Striding Out....

It's never a good moment when you realise that you've volunteered to marshal a race that's being held on the day after your birthday.  But the Clyde Stride is four weeks after the WHW and, with the timing of midsummer's day this year, that's the way it worked out.  The birthday - my 21st again, as it has been for quite a few years now - was spent being utterly spoilt and indulged at OneSpa in Edinburgh.  I failed entirely to remain conscious throughout the treatments and had to retire hurt after only two cocktails in town afterwards...

So after all that rest and relaxation, I should have been raring to go on the Saturday morning.  Instead I managed to switch the alarm off and only properly wake up ten minutes before I was due to leave the house.  Panic!

One strong coffee later, I was heading west along the M8 at a speed not entirely compliant with Scottish law, when I got a text from Lee, the super-lovely Race Director.  Did I have a stopwatch as she'd forgotten hers?  Um, yes, but it's 20 odd miles east...  24 hour Tesco?

Miraculously I don't get lost turning off the M8 and find myself pulling into Morrison's car park outside Partick Station at 7.30am, with a whole 15 minutes before registration is due to start.  But instead of the hive of activity I'm expecting, the place is deserted.  Christ, she's not changed the start location and I've missed it?  But there is a small group of fit skinny looking people in the corner, so it's clearly not me.

Wearing last year's bright blue race t-shirt, I wander over and say hello.  Among the group are Norrie, who's volunteered to help rather than run, and brought the family along in support.   Their day has also started badly with the car over-heating and having to be abandoned a few streets away.

A few more runners arrive and, just as I'm assuring someone that Lee will probably arrive any moment, probably taking the corners on two wheels, a white van pulls into the car park (on four wheels I hasten to add) and it's all systems go.  Tables and paperwork out, cardboard boxes for collecting drop bags, we fetch and carry and all's ready to go.  Muriel's here to assist with registration as well, so she and I do the individuals, with Norrie's son taking on the relay teams.

Then it's into auto-pilot, ticking off names, handing over numbers and safety pins, having a craic with the familiar faces, greeting old friends, calming a few nervy novices who are now wondering what the hell made them think running 40 miles was a sensible thing to do.  Our international runners are there too, among them Gerry Craig's brother Michael who has flown in from Singapore for the race, cutting it very fine with a late Friday arrival in Scotland.  Someone wishes me happy birthday but is gone before I can thank them.  A familiar name checks in and I have to think whether it's the Hewitson of The infamous banana blog (if you haven't read it yet you really should; you may never look at a banana in the same way again) but fortunately for my composure, it's the other brother.


A passing gentleman (who has clearly been imbibing Buckie for breakfast) proffers a pound coin, wanting a safety pin and a number.  He's very polite and very insistent; fortunately Muriel manages to dissuade him and he wanders off, dancing and singing.  Only in Glasgae...

Whilst leaning over to the low table, I'm rudely assaulted by a slap on the backside.  I turn round in outrage to be greeted by the giggling figure of Sandra. "I couldn't resist" she says.  Assault on a marshal indeed, and in full sight of the Chairman of Scottish Athletics too.  What is this sport coming to....???

Sophie also stuns me by turning up in a normal number of layers of clothing - only a t-shirt rather than the layers of insulation and waterproofs that she's famous for.

Stan is sweeper this year and wants to be reassured that Ray isn't running.  The legendary McCurdy has however taken a late entry and is here and ready to run.  Stan groans and threatens to go and buy a dog lead from Morrisons.  Shortly later, he comes past with a line tied between him and Ray.  I'm laughing too much to get the photo the sight deserves.

Grant Jeans was another late entry but by the time Lee has swept all the runners away for the briefing, he's not turned up.  He arrives with minutes to spare, so we take his drop bags and shoo him round to the start.

Then it's down to the road and towards the underpass.  After some further herding - yes, you do have to start by running uphill! - they're lined up ready to go.  A few words from a race sponsor and the air-horn sounds, sending 130 or so runners off on their 40 mile journey.

