What the non-runner did next....

We all know how it goes. You do a first race at a distance, or achieve a PB, or some specific target, like that fabled sub-3 marathon. And the first thing that's said is "congratulations", and the second is "so, what's next?"

Of course, it was no different after Edinburgh Half last May. The appropriate response should *probably* be a faster half, or conceivably a marathon if I was feeling ambitious. Most people got the answer that I had a place in the relay for Jedburgh.

The very inappropriate answer was D33, George's 33 mile ultra marathon in March.

Two people got that response; Kate, and Donnie my trainer. He paused for a few seconds, said "we'll have to put some run walk into your training plan" and started the session. No stress, no drama, no fuss.

I knew I couldn't deal with the noise if it was public. I had absolutely no idea if I *could* even get to the starting line, if I could train for it without breaking. I needed it to be my call, right up to the last minute, whether I stood on the start line or pulled on a high viz and marshalled. Once it was public, I wouldn't have that choice. All those ultra nutters I spend my weekends hanging around with would have had something to say, just too much pressure that would make it all too much.

So I didn't tell anyone. I messaged George a few months later, asking if I could have a place without putting my name on the start list "I don't know if I can....but I don't know that I can't any more". No problem.

Don't look at my training log if you want to see how to train for an ultra. I have never had so many coughs and colds as this winter. Work was ridiculous, leading to weeks when the only training I could do was on the two days of the weekend. The increase in duration of the longest runs didn't creep up as they needed to. My longest ever run remained the WHW training weekend from a few years back of 15 miles.

So this January, it was time to go back, add a few miles on, and do another the next day.

Six miles in, I started getting pains across my lower stomach, like period pains (I don't suffer normally from anything linked to my ovaries - if you need a description, imagine someone attaching a burning rope to the inside of your hip bones and pulling it tight...). Each hill or set of steps became harder and harder, by eight miles there was only walking. I could shuffle my feet a few inches, but I couldn't bend my hips in any way. Try even walking up or down a slope or steps without your hips. There are no flat parts on that route. I got slower and slower, cold and wet, as I couldn't move fast enough to keep warm. Fortunately someone we knew drove past at the exact moment the trail edged the road and we bailed. Alcohol and ibuprofen helped. The next day there was only a dull ache, I walked along the forestry road instead for a few miles but with enough uncomfortableness to know I'd chosen wisely not to run. Diagnosis, hip flexors strained or overworked by the unfamiliar terrain.

Then a work trip to India happened. I knew before I went that there was absolutely no chance of running outside while I was there: heat, pollution, traffic, inappropriate clothing, unaccompanied western woman...so treadmill it was, fitted in as best I could in early morning sessions, trying to do intervals or hill sessions.

Three weeks out, and my longest run remained a half marathon distance. I seriously contemplated telling George I wasn't running, that I'd marshal instead. I'd be gutted but well, I wasn't trained.

I couldn't bring myself to tell Donnie that I was giving up. So one last big weekend, 30k on the Saturday, 20k on the Sunday, basically the full race distance over two days. I plotted routes, planned food and drink to try out. Storms Doris and Ernie arrived in full blast.

I ran six miles out along the canal into a headwind so fierce it brought me to a stop repeatedly, getting firmly soaked. And my hips started seizing up despite the utter flatness of the towpath. I ran walked through the university grounds, past the hotel being built with a dedicated entrance for the Scottish national football and rugby teams, then walked up the hill to Currie and onto the Water of Leith. I tried running a few times and my body refused, so somewhere around 11 miles I gave up and caught a bus home, mute with pain and frozen hands, thinking I could put the distance into the next day instead.

Sunday promised better, I left home in sunshine, but by the time I got off the train it was pouring with a strong wind across the exposed canal. And by seven miles, my hips were seizing again, forcing me to walk almost the entire route. Nowhere to bail out of this until 13 miles at Ratho, missing the bus by minutes then spending the next hour defrosting but not drying out in the pub.

I knew then that I wasn't going to be able to do it if the weather wasn't on my side. For whatever reason I wasn't strong enough to cope with the combination of rain, wind and cold. For this to happen, everything was going to have to go right. Some things I can control, some I can't, there was no reason to stress about them.

Last weekend before the race. No stupid distance, no risking of breaking myself, but a 20k loop along the canal and river. Frustrated by unexpected closures of paths that sent me up unplanned hills, there was a little more walking than desirable, but the day was glorious, blue skies greeting the sunrise.

