson - isn't well and is supporting by car. Earlier in the day, Davie had told me about writing an article on the 3 of them and realising they had a combined age of 200....<br />
<br />
Whilst we're waiting, I get some coaching advice from Jim R - how often am I going to get a chance to get advice from someone with that pedigree....?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JCHRIm3f08s/TrmUB6k6dZI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/zBwGH4tykSU/s1600/GO33+Jim+x3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JCHRIm3f08s/TrmUB6k6dZI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/zBwGH4tykSU/s320/GO33+Jim+x3.jpg" width="320" /></a>Just before half three, the last two Jims come home and a flurry of sledging ensues between them. I could listen to them for hours but the sun is setting, it's getting cold and it's time to start packing up the finish.<br />
<br />
<br />
Amazing how much "stuff" there is to put away, and how much rubbish we've produced in the day. An aside to some of the newcomers on their first rural ultra - this is not a road marathon, <b>do not throw your rubbish on the ground, there are no roadsweepers in the countryside</b>...<br />
<br />
The Inn is packed with runners enjoying their complimentary soup and beer. I have to say that bowl of soup was possibly the best I've ever tasted...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9nk7Sed9s54/TrmVyaxa66I/AAAAAAAAAFY/9LT9FzElioA/s1600/GO33+ceilidh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9nk7Sed9s54/TrmVyaxa66I/AAAAAAAAAFY/9LT9FzElioA/s320/GO33+ceilidh.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>And one drink turns into another ... and another ... and somehow this englishwoman with two left feet gets inveigled into taking part in her first ceilidh.<br />
<br />
Ceilidh - now that could be the subject of a whole essay as a defining factor between the English and the Scots....<br />
<br />
But by 3am we've put the world to rights (several times), the locals have gone home and there's only a yawning barman left. It's time to go to sleep and relax after a great day.<br />
<br />
Whatever it is that makes a great event, these two seem to have figured it out. Everyone had a great day, everyone seemed to leave with the words "see you next year"...<br />
<br />
There are hundreds of photos but this one seems to sum up the day for me, 31 miles, a shoogly bridge and the widest smile:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yy_1wtHMfJY/TrmX0TW6KfI/AAAAAAAAAFg/uLp2N5oJK50/s1600/GO33+Smile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yy_1wtHMfJY/TrmX0TW6KfI/AAAAAAAAAFg/uLp2N5oJK50/s320/GO33+Smile.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Oh and if you're a very lucky ultra runner, you may just be getting an invitation to something rather interesting next year...<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photos from The Inn at Strathyre, GO33, Ray Woods, </i></span>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-21824987625833361912011-09-29T21:57:00.001+01:002011-09-29T22:03:20.320+01:00Down the RiverI was spoilt for choice last weekend. Down in North Wales, some of the best runners in Britain were competing in the Commonwealth championships - including a few I'm lucky enough to know. Over in Ayr, there was the last run of the SUMS series for 2011 - the River Ayr Way Challenge. And in Edinburgh there was a pile of work to be done and plenty of good reasons not to be getting involved in any running events.<br />
<br />
All of which explains why, when the alarm went off at 4.30 on Saturday morning, I glared at it for an hour or so before getting up and preparing to drive to the west coast of Scotland for a few hours. My plan was to watch the start, head down to the sea for an hour or two and then go and watch the finishers, before heading home mid-afternoon. Hmm I've had plans before like that.....<br />
<br />
Every time I think I start to know Scotland, I find another piece of the country that looks nothing like the bits I already know. Driving southwest out of Edinburgh I see pine forests and then high open land that makes me think I've been transported to the Yorkshire moors. The road however appears to belong in Outer Kazakhstan: is there anywhere better than Scotland at taking a potholed decrepit dirt track and calling it a "A" road?<br />
<br />
But Glenbuck arrives before the suspension packs up entirely and there are signs saying "caution - runners" and .... nothing. The short single track road stops at a sign paying tribute to Bill Shankly who was born here. The left hand fork goes through a small flood to a gate marked "no unauthorised admittance"; the right past a cottage and a sign saying "private". No runners. No signs of runners. Despite the coach laid on to transport runners from Ayr to the start line, I expected some signs of life here barely 40 minutes from race time.<br />
<br />
Another driver is there looking for the race as well and when she heads up the cottage road, I decide to follow her. Round two sharp bends, through the narrowest stone gate and there is a cluster of cars and people in a wooded clearing. There is nowhere safe to park and my reversing skills are ... limited ... so, after a 10 point turn, I drive back down the track and park on a verge where I think I'm out of the way.<br />
<br />
There are lots of familiar faces around and, over in the far corner, is the lovely Mrs Mac who greets me with a hug. Today she is providing support to a multi-national group of runners consisting of her English <a href="http://subversive-running.blogspot.com/2011/09/river-ayr-way-race-swimming-with-sharks.html">pirate</a>, fellow Scot David Ross, and Richard from Ireland (aka <a href="http://thebeiruttaxi.wordpress.com/">The Beirut Taxi</a> and a man who decided to run an ultra to celebrate his 40th birthday). Not sure what the Welsh did to upset her....<br />
<br />
The race start is delayed - something about the coach being late but there are plenty of people arriving by car here at Glenbuck. The space fills up with old friends greeting one another, and behind every tree is a runner taking a last-minute comfort break. Runners and bowels and bladders ... how did I get to know so much more than I ever wanted to know about these things?<br />
<br />
The SUMS prizegiving is being held this evening in Ayr and I get asked several times if I'm going. No, I'm heading home. When it was going to be a ball, I didn't feel I had any entitlement to be there as a non-runner and even though it's a more casual event now (due to venue problems and lots of top runners being in Wales) that feeling didn't change. Nor do I have any overnight bag or change of clothes, so while I'd partly like to stay and socialise, I know my evening is going to be spent back home watching X-factor.<br />
<br />
Among the familiar faces is Andy, the "normal" runner who came third at the Devils who asks if I'll be popping up all along the course again. Not likely when I don't have a clue where any of the checkpoints are, have never been to Ayrshire and am relying on satnav to find the finish.<br />
<br />
<br />
Also there is <a href="http://karen-robertson.blogspot.com/2011/09/glen-ogle.html?spref=fb">Karen R</a> who isn't competing despite being in her running gear. Instead she's running the first 10 miles as guide runner for Hazel MacFarlane. <br />
<br />
Who is blind. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z-_l6tvrvPg/ToODD_W0LYI/AAAAAAAAAE4/I3c65YxRAUs/s1600/021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z-_l6tvrvPg/ToODD_W0LYI/AAAAAAAAAE4/I3c65YxRAUs/s320/021.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Karen & Hazel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I have no words for this. I can just about contemplate the idea of running a road race without sight. But an uneven muddy trail overgrown with brambles and nettles, narrow to less than single track in places, with no stable ground underfoot? I have seen some amazing performances over the past few months but this surpasses them all.<br />
<br />
A flurry of bodies arrive as the coach finally comes in from Ayr. Amongst the runners are the Challenge walkers who will cover the same course over the two days of the weekend. They are laden with sensible clothing, packs, stout walking boots and poles, causing the runners to look almost naked beside them.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7I2fj_ICCdI/ToODdC4Y9pI/AAAAAAAAAE8/lU20XDXRrGA/s1600/020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7I2fj_ICCdI/ToODdC4Y9pI/AAAAAAAAAE8/lU20XDXRrGA/s320/020.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Having decided that everyone is here, the runners are called down to the start point. After last minute photos, greetings and equipment adjustments, they set off just after 9.15. A few minutes later the walkers set off behind them and crews start heading for cars.<br />
<br />
Contrary to plans, I find myself following Lee as my guide to the first checkpoint. There is a brief stop by the cottage when she realises the flags are not flying from her car. Can't be a pirate support vehicle without the jolly roger....<br />
<br />
For the first few miles, the runners are on a raised path just to the left of the main Ayr road. I confess I'm distracted trying to look sideways. Add in the fact that I'm following Lee who is also concentrating the race rather than the road and it's an achievement to get to Muirkirk without an accident.<br />
<br />
Although technically an unsupported race, there are a number of crews at this stop as there are at all the others throughout the course. At barely 5 miles apart, sometimes it's harder for the crew to get from one to another than the runner. I get to put some more names to some of the faces I've seen on the side of the trails. And to admire the healthy and nutritious food available to runners from the marshalls:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--DfaJEm4fOs/ToOJLsgtDdI/AAAAAAAAAFA/bgXt78jZXDk/s1600/023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--DfaJEm4fOs/ToOJLsgtDdI/AAAAAAAAAFA/bgXt78jZXDk/s320/023.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The first runners are through at a blistering pace without pausing. Strange how many different gaits there are to cover ground quickly from the long loping strides of Grant to the quick short paces of the second runner, yet their speeds are almost equal.<br />
<br />
Race plans were for Richard to run alone to let him manage his own pace, and the two Daves to run roughly together. The three come in separately but only a few minutes apart. Richard runs through but the others pause briefly.<br />
<br />
With nearly 7 miles to the next checkpoint, there is time to call into the village shop and get food and magazines for the support crew before a leisurely drive onwards. <br />
<br />
By Limmerhaugh the river has widened out and I squelch down the bank to the path. Although it's now dry and starting to get warm, there has clearly been a lot of rain recently. It's going to be a challenging surface to run through, particularly for anyone unfamiliar with the route and envisaging a tarmac towpath...<br />
<br />
The leaders have already been through but there is a woman waiting for her partner and we get chatting. She tells me her name is Heather and when I introduce myself she says "oh you've got a blog haven't you?" which is a quite surreal moment. Her other half - Peter MacDonald - is in his first year of ultras and hoping to do the Triple Crown next year. Heather is in training to be his support runner for the WHW....<br />
<br />
Standing either side of the narrow path, clapping every runner who comes through, we feel a bit like a guard of honour. It still feels strange that runners have the energy or mindset to acknowledge us; is it really a boost to have random people encouraging you on your way?<br />
<br />
Lee has set up her support point a little way further up the track. In all my races this year, I've never really seen an outdoor support point and I'm immensely impressed by how organised and equipped she is. Camping chairs to sit on, a folding table laid out with possible needs, a clipboard with expected times and anticipated food, a portable stove for soup, hot food and coffee, giant bottles of water.... Never mind medical supplies, food, drinks, clothes - this really is a military expedition. <br />
<br />
Have trainers, will run? Who are you kidding? You really can't do it without back-up.<br />
<br />
In previous years, this spot by a footbridge was the official checkpoint and as runners come through, many of them call out their numbers, mistaking Lee for a marshall. Quite a number of them also try and turn up onto the bridge itself and cross the river, even when it's clearly blocked by other crews. The bridge is pretty decrepit with unravelled stays and a pronounced wobble - it looks like a prop from the latest Indiana Jones film. Cue small boy creeping out ... and naughty relative jumping up and down to shake it.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-POgvb-F_K_g/ToS5T9pXTzI/AAAAAAAAAFE/8CjYpjTMBsc/s1600/039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-POgvb-F_K_g/ToS5T9pXTzI/AAAAAAAAAFE/8CjYpjTMBsc/s320/039.JPG" width="320" /></a>Our three runners are spread out now and this is the last but one point where Lee will be able to meet all of them. It's also become blue-skyed and hot, defying the weather forecast.<br />
At Sorn, the runners come onto the road for the first time (I'm sure there's a good reason for them to run on the road rather than the pavement but it makes for interesting encounters with car drivers...) and the route crosses the river over a hump-backed bridge closed to traffic.<br />
<br />
I wander over and find a photographer set up to catch runners coming over the crest. It's a vantage point that should make for great shots but with the disadvantage of no sightline along the route to see their approach.<br />
<br />
There are heavy metal barriers at each end of the bridge to block off the traffic and the organisers have tied signs to them to direct the runners. Unfortunately at the far end there is no gap between the barrier and the bridge and the runners keep trying to turn in from of the barrier where there's nowhere to go. Myself and another spectator try moving cones into the space but it's not having the required effect and the barriers are going nowhere without a JCB. The photographer suggests the sign needs to be on the opposite side of the road. Cue some bloody minded struggling with road signs, A-frames, sandbags, mud and string to achieve this. Apologies to Ayrshire council for messing about with your road signs - but it worked and injured runners would have made such a mess....<br />
<br />
Back at the car, Lee is heating up oxtail soup. Mason (dog) is getting ready to lick the bowl clean.<br />
<br />
Being parked after the checkpoint, a number of runners have left rubbish with us. Before we leave, we go to take this to the marshall who refuses to take it, saying its not his job. Can I merely say that it is not good for one's health to argue with Mrs Mac on the subject of marshall's duties....?<br />
<br />
From Sorn we take a high speed shortcut down a side road to Catrine for a flying meet and greet and then on to Mauchline. And getting lost. Repeatedly. After about five attempts, a map book consultation and an inquiry at a petrol station, we finally find the right road.<br />
<br />
Richard is long ahead by now and the only way to meet the pirate is to drive up a narrow road and stop in the middle of it when we're a few hundred yards ahead of him. Job done. Now how to get back...? I'm not a fan of reversing any distance, particularly with runners still coming up the narrow track. But the consequence of turning round is that the sides of my car are now coated with a brown aromatic substance that isn't all mud.... I've been in the city too long....<br />
<br />
The next stop is Failford which is a beautiful village with a lovely pub. It's also on a busy road, with no pavements outside the village and fast traffic. This would be a dangerous place for any pedestrian, but for runners tired and hot after more than 20 miles, even more so. I flinch at a number of narrow misses between runners and lorries.<br />
<br />
The pirate turns up unexpectedly whilst Mrs Mac is taking Mason (dog) for a comfort break and I discover that I am not a good support. I don't know where anything is in the car, or even if we have the right things that are wanted. Fortunately the expert is back on hand within moments and normal service resumes.<br />
<br />
From here onwards, Richard is being met by a friend from Edinburgh who he will be staying with before heading home the next day. His bags are all in the pirate wagon and it's suggested that I take them and go on from Failford to the finish rather than continuing through all the checkpoints.<br />
<br />
I've enjoyed my look at a race from a support perspective but also quite happy to go back to observer status. Support looks like a lot of hard work!<br />
<br />
So, onwards down to Ayr and a touch of deja vu to find Muriel at the finish line with a camera. Isn't this where I came in?<br />
<br />
Sure enough I find myself handing out goody bags again, along with medals and bottles of water. The winner - Grant Jeans not surprisingly - is long since home but I'm in time to see Andy come in as 4th male.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_y4j0c23Dh4/ToTHPRhrA8I/AAAAAAAAAFI/0Iwl4W5r7h8/s1600/044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_y4j0c23Dh4/ToTHPRhrA8I/AAAAAAAAAFI/0Iwl4W5r7h8/s320/044.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>He's furiously trying to calculate if his time will have scored him the points he needs to get an age group prize in the SUMS championship and comes back to Anneke, the Race Director, several times to check finishing times.<br />
<br />
For a while runners come in singly and some distance apart, but then they start arriving in groups which is harder to keep up with. I decide to copy the Fling and hijack some nearby children to help with water and medals. This reminds me why I didn't follow the family profession and become a teacher...<br />
<br />
As I hand over labelled goody bags, it strikes me how many of these people I know by name. Some I can even identify as they run into the track. This is a very small world....<br />
<br />
Richard makes it in with the widest smile on his face. He'll be back....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BvSxr5Lz09o/ToTMNxQw9MI/AAAAAAAAAFM/y8v2zjYZ4ks/s1600/Richard+C+RAW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BvSxr5Lz09o/ToTMNxQw9MI/AAAAAAAAAFM/y8v2zjYZ4ks/s320/Richard+C+RAW.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>As the afternoon wears on, I'm becoming less and less enthusiastic about going home. A few drinks to say goodbye to the season and a chance to catch up with people ... However I have nowhere to stay, no change of clothes, no toiletries. Muriel clinches it by pointing out that the Station Hotel is a big hotel and is bound to have rooms. Everything else can be fixed by shopping...<br />
<br />
There is an interesting challenge to getting the final SUMS positions calculated. The chief statistician - Tim Downie - is running the race himself and will need to finish in a respectable time, feed today's results into spreadsheets and make it to the prizegiving. There is such a thing as trying to do too much at once!<br />
<br />
The pirate makes it to the finish in a decent time, proving once again that no training and excess alcohol consumption is no barrier to completing an ultra.<br />
<br />
David Ross also finishes looking tired but happy.<br />
<br />
A couple of runners (I think Rachel and Brian?) even manage to have a sprinting contest on the final few hundred yards, overtaking a very tired looking runner in the process. I still haven't worked out how anyone has the capacity to sprint after 30, 40, 50 miles or more - no matter how many times I see it done!<br />
<br />
The receptionist at the hotel gives me a slightly confused look when, with no more baggage than a very small handbag, I ask for a room but gives me a decent room rate which leaves me with just enough time for a trip to the supermarket for some basic essentials. Morrisons doesn't sell clothes but there is a clean top in my car boot for some reason so I feel slightly less grubby after a shower and change.<br />
