Watching the Trails

Mountains, Miles and Marcothon

2011-12-11T20:47:00.001Z

I 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.

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 not 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.

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.

In the days running up to the race, the forecast is ... interesting 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 still not going to get the chips I've been promised since the Fling.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

We finish at a sensible hour and as she leaves, Susan calls back "it's stopped raining". Famous last words.

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 ... weather.

The weather 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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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 ...

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....

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.

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.

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...

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.

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 ...

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.

Fourth and fifth are Andrew Murray and Thomas who arrive chattering away. How do they manage to make it look so effortless...?

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.

And the wind never stops.

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.

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?

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.

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).

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!

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.

When I do go back to my post, it's to the sight of Dave handing out my coffee to some runners....

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?

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.

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.

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 Marcothon....

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.

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....

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.

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

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 good :-) ) 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....

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.

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).

***********************************************************************

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.

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.

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.

And despite Hurricane Bawbag, and another snowfall, my Marcothon is still intact.

Not quite sure what's happened in the last year ... but I'm loving it.

See you in 2012.

I am Not a Runner - Parkrun

2011-11-20T20:32:00.000Z

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.

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 Parkrun 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...

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?

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.

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..

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 cba.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...

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.

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!

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.

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.

"No, but we'll start seeing them by that building, at about the 1k mark".

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.

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!!

Just before the left turn, an oncoming runner calls out to me - it's a colleague from work looking far too happy.

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.

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...

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.

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...

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?

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...

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.

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.

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.

It might be about 41-42 minutes, she says. I want to hug her. That is amazing. My "pacer" is amazing.

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!

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?).

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.

Later the official results are published.

#239 - First Timer! - has an official time of 41.08

That'll do me.

Until the next time, that is...

One Year On...

2011-11-13T09:27:00.001Z

A year ago today, I stood in the Highlands and watched my first ultra.

In no particular order, these are the things I've learnt from runners and running.

Falling over hurts.
Getting back up hurts more.
Getting back up and running again hurts less.
Everybody has bad days and bad races.
Upright, outside and running is a damn good place to be.
Running through puddles doesn't stop being fun past the age of 5.
Ex-boyfriends are like jellyfish.
Good shoes are not a luxury.
Midgies are evil.

Sore legs are not a reason not to go running.
Don't ask an ultra runner to decide if you're hurt or have a whingery. They don't understand hurt.
The human body is capable of impossible things.
Running 3 minutes for the first time is harder than running 30 minutes for the first time.
Rain is a reason to go out running, not a reason to stay in.
It doesn't matter how long or short you run; sooner or later your bowels will catch you out.
Runners want other runners to do well.
The inside seam of your leggings will give way at the furthest point from home.
Only normal people have ten toenails.

It's possible to start running with tears pouring down your face.
It's not possible to keep crying when you're running.
Learning to stretch is not optional.
Being hugged by a hot and sweaty friend at the end of their race is wonderful.
A race has a winner but never a loser.
Never say never again.
Adrenalin and joy will keep you awake for a whole weekend.
Running is addictive.
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.
Fetcheveryone.
A mile is a very long way.
Second place to Lucy counts as a win.

Legends work in supermarkets.
True love will climb Conic Hill to deliver blueberries.
Your soulmate will walk you across the Lharig Mor in the dark and cold.
TTFU.

It helps to be able to see where your feet are going.
Stopping and restarting is much harder than keeping going.
Here's to the Dreamers - God bless us all!
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.
The longer the race, the less you compete against others and more against yourself.
A good support crew is priceless.
Too much water is more lethal than too little.
Some people race and some people run.
Being sick when you run is not a big deal, continuing to be sick when you stop is.

There is at least one person who can run 90 miles on a broken ankle.
There is at least one person who can run 15 miles while having a heart attack.
Runners don't stop because they get old.
Sometimes you run away, sometimes you run home, and sometimes you run in circles.
Jelly babies are a recognised food group.
Dates and crisps are not.
Keep putting one foot in front of the other and you'll get to the end.
There are more uses for vaseline than you really want to think about.
Ultra runners have an inordinate capacity for food and alcohol.

Hazel McFarlane runs ultras. She's also blind.
Only yoofs and wannabe rappers have white trainers.
The body can't remember pain. The mind will rationalise it.
There will always be someone who can run faster or further than you.
But maybe not both.
And maybe not today.
Finishing last is better than not starting.

Always run from the heart.
No regrets.

Glen Ogle 33 - The Friendliest Wee Ultra

2011-11-08T21:11:00.000Z

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...

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!

So I booked two nights at The Inn at Strathyre (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...

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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

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.

A tent. In Scotland. In November. I know I'm a wimp but, even so.....

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.

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.

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...

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 that many ultra runners with a nicotine habit. Further up, the legendary Ray McCurdy is jogging up and down the road.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Three hours and 21 minutes to cover roughly 31 miles ... that's a continual pace of six and a half minute miles ... wow.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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!

I also find myself screaming at Ian B when he's too busy chatting to notice Sandra coming along the path.

Antonia finishes in 4.38 which is pretty good for someone claiming not to be fit...

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...

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...

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.

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...?

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.

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....

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....?

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.

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, do not throw your rubbish on the ground, there are no roadsweepers in the countryside...

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...

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.

Ceilidh - now that could be the subject of a whole essay as a defining factor between the English and the Scots....

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.

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"...

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:

Oh and if you're a very lucky ultra runner, you may just be getting an invitation to something rather interesting next year...

Photos from The Inn at Strathyre, GO33, Ray Woods,

Down the River

2011-09-29T21:57:00.001+01:00

I 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.

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.....

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?

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.

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.

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 pirate, fellow Scot David Ross, and Richard from Ireland (aka The Beirut Taxi and a man who decided to run an ultra to celebrate his 40th birthday). Not sure what the Welsh did to upset her....

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?

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.

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.

Also there is Karen R who isn't competing despite being in her running gear. Instead she's running the first 10 miles as guide runner for Hazel MacFarlane.

Who is blind.

Karen & Hazel

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

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...

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....

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?

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.

Have trainers, will run? Who are you kidding? You really can't do it without back-up.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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....

Back at the car, Lee is heating up oxtail soup. Mason (dog) is getting ready to lick the bowl clean.

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....?

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

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.

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...

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....

Richard makes it in with the widest smile on his face. He'll be back....