Back at the cars, we finish tidying up, removing every trace of our presence from the station forecourt (and probably picking up some rubbish that was there before).  Behind four vehicles are piles of drop bags to be transported along the route.  Some are already in my car boot but Norrie helps me to load the remainder.  Whilst doing so, we find a small box labelled as a present to the marshals for CP2.  Noanie Heffron has left a box of sweets and treats for each of the checkpoint teams and I'm ridiculously touched.  We always get lots of verbal thanks, but this is a first.

Loaded up, I head for Strathclyde Park via a food and fuel stop at Asda and a bizarre out and back along the M8.  What kind of idiot contractor doesn't let you turn left off the Kingston Bridge onto the new M74?  Ah, that'd be my lot actually...

It's strange getting to the checkpoint and finding it completely empty.  Last year, it was in full flow when I got there but at 10am I'm on my own.  Which is a bit disheartening when I lift the boot lid and realise just how many bags there actually are, which all need to be sorted and laid out in some logical manner.  I'm about half-way through when the Giblin support crew arrive and Paul's mum Josephine comes over and starts helping, along with a young girl who I guess is a grand-daughter.  Many hands make light work and it's soon done.  Even the two unlabelled bags have their own position, though how their owners expect to distinguish the generic supermarket carrier bags from the others is beyond me...

At which point I start getting a little concerned about the lack of other marshals.  From Lee's plan, I'm expecting the McNeills here but there's no sign of them; has the car let them down again?  Fortunately before I need to start worrying about how to deal with a checkpoint single-handed, Karen R arrives.  Soon there are plenty of vehicles arriving as relay teams and support crews get set for the halfway point.

Lee's race brief was pretty clear that NO-ONE was to park in the hotel or Beefeater restaurant but to use the public car park behind the hotel.  I've assumed that this area is the public car park but it's not and when Lee arrives, her first task is to send all the vehicles packing.  Oops.  There will be another issue here later when the manager of the restaurant comes over to complain that there are support cars filling up his car park, to the extent that genuine customers are unable to park.  These races rely on the goodwill of landowners and businesses to exist; it's so easy for a thoughtless crew to ruin that goodwill by being too lazy to walk a few hundred yards to a sensible parking place.

To our surprise, the first runner through is Donnie Campbell, which isn't quite what we expected based on the positions at CP1.  Not sure he has any business running that fast only four weeks after the WHW either...  Sadly Grant has pulled out very early on and arrives with Dave, in surprisingly good spirits.

Paul Giblin arrives later than expected, totally covered in mud.  Legs, face, head, arms - all are covered in a layer of brown sludge.  It's not clear quite how this happened - while other runners have clearly splashed through some substantial muddy puddles, none are in this state - but it looks like he's dived head first into a swamp.

Ian B was supposed to be running but had to pull out yesterday after a tooth extraction (the exertion would pose a strong risk of re-opening the wound and bleeding).  Despite the challenges of supporting Sandra and Susan, he's relaxed and cheery, having had a second breakfast between checkpoints.  I pick his brains about running with asthma and different forms of inhalers - currently it's not working for me at all.  He picks up a tweet from John K who is "At Strathclyde Park watching Clyde Stride Runners go by. #clydestride".  We assume he's only yards away from the checkpoint, but is actually some distance away in the park.  Still, he and Katrina come over to join us, which is the first time I've seen them since the WHW.


Talk turns to potential winners and someone mentions the blond dreadlocked guy who "appeared out of nowhere", won this last year and then disappeared.  Paul Raistrick did in fact win the Glen Ogle but, at the time, none of us can remember his name and are reduced to describing his appearance.  Given that one of his most outstanding characteristics was his extremely toned and buff torso, it may not be too surprising that the females in the group get accused of lechery.  As if.  