<br />
Due to the Commonwealth championships, a lot of the SUMS prizewinners are absent, including the amazing Lucy Colquhoun who retains her ladies title by winning every race she ran, thereby scoring an unsurpassable 2000 points. For various reasons, a number of race directors are also absent. But everyone who's there is determined to enjoy themselves...<br />
<br />
But the first prize of the night goes to Hazel Macfarlane for proving that there are truly no limits.<br />
<br />
Almost as impressive is the special award to Frank Skachill for being the first to complete all 9 SUMS races in a single season. The legendary Ray McCurdy was the first to enter all 9 last year but didn't complete them all (I hear he got lost once or twice....). That's the first man, first lady is still up for grabs if anyone's interested.<br />
<br />
This year's lifetime award goes to one of the grand old men of Scottish running, Jim Robertson, both for his ultra achievements (12 WHW finishes, including the oldest finisher, being only a small part of it) and his Jog Scotland coaching over the last ten years to bring hundreds of runners into the sport. His award is presented by the "other" Jim - Jim Drummond. Between them, those two have stories to keep you entertained for a lifetime of ultras....<br />
<br />
And when the formalities are over, it's time for drinking and chatting and catching up with friends old and new, hearing gossip and plans, and more drinks and more chatter. Until it's long past four in the morning and even the hardest drinkers are starting to flag.<br />
<br />
So, to bed, and an unanticipated room-mate whose accommodation planning is even more slapdash than mine. In the morning, three flights of stairs and no lift is a serious challenge for an ultra runner with 40 miles in their legs.... and possibly a breach of the Geneva convention.<br />
<br />
And so ends the SUMS for this year. But not quite the end of the ultra season...<br />
<br />
Almost everyone I know seems to be heading for <a href="http://www.go33ultra.com/">Glen Ogle</a> on the 5th November.... See you there?Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-15018493698949898422011-09-17T23:08:00.000+01:002011-09-17T23:08:46.158+01:00Running Beyond LimitsProbably about a year ago, I heard about a Scottish doctor who was planning to run from John O Groats to the Sahara to raise funds for a charity <a href="http://www.yamaatrust.com/">(Yamaa Trust)</a>. Now there's long distance running and then there's two thousand, six hundred and fifty miles of running....<br />
<br />
As part of his route across Scotland, there was to be a charity ultra along 28 miles of the West Highland Way. When a request came out for anyone who was willing to help on the day, I jumped at the chance and, despite my openly declared lack of experience in anything to do with running or races, the organisers seemed happy to have me.<br />
<br />
So, on a cold dark November morning, I drove west across Scotland to Kinlochleven to see my first ultra. There was snow up on the Devils Staircase that hadn't been there a few weeks ago and a bunch of runners in kilts, fancy dress and big smiles. Everyone seemed to know one another (except me who knew nobody) and it felt like a party.<br />
<br />
After coffee and cake at Altnafeadh, I ended up at Victoria Bridge with some packs of water, a semi-accurate list of runners and ..... my own company. In fits and starts, the runners came past: the first ones bounding past at speed without stopping, the later ones stopping for water and a chat and every one of them looking as though they were having the time of their lives. Even the dark haired girl being chivvied by her friend (a small blonde in the shortest kilt and the widest smile) that she absolutely <em>could</em> finish the remaining ten miles...<br />
<br />
And as I watched them bound past, I had my "bugger this, I'm sick of saying <em>I can't</em>" moment, which finds me buying a pair of running shoes a week later.<br />
<br />
Five months later, The Adventure Show documentary is broadcast which reminds me that, as well as the fundraising, Andrew Murray's run was intended to promote the benefits of exercise. Finally I get in touch with him to thank him for what S2S did to change my life. His reply is personal and immensely inspiring.<br />
<br />
Since completing the run, he's got married, undertaken a lot of public speaking and engaged with politicians to help develop strategies to improve the health of the country through exercise. Oh and he wrote a book as well.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LdxaTjabq2I/TnUWtGf52OI/AAAAAAAAAE0/pMcbbsFnYPc/s1600/RBL-cover_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LdxaTjabq2I/TnUWtGf52OI/AAAAAAAAAE0/pMcbbsFnYPc/s320/RBL-cover_sm.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><br />
The book was finally published today, with a launch event at Snowlines Footworks in Edinburgh. (If you want to buy a copy, try <a href="http://www.yamaatrust.com/sales.aspx">here.</a> Or <a href="http://www.snowlines.co.uk/">here).</a> Amongst other things, there was a 5k fun run advertised for 10am. I ummed and aahed for a long time - whilst I wanted to do it, I have no illusions about the competitive nature of most runners and doubted very much it would be at any speed I'm capable of considering as fun - finally making my mind up only the day before.<br />
<br />
Despite the prevailing Edinburgh weather of cold and wet, the morning became hot and dry. I knew I was going to suffer when Ian B arrived dripping with sweat having run the mile or so from home. It was also too fast! If I'm ever going to start running regularly with other people I need to learn to set my own pace and not try to keep up with others. I know I can run 5k almost every time - but <em>only</em> if I start at my own slow pace and stick to it...<br />
<br />
Andrew did, very charmingly, drop back to talk with me but even at that speed, I can't run <em>and</em> talk. I found myself instead jogging with a lovely older woman with a black dog. who turned out to be Andrew's mother. We made a strategic decision to cut out the second lap and head for the finish line to be cheerleaders instead.<br />
<br />
So I ran with the man who ran 2650 miles last winter, even if it was only 100 yards or so. <br />
<br />
Afterwards there is coffee and cake back at the shop and more chatting with the other runners and friends who've come along. Among them is Mike Adams who I've not seen since he was sweeper at S2S but has just put on an incredibly successful race of his own - the Glenmore 24 - with the Glen Ogle 33 to come in November.<br />
<br />
The Yamaa Trust are repeating the S2S Ultra again this year, together with the 10k fun run from Bridge of Orchy to Tyndrum (details under <a href="http://www.yamaatrust.com/">upcoming events</a>). Having told someone only two weeks ago that I was nowhere near ready for a 10k, the idea of this is becoming disturbingly attractive. Mike doesn't help by telling me how much fun it would be, and that it's a flat route.<br />
<br />
My first 10k ... on the West Highland Way ... in December? Madness or magical?Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-19658179776500487952011-08-14T17:27:00.001+01:002011-08-15T20:23:25.627+01:00The Devil of the Highland Midgies<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XK3iYwy84Vw/Tj7pCHyb39I/AAAAAAAAAD8/ON9TDwLQPG0/s1600/scottish-midge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XK3iYwy84Vw/Tj7pCHyb39I/AAAAAAAAAD8/ON9TDwLQPG0/s1600/scottish-midge.jpg" /></a>This should be about an ultra. But there were midgies. <br />
<em>Lots of them</em>.<br />
<br />
I've discovered that midgies love me. <br />
This feeling is not reciprocated.<br />
<br />
So whilst I try and relate the day of the Devil o the Highlands footrace, I apologise in advance for the unwarranted intrusion of thousands of small Scottish insects.<br />
<br />
The Devil is the third of the West Highland Way ultras. Along with the Fling and the WHWR itself, it makes up the Scottish Triple Crown. I couldn't not be there for this one...<br />
<br />
Mind you, I nearly reconsidered that when I realised that it started at six in the morning. Add on a two hour drive from Edinburgh to Tyndrum, time for registration, etc and I calculated I was looking at a three o'clock alarm call to see the start. No. There are limits. This is not going to happen.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to be in the same position that I was for the Fling - somewhere on the route to watch the race go past me. And, as for the Fling, I seek advice on where to be. However this time I can go directly to the oracle himself - Murdo the Magnificent - and ask his opinion on a good spot (and also make sure I'm not treading on his toes by turning up in the same place!). He tells me he's not going to be at this one, and points me in the direction of a good spot on Rannoch Moor. I also realise that this time I really am going to have to give in and become an honorary Scot for the day ... what other flag but the Saltire can there be today?<br />
<br />
Friday evening was spent working out how to turn a walking pole into a flag carrier, and getting to bed at a time that wouldn't make me too grumpy when the alarm went off at 4am... Despite my best efforts I was pretty late leaving Edinburgh; there may have been one or two speed limits broken on the way west. There were certainly a few unsuspecting tourists being overtaken when they weren't expecting it! Ah well, it woke them up.<br />
<br />
Driving into Crianlarich, the roadside signs were displaying "Warning. Heavy rain. Drive with Care". Such a sign looks quite bizarre through sunglasses. It's all a question of timing....<br />
<br />
At Tyndrum I though I might see some vestiges of the race start but not a trace. Amazing how several hundred people can vanish like that. But on the road through to Bridge of Orchy, I can see little brightly coloured dots spread out along the Way. It doesn't matter how many times I do this, I'm still as excited spotting my first runners.<br />
<br />
Coming up to Bridge of Orchy, I can see signs saying "Caution. Runners" and slow down, realising that there is a possibility of one charging across the A82 in front of me. As I approach the hotel, a man in a yellow jacket steps out into the road and puts his hand up to stop me and the other cars. I'm grinning like an idiot - which may not be the response he gets from other motorists - as a man in a white top runs across without breaking stride. Even in the car with the music turned up, I can hear the cheers and clapping from the crowd by the hotel. There are lots of cars, lots of people and lots of midgie nets...<br />
<br />
I head on up to the Glencoe Ski Centre and have a near miss with a deer carcass on a blind bend. Poor thing. One of my most magical memories is of hearing rutting stags calling to one another across the valley at the top of the Devil's Staircase last autumn. A day and a place for believing that anything was possible, that fear will get you nowhere but putting one foot in front of the other will take you anywhere, even when it hurts...<br />
<br />
I park at the foot of the car park, apply another dose of anti-midge spray and open the boot to get my rucksac and flag. Instantly there is a soft fluttering across my face and I realise I've had my first contact with midges. Annoying but no bites. Though just how am I supposed to keep them out of the car while the door's open?<br />
<br />
I have a confession. For some reason I thought the path over Rannoch Moor was (reasonably) flat. In hindsight this makes no sense, as the A82 is very much not flat. But still I'm surprised to find myself heading upwards. If this is the old military road, who on earth thought it was a good idea to build it over a hill? Why not down on the flatter landscape where the modern road runs? <br />
<br />
<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d4lWfOw5Gqc/TkbuhkDcGRI/AAAAAAAAAEA/juphtZroPIk/s1600/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d4lWfOw5Gqc/TkbuhkDcGRI/AAAAAAAAAEA/juphtZroPIk/s320/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+004.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I have knocked a long time off the sat nav prediction to get here but Murdo's prediction of 30 minutes walking is, on this occasion, absolutely spot on. Either he's getting better at estimating time or I'm getting a bit fitter - I suspect the latter.<br />
<br />
At first I can see the A82 - and all the support vehicles starting to pull into Blackrock Cottage - but soon I'm out of sight and sound of everything. I disturb a pair of birds in the verge and as they jink off into the sky, I realise they're probably grouse. And only then do I realise why some runners hold this to be their favourite part of the Way ... spectacular mind-blowing Rannoch Moor...<br />
<br />
Just over the brow of the hill I meet a walker coming the other way. He laughs and expresses his surprise at seeing someone else this early; and laughs even more when I tell him he's about to get run over by a hundred plus runners on their way to Fort William.<br />
<br />
The view is spectacular: down to the river with the Way coming round the side of the slope in front of me. An inspired suggestion by Murdo yet again. I stop, shrug my backpack off and suddenly my vision fuzzes over. What the hell? I blink furiously, thinking I have something in my eyes, and only as the sun flashes through a gap in the cloud do I realise that my vision is fine ... but I am surrounded by a cloud of midgies. I'm starting to understand why they're so notorious....<br />
<br />
I've judged my timing quite well and the first runners are just visible coming up the hill towards me. At the Fling, the first runners I saw (excluding Kate) were the veterans travelling at a restrained speed. Here these are fast boys and they are seriously motoring. Hell I can't run at that speed on the flat....<br />
<br />
There are only a few feet between first and second and while I don't recognise the leader, I'm delighted to see the second is <a href="http://runnertom.blogspot.com/">Thomas aka the Crazy German</a> and honorary Scotsman. To his credit he is totally unphased by a strange woman greeting him by name in the middle of nowhere!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I7GgACag2E4/Tkb0d1QuF4I/AAAAAAAAAEE/8sEdovY-KQM/s1600/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I7GgACag2E4/Tkb0d1QuF4I/AAAAAAAAAEE/8sEdovY-KQM/s320/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+006.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>There are a few minutes gap to the third man but then there is a regular procession, all going well and racing hard.<br />
<br />
As for me, I'm rapidly losing patience with the midgies swarming around me whenever I stand still. The last straw is when one tangles itself into my eyelashes; which is unpleasant for both of us. I surrender and get out the very fetching pink midgie hood I bought for the WHW and never used. Haha, you can't get me now, vile creatures. My hands and arms are the only exposed skin and are protected by the repellent spray. My leggings look like roses with greenfly due to the hundreds of resting beasties but I'm not bothered by how I look.<br />
<br />
What I haven't realised is that the walk up to here has created a tiny gap between my leggings and socks ... I am going to pay for this later.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Dw5sCYWV8VY/Tkb3c_WW-6I/AAAAAAAAAEI/yVu0JyiWB70/s1600/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Dw5sCYWV8VY/Tkb3c_WW-6I/AAAAAAAAAEI/yVu0JyiWB70/s320/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+012.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>In maybe sixth or seventh position, I'm delighted to see the tiny frame of <a href="http://lucycolquhoun.blogspot.com/2011/08/devil-finds-work-for-idle-hands-and.html">Lucy Colquhoun</a> flying up the path. As I greet her, she apologises for not recognising me. Er, I'm wearing a pink midgie net, I'm not sure my own mother would recognise me at the moment!<br />
<br />
Though Bob Steel does a few places later which makes me laugh. He points out that he's not talking nonsense this time (cf the Clyde Stride) which also amuses me.<br />
<br />
Only a place or two behind Lucy is a man in a yellow vest who totally ruins my theory of ultra trail runners all being small and slenderly built. He's tall and, well <em>normal</em>, but he's travelling well and looking good. (Just to prove how little I know, he finishes third male.) "Nice touch" he says, as he goes past, gesturing to the Saltire.<br />
<br />
A couple of runners comment on the flag. A few also say that they saw it and assumed it was Murdo. They were then slightly confused to get closer and realise that "Murdo" was wearing a skirt... The pink top was presumably also rather disconcerting. Well I hope it was!<br />
<br />
At the WHW I joked about hearing Sharon Law approaching the checkpoint. This time I'm not joking. I can hear her voice carrying through the silence of the Moor as soon as she comes round the side of the hill. In the few gaps of sound I can hear an unmistakeable Scouse accent which can belong only to <a href="http://www.johnkynaston.com/">John Kynaston.</a> And where those two are, you can be sure that <a href="http://debsonrunning.blogspot.com/">Debs Martin Consani</a> won't be too far away. Sure enough, the three of them pass me almost together. Fortunately on this occasion, there is no water being thrown. Or temper tantrums!<br />
<br />
The midgie hood is doing a sterling job but it's an interesting challenge when I try to have a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. I discover that if I walk in circles fast enough whilst drinking, they can't get to me. But after the fifth time I try to eat a biscuit through the netting, I've had enough. The hood comes off, and the combined hat/net goes on. Sadly it has black netting which is nowhere near as flash as my pale pink hood :(<br />
<br />
Ian B comes past on his way to meet <a href="http://santababyrunning.blogspot.com/">Sandra </a>and also jokes that he mistook me for Murdo briefly. When the two of them, with another runner, come past Sandra certainly doesn't look like a woman who hasn't run more than five miles at a time since damaging her ankles in the WHW. Ian asks if I'll be further along the course. I tell them I'll be at the finish "don't keep me waiting too long!"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4sSMHYNwkKA/TkduCPMK8VI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/cmlc_lH5zC8/s1600/moto_0526.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4sSMHYNwkKA/TkduCPMK8VI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/cmlc_lH5zC8/s320/moto_0526.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>I'm more concerned by the half-naked runner who comes past. It's far too early in the morning for that amount of flesh to be on display ... and there are also far too many midgies. I am in pain just thinking about it....<br />
<br />
As the flood of runners becomes an erratic trickle, I decide to pack up and head for the car. I'd like to get to Fort William for the first finishers and, as usual, I have no idea where the finish is or where I can park...<br />
<br />
Coming to the crest of the hill, I step off the path to allow a woman to run past. "I've been following that flag for ages" she tells me in a broad scottish accent "brought a tear to the eye. Mind you, doesn't take much!" I love how attached the Scots are to their flag, no ugly xenophobia but lots of sentiment.<br />
<br />
I'm also passed by <a href="http://karen-robertson.blogspot.com/2011/08/devil.html">Karen Robertson</a> who is smiling, having clearly exorcised her Rannoch Moor demons from a nightmare run at the WHW.<br />
<br />
It's starting to get very warm now (well it is August after all, even in Scotland) but one runner comes past all bundled up as if it's midwinter. I <em>think</em> it's Sophie who was sweeper at Clyde Stride but it's a bit difficult to tell under all those layers.<br />
<br />
Back on the road, I want to see if I can spot anyone running up the Devil's Staircase but with all the cars parked at the foot of it, I daren't even take my eyes off the road. I've never seen it so busy and I strongly disapprove. The Highlands should be full of wild lonely places, not packed with cars and people like an urban park.<br />