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...

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!

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.

David Ross also finishes looking tired but happy.

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!

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.

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...

But the first prize of the night goes to Hazel Macfarlane for proving that there are truly no limits.

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.

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....

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.

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.

And so ends the SUMS for this year. But not quite the end of the ultra season...

Almost everyone I know seems to be heading for Glen Ogle on the 5th November.... See you there?

Running Beyond Limits

2011-09-17T23:08:00.000+01:00

Probably 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 (Yamaa Trust). Now there's long distance running and then there's two thousand, six hundred and fifty miles of running....

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.

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.

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 could finish the remaining ten miles...

And as I watched them bound past, I had my "bugger this, I'm sick of saying I can't" moment, which finds me buying a pair of running shoes a week later.

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.

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.

The book was finally published today, with a launch event at Snowlines Footworks in Edinburgh. (If you want to buy a copy, try here. Or here). 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.

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 only if I start at my own slow pace and stick to it...

Andrew did, very charmingly, drop back to talk with me but even at that speed, I can't run and 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.

So I ran with the man who ran 2650 miles last winter, even if it was only 100 yards or so.

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.

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 upcoming events). 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.

My first 10k ... on the West Highland Way ... in December? Madness or magical?

The Devil of the Highland Midgies

2011-08-14T17:27:00.001+01:00

This should be about an ultra. But there were midgies.
Lots of them.

I've discovered that midgies love me.
This feeling is not reciprocated.

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.

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...

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.

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?

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.

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....

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.

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...

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...

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?

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?

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.

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...

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.

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....

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....

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 Thomas aka the Crazy German and honorary Scotsman. To his credit he is totally unphased by a strange woman greeting him by name in the middle of nowhere!

There are a few minutes gap to the third man but then there is a regular procession, all going well and racing hard.

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.

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.

In maybe sixth or seventh position, I'm delighted to see the tiny frame of Lucy Colquhoun 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!

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.

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 normal, 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.

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!

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 John Kynaston. And where those two are, you can be sure that Debs Martin Consani 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!

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 :(

Ian B comes past on his way to meet Sandra 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!"

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....

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...

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.

I'm also passed by Karen Robertson who is smiling, having clearly exorcised her Rannoch Moor demons from a nightmare run at the WHW.

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 think it's Sophie who was sweeper at Clyde Stride but it's a bit difficult to tell under all those layers.

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.

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 that far on foot to the finish line, can it?

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....

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.

While we're waiting for the winner I get a lesson in the correct pronunciation of scottish place names - Cree-an-lah-rick (* see Peter's comment below, it's only "rick" if "loch" is "lock"!) 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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).

After this there is a reasonably frequent arrival of runners, coming in to cheers from the small crowd now gathering on the grass.

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.

Well, almost....

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.

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.

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!

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.

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...

John Kynaston arrives well into the afternoon, having had another hard run and suffered with the heat and his breathing.

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...

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.

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...

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!

Debs, Thomas, Lucy, Matt

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.

And my ankles are itchy. Very itchy....

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:

It seems that not only do I find midgies incredibly annoying, I'm also allergic to them! Great....

Must get that sorted before next year.... Right now I'm thinking bio-hazard suit...

As usual thanks to everyone who made it another fabulous day: organisers, runners, supporters, followers, friends, family.
What am I going to do over the winter without you???

*****************************************************************************

I took a ridiculous amount of photos on the day which you can see here on Flickr. I'm neither professional nor posessive, so if there are any you'd like, help yourself.

I am a (very slow) runner

2011-07-27T23:44:00.002+01:00

I'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.

And therein lies my problem.

That sort of thinking is contagious.

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 birthday after all!). And I was definitely sober the following night when I confirmed on fb...

This was all before I made the mistake of looking at the Sri Chinmoy 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 serious 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!

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....?

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.

When I get there, I spot the Fetch vests and am warmly welcomed by Sandra. "How are you feeling?" she asks.

"Fucking terrified!"

I really didn't see the two small children. Sorry!

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 ever seen me run .... It's going to be a night of firsts!

A mile.

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???

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!

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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

My leg is recorded as 12:46. It's slow. But it's a PB. And I'm actually very happy with it.

Afterwards, there is a Fetch picnic with fizzy stuff and strawberries and chocolate peanuts. And gossip and chat and laughter...

Can't think of a better way to have spent a summer evening.

Before...

... After

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.

Now if I could just find a new pair of lungs, it would be great.

A Stroll Along the Clyde

2011-07-19T22:55:00.000+01:00

So, 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...

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

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...

Then the hooter goes and they're away, the front runners sprinting as if there were 5k ahead of them, not 40 miles.

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.

Officially I'm done now and I could 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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" ....

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.

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.

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!).

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.

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!

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.

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...

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.

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.

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...

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.

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!

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.

Two years ago I had never even heard of tablet ... my teeth ache just looking at it ... but mmmmmm....

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...

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

So another great day out... Lee tells me I am already booked for next year.

Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

See you at the next one....

*photos by Muriel D, Ali B, Davie H & me

I'm Not a Runner (part 2)

2011-07-18T18:33:00.000+01:00

Then why is this...

...my birthday present to myself.....?

Heading West

2011-07-13T20:15:00.000+01:00

As 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.

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 Clyde Stride. There might have been one or two intoxicating beverages consumed prior to the conversation taking place :-) so thought it sensible to confirm that I did mean it by an fb message a few days later.

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.

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".

(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...)

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!

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.

But it looks as though this weekend I finally will.

And hopefully so will all the runners.

PS If you want to hear a very bizarre sounding description of the Clyde Walkway, click this link to the qwiki website ...

What have you done to me?

2011-06-27T22:41:00.000+01:00

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....

Monday was mostly spent travelling back to Edinburgh (discovering just how loud the car stereo can go - very! - 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.

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...

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.

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 ...

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?

What have you done to me???

WHW Race 2011 - Sunday

2011-06-22T14:48:00.001+01:00

Prize-Giving

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.

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.

Only a few yards from the hotel, I spot a woman I recognise from the race. Her name is Carolyn, and she was supporting her husband Neal 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.

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.

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.

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 reasonably sure that none of the people standing at the back are runners.

Regardless of position, every finisher is clapped and cheered by the whole audience. Richie is clearly a popular winner, as well as being only the third man to win twice. I'm stunned to hear that Kate has now won the women's race an incredible seven times.