Then taper. No more running. I discovered that taperitis is ridiculously potent as the dining room floor exploded in piles of kit and possible drop bag fuel. I freaked out about cutoffs and how to get to the race (no runner parking in the park carpark and I wasn't altogether sure I'd be able to drive afterwards anyway). Redwinerunner (who had known since the Autumn) sorted me out with a lift from the Shanksis.

I planned an early exit from both work and Edinburgh on the Friday. I failed miserably, leaving the office only minutes before five, still needing to pack before heading north. I got to within ten miles of Stonehaven before I realise I'd forgotten a coat.

A couple of medicinal gins in the Station with George, Karen and the Munros before retiring to my room to decant Irn Bru into baby bottles for drop bags. You can keep your flat coke, the orange nectar beats it hands down.

I slept reasonably well. The weather gods were smiling on me, with possibly the warmest March 11th ever, with the lightest of breezes, and only a chance of rain the morning. I'll take that. I was there the year the temperature never got above freezing, where we spent our entire shift at half way stood ankle deep in frozen mud.

No early start to be away for registration meant I even got breakfast, forcing down coffee and toast before my lift arrived. Minty pulled up, my bag went into the boot and I squeezed into the back seat alongside Mrs Shanksi and RWR. Chatter, chatter, and no one commented on why I was dressed to run, carrying a pack and finish line bag.

Until we parked up outside Duthie Park, got out and the penny dropped. I don't think I've ever seen anyone look quite so shocked and delighted at the same time. I seem to remember we were half way across the park before MrsS mentioned The Fling next year(!)

Collect my number from a santababy outraged that she hadn't known about this before, realise I don't have safety pins, then bump into the legendary twins of Fiona and Pauline who bound up from their chairs to hug me with beaming smiles at the realisation I'm holding a race number. Actually, would you mind pinning it on for me? (One day, I may acquire the ability to put a race nunber on, for the moment it's a great delight to always have a friend around to assuage my helplessness).

It's all slightly surreal. I'm here, I have a number, I'm going to start. I have absolutely no idea if I'm going to finish, if I can make the cut off at the 3/4 point. In the meantime, drop bags to be handed over. Jane and Carol are collecting for half way; again the moment of dawning comprehension that I'm wearing a race number, that I'm not marshalling (I'd been waiting all week for someone to ask why I wasn't on the list and no one did) before delighted smiles and hugs.

Later in the pub, a friend will tell me that when he arrived to register, all he heard from every second person he spoke to was "Julie's running!".

Well timed joining of the toilet queue, seek out the sweeper (another ultra friend Elaine, wife of Sandeman of the tartan shorts) who I'm going to be spending a lot of time with! More hugs, more good lucks, race briefing, then suddenly it's time to group up for the start, there's the horn and were away. Oh fuck, it's really happening.....

Trot, trot, out of the park, watching the stream of runners disappear up the zig zag onto the path, breath rasping, heart pounding, even though I'm as slow as I want to be. I thought there might be others starting at this pace but clearly not as they stretch out in front, the gap opening quickly until only one or two remain in sight. A few late starters - "I was in the toilet when I heard the horn!" - speed past, then I'm alone.

Those first miles are uphill. Not very uphill but enough for me to feel it, the old railway route rising up through the west of the city. Various leg muscles twitch and whimper, calves cramp, pins and needles settle into a foot, then at around two miles it all settles down, legs turning over into a regular, if slow, tempo,breathing lightly but controlled. It sometimes happens that way on a long run, the body grumbling for a few miles before settling down.

Three miles dead on forty minutes, slightly slower than I intended but that's fine, it's more level now, just keep tripping onwards, start with the psychological calculations: 3.3 miles is only just ahead and that's 10% down, I've only got to do it ten more times, er, no, I don't like that too much, what else is there? The diversion for the ring road is about six miles so just after that will be 6.6 miles and that's 20%, and only about a mile and a half after that is the quarter way through....yes that's better. Let's run to the diversion at least.

E catches up. We agree that in general I'm an unsociable runner, I train almost entirely alone, I'm quite happy knowing that she's somewhere behind me but not too close, but that, once we're past the turn, I may want a bit more prodding.

Bits of the route are past scheme housing but as we climb further out into the suburbs, these give way to older villas, frequently looking out over the Dee valley spread out below them, houses built when this was a busy railway for the professional classes to commute into the city. There are snowdrops everywhere, great clouds of white alongside the path. I wonder if the speeding front runners even see them.