My stupid watch is too vague to take times from (very pretty but totally impractical) and I'm using my mobile to record times (having synchronised it with Lee's stopwatch after the start).  Between runners I rest it on the flat top of the fencepost by my side to avoid holding it.  This works fine until I look up and can't see it.  There is frantic searching of the surrounding area to no avail.  I then look at the bin bag also hanging from the post and, with a sinking feeling, start to wonder if it's been knocked in by accident.  Fortunately for me, Dave is willing to search through the detritus and recovers the phone.  Thanks Dave, that's definitely a few beers I owe you...

Most runners have their numbers clearly displayed to the front, although a few have it on the side of their shorts which is not great when we're trying to read it as they run into the checkpoint.  But the relay runners are posing a different challenge.  Their team names are hand-written and only legible from quite close.  Also, quite a few clubs have shown a distinct lack of originality going for [name of club] team 1, [name of club] team 2, etc.  There frequently isn't enough time to read the whole label before the runners away and on several occasions I find myself jogging over to the incoming runner to clarify the name.

There are a couple of withdrawals here, but fewer than last year.  Stephen T pulls out deciding that it is too much too soon after a tough WHW, an older man (Fraser?) recognises a pulled muscle and heads off to phone his wife for a lift; both experienced runners wise enough to know when to walk away.  The last runner in, staggering alongside Stan, is Audrey, who was marshal here last year.  This year she is defeated by the run and curls up on the grass with apparently every intention of going to sleep right there.  Sometimes it's just not your day, sometimes 20 miles is as far as your body will take you.

After her husband and friend have helped her away, Karen, Dave and I clear up every last scrap of rubbish left behind and all the remaining water and foodstuffs.  The road crossing marshal comes back with her signs, which I'm relieved to see are the two missing from my car (I really should have taken them out of the boot after the WHW but I'm sure Sean won't mind them being re-used in a good cause!).

Back onto the M74, forgetting how quickly the turn off to Lanark appears (if that was you I cut up, sorry....) and down the country road.  Climbing up into the village of Kirkfieldbank, I see two runners on the pavement, the first looks like Gerry Craig which throws me as I'd expect him to be finished by now.  Not until I've tooted the horn and gone past do I remember that I'm much earlier than last year as all the runners cleared the checkpoint much earlier.

In Lanark itself, there is a long queue of stationary traffic.  A recovery truck is clearing up after an accident - right outside the police station.  Time for a bite to eat while I wait.

Through the town centre and I'm vaguely surprised to see a relay runner on the pavement; surely the route doesn't come up this high?  Later, that runner is going to be the cause of much fuss, but for now I'm more interested in the fact that the car in front is Dave's.  I frantically beep at him when I think he's about to make a wrong turn ... only to lead both of us down a cul-de-sac.  Hmm, that's two lots of beer I owe you, yes?

Driving through New Lanark itself - such a contrast to the grubby town above it - there is clearly a rather smart wedding in progress.  I'm not sure what these dressed-up women in heels and fascinators, and immaculate men in kilts will make of the sweaty muddy runners that are about to pass in front of them.  Hopefully no-one will interrupt the photos...

On the grassy stretch by the river, the finish line operation is in smooth progress, with Lee's family in full control, down to the young cousins handing out personal goodie bags.  Best of all, there is coffee and the legendary tablet.  There is also beer but that will wait until later.  The first three runners have finished; Donnie taking first prize and proving that a WHW weeks earlier is no barrier to achievement.  For some people anyway!

Shortly after, more runners start arriving, Gerry in 5th place then not-so-normal-runner Andy in 6th, trashing a few WHW demons as he does so.  A Scottish Athletics news item the day before had pointed out his 2nd position in the SUMS table and I tease him about where he'll be on Monday - the leader Gareth Mayze being otherwise engaged on Anglo-Celtic Cup duties in Cardiff.  He's not biting, pointing out that he struggles to train consistently due to family commitments and his "taper" included climbing hills to have a picnic and eight hours gardening the previous day.  Hmmm, so what might be achieve with just a few months structured training...?