<br />
Having dealt with more ambling tourists on the drive around to Fort William, I choose to park by the Nevis Centre. Taking photos on the moor has flattened the batteries in my camera and phone. The phone I've managed to partially recharge in the car but I need new batteries for the camera and Morrisons seems as good a place as any (much good they do as the camera refuses to work with them and I have to beg some others from Davie). Also, it can't be <em>that</em> far on foot to the finish line, can it?<br />
<br />
Probably not, but after the leisure centre, I'm on new ground. The only thing I can remember is that the race finishes at a roundabout and, whilst the traditional direction of travel on the WHW is north, there must surely be signs to follow southbound out of town? Maybe not....<br />
<br />
But eventually, here we are. No finish arch here, no bottle of whiskey, but a small gazebo on a patch of grass, a finish line spray painted across the pavement and a race banner facing away from town. The first person I see is Davie Hall, complete with camera, followed by Pete Duggan, not running but supporting.<br />
<br />
While we're waiting for the winner I get a lesson in the correct pronunciation of scottish place names - Cree-an-lah-rick <span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>(* see Peter's comment below, it's only "rick" if "loch" is "lock"!)</em></span> and Tyne-drum if you're interested - and meet Silke, Thomas's wife. Thomas has had a good race, and been leading at various stages, but another runner has been gradually working his way up the field. And in the now blazing heat it is this runner - the relative novice Matt Williamson - who crosses the line first in five hours thirty two minutes. Thomas arrives only three minutes later. <br />
<br />
No-one is sure who might be third and we're all taking turns to keep watch up the road for incoming runners. Less than fifteen minutes pass before the third finisher arrives in the tiny form of Lucy, who has blown away the women's record by over an hour to finish in five hours forty seven minutes.<br />
<br />
She has also inadvertently ignited a debate as to what prize she should be awarded - should she be rewarded for first female or third finisher? If she was to win an event outright (as she nearly did on the WHW a few years ago) should she get the "first man" prize which is traditionally assumed to be superior to "first lady"? To extend the argument, Lucy is classed as a female "veteran", so should she be awarded first lady and first ladies' vet? Or should the veteran prize pass to the next finisher in that class? Should a runner win multiple prizes? Or one only per race?<br />
<br />
I should perhaps point out that the race organisers have no interest in the debate, having firm opinions on their particular prize rules. Nor has Lucy, who is more interested in downing several pints of fizzy water and a large bag of salty pretzels. Not to mention being reunited with her dog, or how to resolve the problem that her fresh clothes, shoes, wallet etc are all in her car ... which is still parked in Tyndrum.<br />
<br />
Her support provides her with his sweatshirt which hangs almost to her knees, and for the next few hours she pads around barefoot, looking like a fresh faced school girl.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xteC_Yn_o4o/TkfiyRrdNHI/AAAAAAAAAEU/okljDVr3X30/s1600/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xteC_Yn_o4o/TkfiyRrdNHI/AAAAAAAAAEU/okljDVr3X30/s320/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+044.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It's a long half hour wait for the next finisher which is the "normal" looking runner I saw earlier on the moor. He's greeted by a whole team of supporters in yellow race t-shirts, including the young boy in the picture (left).<br />
<br />
After this there is a reasonably frequent arrival of runners, coming in to cheers from the small crowd now gathering on the grass. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yuhDL4WQ-wc/Tkfl8i73E5I/AAAAAAAAAEY/l3ki5k_13ns/s1600/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yuhDL4WQ-wc/Tkfl8i73E5I/AAAAAAAAAEY/l3ki5k_13ns/s320/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+071.JPG" width="320" /></a>Just before one o'clock the second lady arrives in the form of none other than Debs Martin Consani, falling into the arms of her husband Marco who has had the thankless task of supporting her today. But today nothing has been thrown, with his runner on her best behaviour. <br />
<br />
Well, almost....<br />
<br />
Team Kynaston are here in the form of Katrina (only weeks away from her first marathon, and now a media star thanks to Debs), two daughters and a friend. I suggest this is enough to have a Kynaston relay team for next year's Fling but one daughter is having none of this, and adamant there are enough runners in the family without her starting.<br />
<br />
The third woman arrives just past seven hours, with her right shin covered in caked and fresh blood. It's a pretty gruesome sight and I'm stunned to be told that she fell early in the race but refused to stop and have it properly treated as she didn't want to lose time.<br />
<br />
Sharon Law arrives around twenty minutes later. I had been feeling as though I was her jinx this year with two DNFs in races I was at. The good finish here - giving her first ladies' veteran prize - stops me feeling irrationally guilty!<br />
<br />
Throughout the afternoon, more and more runners come home but somehow it never seems to get crowded at the finish. With showers and changing facilities some distance away, it seems that a lot of finishers head away and don't always come back. It's a shame and makes me realise how great the Fling finish is.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vIP6AaaYl10/Tkfp21YswUI/AAAAAAAAAEc/Gd5h8PK5T_g/s1600/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vIP6AaaYl10/Tkfp21YswUI/AAAAAAAAAEc/Gd5h8PK5T_g/s320/Devil+o+the+Highlands+2011+090.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>As at the Clyde Stride, Davie misses one runner at the finish and send him back to get his finishing photo. If you ignore the open drink bottle, you'd never know...<br />
<br />
John Kynaston arrives well into the afternoon, having had another hard run and suffered with the heat and his breathing.<br />
<br />
The amazing Fiona Rennie arrives at the finish. She tells me she's never missed a Devils race day but has never run it. This year again she's in a supporter's role but I suspect she will have run the odd mile or two...<br />
<br />
There are a whole load of Fetch people here - both runners and supporters - including Ian and Lorraine who were at the mile relay in the Meadows a few weeks ago. Sandra comes in, greets me with a hot and sweaty hug, then heads off back to Edinburgh to catch a Festival show.<br />
<br />
Karen arrives having run the last few miles at an entirely inappropriately fast pace and while she starts hobbling soon after, is clearly delighted to have finished. Even better to have finished ahead of Tim...<br />
<br />
The prize giving is back in the centre of town at the Nevis Centre. It's the same hall used for the WHW prize giving and it seems odd to see it so much emptier. The family members are sat together on the left and it doesn't feel too strange to join them. JK is giving me advice on operating my Garmin and asking after my running plans (which are now very vague having realised how non-flat Rannoch Moor is!). Lucy (who has managed to borrow some clothes that nearly fit her) interrupts him to congratulate me on my mile relay. Never mind the fact that every one of her 43 miles today was at a pace far faster than my single one; this is on a par with David Beckham praising my performance in a pub team kick-around. Ridiculous but delightfully satisfying!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y3ZeY-l0FYQ/TkfvdEGedqI/AAAAAAAAAEg/Itj96nUfgpw/s1600/moto_0575.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y3ZeY-l0FYQ/TkfvdEGedqI/AAAAAAAAAEg/Itj96nUfgpw/s320/moto_0575.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Debs, Thomas, Lucy, Matt</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
As we leave, the rain starts that was forecast for hours earlier. By the time I pass the warning sign at Crianlarich, my car is aquaplaning through serious puddles and the wipers are working overtime.<br />
<br />
And my ankles are itchy. Very itchy....<br />
<br />
I know better than to scratch them. Even when the itching wakes me up in the middle of the night. Even so, this is how they look the next day, red, swollen and blistered:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HO6O2fiNvYQ/TkfxXr9vEzI/AAAAAAAAAEo/kkN_9KpAS6c/s1600/moto_0579.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HO6O2fiNvYQ/TkfxXr9vEzI/AAAAAAAAAEo/kkN_9KpAS6c/s200/moto_0579.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JEdwLE1O23s/TkfxTWgRn_I/AAAAAAAAAEk/WIPk2XRX7V4/s1600/moto_0578.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JEdwLE1O23s/TkfxTWgRn_I/AAAAAAAAAEk/WIPk2XRX7V4/s200/moto_0578.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>It seems that not only do I find midgies incredibly annoying, I'm also allergic to them! Great....<br />
<br />
Must get that sorted before next year.... Right now I'm thinking bio-hazard suit...<br />
<br />
As usual thanks to everyone who made it another fabulous day: organisers, runners, supporters, followers, friends, family. <br />
What am I going to do over the winter without you???<br />
<br />
*****************************************************************************<br />
<br />
I took a ridiculous amount of photos on the day which you can see <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/66066415@N02/sets/72157627371738288/">here on Flickr.</a> I'm neither professional nor posessive, so if there are any you'd like, help yourself.<br />
<br />
Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-44304356753027958532011-07-27T23:44:00.002+01:002011-07-28T16:11:48.691+01:00I am a (very slow) runnerI'm sure it's no surprise that I think ultra runners are great. As a group, they have to be the most open-hearted, friendly and welcoming community I've ever encountered. They're also invariably mad, with a total disregard of the accepted maxims of physical limitations and a general belief that anything is possible. <br />
<br />
And therein lies my problem.<br />
<br />
That sort of thinking is contagious.<br />
<br />
That sort of thinking is why, in the pub last Wednesday, I found myself nodding in agreement when Sandra suggested I should take part in the mile relays in the Meadows the next week. And it was early on in the evening so I can't even blame the alcohol. (There were a few intoxicating beverages consumed later; it was my <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TuWOLcqwkHk/TihgpEnhAOI/AAAAAAAABsY/ASfGL91wRxs/s1600/blog2.jpg">birthday</a> after all!). And I was definitely sober the following night when I confirmed on fb...<br />
<br />
This was all before I made the mistake of looking at the <a href="http://uk.srichinmoyraces.org/races/edinburgh">Sri Chinmoy</a> website and seeing the times from last year. Five, six, seven minutes for the mile ... fecking hell there's loads that are four minutes something! This might be just a bit of fun, but these are <em>serious</em> runners. I have no idea how fast I can run a mile - I've never tried - but I know it's going to take rather longer than that!<br />
<br />
Whilst I'm clearly going to be the slowest person on the night, I'm less embarrassed by this than by the fact that a couple of Sandra's Fetch pals have agreed to team up with a complete stranger who can only guarantee them last place on this year's results. Lanterne Rouge anyone....?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XWexMq2ovCE/Ti2_joP8xII/AAAAAAAAADg/zBfFPYIz9SU/s1600/tortoise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XWexMq2ovCE/Ti2_joP8xII/AAAAAAAAADg/zBfFPYIz9SU/s1600/tortoise.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And so, on what feels like the hottest evening of the year, I find myself heading for the Meadows in my running gear. Never mind that when I woke up this morning, every inch of my legs was howling in psychosomatic pain, and I've spent the entire day alternating between a desire to throw up and empty my bladder.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I get there, I spot the Fetch vests and am warmly welcomed by Sandra. "How are you feeling?" she asks.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Fucking terrified!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I really didn't see the two small children. Sorry!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sandra is on my team but the third runner isn't able to make it and we have a vacancy. Sandra spots Keith talking to the HBTs and ropes him in. Eeek! There are three people on the field that I know, and two of them are going to be running with me. Nobody I know has <em>ever</em> seen me run .... It's going to be a night of firsts!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A mile.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It doesn't sound very far really. I spend too much time watching and reading about runs of 40, 50, 100 miles. When somebody points out the route and that it's basically the full way around the meadows, it looks like infinity. The only place I want to run now is the opposite direction. The place is full of people with beer and barbecues and footballs ... why am I not doing that instead of doing stupid things like running???</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We have agreed that I am running the first leg, with Sandra second and Keith, our "fast" runner in the final circuit when he can pass others. I am soundly expecting to get lapped by second leg runners and I think my sole objective is to not get lapped by any of the thirds!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All too soon, Adrian calls us to the start. I try to find my appropriate place at the back and find myself between a immaculately turned out grey haired woman, and a younger woman in a brown HBT vest pushing a buggy. Ok, this is going to be even more embarrassing than I realised. Too late now....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As we set off, the last thing I hear is Keith yelling "run like fuck" at me. And I do. For about a hundred yards. By which time, the front runners are already two hundred yards ahead of me. And I'm already gasping for breath like I never quit smoking.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A group of young men are holding out bottles of beer by the side of the course. "Don't tempt me" I say, which is a further waste of breath that I don't really have. The smart answer would have been "I'll be back in ten, keep it cold for me" but that only occurs to me half way around.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm consoled initially by the fact that a man in red is only a few yards ahead of me, but at the first turn he carries straight on and I realise he's not in the relay. Fortunately the older woman is still behind me jogging at a steady pace which makes me feel better. Until she overtakes me about two thirds of the way around and pulls away.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By this point, the fast second leg runners are coming past. By god are they fast. Even with screaming legs and lungs I can still appreciate their speed and elegance. What on earth am I doing this for? I'm never going to able to do that, or anything like.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But I am going to finish this blasted mile. If it kills me. And it probably will judging by how much the last few hundred yards hurt.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The cheers from the Fetch gang (and the other runners around) help. They also make me even redder than I am already. I'm embarrassed to be so slow in this company but at the same time I know I absolutely could not have gone any faster. So, I'm slow. But I did it. That's more than several hundred other people on the Meadows did tonight.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sandra sets off and I lean against a tree, trying to pull some oxygen into my lungs. Keith jokes that my face is the same colour as my hair. This is not a pretty thought and I'm not looking forward to seeing the race photos....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'd left a drink bottle with a Fetch non-runner but I can't find her and Zuzana offers me water. My brain is so fried at this point I can't even open the bottle. It doesn't ease my burning lungs but it tastes great.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uRnXChlXxlM/TjF7izx_xhI/AAAAAAAAAD0/Pgxnd2fRQFU/s1600/IMG_2476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uRnXChlXxlM/TjF7izx_xhI/AAAAAAAAAD0/Pgxnd2fRQFU/s320/IMG_2476.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sandra manages to overtake a few bodies and Keith seems to produce a spectacular sprint finish with the end result that we're not last. There is some debate around differences between garmin times and race times but I think they were 7:20 and 6:06 respectively.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YxReCdHmrrI/TjF7oVuhj5I/AAAAAAAAAD4/ZsB7aCvgnN0/s1600/IMG_2510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YxReCdHmrrI/TjF7oVuhj5I/AAAAAAAAAD4/ZsB7aCvgnN0/s320/IMG_2510.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My leg is recorded as 12:46. It's slow. But it's a PB. And I'm actually very happy with it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Afterwards, there is a Fetch picnic with fizzy stuff and strawberries and chocolate peanuts. And gossip and chat and laughter...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lin3vUs_YwQ/TjCS-8sx5EI/AAAAAAAAADk/Au17EJns0U4/s1600/Meadows+relay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lin3vUs_YwQ/TjCS-8sx5EI/AAAAAAAAADk/Au17EJns0U4/s320/Meadows+relay.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Can't think of a better way to have spent a summer evening.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5PJ_euf9Dyc/TjF6vx4WlSI/AAAAAAAAADo/q3kXkkrzfGk/s1600/IMG_2324.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5PJ_euf9Dyc/TjF6vx4WlSI/AAAAAAAAADo/q3kXkkrzfGk/s320/IMG_2324.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kpm9wV1s8Xk/TjF62ArWUmI/AAAAAAAAADs/xfzkBgw0DCk/s1600/IMG_2396.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kpm9wV1s8Xk/TjF62ArWUmI/AAAAAAAAADs/xfzkBgw0DCk/s320/IMG_2396.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... After</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Thanks to everyone who got me there, got me round and made me smile afterwards. Some of you know who you are ... some of you don't ... but thanks anyway.</div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now if I could just find a new pair of lungs, it would be great.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-75323062751761766792011-07-19T22:55:00.000+01:002011-07-19T22:55:42.771+01:00A Stroll Along the ClydeSo, my third ultra, and another great experience. Although I'm learning that every ultra has its own unique character and personality, even when many of the participants are the same...<br />
<br />
The forecast for Saturday was warm and wet. Very wet. When the alarm went off at 4.30, the first thing I could hear was the rain pouring down. Nor did I have to get out of bed to confirm that the rest of the forecast seemed to be right as well.<br />
<br />
Not having flown back from England until late on the Friday, I was completely unprepared and wasted copious amounts of time trying to decide on clothing. I don't do heat particularly well and the challenge of what could keep me cool - and dry - was probably too taxing for that time of day. But just after six, I'm in the car and heading west.<br />
<br />
At first, it's just raining but the downpour gets heavier and heavier, falling in what seems to be solid pools of water. Despite the best efforts of the wipers, I'm struggling to see any distance and, like the small number of other vehicles on the M8, slow down further and further in an attempt to retain some safety. Even at a crawling pace, there are a few very hair-raising moments when the car starts aqua-planing and the clever electronic bits kick in. If I wasn't fully awake before, I am now....<br />