Jan-Albert 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.

Some runners are not there to collect their goblets, having already left the town. Bob Steel, 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.

A few groups leave immediately after collecting their goblets: shame on you, it wouldn't have hurt you to stay those few minutes longer.

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 Richie and Kate give them their hard won trophies. I am so pleased that George and Sandra got them to the end in time.

The presentation concludes with Ian 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 ...."

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.

I finally meet the Pirate (who pulled out, having completed far more than should have been possible on his extremely minimalist training) and Lee, his fiancee who he actually met on the race. It's a very fabulous ring sparkling on her finger.

I finally meet Sandra who now has bright red bruises on her ankles but is walking.

Karin greets me with another hug and tells me "never again". Hmmm.....

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.

Ian 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!

I fetch my car from the hotel to give George and Karen 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.

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.

Sunday evening
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.

Downstairs there are maybe 20-30 people from the race - some runners, some officials, some supporters. Amongst them, I'm delighted to see, is Karen Robertson 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.

Sandra 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....

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.

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...

Summary

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.

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.

I hope I see you again.

Milngavie Station Car Park, 1am, Saturday 23rd June 2012 ......?

WHW Race 2011 - Saturday

2011-06-21T10:58:00.001+01:00

Travelling North

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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 not the route north!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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 ....?

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.

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.

The curly haired woman is Lesley, my fellow marshall. Rob & Ash 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.

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. 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.

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.

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 Norman has pulled out, and also Marco Consani 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....

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.

Chris Ellis, 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.

The second van load produces three mattresses which are laid out in the sports hall. There are even pillows and blankets for added comfort.

Finally Chris and Ash walk back to the surgery and carry back the examination table.

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.

Auchtertyre marshalls ring in regularly with updates. From them we learn that Kate Jenkins is leading the women with Sharon Law about 25 minutes behind, and Debbie Martin-Consani the same again behind her. Whilst these are exactly the three names I expected, it's still exciting.

The Glencoe team call in and tell us that Riche Cunningham and Jan-Albert Lantink 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....

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.

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.

While we're waiting an injured runner arrives - I think his name is Jamie. 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.

Around a quarter past two, Richie's support crew arrive. This is Lucy Colquhoun (a damn good runner in her own right and holder of the women's course record), his girlfriend Helen 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.

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.

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...

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.

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?

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.

Kinlochleven - the Saturday night shift

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. Richie arrived right on schedule but had overtaken Jan-Albert and moved into the lead by about 5 minutes. About half a dozen men have been through and I have just missed Kate Jenkins leaving.

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. Marco 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.

It wouldn't be strictly true to say that we hear Sharon Law 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 exactly 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.

Debbie Martin-Consani arrives 20 minutes later. I think the diplomatic word would be "focussed"; the one I wrote down at the time was "stroppy". 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.

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.

If Rob's not on the phone, he stands by the door to clap the runner in. Then Lesley 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.

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.

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.

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. Fiona Rennie's 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?

Dr Chris 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.

Mike Raffan's 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...

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.

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.

We get the call we've been waiting for from Ian in Fort William. Richie has won for the second year in a row and everyone's delighted. Jan-Albert 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.

Twitter has rumours that Kate 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 Sharon had caught up to three minutes. (On the Sunday I am told that she did want to quit at Lundavra but her support team persuaded her to continue. Good decision, if it's true).

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".

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.

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.

Keith 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.

Sandra McDougall's 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.

Katrina Kynaston arrives looking tired and drawn. For John 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.

Sandra's 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. Sandra 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.

Whilst she's being treated, John Kynaston 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 here for the details.

At 9.20 we get our first retiree - Stan Bland - and Lesley cuts off his wristband. Once we've managed to find a pair of scissors that is.

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 will make it to the finish line. You may well walk or crawl but you'll make it.

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.

The flow of runners starts to slow as darkness finally starts to arrive.

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.

A woman in Mark Moore's 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.

Pauline Walker leaves around half eleven wearing a fluorescent green and orange Carnegie top, turquoise trousers, orange leggings and floral socks. It's a dazzling sight...

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.

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.

Just after one, Lesley leaves for the night. Rob and Ash finished at around eleven and handed over to Graham 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.

Shortly after this, John Maclean 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.

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.

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.

Fiona Rennie 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.

At ten to four, the last of the runners I'm looking out for, Karin McKendrick, arrives. She greets me with a hug, looking grey with exhaustion but still determined.

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.

The girl's feet are sore and the doctor does one last duty of strapping them up to provide a little extra cushioning.

George and Karen 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.

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.

The doctor needs to drop off Kirstie, 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.

Graham 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 Dr Chris handing out coffee at the checkpoint....

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.

I'm following Graham 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.

At the door of the leisure centre, Ian 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.

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.

And finally I make it back to my hotel, and try to rest while my body fights between being wide awake and desperately tired.

WHW Race 2011 - Friday

2011-06-21T00:43:00.001+01:00

This 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 very long weekend.....

I think I'll break it down into days. So probably three posts, but hopefully of a bearable length!

But first, a list of people I need to say "thank you" to.

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.

I guess you all know that Richie Cunningham won the men's race in 16 hours 24 minutes and Kate Jenkins 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.

Friday evening

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.

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?

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".....?

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.

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.

The Start

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!)

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.

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....

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 hyponatraemia? 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.

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?

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!

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!

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 Norman Duncan 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.)

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.

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 blog how much he's been looking forward to tonight.

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 Mike and all his team seem to have matching t-shirts from the brewery that sponsors him. Hmm there are worse sponsors to have.....!

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????

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?

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.

There is a group wearing matching red and black outfits supporting their runner. This is Donnie Campbell's 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 here 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 ... )

I go to stand with Keith 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.

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...

"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.

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.

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 Keith or Norman, or anyone else whose face I would recognise.

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 George and Karen, 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.

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?

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?

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 Adrian Stott who manages the Edinburgh store of Run and Become, one of the race sponsors. (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).

Whilst Sean is hunting for the KLL paperwork, Ian Beattie 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?"

(I was right - this was a very long post. Sorry.)

Pause

2011-06-17T00:32:00.000+01:00

Now we're all in limbo, waiting for tomorrow night, waiting to press the button and start the race.

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 little too far ....