The path isn't busy, although there are plenty of dog walkers and cyclists out. The forecast rain starts, lightly at first but with increasing intensity. I think about stopping to put a rain jacket on and think better of it, it's too warm still for a jacket and I'm in a rhythm I don't want to disturb. Six miles buzzes at almost exactly eighty minutes, an even pacing that delights me. If I can just keep this up...I ignore the question of whether it's likely that even pacing of 33 miles is possible.

The diversion is a somewhat cruel descent of a few hundred yards of black Tarmac, crossing the roadworks creating the long-awaited Aberdeen bypass. The sites are busy with men and vehicles, weekend working? An expensive practice on a construction site, so a contract that's determined to make a deadline.

At the crossing of the public road, two of the Stoney girls are waiting, bouncing up and down with delight. I walk up the steep slope towards them, grinning with their infectious optimism, while still cursing the completely unwelcome ascent. This is supposed to be a flat route, ffs.....

Shortly afterwards, I'm even more disturbed to find the end of the Tarmac as the path changes to rocky ground with mud. What? This wasn't in the deal! I know it's muddy at half way,but I thought the rest of it was Tarmac. Oh well, all that towpath training will come in useful.

I'm even less impressed when the path turns ninety degrees and goes uphill. Well this definitely isn't the old railway line route. And my hips are just starting to niggle. No, you're not doing this to me, you're not....

At the top I'm even more confused to discover that the route is along a road. A quiet narrow road, but still a road. Up ahead, through the rain, I can see a green gazebo, we've reached the first checkpoint. Keziah is bounding up and down and I'm delighted to see that Sandra and Ian are still here, when I expected them to have long gone back to prepare for finish timing. The male marshal is looking slightly concerned which is explained when the rest of the team start giggling and tell me that my face is a bit red... My hair has leaked in the rain (there may be the slightest touch of artificialness about my hair colour.... ) which doesn't surprise me. I'm given tissues to scrub at it, joking that the so long as the race medic doesn't see me looking like I've got a terrible head injury, it'll be fine. Aaaah, that would be Sean who's actually stood in front of me, isn't it, who I've known for years....

Sandra chases me out (quite politely for her) and we set off up the road, finishing off the maltloaf I've swiped from my bag. I'm not really hungry but I know I need to eat. The Irn Bru was genius by the way, as were the lumps of smoked cheese - the rest of it went the way of most novice drop bag contents.

I'm behind schedule now; not badly maybe ten/fifteen minutes but as we walk, my hips cramp and I realise I'm not going to be able to maintain the pace I did in the first section. I don't think I'm going to make the cutoff at the three quarter point for five and a half hours. Seventeen miles to worry about that, just keep going. It's still raining, up ahead I can hear a stream gurgling alongside the road. It's only when I get underneath do I realise that it's the electricity crackling around the pylon lines in the damp air.

E has done the route a few times and tells me that there's a downhill coming up, just ahead where the trees start. There is indeed and as I run down what feels like miles, all I can think is that this is going to make me cry on the way back. At the bottom, I completely miss the clear stream of water flooding across the road and get wet feet.

From here, the path zig-zags through fields. There's some running, some walking and I start thinking about when I might start see the front runners coming back. I decide that if I can get to ten miles I will be happy, a little target met.

Target met. Just before the wee wee woods (not me....) and the turn up to the village, the fast guys start coming back towards me. God, they're good, still flying over the ground after nearly twenty three miles.

I dint know how I'd feel about the pure out and back, that I'd get to see every single runner. But it's brilliant. I suppose it might be different if there's a volume of runners passing in both directions, but there's only me and E behind me. There's one slight disadvantage though. You know that feeling when you see another runner - especially one you know - coming towards you - and you absolutely *have* to check your form, up the pace? I got over that feeling pretty rapidly!

It felt like almost everyone wanted to say well done, congratulations, keep going. Or to offer high fives and hugs. I lost count of how many people called out to me by name, do I really know that many people in this special little world?

There are a lot of double take looks as well. It's not until past thirteen miles that E gives in to a fit of giggles and tells me just how much colour has streaked across my face. A quick look in the forward facing phone camera and I'm laughing just as much. It isn't a delicate smudge around the hairline, more an extra from casualty or a very bad glam rocker, inch wide streaks of bright red down my jaws and covering one entire eye socket. I have a selfie; I'm not sharing it.

The fallen tree after Drumoak is evil, two separate branches to be stepped over, it's good stretching. There is mud and more puddles, less clean than the first. I'm heard to mutter that if I wanted to run cross country, I wouldn't have entered an ultra.