<br />
For the first time ever, I don't approach the Kingston Bridge in an almost stationary queue. But I still miss the turn for Partick and find myself doubling back up a hill so steep it should be in San Francisco, not Glasgow. By now the rain has lightened to a sporadic drizzle and I only need to worry about the car in front that is weaving across the road in erratic curves, clearly still drunk or drugged from the night before, and travelling at 15-20 mph.<br />
<br />
For some reason, I'm convinced that the station should be on a main road (despite Google street view!) and almost miss the turn but there's the station and Morrisons with its almost empty car park. Feet up, magazine and first bottle of Irn-Bru out, let's sit and wait for the circus to turn up.<br />
<br />
One or two cars pull into the car park, some clearly unconnected with the race, but the owner of the exuberant golden labrador is small and wiry, and wearing shorts and running shoes. Quite a few pedestrians are also wearing trainers ... but the wider physiques and inevitable cigarettes seem to preclude them from being runners....<br />
<br />
However I am quite sure that the tall man standing at the corner of the car park is part of Lee's team and when I walk over he introduces himself as Davie Hall, another member of the "family" but not one I've actually met before.<br />
<br />
More runners arrive and eventually so does Lee in the white transit. I can't believe how much stuff there is in the back and we start following instructions to unload the bits that are needed for the start. The other two registration marshalls start registering the individual runners, handing out race numbers and safety pins, whilst I write out the relay teams' race badges. As I'm kneeling, I hear a voice above me say hello and look up to see the smiling face of the lovely David Ross (he was part of the Pirate's WHW support crew and, with his wife Lorraine, part of the post race drinking crew). He probably should be running himself but says he hasn't trained enough so is helping out by marshalling the road crossings.<br />
<br />
Suddenly it's very busy with runners and teams registering and handing in drop bags. Lee has caused some confusion by changing the race numbers at the last minute to accommodate the final line-up, not realising that runners have already taken "their" numbers from the website and labelled their drop bags. Some borrow marker pens to change their labels, others just get left as they are.<br />
<br />
Although the Clyde Stride is marketed as a perfect beginner's first ultra, there are still a lot of the high-end Scottish runners here, with the promise of some good competition. A few of the individual runners were part of the WHW only four weeks ago, including Richie, Donnie Campbell, Debs and Sharon. Also here is Lucy Colquhoun, fresh from winning an individual bronze for GB in the World Championship in Ireland only a week ago, and full of smiles and stories of Italian runners. Grant Jeans is also racing; one of the favourites for the race but not a runner I've seen before as he doesn't like hills, which is a bit of a disadvantage in so many of the Scottish trail ultras. Not forgetting the legendary Ray McCurdy, looking positively dapper (apparently he is now sponsored by the Evening Times and Greaves Sports...) but digging out his entry fee from a puzzle of coin bags. Debs comes over, says hello and promises not to shout at me later... but says nothing about water bottles. <br />
<br />
I finally meet the famous Ali B and am delighted to find out that she is every bit as nice as her reputation. Karin is here too but not running, having accepted only a few days ago that her legs have not recovered sufficiently from her lengthy WHW - she also confesses that she took about two weeks to go from "never again" to "definitely again"... Tim Downie is sweeping (with Sophie) and has come correctly kitted out for his role:<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u6z0x5dYp7g/TiNO2D-O2eI/AAAAAAAAADI/MH9W3ueVkf0/s1600/Tim+the+sweeper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u6z0x5dYp7g/TiNO2D-O2eI/AAAAAAAAADI/MH9W3ueVkf0/s320/Tim+the+sweeper.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
Lee delivers the race briefing round the corner which I hear very little of, as we're still finishing the last registration tasks. I'm slightly confused by the relay team who have called themselves "The Waitresses" as there seems to be some definite gender mis-match.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zCG5g06GwNs/TiMmUn5ao6I/AAAAAAAAACw/n9ZApxX8yBc/s1600/IMG00299-20110716-0904.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zCG5g06GwNs/TiMmUn5ao6I/AAAAAAAAACw/n9ZApxX8yBc/s320/IMG00299-20110716-0904.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
As I'm trotting down to the start line, a couple stop me and the man asks in a very thick Glasgow accent what the runners are doing. Not for the last time that day, I reply "40 miles along the Clyde to Lanark". His jaw drops and I learn some new Scottish words...<br />
<br />
Then the hooter goes and they're away, the front runners sprinting as if there were 5k ahead of them, not 40 miles.<br />
<br />
Back to the car park, and start packing up. Drop bags in the boxes, ready to be taken to the relevant checkpoints. Bags for the finish line; although the briefing was "one small bag", there are a large number of bags of a size sufficient for a family of four on a week's holiday! DQ and Geraldine are there, they are manning checkpoint 3 and will have no runners for 3-4 hours. Davie sets off quickly for the first checkpoint where it will be a challenge to get ready and set out for the first runners. Lee has given us our goodie bags and we're all delighted to see they include race medals. Totally unearned but a nice touch.<br />
<br />
Officially I'm done now and I <em>could</em> go home ... but it was never going to happen. So a convoy of three vehicles sets off, headed up by Lee and Ali in the van and me at the back. Within a few minutes I've completely lost my bearings and there are a few close calls with other vehicles and changing traffic lights as I try to keep up. We briefly touch familiar territory by the Kingston Bridge and then are over the Clyde into south Glasgow and some "interesting" areas. One wrong turn on an industrial estate and we pull up at the first checkpoint at Cambuslang.<br />
<br />
The drop bags are laid out along the side of the path and Lee puts the two other registration marshalls on point to be responsible for picking up the correct runners bag, whilst Davie and his sidekick concentrate on recording times.<br />
<br />
There's some debate as to who will be first through - Grant or Richie - and my money's on Grant: it's a flat fast course which plays to his strengths. Almost exactly an hour into the race, the shout of "runner" goes up and everyone turns to see who it is. Charging along, dressed all in black, it's Grant. Somehow he seems to bounce without ever touching the ground ... and good heavens he's fast. <br />
<br />
He almost misses the turn after the checkpoint and has to be shouted right. Lee asks me to stand on the junction and make sure everyone goes the right way. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L3jYVFzq4eU/TiNX2RUIkaI/AAAAAAAAADM/wRi3Mgj4tG8/s1600/moto_0460.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L3jYVFzq4eU/TiNX2RUIkaI/AAAAAAAAADM/wRi3Mgj4tG8/s320/moto_0460.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>A few minutes later, the next runner arrives but it's not Richie. It's a young man in a white t-shirt with bleached blond hair who looks as though he should be on a surfboard. He charges through the checkpoint and, as he passes me, wants only to know "how far ahead is he?" I tell him about five minutes and can almost see him putting his head down and increasing his speed.<br />
<br />
Another few minutes pause and then there's a steady flow of runners coming through. For relay teams, this is the first changeover and I think some of them are surprised how fast the full-distance runners are travelling.<br />
<br />
Some runners stop at the checkpoint but others just grab dropbags and keep going. One asks if he can give me an empty bag and I start collecting rubbish. This works quite well until Debs comes through and throws her half empty water bottle towards me ... the top isn't fastened and the contents fly out and soak me from the waist downwards. Oh well, I'm still expecting to get wet in the promised rainstorms and at least it was water, not sticky electrolyte drink!<br />
<br />
Whilst I'm standing here, my mobile rings. It's my credit card company trying to solve a security problem and I get stuck into a lengthy conversation. But the race doesn't stop and I'm trying to multi-task and keep clapping and directing runners as they go through. The poor man on the other end of the phone is totally confused as to why I keep interrupting him with words like "no, THAT way" or "about ten miles" ....<br />
<br />
Eventually Lee decides that she needs to leave for the next checkpoint to have any chance of seeing the first runners through and asks me to move on as well. We make a quick stop at (yet another) Morrisons to stock up on bottled water for the checkpoints and fuel the van. I'm not quite sure what the other shoppers and staff make of the three women in race t-shirts and fluorescent jackets buying a trolley full of bottled water.<br />
<br />
The second checkpoint is at Strathclyde Park to the side of a hotel. By now the sun is out, the sky is clear and I'm cursing leaving my sunglasses at home. The checkpoint is busy with cars, supporters and relay teams and we've missed the first few runners. Audrey and Eric are already here but with a third marshall, Eric can concentrate on drop bags, whilst Audrey and I concentrate on recording runners and times. She calls out the clock time and the race numbers while I write.<br />
<br />
At Kinlochleven there were always gaps between runners but this is only twenty miles in and it feels like non-stop arrivals. Some runners are making it even more challenging by not displaying numbers or having them in random places. Some come past us, pick up drop bags, then double back to the car park and come past us again which is a challenge trying to keep the numbers straight. We do quite well but as I transpose the numbers onto the time sheets, we have two numbers duplicated - 64 and 77. I try and mark the sheet to show this, but it will make Lee's life a bit more challenging when she tries to put the splits together (so don't get cross with her that they're not available the next day!).<br />
<br />
We start getting withdrawals here - in general they're experienced runners making an informed decision to stop before they do damage (the first to pull out is only just outside the top ten but knows his knee isn't right). In what must be another frustration in an unlucky season, Sharon leaves the checkpoint but comes back soon after to withdraw. As an unsupported race, we commit to transporting anyone who pulls out but, as a testament to the community of runners, not a single person needs us.<br />
<br />
Davie turns up and tells us that three runners weren't captured at his checkpoint and can we keep an eye out for them coming through. The flurry of runners slows to an erratic trickle and the long row of drop bags shrinks. Audrey ran the race last year and is quite pleased when the clock ticks past the time she came through; she says that this proves that she was running with an exceptionally speedy bunch!<br />
<br />
Eventually the sweepers arrive with the last runner. Tim is still carrying his brush and Soph seems to be wearing enough layers to survive a winter night in the Highlands. A lengthy pause for food and drink and the three of them head onwards.<br />
<br />
Two of Davie's "missing" runners have turned up but the third is still a blank on our sheets. After speaking to Lee, I offer to phone the runner and his contact. I'm hoping to hear a sheepish voice admitting to an early exit but the runner's phone eventually goes to voicemail. Then I call his wife's number and my heart sinks when she says she's not heard from him. There isn't much we can do but somewhere in the last 20 miles, a runner has vanished and there are now lots of bad possibilities running through my brain. I've already left a voicemail on his number but Lee suggests sending a text as well which I do. I set off for Lanark hoping for my mobile to ring...<br />
<br />
Once I turn off the M74, I'm back onto unknown territory and it's quite pretty but somehow doesn't feel at all like Scotland, more like Somerset? The road twists and turns alongside the river - at one point making a strange D-shaped loop over two bridges and back to the same side - and as usual I'm peering through the woods looking for runners. It's not until I'm high up in a village that I see two pounding the pavement and beep my horn in support.<br />
<br />
The traffic crawls through Lanark town centre which isn't what I was expecting at all from a heritage site, but eventually I start twisting and turning down the hill. Just as I pass the sign for New Lanark car park, my phone rings and I stop where I am to answer it. It's the wife of the missing runner now quite anxious having left several messages without response. I finally think to ask her what I should have done before, and she tells me that he had three drop bags in bright pink. Curiouser and curiouser as there were none left over at the checkpoint ... could he be sneaking through without a number? Even better she tells me the name of someone he was running with. I recognise the name as someone who pulled out at checkpoint two ... and whose number I have in the checkpoint folder that's sitting on my passenger seat.<br />
<br />
I call the second runner and explain who I am and why I'm calling. I'm delighted to hear him tell me that the missing runner was definitely at checkpoint two, and he can even tell me the approximate time he came in. As I thank him and hang up, I remember something from registration that I'd forgotten: when runner 77 registered, his number couldn't be found and one was written by hand for him. So if my missing runner was given the original 77 sign by mistake, that would explain why we haven't logged him at any checkpoint - and also why I had duplicate times for #77 at Strathclyde Park (but not #64) as there are two runners with the same number on the course... Feeling much better, I call his wife back and explain my theory. I calculate he will be finishing in about an hour and promise to get him to call her as soon as he arrives. She tells me to slap him for causing so much worry...<br />
<br />
Although Audrey had told me how to drive to the finish line, I've clearly gone wrong as the car park is high above the village but as I stand at the top of the path I can hear a round of applause from way below me and realise I'm hearing a runner come home.<br />
<br />
About a third of the way down the hill, the back of my left knee decides to stop the whinging it's been doing for the previous two days and buckles completely. The resulting yelp of pain is loud enough to bring a middle-aged couple trotting back up the slope to me in concern. Whilst this isn't the best place to be injured, it doesn't compare with many places on the trails and I decide to continue down the hill and figure out how I'll get back up to the car later!<br />
<br />
It's a lovely place to finish a race - a grassy strip alongside the river that the runners reach down a flight of steps and through a open doorway in a wall. There is a line of tents along one side containing finish marshalls, drop bags and, best of all, a mini kitchen supplying tea coffee and tablet.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-StE6gJXeWQE/TiXzzPK7_AI/AAAAAAAAADU/X9kda2k0mhE/s1600/moto_0466.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-StE6gJXeWQE/TiXzzPK7_AI/AAAAAAAAADU/X9kda2k0mhE/s320/moto_0466.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Two years ago I had never even heard of tablet ... my teeth ache just looking at it ... but mmmmmm....<br />
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So many faces from the start are here already, many of them looking much more relaxed now it's finished. To avoid putting my foot in it, I ask Ali who won and hear that it's the young blond man who was in second place earlier. His name is Paul Raistrick and, although he runs with an Inverness club, no-one seems to know much about him. General consensus is that Scottish ultra racing is going to know quite a lot about him in the near future...<br />
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Not surprisingly Lucy has won the ladies' race, which is impressive after the Connemara race only seven days earlier. Debs is second, which is as good as a win when you're racing Lucy!<br />
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Davie is taking photos of every finisher - when he misses one, he cajoles him into going back and running in again for the camera - and Lee greets every finisher with a hug.<br />
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Our "missing" runner comes in - wearing the duplicate number we gave him hours earlier - both Dave and I apologise and I put my phone into his hand for him to talk to his wife. <br />
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John K and Katrina are there and he comes over to say hello. Nice to see that, running or not, the family still turns out for one another. Either that, or I'm not the only one who can't stay away!<br />
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Prizegiving has to wait until the third lady arrives and when it does start, there is still one eye on the course to send up the cry of "runner" and everything pauses for them to come home.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tm8bYVVCz5Q/TiX41mcV2JI/AAAAAAAAADc/n-cwS0OjxTc/s1600/moto_0465.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tm8bYVVCz5Q/TiX41mcV2JI/AAAAAAAAADc/n-cwS0OjxTc/s320/moto_0465.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Although Keith isn't running I still have a passenger home to Edinburgh; a young New Zealander called Antonia. She had the (mis)fortune to meet Keith about the same time I did last year and hear about ultra running. The difference being that, being already an accomplished marathon and cross-country runner, she's now an active ultra participant and building up to her first 12 hour race up in Aviemore later this summer. I know of her through Keith but this is the first time we've met and we chatter all the way back to Edinburgh. As we head north-east, it's clear that the Clyde Stride escaped the worst of the weather, as we plough through floods and watch the lightening crackling over the city.<br />
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So another great day out... Lee tells me I am already booked for next year. <br />
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Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.<br />
<br />
See you at the next one....<br />
<br />
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*photos by Muriel D, Ali B, Davie H & meJuliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-81678751511128129122011-07-18T18:33:00.000+01:002011-07-18T18:33:38.301+01:00I'm Not a Runner (part 2)Then why is this...<br />
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...my birthday present to myself.....?Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-76671873356737554372011-07-13T20:15:00.000+01:002011-07-13T20:15:47.384+01:00Heading WestAs you may have gathered, I had a brilliant time marshalling at the WHW Race. I met some extraordinary people, whether as organisers, runners, supporters or general family.<br />
<br />
So, not surprisingly I found myself offering my services to the lovely Mrs Mac who is the Race Director of the next one in the SUMS championship: the <a href="http://clydestride.webnode.com/">Clyde Stride</a>. There <em>might</em> have been one or two intoxicating beverages consumed prior to the conversation taking place :-) so thought it sensible to confirm that I <u>did</u> mean it by an fb message a few days later.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jXtKyd_OXcY/Th3p1O9VtdI/AAAAAAAAACU/YPTgI6vm_kc/s1600/Partick+station" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jXtKyd_OXcY/Th3p1O9VtdI/AAAAAAAAACU/YPTgI6vm_kc/s320/Partick+station" width="320" /></a></div>Today the email landed confirming the arrangements for the weekend ... and it seems I will be taking my first ever non-work related trip to Glasgow. Or, to be precise, to Partick Railway Station.<br />