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 Click here to view although apparently not working if you use IE9. And twitter also becomes a main information source this year with the new #whwrace tag being used by organisers, runners and support alike for updates and encouragement.

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....)

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.

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.

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.

(Bizarre thing - if you google images of "Fort William Leisure Centre" an awful lot of them have runners in the picture!)

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.

And now we're 24 hours away from the pre-race briefing. Still on pause, waiting to go...

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.

Tick, Tock, ...

2011-06-09T20:57:00.000+01:00

We're in the final countdown. Eight days to go....

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....

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....

No doubt also hoping that the latter part of this paragraph in the Support Team Brief is accurate:

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.

And also getting prepared for this:

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

Ice cream???

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....

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 not supposed to do, how best to help in an emergency, weighing instructions, and most importantly "Don't forget to enjoy yourselves..."

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!

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.

I don't know about the rest of you but I'm getting stupidly excited!

See you in Kinlochleven....?

Why Run an Ultra?

2011-06-03T21:09:00.000+01:00

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.

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.

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?

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.

During the 1980s I read a novel - half a century old even then - by Nevil Shute called An Old Captivity. 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.....

Every ultra runner worthy of the name has read Christopher McDougall's Born to Run, and devoured the story of the Indian tribe who run for hundreds of miles barefoot and in pleasure, as they have for centuries.

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.

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.

Maybe it's the wrong question. Maybe it's not "why run an ultra?" but "why not?"

Oh, we're going to Kinlochleven....

2011-05-23T19:41:00.000+01:00

Okay, it doesn't have quite the same sense of summer joy as "going to Barbados" but far more fun, from my sideways point of view.

A few months ago, in response to a forum post, I volunteered my services as marshall/helper/general dogsbody for the West Highland Way race in June. Although I'd had a response from the "Lord of the Bridge" I wasn't sure if it was going to be accepted (not surprisingly there are plenty of "repeat" marshalls who all have their favourite locations and duties) so I didn't know where, or even if, I might be helping.

Then today, I receive a text "I have a vacancy for a marshall at kll....".

I can do that....

Now, where can I buy a midgie net......?

I'm Not a Runner

2011-05-09T19:25:00.000+01:00

Those are the words I started this blog with. And it's perfectly true. But....

This stuff is contagious. I did find myself thinking "Gosh, I wish I coud run". In the same way that I might think "I wish I could sing like Adele" or "I wish I could earn money like Alan Sugar" or "I wish I had Posh Spice's legs". But it's never going to happen; I can't run and I will never be able to.

Then last November I was standing at Victora Bridge on the Way - watching runners - when the little voice in the back of my head shouted quite distinctly "bugger this, I'm sick of saying I can't". A week later, I am in Run and Become, explaining that I would like to learn how to run and buying a pair of shoes that will allow me to do this without my shins breaking.

I can't wait to try them out that evening. I get about 100 yards before my lungs go on strike. Okay, this isn't as easy as it looks...

But I'm stubborn and I keep trying: run a little bit, walk a long bit, run a little bit, etc etc.

A week later it snows for the first time. After this there is no more running, only careful steps in hiking boots and walking poles.

At New Year the snow clears and I manage one more session before the flu strikes and knocks me sideways for a few weeks.

I sign up for Race for Life on the day it opens to give myself an unavoidable target.

In February I go to Australia on holiday and, although I take the running shoes, it's far too hot to run. Or walk. Or be outdoors full stop.

When I get back I realise my unavoidable deadline is now ten weeks away and I'm still struggling to run more than seven minutes out of a thirty minute session. I need an alternative training strategy and discover C25K (Couch to 5k), a structured run walk program that promises to turn a couch potato into a semi-competent runner. That would be me then....

I struggle with every single session, but complete them nevertheless. I make the mistake of looking forward a few weeks and see a solid 20 minute run at the end of week 5 when I am barely completing the 3 minute sessions in week 3. I give up smoking after 25 years. My waist shrinks but I don't lose weight.

I'm slow and ungainly. My fastest (and only) pace is about 4mph and I almost come to a complete halt on anything resembling an upwards slope. I only run at dawn when there are no other people around.

Two weeks before the race, I break with the programme and try to complete a 5k route. I don't succeed the first time but on the second attempt, I make it. I text Keith who replies with the words "Well done ... now do it again on Thursday".

Race day arrives cool and cloudy. I'm incredibly grateful as I can't even contemplate running in the heat of the Fling the previous weekend. Bad enough that I will be running in public for the first time...

I arrive at Hopetoun House far too early and sit in the car, reading the paper and eating jelly babies (I have clearly spent too much time reading ultra runners' blogs and consider jelly babies to be appropriate food.....). And the heavens open. Proper torrents of water ... hmmm I wanted cool and damp but this is possibly going too far. But it stops and I get out of the car and join the pink flood of women heading towards the House. I'm trying not to read their back signs because I know they will make me cry, but I do anyway.

I have no intention of joining in communal aerobics or singing but it's impossible to not get caught up in the moment. But I do find myself thinking that I will be worn out before the race even starts! I really start to see the attraction of the one line briefing of the Fling.

Eventually we line up - runners, joggers and walkers in separate groups. I'm somewhere near the middle of the joggers as I know my pace isn't going to be enough to keep up with the runners.  My final text from Keith arrives: "ttfu". I am immensely amused that it has taken him this long to say it. We shuffle forward and forward until eventually we're through the gate and onto the course proper.

I have no idea where the route is but there are 1600 women on the course, about 500 of them in front of me and zero chance of geting lost. Within a few hundred yards, I come across a group of women walking holding hands and become very cross that they are blocking almost the entire path. If you want to walk, join the walkers group!  Oh dear, this is not at all charitable....

A curve and a down slope, and then there is clearly a hill in front of me. Possibly a little carried away I try to run it but come to my senses part way up and start walking. Every runner I know walks up hills!

I'm utterly shocked when I see a "1k" sign as I think I've been going much further than that. I suddenly find myself thinking that 5k is actually a very long way and this is going to hurt. The fact that I've done it once before is no longer enough.

When I run I find myself going past numbers of women who are now walking, and become quite adept at picking my way through gaps or up onto the verge to get past. A few women come sprinting past who clearly placed themselves in the wrong groups to begin with. I catch my ankle on a small tussock of grass and it stings sharply but I can't even swear as there are both children and grey haired women around me. Six months ago, this would have been an excuse to stop but that ttfu is now engrained....