The miles stretch out, the oncoming runners thin out and eventually we pass Ray heading back from the halfway point. (The Halfpint point is depleted this year with neither Halfpint nor flapjack, normality will have to be resumed next year, it's just Not Right). Carol runs out to meet us, fizzing with excitement, how are we, what do we need?

It's past four hours, there is no way I'm going to make the cutoff at the next checkpoint. My race is over. But I've just covered well over sixteen miles, my longest run ever, not the one I wanted but still an achievement.

I don't know how to give up, to say I'm quitting. I point out the cutoff to Johnny Fling and Noanie who are marshalling, hoping that one of them will tell me how to do this. Instead I get told "well you're not staying here, off you go". But....

Don't ever expect sympathy at an ultra checkpoint, especially not from a couple of race directors. I might just have done the same....

So back we go along the trail we've just come along, neither of us quite sure what happens now. I start wondering if I could get twenty miles out of the day, that would be something. It wouldn't be too far past the road crossing where Angela is, I'm sure she would give me a lift back. I'm not hurt, not injured, I'm still moving, just not quickly enough.

A deep breath and I tell E that I'm going to bail at the crossing.

And the first of the day's miracles happens. "If you want to keep going, I'm happy to stay with you."

Oh.

"It's not like you haven't put in some long shifts over the years for the rest of us".

Oh.

Angela says about the same. With added swear words.

I know but I can't ask people to do that. If I keep going, all those people at the checkpoint and the finish are going to be forced to stay long beyond the time they signed up for. When I asked George for a place, I said it would only be if I thought it wouldn't stop him getting to the pub on time. That's a good few Guinness that won't be drunk, a rugby match that won't be seen.

But, oh I so want to. I'm sore but I'm not in pain, I'm still moving. Maybe I could...

Not my decision, not ours even. So E calls Karen and asks. And more miracles happen.

Helen will come out to the checkpoint to cover the last miles with me if I still want to go on from there. Other people agree to stay on, giving up more hours.

And I keep going. There's maybe not a lot of running but there's some. Short stretches, counting to a hundred, with each number representing eight steps. And I bloody well make sure I run through that twenty mile point.

We talk, of everything and nothing, of families and work and holidays and friends. E picks up the few scraps of rubbish left behind by runners. She talks about her first triathlon, of standing at the start with her friend, two middle aged women on cheap bikes, surrounded by young skinny men with gleaming carbon fibre. Of panicking in the water and swapping to breast stroke to recover for a few minutes, only to realise that all around her, those young fit men were being rescued from the water, unable to complete the swim section. Of turning into the finish straight, hearing the cheers and cowbells and finally realising that she actually could.

The hill is far shorter than I remember going back up and I don't cry. We both nip behind a hedge for a comfort break and I mentally thank Donnie for all those squats over the last two years...

Then we turn the corner and there's the checkpoint with not only the Munros, but Elaine and Ann. I can't believe they've stayed on, an hour and forty minutes beyond the cutoff. I've got gin and ginger beer, yells Helen, which do you want? That woman knows me too well...

The ginger beer was awesome. As was the Irn Bru, and the ginger shot drinks I'd bulk bought and stashed in drop bags. A refill of water for my flask and time to go.

E apologises and asks if I mind if she gets a lift back from here. Mind? She's just done twenty five miles at someone else's speed and already been out for as long as she might have expected the full day to be.

I've probably run more miles with Helen than anyone else. She knows me. I don't get away with walking for any longer than she considers appropriate, especially once the Tarmac restarts. Let's be honest however, running here is a relative term. There's the correct movements and cadence, but it's only producing a pace around 15:x. Still, when walking is at half that speed, it's an improvement.

Just as we come into Culter, I ask if she's got her phone to hand. Why? Because in a couple of hundred yards, I'm going to have completed my first marathon and I'd like a photo of the moment. Even if it involves standing still for a minute. Time? Nah, who cares.

The miles tick on and so do the hours. Seven hours, eight hours. I've been running for EIGHT hours, how did that happen?

The rain has long since gone and the suns out. The path is busy with walkers and cyclists and children learning to ride their first bikes. And children awestruck at tadpoles, asking mummy why those frogs are kicking one another? Mummy, why is that lady's face red? :-0

Kate texts again, as she has done all day (despite it being boypie's birthday) and I get told off for texting back when I should be running. I only say "I can't..." once and get rewarded with "la, la, la," as she heads off and I have no choice but to follow.