A few more WHW devils will be vanquished today, amongst them Louise Jones who hurtles across the finish with the wide smile that seems to be her trademark finish.

Another one seems to be dead and buried when I see Sandra running down the steps, only to stop at the gate and not continue despite my frantic shrieks.  Then I realise, she's waiting for Susan so they can run in together.

At the height of the busy-ness, a problems arises with the relay teams.  The team that finished first is the one whose runner was off course in Lanark.  The second placed team (by two minutes) are aware of this and not particularly content.  They had been 15 minutes ahead at CP3 and think the other team must have run short.  Unlike the club road races they're probably more used to, there's no way of judging this.  Logically the runner has probably run further (and certainly had more climb than necessary) but nothing can be proven and he doesn't have a Garmin.  The issue recedes, returns, recedes, returns, until Lee has to step away from greeting finishers to try and resolve it.  As someone who delights in greeting every finisher personally with their medal and a hug, this makes her very sad.

I'm doing my best to cover in her absence, assisted by Norrie's son (the Clan McNeill ended up here, rather than CP2, after borrowing a different vehicle) and hopefully nobody feels too hard done to.  In the middle of this, two worried parents approach me about a drop bag that couldn't be found at CP2 and they think may be in my car.  I'm sure it's not but we can go and look later.

When I can step away from the finish, I take the father down to my car and we confirm the bag isn't there.  Apparently it contains a phone and wallet; I bite my tongue at the idiocy of putting such items in a drop bag, but do point out that the mobile phone should be in possession of the runner, not sitting at a checkpoint.  Dad tells me that the son thinks he put the drop bag in a van, but that he also thinks he saw penguins on the run...  Well the penguins are clearly a common ultra runner's hallucination, but the van is probably the one containing the finish line bags.  We go and investigate the pile of bags and a very relieved dad spots the missing back-pack.

"He's never even done a marathon before" he tells me.  Nor has the son really done any training it seems.  i never learnt his name but if he can do 40 miles on no training...

Quite a few runners today appear to have missed out on the marathon stage of their progression up the distances, going straight from the 13 miles of the Half directly to an ultra.  I'm astounded.  And yet...  I know more people who've run an ultra than who've run a marathon.  But then again, I hang around with some very mad people...

Like Tim Downie who pauses feet from the line to strike a Morecambe and Wise heel-clicking dance pose, only to be cruelly overtaken by Dave Etchells, who is not missing the chance to get one over on Tim (I should point out that they are the best of friends) by putting his foot down and sprinting to the line.  The rest of us collapse in laughter.

Prize-giving starts and is interrupted over and over again by new arrivals who have to brake sharply to avoid the crowd who have stayed to cheer.  The ladies winner is Charlotte Black, wearing a jacket that indicates she's travelled down from the Shetlands.  Second is Rosie Bell, fresh from her WHW triumph.


After prize giving finishes, there is still a flurry of runners coming in.  I drive two familiar faces up to the railway station as the shuttle bus has finished and miss saying goodbye to Ian, Sandra and Susan, Andy and Jo Rae.  It might have also helped if any of us had known where the station actually was and not had to ask a pedestrian.

Nine hours twenty two minutes after leaving Partick, Stan arrives with three runners together, all grinning and happy - Noanie, Dave Egan, and Alan.


Then there is the final tidying up session, dismantling of gazebos, more lessons on asthma and running from Soph and a last beer.  Behind us we leave some mud where there was previously grass.


But scattering to the four corners of the compass are 195 runners who've all had a great day, whether they ran 10 miles or 40.  The Race Director and her team are pretty happy too...

Additional photos from Colin Knox, Gerry Craig and Lorn Pearson

A Stroll Along the Clyde

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

Heading West

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 ...