I walk all the up bits from here on, saving my energy for the flats and downhills. I'm not a quick walker and some of the women I run past are retaking me on these sections.

The route moves off the path onto grass and it suddenly strikes me that I've never run off-road before. It's a strange sensation and very odd how different each step feels. Then back into the woodland, a sharp turn and we're running on trail. Oh I like this, it actually feels comfortable although I'm past 3k and my lungs are burning and my left ankle grizzling loudly. The earlier rain has left some significant puddles and mud on the path that many of the women are picking their way around. I just charge through them, giggling as the mud and water splash up my calves. This is something akin to being a toddler jumping in puddles.

We are obviously delicate flowers as even the tree roots have been sprayed pink where they cross the path and might possibly cause a tripping hazard. I find myself wondering just how "technical" the trail past Loch Lomond is but remind myself sharply that this is a completely different event for a completely different group of people.

We round a corner and there, over a low wall, is the most amazing vista of the Forth, looking west to Grangemouth and the refineries, north to the hills of Fife and east to the bridges. I would love to stop and take photos but I have a race to run and no time to stop. I'll come back another day.

Onwards I go, more puddles and mud, past a few more walkers and suddenly out of the woods into open ground and brilliant sunshine and, oh help, it's roasting hot. Almost instantly it feels as though my face must be as pink as the vest I'm wearing. Then relief when the trail passes back into the woods and the temperature drops again.

I catch glimpses of the house through the wood and eventually we're out into the open again; it's nearly over. But my legs stage a final protest and refuse to continue at anything above a walk. But as I come past the house, the roadway is lined with people clapping and waving, it doesn't matter that none of them are there for me, suddenly I'm grinning again and sod my legs, I am going to finish this as I started - not walking but running. So this is where my runners get that last burst of energy from to sprint for the line...

Then I'm through and the boy scouts are handing me a medal, a pink bag and a bottle of water.   I don't care that the grass is wet, I am sitting down and drinking the best water I've ever tasted.

I check the stopwatch on my ipod. 44.19. In running terms, pretty abysmal. In my terms, pretty damn good. Three minutes better than my only previous 5k run and that didn't have any hills! Oh god, I'm already thinking of it as a PB....

Never again, I think and instantly burst out laughing. How many blogs have I read that start with those words and finish with "next year I'm going to...."?

I now crave caffeine - I always want coffee after a run - and haul myself up and over to the stalls. As I'm buying, the heavens open again and it's pouring with rain. I stand by the finish line cheering on the walkers; I don't mind that I'm getting wet, but I do mind that my coffee is getting watered down!

As I drive back to Edinburgh, the weather changes again and the sun comes out. I can't understand why fellow drivers are looking strangely at me. Until I get home and look in the mirror. I had my hair dyed last Monday and the rain has washed it out in great red streams down my face and neck. I look like an extra from Casualty.

Much later, my legs finally take their revenge for what I've put them through and reduce me to an agonised hobble. C'mon guys it was 5k ... I saw people run 53miles last weekend and they weren't this bad!

I sleep badly and shuffle into work, cursing the people who inspired me to think I could run. My right leg in particular takes great exception to coming down stairs. But by the time I get home, I'm already debating whether I can go for a gentle jog tomorrow morning... and should I work on increasing my pace or my distance....?

I'm not a runner.

But I ran my first race yesterday.

Highland Fling - part 2

2011-05-05T23:46:00.000+01:00

I knew it would be an infuriating drive to Tyndrum. There are no roads up the eastern side of Loch Lomond and the only options are a long loop to the east and then north, or heading around the loch and up the main road along the western shore. Judging by the state of the car park, there was going to be a lot of traffic on the roads - for gods sake, was half of glasgow out in the countryside? Why couldn't they do proper bank holiday weekend things - like going to B&Q?

In Cornwall they call them grockles. I'm sure there is a very expressive Scottish word meaning the same thing but I don't know what it is! For anyone not familiar with the word, it means tourists who either can't or won't drive properly on the local roads and assume that the rest of the world is quite happy to sit behind them while they pootle along at a snail's pace, admiring the view ... and ignoring the queue of irate locals behind them.

Whatever the local terminology is, they were out in force on Saturday. At one point the traffic actually came to a complete halt as I turned onto the A82. I was quite prepared to abandon the whole idea and head home but it would have taken so long to be able to turn around, I just accepted that I would carry on crawling north. Had I known Loch Lomond was a full 24 miles long, I may have reconsidered...

But in fits and starts we made our way up the loch shore, and I could almost forgive the grockles their distractions.

I don't where I'd read it but there had been a quote in the run-up to the race along the lines of "if anyone thinks the stretch alongside Loch Lomond is flat, think again. It's not." That kept going through my mind as I peered across the water trying to pick out the path on the eastern shore, or a glimpse of runners.

What also crossed my mind was how scary it must be to be driving these roads for the first time as a support crew on the WHWR in June. Although you would be several hours into the race and travelling in daylight, support crews are likely to have been awake since before midnight (assuming they got any sleep in the evening), tired, stressed and, north of Tarbet, on very narrow roads between rockfaces and water. And doesn't that road go on for ever - again and again, you think you can see the head of the loch but it's yet another headland with yet more water beyond it.

But finally the loch ends and the road starts pulling upwards into the hills. Past the Drovers Inn with its big sign "No Montane Highland Fling parking" on the side of a car (presumably an "official" sign with the logo and branding?).

Up to Crianlarich, trying to spot where the route crosses the road, then west up into Tyndrum ... which is even busier than Balmaha, with even a motorbike rally apparently taking place outside the Green Welly.

Somehow I find a parking space, even better one in the shade and consider what I'm going to do now I'm here. It's just after a quarter to two, I don't expect the first finishers to be here until at least three and I'm hungry, having eaten all my pack-up on Conic Hill and expecting to be home by now.

I also have the problem that I don't know where the finish is. I know where the WHW goes north from here but I don't know where it comes in from the south. I remember something from the web site about the race finishing slightly shorter than in previous years but hadn't paid that much attention as I wasn't planning on being here.

So I decide to walk to where I know the WHW is, try and find the southern route from there and follow it until I find the race finish, which I'm expecting is populated by now at least. Then I can come back into the village and get some food before going back in an hour. Good plan.