The infamous signs pass that repeatedly state Duthie Park to be three miles away, despite being spread over two miles. Thirty miles. Oh my god, thirty miles...

It takes thirty two and a half miles before "MTFU" is uttered. Sweepers don't do sympathy, who need it? There is an alarming feeling in my little toe, I can't decide whether there's a massive blister developing or I've lost a toenail. I don't want to think about taking my socks off.

All the landmarks from the way out disappear, the bridge over the main road, the cemetery and then the glass houses appear. And quite suddenly the penny drops, for the first time I actually know I'm going to finish. Something must catch in my breathing becuase I'm firmly told that I can stop and have "a moment" now, but I am absolutely *not* allowed to cry until after I finish.

Down the zigzags to the park gates and a yell from behind; the Sandemans in their camper. Through the gates, into the park, still running. Oh good, they've used the time to take the marquee down and dismantle the arch, sensible people.

Who would have thought a dozen people could make so much noise? And I probably drown them all out when I throw my head back and roar my way across the last few yards...

There are a couple of videos on Facebook so there's no point in denying that I hugged George and sobbed and sobbed. And then hugged everyone and tried to apologise for keeping them waiting for so long and sobbed a bit more. No lass left behind....

And then I got to sit down and drink the half bottle of fizz I'd stashed in my finish bag. It was delicious. (There was a lot more fizz later but that one tasted the best).

What did I learn?

My body is so much stronger than I ever dreamed of
My mind is even stronger
You can do anything with your friends beside you

I ran an ultra. 
:-)

There Will Be Weather...

...so says the Lord of the Bridge every June in Milngavie.

No-one said it in March.  After all, this is Scotland.  The only guarantee is that there will be weather on any given day, and lots of it.

First up, Loch Katrine Running Festival last weekend.  This was a charity day organised by Audrey as part of her fundraising for Alzheimer Scotland, part of her Antarctic Odyssey challenge.  I know mad people but running a marathon, then a 100km ultra .... in the Antarctic?  Go check her page out, see what you think.

Anyway, the Festival was a no-fuss 10km, a Half and a Full Marathon on the shores of Loch Katrine, one of those little tucked away bodies of water nestled in the Scottish hills.  Apparently some years ago, there used to be a 12km race held here but nothing recently.

I wasn't involved but, having realised I was definitely going to be in Scotland that weekend (oh the bliss of a new job that doesn't involve travelling every week...) I emailed a few days in advance and asked if I would be useful.  We agreed that I'd come along and help the willing-but-inexperienced friends and family at the start/finish.  You can never have enough marshals after all...

So on a cold Sunday morning, I'm driving west in the darkness, trying to work out if I have not enough or too many layers on, enough gloves and buffs and hats in the bag.  The car park is almost empty, not long after 7am, no sign of 250 runners and entourages about to descend.  It won't last.

The cafe had promised to open early but with no signs of life, we make the decision to hold registration at the picnic tables, trying to shelter from the intermittent wind that rips up the gorge.  It's cold and no-one yet seems to have invented gloves that allow their wearer to do things like write and sort through piles of race numbers.

Glancing down the entry list for the full marathon is like looking at the start list for an ultra.  Most of the competitors are ultra runners, heading out for a long training run (or short if you're Richie Cunningham...), although there are a few others from the saner group, including Smout and HappyTimes.  Nice to see so many old friends and put faces to a few names I've not met before, such as Flip, Sarah and Bob.

By the time we've finished registering the marathon runners (about 50 of the 60 entrants), the cafe's opened and the other races are being registered indoors, in the comfort of the roaring fire.  I'm not jealous.  But I have discovered the hot air blower in the ladies toilet which is going some way to defrost my frozen fingers.

Even the tough ultra-nutters are sheltering from the wind, albeit next to the ice-cream stand.

Smout asks if I have a spare buff.  I have - one of my treasured (if not quite earned through sore legs) WHW buffs.  I.  Want.  It.  Back.

Like herding cats, we round up the marathon runners for their briefing and start.  A few words and they're away down the private road on the north side of the loch.

And breathe...  Or maybe not, as there's a flurry of late starters, caught out by a combination of last-minute pitstop and the race starting a minute or two early to avoid standing around in the bitter cold.  Four in total, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation as they chase after the disappearing pack.  Even the "lead bike" turns out to be "tail bike", pedalling after the brightly coloured pack as they disappear round the curve of the loch.