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Now as an Englishwoman who has only been resident north of Hadrian's Wall for just over two years, Partick is one of those mythological places that only really exists in association with a football team. English football clubs have ordinary sounding names like "united" or "city" ... Scottish clubs have exotic names like "Partick Thistle" or "Queen of the South".<br />
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<em>(Talking of football ... the first time I ever went to Glasgow was for an industry lunch some years ago. Me and about 400 men and a very politically incorrect comedian - oh the joys of the construction industry... I asked what the dress code was, and was told "Anything you like - so long as it's not green or blue", "But I'm English?". Nope. Not green or blue. Mind you it's not every day you walk into a hotel meeting room at 10.00am and someone hands you a large glass of whiskey...)</em><br />
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Anyway, at an early hour on Saturday morning I will be heading west to see what a mythological town looks like. It's probably as well that Mrs Mac chose to allocate me to registration as all the other checkpoints come only with map grid references. I used to be able to read a proper map but I'm failing miserably at any attempt in converting these to actual locations!<br />
<br />
However the race finish at New Lanark I am very sure I can find. Even when I was still English resident, I travelled up to central Scotland on a regular basis with work. On numerous occasions, I would see the signs off the M74 for "New Lanark Heritage Village". On numerous occasions, I told myself that it looked interesting and I should come back sometime and see it. I never did.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-afwuQbuAJPg/Th3uKJ_bIsI/AAAAAAAAACY/YECsZ1T_syE/s1600/NewLanark1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-afwuQbuAJPg/Th3uKJ_bIsI/AAAAAAAAACY/YECsZ1T_syE/s320/NewLanark1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>But it looks as though this weekend I finally will.<br />
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And hopefully so will all the runners.<br />
<br />
PS If you want to hear a <em>very</em> bizarre sounding description of the Clyde Walkway, click <a href="http://www.qwiki.com/q/#!/Clyde_walkway">this link</a> to the qwiki website ...Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-82404430272435418202011-06-27T22:41:00.000+01:002011-06-27T22:41:19.983+01:00What have you done to me?I don't know how long it takes runners to recover from WHW race weekend - judging how quickly some of you were out on "recovery" runs, not bleeding long, it seems! I fear I'm not so hardy....<br />
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Monday was mostly spent travelling back to Edinburgh (discovering <em>just</em> how loud the car stereo can go - <em>very!</em> - and making reckless remarks about things to be done later in the year), then unpacking and getting straight. On Tuesday, my body finally caught up with me and insisted on me spending most of the day crashed out in the armchair, either dozing or blog writing (apologies, I think it took me longer to write about the race than it took Richie to run it....). Wednesday was that horrible "back to work tomorrow" feeling and the real come-down from a brilliant weekend.<br />
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I knew that Jez Bragg was in the US for the Western States 100 miler but wasn't quite sure of the date until Murdo posted details of the live update websites on the WHW forum. Hmm, I might have a quick peek at that on Saturday evening...<br />
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I peeked late afternoon when I got in from the Armed Forces Day parade. And kept peeking ... all evening ... in between checking all the updates from my new facebook friends ... and discovering how to follow #WS100 on twitter ... and refreshing pages and suddenly it's midnight. I can't see this race, it's happening thousands of miles away, I know of one person competing, and I'm completely hooked. I've been up since 4.30am and my alarm is due to go off at the same time on Sunday morning and I can't tear myself away. The best I can manage is to restrict myself to twitter and facebook on my ipod whilst I go and lie horizontally in bed, and still keep updating both.<br />
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What a contest! The lead pack go off course, Jez leads, the incredible Kilian Jornet retakes the lead, Jez comes back, Kilian comes back, the defending champion pulls out, lead groups are running shoulder to shoulder for miles, through snow, though blazing sun ... the women's race is disrupted by a bear on the course (one Californian bear = how many Scottish midges?), for the first time a non-American wins the men's race, Jez places fourth and immediately puts a post on his blog saying thanks for all the support from the UK, a Scots woman (now resident in Canada) wins the women's ...<br />
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And by the time my alarm goes off, I've had no sleep for the second consecutive Saturday night. Is this how it's going to be? Is my fascination with ultras going to condemn me to only ever getting six nights sleep a week? Have I been adopted into the family or kidnapped?<br />
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What have you done to me???<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XP9oZiqBvxs/TgjrswTzbjI/AAAAAAAAACQ/YnrXIK1fbJo/s1600/ws100+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XP9oZiqBvxs/TgjrswTzbjI/AAAAAAAAACQ/YnrXIK1fbJo/s320/ws100+logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-82858247544104448062011-06-22T14:48:00.001+01:002011-06-22T16:04:55.656+01:00WHW Race 2011 - Sunday<span style="color: red;"><u>Prize-Giving</u></span><br />
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I get about two hours sleep before waking at half ten. Having missed most of the finish, I really want to see the prize-giving at midday.<br />
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I have more coffee and a long shower and feel a lot better than I think I should. The fact that the sun is shining and it's a glorious day probably helps. However I still take a can of red bull as a "just in case" back-up.<br />
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Only a few yards from the hotel, I spot a woman I recognise from the race. Her name is <span style="color: lime;">Carolyn</span>, and she was supporting her husband <span style="color: lime;">Neal</span> who is walking slowly beside her. I introduce myself and we walk to the Nevis centre together. In previous years she has run the race with Neal but this year she has dropped out to allow him to run at his own, faster pace.<br />
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Walking through town, it's amazing how many groups there are heading in a similar direction ... and almost all containing at least one individual in very comfortable shoes and hobbling to a greater or lesser degree.<br />
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This is probably the best opportunity for runners and crews to meet up and there are lots of greetings, hugs and exchanges of race stories. Before the race, everyone is so internally focussed and full of adrenaline, it didn't seem massively sociable, and during the race there is little opportunity.<br />
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Despite being a massive hall, it's very full and as more and more people come in, I end up helping to put out more chairs. I feel quite guilty about sitting down but I'm <em>reasonably</em> sure that none of the people standing at the back are runners.<br />
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Regardless of position, every finisher is clapped and cheered by the whole audience. <span style="color: lime;">Richie</span> is clearly a popular winner, as well as being only the third man to win twice. I'm stunned to hear that <span style="color: lime;">Kate</span> has now won the women's race an incredible seven times.<br />
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<span style="color: lime;">Jan-Albert</span> takes the microphone when he's awarded his second place prize and speaks of his Scottish mother who died only a few weeks ago. He tells us how he asked her what he needed to do to win the race - she replied "be faster than Richie!". Everyone laughs and there are tears running down my cheeks.<br />
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Some runners are not there to collect their goblets, having already left the town. <span style="color: lime;">Bob Steel</span>, a veteran runner, has as usual had to get "home to Stirling to milk the cows at 4am" and everyone laughs. Those who are there have a variety of gaits to get them from their chairs to the front, some walk, some stagger, some hobble ... it's not always related to their finishing time.<br />
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A few groups leave immediately after collecting their goblets: shame on you, it wouldn't have hurt you to stay those few minutes longer.<br />
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In following a tradition started last year, the winners present the last goblets to the final finishers. Today there are two final finishers (not including the sweepers who are technically the last people to cross the line); the boy and girl who left Kinlochleven at 5.00am, and there is a great round of applause as <span style="color: lime;">Richie</span> and <span style="color: lime;">Kate</span> give them their hard won trophies. I am so pleased that <span style="color: lime;">George</span> and <span style="color: lime;">Sandra</span> got them to the end in time.<br />
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The presentation concludes with <span style="color: lime;">Ian</span> confirming the date of next year's race. I can almost hear a hundred brains thinking "I'm absolutely never doing this again ... but I'll just make a note of that date ...."<br />
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As the crowd breaks up, there is a final chance to catch up with friends and family. Some of these friendships are kept up frequently through the year, others are annual events only but all equally heart-felt.<br />
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I finally meet the <span style="color: lime;">Pirate</span> (who pulled out, having completed far more than should have been possible on his extremely minimalist training) and <span style="color: lime;">Lee</span>, his fiancee who he actually met on the race. It's a very fabulous ring sparkling on her finger.<br />
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I finally meet <span style="color: lime;">Sandra</span> who now has bright red bruises on her ankles but is walking.<br />
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<span style="color: lime;">Karin</span> greets me with another hug and tells me "never again". Hmmm.....<br />
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I overhear a man trying to explain to his friend that he will have to come back again, as the number of goblets he has just doesn't look right on display. I also hear a sentence that starts with the words "never again" and finishes with the runner being positive that he will be entering as soon as possible for 2012.<br />
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<span style="color: lime;">Ian</span> asks if I have enjoyed the event and I tell him its been fabulous. Do I want to do it again next year? Yes if you'll have me!<br />
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I fetch my car from the hotel to give <span style="color: lime;">George</span> and <span style="color: lime;">Karen</span> a lift to their apartment. Due to various logistical challenges, they don't have a vehicle here and their belongings are scattered through various cars. Unlike almost everyone else, the boot of my car is almost empty so it makes sense.<br />
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A small group of us meet in the bar for a drink or two before heading off for a few hours rest. Back at the hotel I fall asleep watching the sun dancing over the loch and hillside.<br />
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<u><span style="color: red;">Sunday evening</span></u><br />
In the evening, a larger group convenes in the Ben Nevis bar in town. Some of us go upstairs to eat and I watch in awe as the two runners on our table devour a quantity of food totally incompatible with their physique.<br />
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Downstairs there are maybe 20-30 people from the race - some runners, some officials, some supporters. Amongst them, I'm delighted to see, is <span style="color: lime;">Karen Robertson</span> who was horribly ill during the race and withdrew at Glencoe. Her crew were sufficiently concerned to have brought her to see the doctor. Twenty-four hours later she looks like a different woman and is already talking of next year.<br />
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<span style="color: lime;">Sandra</span> is there wearing a red dress that perfectly co-ordinates with her ankles. She is under doctor's orders to elevate them as much as possible and sits with her feet on my lap, telling me how she started running for a 5k event in the Botanic Gardens. I'm stunned that barely five years ago, she had to struggle to run that distance and has now completed 95 miles. I'm also quite scared....<br />
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This is the time to relax and chat and catch up on each other's lives, to reconnect with old friends, to make new ones.<br />
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At closing time, a group of us head on to the Station Bar. I suspect others followed and then decided not to - it's probably the only late opening bar in town and is full of drunk teenagers, snogging smoking and arguing in the street. But we have fun, shouting and laughing over the music. I can't believe that Keith can dance on those feet...<br />
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<span style="color: red;"><u>Summary</u></span><br />
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I thought I was going to enjoy this, but I don't think I realised how much. I thought I might get tired and bored at some point during the night, but I never did. <br />
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So to everyone who was a part of it, whether as runner, organiser, supporter, mountain rescue, etc I hope you realise what a special event you were part of. Whether you won a goblet or not, whether you achieved your objective, I hope you enjoyed it (in hindsight at least) as much as I did.<br />
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I hope I see you again.<br />
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Milngavie Station Car Park, 1am, Saturday 23rd June 2012 ......?Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-91178047435826682052011-06-21T10:58:00.001+01:002011-06-22T16:04:55.667+01:00WHW Race 2011 - Saturday<span style="color: red;"><strong><u>Travelling North</u></strong></span><br />
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Despite the late night, I wake up at 4.30am and 6.30am. Each time my first thought is "where are the runners now?" and my second is "whose race is already over?"<br />
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When I wake for the final time at 9.30am, there is a third thought: that there will be no more sleep until at least six on Sunday morning. I have had many Saturday nights that go on that far, but this may well be the first that doesn't involve alcohol or loud music.<br />
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After a disappointing breakfast, I load the car up and get ready to leave. Mindful of my unexpected detour the previous day - and that I absolutely have to deliver the paperwork to the checkpoint before it opens - I find the sat nav and ask it for a route to Kinlochleven. And hit my first problem.<br />
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The support brief was quite clear that the route away from the start involves turning right out of the car park, then left at the lights. I watched nearly two hundred vehicles do exactly that earlier this morning. But the sat nav is adamant that I should go west before the town centre and gets increasingly cross as I try to ignore it and follow the brief. After ten minutes arguing, I give up and find myself having to do a complicated about turn against the weight of the Saturday morning traffic.<br />
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After another ten minutes, I realise why there is a disparity. Support crews are heading up to the checkpoints at Drymen and Balmaha on the eastern shores of Loch Lomond. I only need to get onto the A82 which will run up the western shoreline. Although the recurring signs to Erskine Bridge are disconcerting as I know that will take me south across the Clyde which is definitely <em>not</em> the route north!<br />
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In no time I am past Balloch (what on earth is that concrete and wire crown on the roundabout?) and on the same road I crawled up on the day of the Fling. What a difference. The threatened rain hasn't descended yet but it's grey and cool (albeit still dry) and the road is much quieter. From this point onwards I am trying to work out where I am in relation to the runners. The tail runners might still be on the banks of the loch but the cut-off at Balmaha was hours ago and all the crews should be north by now, even if they're waiting to go into Auchtertyre.<br />
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Across the water I can see Conic Hill dipping down to the loch like a sleeping dragon. This is where the Highlands start for me with the gentle landscape of the central belt giving way to the raw ancient mountains. Further up, Ben Lomond is tipped in cloud. It may be the most climbed mountain in Scotland but the views from the summit today will be disappointing.<br />
<br />
At the end of Loch Lomond I see my first evidence of the race; "Caution - Runners" signs by the road. Just like at the Fling, there is a "no parking" sign at the Drovers Inn. It seems a shame that, for the couple of days a year that there is a major event on the Way, these businesses can't engage with the competitors and their support. But they obviously feel that the disruption outweighs the benefits of a captive audience of several hundred people.<br />
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I am pretty sure that from this point I will be level with the race and probably become a slightly distracted driver by permanently looking off to the side trying to spot my first runners. It's not until I'm a mile or so from Tyndrum that I spot them. From there through to Bridge of Orchy I can see them at regular intervals along the path. They all look to be going well and moving reasonably easily although it's hard to tell at this distance. They're not the leaders who I suspect will be out on Rannoch Moor by now but they're certainly near the front of the pack.<br />
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Also visible along the path are numbers of walkers and the comparison between walkers and runners is significant. The walkers are covered from neck to wrist to ankle and invariably carrying large packs - the runners have bare legs and arms with small packs on either back or waist. I wonder who has the greatest doubts about the others' sanity? Perhaps it's like the difference between motorcyclists and car drivers.<br />