The hiking boots came off at Balmaha and I now have a pair of ballet flats on. Great shoes for driving in but possibly not the best footwear for exploring the WHW.... Actually it's pretty easy to find as it is straight across from the village shop but it picks its way across a rocky stream bed quite quickly - that must be an interesting run when it's rained. Even though it's dry today, it's not comfortable in shoes with thin soles.

Up onto Station Road and this is clearly the race finish line. There are rows of drop bags laid out by the hostel, trestle tables laid out with boxes on them and a handful of men endeavouring to put up the inflatable finish arch. They're not doing too well as it keeps falling lopsidedly across the road.

I can't get past easily and I'm always amused by watching man v machine so I stop and wait for them to win the battle. Two women are stuffing bags at the end of the tables;I'm trying not to get in anyone's way as other people move rubbish skips, mini trailers, etc.

Never wise to stand still next to busy women for too long...

"Would you like to give us a hand?" says one.

I've never been good at saying no and I find myself helping with bags. These are the runners' goody bags which need to be prepped up with a number of vouchers from race sponsors and leaflets. There is also pink champagne to go in each bag but the bottles will stay in their boxes for the moment for safety. Big boxes of t-shirts are stacked along the tables, but as we don't know what size any runner will want, they can't go in the bags.

The three of us get quite a good production line going and chat as we work. Both are clearly old hands at this, although one is a little bemused that her husband has nominated her as race photographer and entrusted her with a strange, very expensive looking camera that's sitting on a tripod across the road.

They introduce themselves as Muriel and Katrina, but it's not until Katrina mentions that she has run with Silke on the Way that I realise she is John Kynaston's wife (his blog has mentioned this a few times, saying how proud he is of her and her newly discovered enjoyment of running - she doesn't read it, she says). They also lived in Leicester for some years (which is my home town) and we spend some minutes comparing locations. What a small world....

We're joined by some more people; a woman and her young daughter and a blond man who would be running but is injured. Time flies as the bags get filled and packed into empty boxes. The medals are located and unpacked, with the girl allocated the responsibility of bestowing them on each finisher.

Incredibly the first runners are expected to arrive about 2.45pm. I start trying to work out what that means in terms of a course record, obviously forgetting that the women started two hours prior to the elite men.

Faintly I can hear a piper playing but it's not until much later that I realise that he is a part of the race, standing a few hundred yards from the finish to encourage the runners.

Murdo (the race organiser) is getting radio updates from further along the course. And almost on the dot of three, the news comes through that the first runner is close by. Four minutes past the hour, the watchers on the final bend start clapping and the first runner arrives, clapped and cheered home.

Surprisingly to me (though maybe not to everyone else) it's a woman. I don't recognise her but it's Kate Jenkins who strode past me hours earlier. She's not striding now; her gait is a painful jog, face flushed and contorted in pain, clothes soaked in sweat and looking half the size she was earlier. She also looks ready to collapse and, once across the line, is half carried onto a bench in the shade of the building.

There's a cry for water but I don't have any. There's a big bin full of ice (and bottles of beer???) at the end of the table though, and I scoop a cupful into a paper cup and hand it over. A few minutes later, a large butt of water is placed on the central table - it's too hot to risk not having this for any future arrivals. Although drinking too much is frequently a greater threat to endurance athletes than too little, it's unseasonably hot today and any runner completing the course is likely to be hot and dehydrated.

Only a few minutes later, the news comes through that the first of the men are on their way. As the clapping starts at the bend I look down the road, expecting to see Jez and am completely stunned to see someone else. What's more he's positively sprinting up the slope, looking like he's run half a mile at an easy pace, not 53 miles in a new course record. This is amazing - he even manages to smile and raise his arms for the camera.

Only a few minutes later Jez arrives, looking equally unexerted. He's broken his record - as generally expected - but Andrew James has beaten him and brought the new course record down to 7 hours 12 minutes.

There's a lull now and the next runner doesn't arrive for twenty five minutes. Debbie Martin-Consani takes the women's second place, only weeks after representing Scotland in the 100k championship, to be greeted by her husband Marco (who was forced to withdraw ahead of the race due to injury) and young son, before flopping onto the grass just past the line. She looks utterly exhausted and I don't think she moves for some time. I also find myself wondering how she's coped as a pale skinned redhead in the heat and sunshine.

From then on, there seems to be a steady stream of finishers in varying states of exhilaration or exhaustion. One runner, dressed in orange kit, leans onto the fence by us and doesn't move for fifteen minutes. I'm not sure whether to be worried about him or not but there are now lots of supporters, families and runners around who would surely recognise trouble, he's still on his feet.

We're developing a steady rhythm for handing out medals, bags, t-shirts, water and/or beer with a whole group of children now competing to greet every finisher. Muriel is taking photographs and Katrina holding the timing chip that registers each runner finishing. My back is starting to ache from lifting boxes of champagne but I can't stop smiling. Whilst some of the runners are incapable of speech, without fail all the others are polite and thank us for everything. I try to congratulate everyone as I give them their bag and champagne and many of them seem stunned to be told "well done".

As more and more runners arrive, the finishing area fills up with them, their supporters and members of the relay teams who have run the earlier legs and are now waiting for their teams to complete the last stage. Without fail every runner gets a resounding cheer and round of applause. I realise that the smallest cheer was probably for the winners and I'm struggling to think of any other sport where this would apply.

Keith arrives at half six with glazed eyes looking catatonic. This truly shocks me. This is the man who decided last June to run, with George Reid, from Fort William to the start of the WHW race and then run the race itself. They didn't quite make the full southbound trip but still completed 163 miles in not much over 2 days. And he looks this bad after only 53 miles in eleven and a half hours? But he disappears for a few minutes, re-appears in fresh clothes and looks much better.

Some of the runners look as if they would struggle to remember their own names and we frequently have to help them take off their timing chips as the velcro buckle is beyond their mental capacity. One slightly plump male runner (I think he was part of a relay team) has a serious case of joggers nipple and two large scarlet bloodstains on his white t-shirt. A few are non-finishers who took heavy falls in the race and had to drop out; Sandra McDougall and Sharon Law are amongst these and are now limping round the finish area. A runner had to be airlifted from one of the checkpoints with a suspected heart attack (he's since been given the all clear).

A man hands me a grey jacket and buff. A woman runner gave it to him at Carmyle Cottage; he doesn't know who she is but he said he'd bring it to the finish for her. An hour or two later a woman asks me if we have a lost property box as she gave her jacket to someone earlier and, although she doesn't hold out much hope, wonders if he's handed it in. She can't even remember what he looks like but is utterly stunned when I hand her the jacket she gave to a complete stranger hours earlier. But a young man who's lost his phone on the trail isn't so lucky.

At the height of the chaos, a woman comes to the table saying she wants to get her car down the road and how can she get through all these people? I assume she's a part of the race and tell her she'll have to wait until we've finished at 9pm, didn't she read the instructions on the website about NOT bringing cars along the road? What website, she says and it eventually registers that she's a member of the public and we are technically blocking a public highway. There's no-one around to ask and I don't know what to do. I can't expect her to wait hours for us so tell her to go and get the car and please be careful as she drives down. Fortunately by the time she gets back to the crowd, the young blond man from earlier is around and he can walk in front of the car, shepherding runners and other bodies off the tarmac. I also yell at a few people - all those years of bar work have some advantages in learning how to raise your voice!

The young girl's mother brings me a cup of strong coffee from the hostel and I tell her I love her. It's good and the caffeine kick is what I need. I may not have been running but, other than the hour in the car, I've been on my feet since 7am, my legs are aching and I'm getting tired.

At half seven, the prizes are awarded and there is more cheering. By now the sun is dropping and the temperature with it, but it seems almost everyone is still here. Runners are still arriving although much more infrequently now.

Keith appears again and asks if I can give him a lift home. He has a lift with a friend but Ian lives in Polmont and it will save him an unnecessary 40 mile trip if he doesn't have to come into Edinburgh.

By about half eight, there is little happening and someone offers to take over the bags. I go over to tell Murdo I'm leaving and thank him for a great day. You've got a bottle of champagne haven't you, he says, and a t-shirt? Woohoo, bonus!

We set off slowly up the road to the car. Apparently the Real Food Cafe does the best chips ever but the queue is massive so we decide to stop in Callendar instead. Keith stops to talk to the Jim's who are veterans and legends of the WHW. What can you say about a man of 78 finishing his 12th race....?

I'm too tired to overtake any slow vehicles as we head east and the chips are just what is needed. It's nearly eleven when I drop Keith off; he can't decide whether to brave a cold bath or have a hot shower. He texts me later to say he went for the hot shower; he's also weighed in and has lost 5kg in the day.

They're all mad. But I think I almost understand why they do this.

I had a great day. I'd like to do it again sometime.

Having my First Fling

2011-05-03T22:03:00.000+01:00

I'm not a runner. I'm not crazy. Therefore I don't want to take part in an ultra. But I do want to watch them.

There are three classic trail ultras along the West Highland Way in Scotland:

The Highland Fling - 53 miles from Milnagive to Tyndrum
The Devil o' the Highlands - 43 miles from Tyndrum to Fort William
West Highland Way - 96 miles from Milngavie to Fort William

That's not denigrating any of the other races in Scotland, or indeed anywhere else in the world, but it was the West Highland Way Race I first heard of and is therefore the origin of this fascination with the whole subject.

The Fling is the first of the three to be held each year. It originated as a training run for the main race seven weeks later and is now the largest of the three, accepting both solo runners and relay teams.

http://www.highlandflingrace.org/

For 2011, it is not only a respected race in its own right but the Scottish and UK Championship race; also the selection race for the British team for the World Championships in July. So this year it was truly a race for all classes; from relay teams trying out trail running for the first time, through the plodders (who are often much better than they ever admit), the hill runners, the tough as old boots veterans, to the cream of British runners such as Jez Bragg.

Prior to the race, the only speculation on the blogs and forums about the men's winner was how much Jez would break his course record by (having broken it every time he's competed, on one occasion taking over an hour of the previous record), and who would come second. So how many sports can you name where a world class athlete of that calibre would be competing with "ordinary" runners? Then again, anyone who can run 53 miles across Scotland can't really be considered ordinary, can they....?

With over 400 runners taking part, car parking is one of the major logistical challenges of the Fling. Although the race is officially unsupported - operating on a series of drop bags at checkpoints along the way - most runners will have friends or family along the way. Combined with the regular tourist traffic in a beautiful part of Scotland comparatively close to Glasgow, on a long Bank Holiday weekend but without the road network to support high volumes of vehicles, it would be very easy to overload the transport infrastructure and the goodwill of various landowners that the races all rely on.

So I asked for suggestions on the race forum - where can I go that isn't going to cause a problem? And no, I really don't want to stand at Milngavie railway station for hours at the start; somewhere with a bit of landscape would be good. Added to which I've never been to this section of the WHW so it's all new countryside to me.

Both respondents came up with the same suggestion - up Conic Hill alongside Loch Lomond. The second gave very precise directions to a vantage point and concluded:

I've watched from this spot a couple of times, with a large Saltire flag fluttering in the breeze. (There's usually a breeze. Make sure you wrap up warm in case it's a big breeze, with rain.) This seems to motivate / demotivate the runners depending on their loyalties . Most folk have really appreciated my being there, and the flag.
I'll be marshalling this year, probably @ Balmaha check; so I won't be up @ that Conic Hill spot. It would be great to have someone there!!

Well, that just settled it, Conic Hill it was to be. Mind you, he also described it as "a 30 minute brisk walk up from the car park"....

Saturday dawned bright and clear with the promise of another glorious day (to all my fellow Sassenachs down south, yes we do get lots of glorious days in Scotland - they just don't always coincide with summer!). And at half five I was in the car heading west from Edinburgh. At about six am, the first runners - women, male super-veterans (50+) - were set off from Milngavie after the infamously short race briefing: "there's only one rule - if you drop out, let us know".

There was one minor directional mishap - when I disagreed with the sat nav pointing me down what appeared to be a dirt track, only to find the alternative route to be little more than a wide footpath. But the skies were blue, the sun was shining and the flat countryside west of Stirling was beautiful, with the central belt hills to the south and the start of the Highland peaks off to the north. And in the distance a great ridge of ground rising out of the landscape, so glad I was only going up a hill and not that mountain.

But as the distance left grew shorter and shorter it became eminently clear that I was heading directly for the base of the ridge and it was undoubtedly Conic Hill itself. My first thought was "oh sh$t, how am I going to walk up that?". My second was "oh ****, they're going to run up that!".