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Climbing up to Rannoch Moor, I do what I've never yet done before and pull over at the viewpoint on the A82 that looks out over Loch Tulla to take photos. The view is spectacular and I've never been able to capture it before. Unfortunately the photos (along with all the others I took over the weekend) are stuck on my camera as I can't find the cable I need to transfer them to the laptop!<br />
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Just before one o'clock, I'm driving past the Glencoe ski centre. A man is running down the side of the road with race signs in his arms. I think it's Adrian but I'm not sure. Although I don't see any runners between here and the foot of the Devil's Staircase, the first and second placed men were battling though here at this time, having left the ski centre only minutes earlier. <br />
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I have a great affection for the Devils. The name of it was one of the very first things that stuck in my brain when I heard of the WHW and fed my fascination. Not surprisingly it was also the very first part of the Way that I walked on last November. It took me an hour - and numerous stops - to get to the top. How do you run up a hill like that? Bad enough on fresh legs, but after 76 miles ....?<br />
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Through the dark and brooding Glencoe valley, then onto the twisting lochside road to Kinlochleven. I like this road but some people are going to find it very scary later on, particularly if they travel it for the first time in the rain and darkness.<br />
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At the community centre, there are three people sitting on the sofas inside - a young blond couple and a woman with curly hair. "Race control?" I ask. Introductions all round, and a certain relief that it seems as though we'll all get on. Although strangers, we are going to be working together for most of the next twelve hours.<br />
<br />
The curly haired woman is <span style="color: lime;">Lesley</span>, my fellow marshall. <span style="color: lime;">Rob & Ash</span> are taking the first stint on Race Control and have already been there a few hours. Race Control is the nerve centre of the day itself, being the central point that all the checkpoints feed data into: capturing times in and out of checkpoints, withdrawals through injury or incapacity, confirming all runners and sweepers are accounted for before closing their station. If a runner drops off the radar, Race Control also has the task of phoning the contact details of the support crew. If the support crew can't be contacted, the next call is to the recorded next of kin. <br />
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If runners quit, they (or their crews) are supposed to notify the marshall at the next checkpoint. It's much easier if it's done this way, then we know exactly who's where on the route. <em>Just sloping off to the cafe for a hot meal causes us concern - you know you're safe and well, your crew know, but as far as we know you left one checkpoint and didn't make it to the next one. The sweepers have come in and not seen you, therefore we have to assume that you've gone off the path somewhere and are either ill or injured. We worry about you. If you come back next year, please don't do it again.</em><br />
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My intention was to just drop off the paperwork and head round to Fort William to get a few hours rest before coming back for 5.00pm. Like a lot of the weekend's schedules, it didn't go to plan. <br />
<br />
After twelve hours, there was a lot of information already through from the early checkpoints and I want to find out how people I know are doing. This is where I find out that <span style="color: lime;">Norman</span> has pulled out, and also <span style="color: lime;">Marco Consani</span> who was expected to be a strong contender. Although not fully recovered from the injury that ruled him out of the Fling and with limited training, he was declared fit to run this one. One day, there just might be a Consani double in the WHW which would be incredible....<br />
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We start going through our own list, scoring out all those who have either not started or already pulled out. This way we will have a clearer indication of who we are/aren't expecting.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Chris Ellis</span>, the Race Doctor, arrives in a van which we help unload. There is medical kit including copious quantities of bandages and tape, a defibrillator kit and a giant roll of clingfilm. I mean to ask later what the clingfilm is for but never remember.<br />
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The second van load produces three mattresses which are laid out in the sports hall. There are even pillows and blankets for added comfort.<br />
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Finally <span style="color: lime;">Chris and Ash</span> walk back to the surgery and carry back the examination table.<br />
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Shortly afterwards it starts raining and won't stop until long past dark. It's several hours later than forecast but it gets here eventually.<br />
<br />
Auchtertyre marshalls ring in regularly with updates. From them we learn that <span style="color: lime;">Kate Jenkins</span> is leading the women with <span style="color: lime;">Sharon Law</span> about 25 minutes behind, and <span style="color: lime;">Debbie Martin-Consani</span> the same again behind her. Whilst these are exactly the three names I expected, it's still exciting.<br />
<br />
The Glencoe team call in and tell us that <span style="color: lime;">Riche Cunningham</span> and <span style="color: lime;">Jan-Albert Lantink</span> are leading the mens by some distance. Jan-Albert is about five minutes ahead but seems to be struggling now whilst Richie still looks good. This is going to be interesting....<br />
<br />
Both men left the ski centre just after 12.45 and we start trying to calculate how long it will take to get here. Although it's "only" ten miles, there is the steep ascent of the Devils Staircase and a tortuous winding descent into Kinlochleven that has destroyed many a runner's quads. But if they're that close, the temptation to push a little harder may bring their speed up which might bring them into the checkpoint by 2.15pm. <br />
<br />
I was fully resigned to not seeing this part of the race but it seems ridiculous to leave now and not see the battle as it comes past, so I decide to stay a little longer.<br />
<br />
While we're waiting an injured runner arrives - I think his name is <span style="color: lime;">Jamie</span>. He has pulled out of the race much earlier but wants to ask the doctor to check his knee. He tells us he knew that he was injured at Beinglas but foolishly carried on to Auchtertyre.<br />
<br />
Around a quarter past two, Richie's support crew arrive. This is <span style="color: lime;">Lucy Colquhoun</span> (a damn good runner in her own right and holder of the women's course record), his girlfriend <span style="color: lime;">Helen</span> and a man whose name I don't catch. Helen looks quite tired but Lucy is bubbly and chatty. She asks how long we're here for. "I'm here till five", I tell her, then add the words "tomorrow morning" and her jaw drops. <br />
<br />
I assure her that I am getting a few hours rest before I officially start and, as they don't expect Richie to arrive until 2.40pm, I decide to leave now and miss the leaders arriving. I know that if I stay, I will be staying and staying and get no opportunity to relax that afternoon.<br />
<br />
The final drive into Fort William seems to take forever, mostly due to a dithering driver who seems to think that his car has only two gears and that it's unsafe to take even the gentlest bend at anything more than 15mph. Not a useful attitude on that winding road...<br />
<br />
The hotel is sweet and old-fashioned. I'm conscious that I'll only be using my room for a few hours this afternoon and then not again until breakfast on the Sunday, so it's arguably an unnecessary indulgence. But it's my treat to myself - a hot shower and a room to myself are going to be unbeatable.<br />
<br />
Just as I'm settling down for an hour or two's cat nap, a diesel engine starts up outside my window followed by a loud bleeping. I do my best to ignore it ... and fail miserably. Looking out, there are a team of painters working from a cherry picker. It looks as though I can kiss goodbye to sleep this afternoon. Then a worse thought hits me - what if they are also working on the Sunday?<br />
<br />
I open the window lean out and call to them. Yes they're working the next day, what time would I like them to start? Umm, how about midday....? They ask if I'm out partying (Fort William doesn't strike me as the sort of place where it's possible to party all night) and I tell them no, I'm spending the night marshalling runners and won't be getting to bed until at least six. After a string of barely intelligible words delivered in a strong accent - that I take to be casting aspersions on the sanity of people who run 95 miles - they laugh and promise to work on the opposite wall to avoid disturbing me. And they are as good as their word and do exactly that.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><u>Kinlochleven - the Saturday night shift</u></span><br />
<br />
I get back to the checkpoint at about 4.45pm. I manage to get a car parking space and go inside to get the latest updates. <span style="color: lime;">Richie</span> arrived right on schedule but had overtaken <span style="color: lime;">Jan-Albert</span> and moved into the lead by about 5 minutes. About half a dozen men have been through and I have just missed <span style="color: lime;">Kate Jenkins</span> leaving.<br />
<br />
The checkpoint is much busier now with most of the parking spots taken, and the inside starting to fill up with crews awaiting their runner. <span style="color: lime;">Marco</span> is sitting on a sofa chatting. Nearby, a team wearing tshirts branded "Debbie's Angels" have bags of kit spread out on the pool table.<br />
<br />
It wouldn't be <em>strictly</em> true to say that we hear <span style="color: lime;">Sharon Law</span> before we see her, but she is talking as she comes down the driveway, talks non-stop through the 60 seconds she is in the building and talks as she leaves. Wearing black knee length socks and black hot pants, looking like she's jogged from the corner and more likely to be heading for a night out on Sauchiehall Street, I am absolutely awestruck. There is a brief strop that her crew don't have <em>exactly</em> the jacket she wants to take with her (the one they were holding looked red to me, but obviously wasn't the right red one!). Then like a blonde whirlwind she's gone again, pursuing Kate across the Lairigmor.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Debbie Martin-Consani</span> arrives 20 minutes later. I think the diplomatic word would be "<em>focussed</em>"; the one I wrote down at the time was "<em>stroppy</em>". But I did also write a smiley next to it, so it was funny-stroppy not offensive-stroppy. At that level, isn't it reasonable to expect your support team to be as slick and efficient as an F1 pit crew? And they clearly loved her and took it to be totally normal.<br />
<br />
From five, there is a pretty regular stream of runners into the checkpoint. Sitting directly opposite the doors, we can see them coming down the driveway which gives us time to get the list and pen and tap the scales into life. This is necessary but we appreciate it's an interruption for you and we want it to be as quick and smooth as possible.<br />
<br />
If <span style="color: lime;">Rob's</span> not on the phone, he stands by the door to clap the runner in. Then <span style="color: lime;">Lesley</span> or I take over, asking the runner their number as we guide them to the scales. Mostly the crews have the weight cards that were completed at the start and Auchtertyre - sometimes they've given them to the runners as they come in - we don't mind who hands it over. On the scales, write the weight on the card and the checkpoint list, write the time on the sheet, hand back the card, whilst writing we ask if the runner's stopping or "running through". If they're stopping we ask the crew to let us know when they've left. Hopefully this takes only a few seconds and we're done with them.<br />
<br />
As the night wears on, the process will become much slower as runners stop focussing on times and start thinking only about finishing. For some, the effort of lifting their feet the inch onto the scales is visibly torture and some have to be reminded to stop leaning on the table for support. We try to add in a few words of encouragement, or ask how they're getting on. For some we slow the process right down and try to have a short conversation. These are the ones whose weight is showing a significant drop or a gain that is outside the range the doctor has given us. No-one is going to get pulled just because of a weight change but if they're showing any other signs of mental of physical distress, it would be time to ask them to talk to the doctor. Throughout the night, everyone passes these tests.<br />
<br />
There's a clear pattern that peoples' weights were down at Auchtertyre but are now showing as higher. Initially we put this down to the fact that they are now waterlogged from the rain and undoubtedly wearing more layers of clothing. But as the night wears on, we realise that there must be a difference in the calibration of the two sets of scales. We are using the same set that were used at registration and we only use that value as our reference point. <br />
<br />
Race Control spend some time tracking down "lost" runners. Some of the data from the early checkpoints is inconsistent. Sometimes runners don't appear at all in a checkpoint's returns and then show up at a later point. <span style="color: lime;">Fiona Rennie's</span> times seem to be missing and there is a possibility that she has been timed out at a check point. A brave man to try and tell her she's out of the race.... The four of us debate what would happen if a runner refused to quit and carried on going after being timed out. Strictly speaking the sweepers should ignore them, but could you really abandon a fellow runner like that?<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Dr Chris</span> is called out to support the local mountain rescue team. A climber has hurt his knee and needs bringing down. During the rescue, one of the team hurts his back so the doctor ends up with two casualties. Neither are serious, although the climber will be heading towards the nearest hospital by ambulance. The hospital is 30 minutes away in Fort William. The second nearest is Paisley, south of the Clyde. The back injury will probably create more paperwork: most mountain rescue teams are made up of self-employed individuals such as farmers, fisherman, etc. If they can't work due to injury, they have no income and the police (who technically control them) will have to compensate them for their losses.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Mike Raffan's</span> team are here for ages and discussing penguin suits. Brewdog, who sponsor Mike, gave them a load of goodies which apparently includes two penguin suits. It seems perfectly reasonable that two of the team should put them on and run in with Mike to the finish line.... The Lairigmor is notorious for runners hallucinating strange things but I doubt anyone has seen giant penguins in Fort Williams before. I don't know if they actually did it but I'd love to see the photos...<br />
<br />
We ask all the runners (or their crews) to let us know when they leave. Not everybody does and it's frustrating. It doesn't take more than a few seconds and it's for your own benefit.<br />
<br />
For the early arrivals who stay only a few minutes, if at all, it's not so much of an issue. But as time goes by, knowing if you left after five minutes or an hour can be important if you get lost. It gives the rescue teams, your support crew and the sweepers a range to work in. Even on battered legs, you can get a long way in an hour. On a cold and wet night, an hour might make the distance between someone finding you before you get hypothermia.<br />
<br />
We get the call we've been waiting for from Ian in Fort William. <span style="color: lime;">Richie</span> has won for the second year in a row and everyone's delighted. <span style="color: lime;">Jan-Albert</span> is second and only eight minutes behind him. Apparently Richie overtook him going up the Devil's Staircase but there were never more than a few minutes between them all the way home.<br />
<br />
Twitter has rumours that <span style="color: lime;">Kate</span> has finished but it doesn't make sense as the time would be impossible. We wonder if it actually means that she has finished running and pulled out (she was unhappy even at KLL). Eventually we get the news that she has retained her first place amongst the ladies, although <span style="color: lime;">Sharon</span> had caught up to three minutes. (On the Sunday I am told that she <em>did</em> want to quit at Lundavra but her support team persuaded her to continue. Good decision, if it's true).<br />
<br />
We get asked so many times about the finishers that we eventually beg paper and blu-tack from the office and put up a sign over our table "Richie Cunningham 1st place 16.24".<br />
<br />
This prevents a number of questions but also causes another issue. From almost the time I arrived, support crews have been asking if their runner will be allowed a support runner. No, not until 18.40 which is four hours from Richie's arrival here as first runner. In fact, we have already created a sign stating this. But now, the news of his victory prompts my first and only bad experience of a support team member. He is adamant that, as Richie has won and "the race is over", his runner should be allowed to take a support runner. Unfortunately, this isn't how the four "officials" here interpret the rules and he's not happy and keeps coming back to try to convince us to see things his way. He's never rude but it's irritating.<br />
<br />
As the evening wears on, the runners look weaker and weaker as they arrive. Support crews start sporting midgie nets and everyone is more bedraggled. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Keith</span> arrives about a quarter to eight looking slightly better than he did at the end of the Fling but not much. Before he can be weighed he vanishes into the toilets and stays there for some time. When he finally does emerge, he produces a weight card that looks as though it has been for a swim and is practically disintegrating.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Sandra McDougall's</span> support team arrive. I've seen Susan at both Scotland 2 Sahara and the Fling and ask her how Sandra's getting on. Predictably she is absolutely loving it and really happy. But the expected time passes and she doesn't arrive. The dark haired man in her team changes into running gear and starts going out to look for her but comes back empty handed several times.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Katrina Kynaston</span> arrives looking tired and drawn. For <span style="color: lime;">John</span> to make any of his race targets, he should have been here hours ago; the fact that he's not implies that things are not going to plan. At one point, I see her sat in the car, resting her head on the steering wheel as if she's trying to catch up on some sleep.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Sandra's</span> supporter comes back in and asks if the doctor has any compression bandages, as she's hurt her ankles and will need treatment. No, but he has tubigrip. <span style="color: lime;">Sandra</span> hobbles in at ten to nine and announces that "my ankles feel like they've been smashed with a sledge hammer". I decide to ignore her request below for me to "slap her and introduce myself" and let her become the doctor's first real patient.<br />
<br />
Whilst she's being treated, <span style="color: lime;">John Kynaston</span> arrives. "You must be Julie" he declares and hugs me "it's great to meet you". Blimey. After 80 miles I wouldn't recognise my own mother, never mind a stranger. He also needs to see the doctor, "something for my heels" which I assume is due to running in new shoes. Although clearly tired, he's laughing and joking with us, telling us about being needing an urgent loo break only to be passed by a female runner who tells her crew at the next stop that she's just seen "more of John Kynaston than I really wanted to". His crew buy him (and them) fish and chips and there are more jokes about the diet of athletes. At no time would I have guessed what an utterly horrendous race he was having, and one that was only going to get worse. See <a href="http://www.johnkynaston.com/2011/06/2011-whw-race-report.html">here</a> for the details.<br />
<br />
At 9.20 we get our first retiree - <span style="color: lime;">Stan Bland</span> - and Lesley cuts off his wristband. Once we've managed to find a pair of scissors that is.<br />
<br />
Throughout the night we have only three withdrawals at our checkpoint. I don't know if anyone pulled out later but I think it probably proves that if you can make it to us, you <strong>will</strong> make it to the finish line. You may well walk or crawl but you'll make it.<br />
<br />
The second withdrawal is a youngish man who tells me he's quitting, he can't keep anything down and promptly bolts to the toilets. The fact that he continues vomiting long after he's stopped running concerns the doctor more than anything else that night. There is a lengthy period of treatment and observation both in the sports hall and then in the surgery over the road. Eventually he is allowed to leave with his support, although a blood sample has been taken for follow up. We hear later that, although he seemed well in the car home to the Borders, he then collapsed and was taken to the local hospital for observation. <br />
<br />
The flow of runners starts to slow as darkness finally starts to arrive.<br />
<br />
A woman asks me what to say to motivate her husband who is running. I haven't the heart to tell her I've never been in that situation and try and remember all the good things I've read on the forum, but without knowing her or her husband it's a little difficult to decide whether to emphasise "ttfu" or more gentle forms of persuasion.<br />
<br />
A woman in <span style="color: lime;">Mark Moore's</span> support crew tells me that three of them have come over from New Zealand for the race. Mark had to complete an 85k race to qualify for the WHW and as soon as he did, he was emailing Stan as he was so eager to take part. Now he is saying "never again"... His back has been rubbed raw by his pack and the doctor provides the three nurses in the support team with the materials to patch him up.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Pauline Walker</span> leaves around half eleven wearing a fluorescent green and orange Carnegie top, turquoise trousers, orange leggings and floral socks. It's a dazzling sight...<br />
<br />
The runners start taking longer and longer breaks at the checkpoint, with some opting for short breaks on the mattresses, first 5 minutes, then 10, then 30 .... Most years at least one person opts to sleep through the few hours of darkness but not this year.<br />
<br />
The midges have found their way into the hall but the spray I bought seems to be working and nothing's bitten me yet. However just as I'm congratulating myself on this, a corps of them decide to commit suicide by flying down my throat and attempting to choke me to death. <br />
<br />
Just after one, <span style="color: lime;">Lesley</span> leaves for the night. <span style="color: lime;">Rob and Ash</span> finished at around eleven and handed over to <span style="color: lime;">Graham</span> who will be there to the end (and then go on to the finish and help there). Instead of counting numbers arrived, we're now down to counting who's left. The Glencoe checkpoint closed at midnight so anyone left is within ten miles of us.<br />
<br />
Shortly after this, <span style="color: lime;">John Maclean</span> almost reduces me to tears by thanking me, saying "it's a wonderful thing you're all doing, giving up your night like this for us". He has been travelling for 24 hours but still has the courtesy and composure to say something like this.<br />
<br />
Still they come, some hobbling shells of people, others still bright eyed and cheerful. For these runners, the only race is against themselves. Finishing the course within the thirty five hours is their only objective. The doctor is kept busy with treating blisters and general sore feet, but there are no significant injuries. The rain has been a mixed blessing, keeping the trails soft and forgiving, but also soaking shoes and socks and adding to the strain the feet have to undergo.<br />
<br />
By ten past three, the sky is lightening and I'm waiting for only nine runners, including the two sweepers. My back aches and my legs are tired (it's been a long time since I was able to occupy one of the chairs in the centre as they're full of crews and runners) but I'm wide awake. I've had only a few cups of coffee and no red bull or pro-plus; it's the adrenaline and joy of the event that's keeping me going.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Fiona Rennie</span> arrives at half three, declaring herself to be sick of chocolate. Whilst she's in the hall, she never quite stands still, flexing her hips and bending her knees whilst eating from a saucepan.<br />
<br />
At ten to four, the last of the runners I'm looking out for, <span style="color: lime;">Karin McKendrick</span>, arrives. She greets me with a hug, looking grey with exhaustion but still determined.<br />
<br />
Thirty minutes later, the sweepers arrive with the last two runners. This nearly didn't happen as one of them decided to nip into their support vehicle at the bottom of the Devils for a cup of tea. Sweeping the route is one thing ... checking the occupants of parked vehicles is not in the job description. If the sweepers had gone past, it wouldn't have been until Kinlochleven that we could have identified a missing runner and the sweepers would have had to backtrack to hunt for him.<br />
<br />
The girl's feet are sore and the doctor does one last duty of strapping them up to provide a little extra cushioning.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">George</span> and <span style="color: lime;">Karen</span> look tired but ready to finish the final section. Usually sweepers just cover sections of the course but, this year, it was difficult to recruit a sweep team and they agreed to do the full route as well as being competitors. So they have spent the last 80 miles running at paces they would never normally do, either trudging to accompany the back runners or racing to catch up after each retiral.<br />
<br />
But just before five, they're out the door with their charges and heading for the finish line. There is one final mini-drama when we realise that the boy's support team have left their vehicle parked in the school car park which we need to lock up. The contact list gets used for the final time as we call the driver back to move it outside the gate and then we're done.<br />
<br />
The doctor needs to drop off <span style="color: lime;">Kirstie</span>, the centre manager, at her home. She wasn't able to get any other staff to provide cover so she's been here since 11am on Saturday morning. That's longer than any of the race team but she says she doesn't mind - she's got loads of work done and will be able to trade the hours for additional time off in lieu, that she will spend with her kids in the summer.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: lime;">Graham</span> and I follow the doctor to his house where he makes us breakfast. He sniffs the coffee as he puts it on the kitchen table and warns it may be a bit strong. I take one sip and immediately feel as though I won't sleep for a week! Perhaps we should get <span style="color: lime;">Dr Chris</span><span style="color: black;"> handing out coffee at the checkpoint....</span><br />
<br />
It's full daylight and the sun is shining. Loch Leven looks like a mirror, with a perfect still reflection of the hills around it. There are rabbits running across the road by the metal bridge and I have to brake several times.<br />
<br />
I'm following <span style="color: lime;">Graham</span> to the leisure centre to hand back the scales. I ought to know where it is but I've never been before and my brain is now fuzzy from lack of sleep and I'm happy to have a navigator.<br />
<br />
At the door of the leisure centre, <span style="color: lime;">Ian</span> is greeting every finisher home, before they go inside to be weighed and have their photograph taken. There is a giant bottle of whiskey on the counter.<br />
<br />
I'm there a few minutes and see two runners come home. I saw them hours ago in the darkness at KLL but I can't remember their names. It's past seven on the Sunday morning and they've taken over 30 hours to get here, but they have made it.<br />
<br />
And finally I make it back to my hotel, and try to rest while my body fights between being wide awake and desperately tired.Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-22132904422821225322011-06-21T00:43:00.001+01:002011-06-22T12:25:38.265+01:00WHW Race 2011 - FridayThis could be a very long post... I think I've spent the whole weekend watching, listening, scribbling down brief notes about things I don't want to forget and now I have the challenge of trying to turn it into something coherent. And it's been a <em>very</em> long weekend.....<br />
<br />
I think I'll break it down into days. So probably three posts, but hopefully of a bearable length!<br />
<br />
But first, a list of people I need to say "thank you" to.<br />
<br />
And before this turns into an Oscars speech, that's every single person I met over the weekend. Whether you were runners, supporters or organisers, you were without doubt the nicest bunch of people. Okay, some of you weren't exactly on your best behaviour but that's not what I'm talking about. It's the people that make this amazing.<br />
<br />
I guess you all know that <span style="color: lime;">Richie Cunningham</span> won the men's race in 16 hours 24 minutes and <span style="color: lime;">Kate Jenkins</span> won the ladies. As I expected, the first time I saw either of them was at the prize giving on Sunday lunchtime. So this isn't really going to be about the "pointy" end of the race or the elite runners but more about those who were competing for themselves; testing themselves against the 95 miles of hard distance, the Scottish climate, and their own bodies and minds. And the people who support them, who make the whole thing possible.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><strong><u>Friday evening</u></strong></span><br />
<br />
I had plans for Friday that didn't include driving from Edinburgh to Glasgow in the rush hour. They also didn't include taking the wrong turn off the M8 and driving through a rather "interesting" district of Glasgow - the sort of place where you try not to stop at red lights as neither you nor your car would be still intact when the lights went green.<br />
<br />
I thought Milngavie was a suburb of Glasgow so I was quite surprised to eventually find myself driving through open countryside. What a view of the hills up ahead. And that gap between them, is that where the Way starts its journey north?<br />
<br />
I drive up to the station just to check that I know where it is and how far it will take to get there from my hotel. It looks like any other commuter belt railway station, maybe a third full of cars waiting for their owners to come back from Glasgow. But in a corner are a number of motorhomes parked up with the foil blinds covering the windows. Are these some of "ours".....?<br />
<br />
So down to the Premier Inn for a few hours' rest and food. There is a Beefeater in front of the hotel which acts as the hotel restaurant. There would seem to be a wedding reception in progress judging by the couple of people standing outside in the drizzle; including a bridesmaid in a pale peach satin strapless dress ... with tattoos up her arms, a cigarette in one hand and a can of beer in the other.<br />
<br />
As I check in, I find myself wondering if there are any other guests there for the race, maybe taking a few hours sleep after a long drive, before the 1am start. (Anybody planning on this approach in future years may I recommend bringing earplugs? Milngavie would appear to be on the direct approach route to Glasgow airport judging by the number of low flying very noisy planes passing overhead). And later in the restaurant, I'm looking round trying to guess if any of the diners are runners or support crews. Not quite sure how I could tell but it's a fun game and passes the time. I don't see any faces that I recognise later at the checkpoint but a few of the cars turn up in Kinlochleven. There is a group of seven men and one woman on an adjacent table who are talking loudly about setting off early the next morning to walk the Way and how hard the next week is going to be. I'm amused by the comparison but on any other night would be quite impressed by the challenge ahead of them (and certainly not one I could contemplate). It's not an easy walk for anyone ... judging by the number of pints they're putting away, they plan on making it even harder by starting late and with hangovers.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><strong><u>The Start</u></strong></span><br />
<br />
Feeling quite wimpish, I decide to drive the short distance to the start. I could claim it's through looking after my personal safety by not walking back alone in a strange location in the early hours but if I'm being entirely honest it has rather more to do with not wanting to get my hair wet! Vanity, thy name is woman.... (I can live with wet hair - just not the day after I've paid the hairdresser to make it look good!)<br />
<br />
I decide to park in the Tesco's car park next door and leave the station car park for support vehicles. Whilst I'm there, I'll just pop in and pick up a few bits of food I didn't bring earlier. I'm not quite sure how much I think I'm going to need to keep me awake on Saturday night (I already seem to have a bag full in the boot) but it is clearly essential that I now have biscuits, jelly beans, satsumas, etc. <br />
<br />
Despite it being 10.15pm, Tesco is not as quiet as it should be. As well as the lone shoppers doing their routine shops, there are a significant numbers of groups of people frantically hunting full fat coke, peanuts, crisps, pot noodles, chocolate. Despite being mostly groups of youngish men, they are clearly not suffering from an attack of chemically induced munchies which might be the normal assumption for a late Friday night. One of each group is usually short, skinny and wearing shorts....<br />
<br />
I am particularly struck by the large group of very fit-looking men wearing matching red jackets who are buying large bottles of water in sufficient quantities to fill a swimming pool. Just how thirsty do they think their runner is going to be? Have they ever heard of <a href="http://www.westhighlandwayrace.org/RaceInfo/medical_advice.html">hyponatraemia</a>? It's only later than I realise they are the Trossachs Search and Rescue crew who are providing a drop bag and support service at Inversnaid, a remote location on the banks of Loch Lomond that isn't practical for support teams to get to.<br />
<br />
At first the station car park seems quite peaceful, although much busier than normal for a late Friday evening. But it fills up with more and more cars, vans, motorhomes, firstly parked neatly in spaces, then along the side of every access road, in the taxi rank, on verges.... Are there really only 170 runners? How can they produce so many vehicles?<br />
<br />
There are still late trains coming in from Glasgow and the looks of surprise on the faces of the disembarking passengers is stunning. Particularly those who are coming home from an evening out and have had a drink or two; it's clearly not quite what they were expecting! <br />
<br />
A couple of taxi drivers seem a little disgusted by the intrusion into their space but there is a clean route through the car park for them to collect their fares. A man in dress tartan starts talking to me. He's been to an event in Glasgow but he knows about the race and is both amused and awed by the runners. He did a 50k walk near Arnhem a year ago (no jokes about Holland being flat please, apparently this is the one region with hills) and tells me he couldn't walk for a week afterwards. To run three times the distance is staggering to him. He's waiting for a bus that's due just after midnight but when it arrives the driver doesn't even try to come into the car park and stops on the road instead, forcing my new friend to make a dash across the car park. Definitely the only man running in a kilt tonight!<br />
<br />
As I'm walking across the car park, a voice calls out "Haven't you got anything better to do on a Friday night?". I turn and see <span style="color: lime;">Norman Duncan</span> who I work with. He introduces me to George, his support driver. We chat for a few minutes and Norman repeats the joke about me making George tea at Kinlochleven. Nope, my tea making skills are atrocious! But I will make coffee and we agree on double espressos. "Assuming he makes it to KLL of course" says George. "He'd better", I reply "or he'll not hear the last of it at work for the next twelve months". (Later I feel very guilty about this craic as Norman has to pull out quite early on. I won't see him until at least Wednesday to find out what went wrong but Keith tells me later that Norman was ahead of him in the early stages, despite having a slower target time, so it may be a too-quick start that couldn't be sustained.)<br />
<br />
Runner registration is in a hall to the side of St Joseph's church. The normal hall isn't available tonight and for a moment, it looks as though the signs are directing us to a portacabin but it's actually a small room inside the building. I look in from the lobby but go no further as there's little free space inside and I have no valid reason to take up any of it.<br />
<br />
Ian Beattie seems to be greeting every runner as they come in. This is the first year Ian hasn't run the race himself and it must be strange to be on the opposite side of the line tonight. But he looks happy and has already stated on his <a href="http://whwrunner.blogspot.com/">blog</a> how much he's been looking forward to tonight.<br />
<br />
I see a face I recognise and we exchange greetings; it's Annette, the girl I was talking to on Conic Hill at the Fling. She's supporting her boyfriend <span style="color: lime;">Mike</span> and all his team seem to have matching t-shirts from the brewery that sponsors him. Hmm there are worse sponsors to have.....!<br />
<br />
Back in the car park, there are little groups appearing of runners and their support crews. Like some choreographed modern dance, they ebb and flow as old friends meet up, cameras flash and hyperactive runners bounce around. Why don't they sit still for this last hour? And rest????<br />
<br />
There are cars with scottish flags flying, at least one with the canadian maple leaf, and in the corner, a small red car sports the skull and crossbones. Is this the pirate ship of an infamous London fireman?<br />
<br />
A vintage grey VW camper van turns the wrong way into the car park and nearly collides with a vehicle coming out. "Don't tell anyone" mouthes the passenger to me. It's a beautiful vehicle but I'm not sure how comfortable it will be on the long drive north.<br />
<br />
There is a group wearing matching red and black outfits supporting their runner. This is <span style="color: lime;">Donnie Campbell's</span> crew. Donnie is the outright winner of this year's "how to make it even harder" challenge by running the race, then continuing on to Mallaig, catching a ferry to Skye and running across the island to his home town of Portree. His Glasgow 2 Skye challenge requires him to run 184 miles in under 48 hours to raise money for the charity Skye Cancer Care. Donate <a href="http://www.justgiving.com/glasgow2skye">here</a> if you feel sufficiently impressed to throw in a few pennies. (Apologies for the spoiler but he completed the run with 4 hours to spare ... )<br />
<br />