I arrived at Balmaha car park at 7am, just as the male veterans (40+, excluding those who wanted to run with the younger men at 8am and compete for the British team) were leaving Glasgow. My friendly adviser had told me I needed to start walking up at about 8.15 to meet the first runners but as it was clearly going to take rather more than 30 minutes (!) I decided to start up anyway at 7.15, on the basis that I could sit in the sunshine at the top as easily as at the bottom. I decided to take the fleece but leave the jacket as there wasn't a cloud in the sky and the sunglasses were clearly more critical.

There were maybe a dozen other vehicles in the car park, all of which were covered in dew and had clearly been there all night. Other than one (presumably local?) runner coming down the trail, there wasn't a living soul in sight or a human noise to be heard. Bar my increasingly short breath and the curses as I found yet another series of steps or tumbling stream of rocks... seriously who thinks it's a good idea to cut steps into the side of a mountain???

But when the steps lead to views like this, how can you complain?

The path was deceptive in that a summit frequently appeared only to disappear in another ascent. I also discovered that my friend's definition of a breeze was as understated as his sense of distance....

Eventually I relented, sat down and poured a cup of coffee. Fortified by the caffeine, and the realisation that I couldn't stop there without being a complete wimp, I carried on upwards and finally made it onto the north side of the summit and was rewarded by an amazing view of the islands in the loch.

And even better, the path flattened out and I was comfortably striding along, only to be confronted by a choice of paths - huh that wasn't in the directions! I made the decision to carry along the level path and eventually came to the spot mentioned with a view of the WHW curving round from the south, "only" an hour after leaving the car park.

Bag down, more coffee and a quick survey of the glorious view, wondering how long it would be before I saw my first runners ... 30 minutes until they're likely to be here (according to my friend) ... so how long to come along that path ... 15 minutes? ... wait a minute, there's someone coming up the slope already!

I was so surprised to see the tanned brunette striding up the hill that I couldn't decide if she was part of the Fling or not; could she really have got here that quickly? And in what must be one of the stupider questions of the day, blurted out "Are you racing?". "Yes" she replied, already several feet past me. Although I didn't recognise her, it was Kate Jenkins who, less than seven hours later, would be the first person to cross the finish line, thereby adding the Fling to her collection of six WHW wins.

Although Kate was clearly off to a flying start, so were plenty of others and there was an almost continual flow of runners past me from that point onwards. Almost all were walking up the hill but at a superb pace, with a few brave souls jogging a few yards here and there. This after maybe 17 miles knowing there was a further 36 to go ... I felt positively ashamed of my pathetic crawl up the hill earlier :-(

I did my best to greet everyone who passed me, offer my encouragement and have a craic with anyone who wanted. Also a certain amount of teasing about the flag - a union flag in honour of both my own nationality and the UK Championship. C'mon, I can happily cheer Scotland at the rugby but I'm not totally sure a Saltire and an English accent go together!

I also lost count of the number of runners who said either:

"you're brave" ... huh? I'm not the one running 53 miles
"you must be freezing" ... I'm wearing leggings and a fleece, you're wearing a vest and shorts, and you think I must be cold...

Told you ultra runners were mad.

With the phased starts (there were also the relay teams starting at 9am), Conic Hill was clearly at just the right distance for overtaking, with an almost continuous stream of runners for the next three hours, with first the middle group of men coming through and then the younger male runners coming through.

I stood slack-jawed as the first of the elite (Jez and two others) flew past at a speed I would consider to be sprinting on the flat, with only a few yards between them. Mountain goats in human form ... the ancient Greeks would probably have considered them to be gods in disguise.

But as well as the elite, it was wonderful to see in person the "family" members whose blogs I've read, or read about, for the last eight months - John Kynaston, Debbie Martin-Consani, Sharon Law, Richie Cunnigham, Andy Cole, Stuart Mills, Pete Duggan, Sandra McDougall, Ian Beattie. Not forgetting the legend that is Fiona Rennie who loves the WHW so much she has it tattooed on her leg.

Also not forgetting my ex-next door neighbour, the mad Aussie Keith Hughes who was the first person to say the words "ultra marathon" to me, and who is entirely to blame for my interest as a result. Not having seen him for months, he greeted me with some abusive remarks about my flag and a hug, then trotted off with the words "not stopping".

A special mention also for a girl called Annette who came up the hill from Balmaha carrying a Saltire on a walking pole to meet her boyfriend Mike. We stood chatting for about 20 minutes whilst she waited for him. Mike is doing the WHW for the first time in June this year. When he arrived up the path, Annette greeted him with a hug, a kiss and a mouthful of blueberries before he continued onwards, having spent maybe 20 seconds with her. That's it? I think my definition of true love may now include supporting your other half on an ultra... I think he did well in the Fling and will hopefully have a great time on the big one. As she left she asked if I was going to Tyndrum. "No, I'll be heading home from here" I replied. "Oh well, maybe see you in June" she said.

I also spent quite some time talking to bemused walkers who were intrigued by all the scantily clad runners charging past them. To those of them doing the traditional seven day walk of the WHW, the concept of running over half in a matter of hours was interesting to say the least...

About 11.30 the flood of runners had slowed considerably with only intermittent relay runners coming through so I decided to call it a day and head back to the car.

I think the descent was almost worse than the climb; the boots that had been so comfortable all last autumn and winter seemed to bruise my toes on every stride, and the steps seemed to be exactly the wrong height for my leg muscles. I had even more respect for the runners who still came past me at speed, running down the rocky path I was painstakingly picking my way down.

I did my best to get out of the way of every runner and most expressed their thanks, either verbally or with a raised hand. Fortunately none wanted to come past on the narrowest stretches of the path as my legs were determinedly sticking to slow.

It was incredible how much the temperature rose as I descended. From being windswept and craving gloves at my vantage point, I was down to a vest before I reached the car park. And what a change it was there - every space was taken, there were hordes of people milling about and a queue stretching out of the village shop. I think I preferred it at 7am!

Craving ice cream, I bought a magnum in the shop and sat in the sunshine deliberating what to do next. Having been up since four with my eyes already sore from the wind, did I really want to drive three quarters of the way around Loch Lomond and up to Tyndrum and make it an even longer day?

Ah sod it, I'll drive up and see the first of the finishers, then head home about half three...