I go to stand with <span style="color: lime;">Keith</span> and he introduces me to Matt, his "first leg" support who will be driving through to Rowardennan. I've always assumed that support crews sign up for the whole stint but this seems a very sensible idea (which isn't always a word to be associated with Keith). Obviously it only works if all your support are reasonably local but it takes away a major risk of having tired drivers after one or even two nights erratic or non-existent sleep. Does everyone do this? Later I see the contact details schedules that Race Control have, and it is quite common, particularly amongst the more experienced runners.<br />
<br />
At half past twelve, there is a race briefing in the corner of the car park. Much of it is a repeat of information already given in race briefing notes, on the forum, with a few last minute updates. Following high winds across Scotland a few weeks back, the path was blocked in a few locations by fallen trees. These are now cleared away with no diversions from the official route. However there are a few places where there are piles of logs obscuring the route signs which runners need to be aware of. There are a number of locations that were once official checkpoints or unofficial support points that are now "out of bounds" due to safety or consideration to local residents. One of these has agreed at the last minute to allow support vehicles into their site - but only on payment of a £10 parking charge. An alternative location is suggested...<br />
<br />
"There will be weather" says Sean, which is apparently traditional and produces a ripple of laughter. It may be midsummer weekend but it's Scotland and the forecast for Saturday day time is cool and wet. Only a few years ago, the race had to be abandoned due to torrential rain. Some of the tops of the mountains the route passes by will still have patches of snow in sheltered spots. There will be a compulsory kit check at Bridge of Orchy to ensure that runners have sufficient kit to cross Rannoch Moor.<br />
<br />
When the briefing ends there are maybe ten minutes left. Keith wants a photo with Norman but can't find him. There are more greetings with old friends not seen in too long a time.<br />
<br />
With five minutes to go, runners start lining up at the underpass, with the supporters climbing up the banks to the sides. The grass is wet and slippy and I have a horrible thought of falling over and knocking over a dozen people like a delinquent bowling ball. The countdown begins and the tension cranks up. A few supporters call out good wishes to their runners by name, cameras flash everywhere. We're looking down onto runners heads - with hats and head torches on, I can't see how anyone could spot "their" runner except by the colour of their jacket. I can't spot <span style="color: lime;">Keith</span> or <span style="color: lime;">Norman</span>, or anyone else whose face I would recognise.<br />
<br />
Then the hooter sounds and, to the sound of raucous cheering and clapping, they're off. The fast boys have placed themselves at the front and start running immediately, but the rest have to walk for a few steps before there's enough space to run. Even <span style="color: lime;">George and Karen</span>, who are sweeping the full course this year, are running off which is yet another surprise as I had assumed they would start well behind the main group.<br />
<br />
The supporters start scrambling down from the banks, heading for vehicles but before I can follow, there's an explosion of noise and flashing lights from well behind me. I turn and see that across the road, where the underpass comes up a flight of steps into the town centre, there is another large group of supporters cheering and taking photos. I wonder if the runners notice the wall of noise and light? Or are they so hyped up and focussed at that point that it doesn't even register?<br />
<br />
And that's it, they're gone. It's one in the morning and, although I may spot some runners from the side of the road as I drive north tomorrow (today!), I won't meet them again for at least sixteen hours until I start my shift at Kinlochleven. Some of the support crews seem to be treating the start as a re-run of Le Mans and running to vehicles in a desparate hurry to clear the car park quickly. Why? <br />
<br />
As I'm walking back up to the path, I see Sean and introduce myself. We've never met or spoken before, with all our communciation by email or text (I only know who he is due to his blue jacket with the words "Lord of the Bridge" on the back). He assumes (and I don't correct him) that I'm there to collect stuff for the checkpoint so I find myself heading back to the registration hall with him. Only the marshalls are in there now but it's still busy as the boxes, bags and signs are packed up to be taken to their new locations. Amongst the team is a very thin man wearing a Great Britain track suit - and it's one that he got the hard way. This is <span style="color: lime;">Adrian Stott</span> who manages the Edinburgh store of <a href="http://www.runandbecome.com/">Run and Become</a>, one of the race sponsors. <em>(As well as being race sponsors, their staff are all damn nice people and passionate about running. When I had my "I want to run" epiphany, they spent as much care and attention on finding the right shoes for this complete beginner as for an elite runner, and even threw in a bit of coaching. I think they're awesome).</em><br />
<br />
Whilst Sean is hunting for the KLL paperwork, <span style="color: lime;">Ian Beattie</span> comes over and introduces himself. He says he recognises me from my blog and compliments me on it, saying how great it is to read about ultra running from a different perspective. I'm ridiculously pleased by this.<br />
<br />
The other marshalls present are all heading for early points on the route and there's some debate about times and places. Some are not at "official" points but to "guide" runners along the correct route in particular places or to keep control of parking at congested locations. One is trying to decide if he has time to catch some sleep in his car before the first runners arrive at his spot.<br />
<br />
Each checkpoint has a five page document with a list of all the starters (it was printed a day or so ago so includes some very late Did Not Starts (DNS)) with columns to record times In and Out. The weighing stations of Auchtertyre and KLL also have a column to record runners' weight (significant weight loss - or even worse weight gain - is a potential indicator of a medical problem). This is one bit of my duties I'm slightly concerned about as I'm not sure about the boundaries between what's acceptable and what's worrying. Fortunately the race doctor is at the same location, so it's something I can ask the expert about later.<br />
<br />
I'm also asked to deliver a sheaf of paper to Race Control who are also going to be based at KLL. This is the list of contact details for all the runners and their support crews. If anything happens to a runner, this is the bible for who needs to be talked to. It even covers vehicle details and registration numbers so marshalls can pick out the right team in a crowded checkpoint carpark. The list I have is a duplicate so it doesn't matter that I won't be there until one/two o'clock.<br />
<br />
Eventually we have plans for all the paperwork and we start to disperse. I drive back to the hotel, passing a few groups of teenage boys and am grateful I took the car. As I reach my room, the answer to a puzzle springs into my head. Several times around the car park, I'd seen someone whose face looked very familiar but couldn't place. Eventually I'd recognised him as someone I worked with before I moved to Edinburgh two years ago (different company, same group) but I absolutely could not remember his name. Suddenly I do but I am still astounded by how long the odds on seeing someone I know should be.<br />
<br />
Bizarrely when I marshalled at the Scotland 2 Sahara ultra last November, one of the supporters there was an HR Manager at another sister company. Do I work in a secret nest of ultra supporters?<br />
<br />
It's 02.00am and I'm still wide awake. I don't mind as I'm trying to roll my body clock forward to deal with the 05.00am finish on Sunday morning, but am slightly concerned that I won't be able to sleep at all! But I do. And the final thought in my head is "are all ultra runners short? And skinny?"<br />
<br />
<em>(I was right - this <strong>was </strong>a very long post. Sorry.)</em>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-96905506033346102011-06-17T00:32:00.000+01:002011-06-17T00:32:04.118+01:00PauseNow we're all in limbo, waiting for tomorrow night, waiting to press the button and start the race.<br />
<br />
Most people will - I guess - have finished work now and have tomorrow scheduled as a day of rest. Not everyone though - there are at least two teachers amongst the runners who have no choice but to work as normal. One is even having her school inspected this week ... this may be taking the distraction approach to tapering a <em>little</em> too far ....<br />
<br />
There are still a flurry of announcements coming through on the website, forum and facebook, so the organisers are still busy fine tuning details. Technology is starting to come into play with a first attempt at live streaming the race <a href="http://www.westhighlandwayrace.org/live/live.html">Click here to view</a> although apparently not working if you use IE9. And twitter also becomes a main information source this year with the new <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23whwrace">#whwrace</a> tag being used by organisers, runners and support alike for updates and encouragement.<br />
<br />
This particular marshall has managed to indulge herself by finishing work on the Wednesday with a whole week of time off to come. (Talking of work, I have discovered that Norman, who works in the same company as me and is competing for the second time this year, has been reading this blog. Hello Norman. Norman's crew - whatever he's told you, I am NOT making you tea at KLL. Coffee maybe....)<br />
<br />
Today has been an indulgent and lazy day with the intention to now try and stay up late and start rolling my body clock forward to cope with Saturday night. Not an advised strategy for runners but then I have every intention of sleeping on the Friday night. In my third summer in Scotland, I still find it amazing how short the summer nights are; that it still seems to be full daylight at half ten and later.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow I have good plans to make the most of the day off and go and stretch my legs around Flotterstone reservoir. After Sandra's comment below, I nearly burnt my running shoes in sheer terror at the slippery slope I might be starting on! But I figure my complete and utter lack of talent or aptitude will rescue me from any foolish inclinations regarding racing :-) In the meantime I am a very slow and ungainly plodder who still gains an immense amount of satisfaction from what I can do compared to what I couldn't do only a few months ago. For the runners, I should point out that the phrase "stretching my legs" means a distance of 2-3 miles at best. And no hills.<br />
<br />
Then it will be a leisurely drive over to Milngavie, a few hours rest at the hotel and then down to the station to watch the start. I saw the end of the Fling but this will be my first start and I can't wait to see the atmosphere. Or try and distinguish between the "old" family members and the new ones taking on this challenge for the first time. Is it more scary as an unknown quantity, a previously tried and failed event, or once you know how it feels to complete the 95 miles and bang on the door of the leisure centre? Maybe scary isn't the right word; although any runner should certainly be respectful of the hours ahead of them. <br />
<br />
(Bizarre thing - if you google images of "Fort William Leisure Centre" an awful lot of them have runners in the picture!)<br />
<br />
I wasn't totally sure about going to Milngavie, but I've had to realise that it's very unlikely that I will see any of the runners come home as I'll still be in Kinlochleven when most of them come through; and probably sleeping while the last of them arrive. I'll miss seeing that but hopefully a few hours sleep should see me refreshed enough to come through to the prize giving at midday.<br />
<br />
And now we're 24 hours away from the pre-race briefing. Still on pause, waiting to go...<br />
<br />
For all those taking part, I hope you have a wonderful race whether it's your first or your fifteenth, whether you finish in sixteen hours or thirty-five. Or not at all - it will still be there next year for you. It's an amazing thing to do, in an amazing stretch of countryside. Enjoy it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-32273609362819048192011-06-09T20:57:00.000+01:002011-06-09T20:57:04.781+01:00Tick, Tock, ...We're in the final countdown. Eight days to go....<br />
<br />
The runners are tapering, making final support plans, grizzling and grumbling, checking and re-checking food and kit, fretting over every last niggle - not an injury! not this close!, thinking about weather - is good weather bad or vice versa? is there such a thing as bad weather, only unprepared runners?, getting the last of their support team details into the organisers, debating the finer points of the route and if the fallen trees in the forest will be cleared before race day, thinking about the race, not thinking about the race....<br />
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Support teams are getting ready for a weekend of pandering to friends and family who insist on doing this strange activity, of going over finely tuned (and laminated!) plans that will be quite probably be thrown out of the window within hours as timings change and favoured foods become repulsive, and listening to the above on repeat....<br />
<br />
No doubt also hoping that the latter part of this paragraph in the Support Team Brief is accurate:<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><blockquote><blockquote><em>What is the role of the support team? To be completely subservient to runners’ every whim for as long as it takes them to complete the route and for them to be forever ever grateful, buy you a load of beer, several dinners and whatever else they can extract; one supporter got a new Mini One.</em> <br />
</blockquote></blockquote>And also getting prepared for this:<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><blockquote><em>A good crew will anticipate the change of mind that runners have at every checkpoint. They will have the agreed food/drink ready but know that you will want something else. They will forgive the temper tantrums, occasional bad language and unreasonable demands (an ice cream at 1am in Kinlochleven, for ****s sake!). They will be cheerful and encouraging whatever that means for you. For some that could mean an appropriate kick up the backside – "you wanted to do this" or sing songs etc </em></blockquote>Ice cream???<br />
<br />
The organising committee are no doubt managing all the last minute preparations behind the scenes. Logistics, people, race day kit, entry lists, support partners, mountain rescue teams, medical support, support crew details, testing communications for giving live updates on race day, facilities, locations, merchandise, goody bags, goblets.... And all of it pretty invisible to the 170 runners who just want to turn up and run....<br />
<br />
And the marshals, well we have our sets of instructions as well. Who's where and when, contact numbers for Race Control, safety officer and race doctor, names of sweepers, what we're supposed to do, what we're <strong>not</strong> supposed to do, how best to help in an emergency, weighing instructions, and most importantly "Don't forget to enjoy yourselves..."<br />
<br />
I have my midgie net, spray and long sleeved clothing (if there's a biting insect within ten miles, it will find me ... and then invite every member of its extended family round for supper), a good idea of where I'm going and a hotel booked in Fort Bill (not that I'll be seeing much of it due to the hours that Kinlochleven is open). There is coffee, red bull and pro plus to be stocked up on - and probably lots of chocolate, strawberries and fruit to keep me happy. Not planning on having ice cream so please don't ask!<br />
<br />
My fellow marshall - Lesley - at KLL is also new to doing this officially, having previously been the Race Director's "chauffeur" and occasional relief marshall. But we both volunteered for this and we're both looking forward to doing it. Rather than us both doing the full fifteen hours, we're doing overlapping shifts so, if you or your runner is extra speedy you'll only meet Lesley, and if you're coming through in the early hours of Sunday you'll probably only meet me.<br />
</span><br />
I don't know about the rest of you but I'm getting stupidly excited!<br />
<br />
See you in Kinlochleven....?<br />
<br />
</span>Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2687120673452079758.post-68681749655112202082011-06-03T21:09:00.000+01:002011-06-03T21:09:55.794+01:00Why Run an Ultra?Every weekend, throughout Britain, tens or even hundreds of thousands of runners line up at the start of races. The London Marathon alone has a field of nearly fifty thousand. And for the vast majority of these people, a marathon is the ultimate challenge, "The Big One". There's no arguing with that - twenty six point something miles is a damn long way; even to walk it would take an average person between seven and nine hours.<br />
<br />
Rightly we celebrate those who take on this challenge and become world class. Probably 90% of the British population have heard of Paula Radcliffe, Haile Gebrselassie is known around the world and famous beyond the world of athletics.<br />
<br />
So what makes someone keep going beyond the marathon? At what point does twenty six miles become a routine training distance as opposed to an event to be trained and planned for over a six month period? How does it become reasonable to run thirty, fifty, a hundred miles or more?<br />
<br />
Long distance running as an organised activity has been around for a lot longer than you might imagine. A hundred and thirty years ago, multi-day races were one of the biggest draws in the Victorian sporting scene with maybe ten thousand punters paying to watch top class events, massive sums changing hands in betting and the best athletes earning prize pots equal to modern day footballers. Some of the records set during that time still stand today.<br />
<br />
During the 1980s I read a novel - half a century old even then - by Nevil Shute called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/An_Old_Captivity">An Old Captivity</a>. Woven amongst the story of a 1930s pilot was the tale of two Scots captured by Vikings and finding themselves part of Leif Ericson's voyage of discovery to North America centuries prior to Columbus. Both have an ability to run for hours and are sent off as Leif's scouts into this new land, thereby becoming the first Europeans to see large tracts of the continent. After all these years, I can't remember if they made it back to Scotland, but I can assure you their spiritual descendants are alive and running well in the lowlands and highlands to this day.....<br />
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Every ultra runner worthy of the name has read Christopher McDougall's <a href="http://www.chrismcdougall.com/book.html">Born to Run</a>, and devoured the story of the Indian tribe who run for hundreds of miles barefoot and in pleasure, as they have for centuries.<br />
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The Spartathlon is a 245 kilometre race aross Greece, following the legendary run of Pheidippides from Athens to Sparta in the Battle of Marathon in 490BC. Now that truly is a run at the end of which a messenger might drop down dead.<br />
<br />
So for millenia, men and women have run distances that defy logic, sometimes with a country's fate hanging in the balance, sometimes for hunting and sustenance, sometimes for the challenge of trying to find their personal limits and sometimes for sheer joy.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's the wrong question. Maybe it's not "why run an ultra?" but "why not?"<br />
<br />
Juliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14655365005248542676noreply@blogger.com0