(There is however grumbling from the friend of the last of the four who had been sitting in the his car during the briefing.  The runner was "a favourite to win" but now "his head's messed up" by having to chase instead of lead.  I miss the complaints.  I'm not sympathetic when I hear about it - he chose not to attend the race briefing, it's his own fault.  Is that harsh?)

The half is due to set off 30 minutes later and we barely seem to draw a breath before I'm yelling in the cafe again and rounding them up.  As the larger group (ninety or so) congregate at the pier, the air starts to fill with small snow flakes.  Oh my, this could be fun.  The hills across the loch are dusted white, we've alternated between sunshine, cloud, wind and stillness all morning.  

It doesn't settle and by the time the 10k runners head off a further 30 minutes later, there's bright sunshine, their shadows etched clearly onto the tarmac.

As the last of the massed runners leave, it's time to plan for the finish.  The timers are organised, lined up in a perfect funnel between grass bank and brick wall, one calling number and time, one writing, the third keeping an independent track of positions.  With all three races taking an out and back on the same route, there will be overlap between the finishers of each race with the only distinction the number groups.

Note to runners: when we tell you to make sure we can see your number, we mean it.  Clearly displayed full size on your chest/stomach please, not folded on your outer hip, on your back, or pinned to your t-shirt which is under three other layers of tops and waterproofs.  You make our lives harder and we can't give you accurate race times.  Then you sulk because your Garmin says something else.  And while we're having to spend time and effort sorting you out, we're distracted from dealing from the other dozen runners that came in right after you.

No frills finish lines are simple - a medal (with ribbon to denote the particular race), a tunnocks bar and a glass of water.  Plus a few bottles of wine for first male/female finishers in each race.  But how long?  The disadvantage of a "new" race, on a undulating/hilly course is that there's little reference.  I'm guessing at 35 minutes for the 10k and 90 for the half.  However when asked about the marathon, I stupidly think that "they're ultra-runners, they're not fast road runners" and estimate 3:30.  Er.... the picture above shows at least two very good reasons why that was a very stupid statement.

It feels like we've barely breathed when we spot the first bright spot of lycra heading back to us.  The 10k winner finishes in about 37 minutes, voluble and delighted, chattering away in what transpires to be unintelligible Hungarian.  He and his wife are working at a nearby hotel and she begged for a late entry for him.  Good choice though.

No let up from then on, a constant stream of runners coming back in.  We're very nearly caught out when the  winner of the half finishes less than 15 minutes after the winner of the 10k, the staggered start throwing us all. 1:18 on a hilly course is impressive - even more so to realise that this isn't an "official" race, won't count for official PBs, anyone truly "racing" is doing so purely for their own satisfaction.

More and more runners, more wind, hands and feet edging closer to frozen, a few cars coming up and down the lochside road.  Then the marathon "lead bike" appears, pedalling furiously - what's going on, we're not even at three hours - to tell us the marathon winner is approaching fast.  I *know* how fast Richie runs on hills; why am I surprised that he can also run a sub-three road marathon?  And look like he's just been out for a gentle jog at the end of it?  Gerry is only a few minutes later.

More and more runners, colder and colder, feet and hands now aching and painful despite the thick padded gloves.  How the marshal with bare hands is managing to write numbers and times I can't imagine.  The ice cream kiosk is selling hot soup which is blissful.  And as time progresses, the runners change from those who enjoyed their unaccustomed day out on a new route to those testing themselves physically and suffering from the distance or conditions.  Never believe that a lochside route is flat; there are some quite tough hills on this road as it weaves its away around the shoreline.

photo from James Watson

The one and only DNF of the day arrives in a returning marshals' car; Flip, unexpectedly and painfully crippled by random foot pains and unable to walk without agony.  Finally we are waiting only for one runner - the inimitable Ray McCurdy - and Robin, the sweeper for the day.  The snow has started again, now in heavy swirling flakes that start to cover the ground and remaining cars.

Of course, on driving home, the snow disappears within ten miles and I have sunglasses on for the stretch past Stirling.  Don't you just love Scotland?

Loch Katrine was intended to be a one-off but, despite the weather, it was a great race, through amazing scenery.  Lots of requests for it to be repeated next year - ask Audrey nicely if you'd like to have a chance to join in next time.

This is how good it really looked : photos from Charles Gordon

Fast forward a week and it's time for the new ultra season to kick off up in Aberdeen.  I love George to bits but his lovely race always clashes with the final day of the Six Nations.  The day it clashes with the Calcutta Cup, I won't be there, but until then...

I don't learn from previous years.  Instead of sensibly travelling up on the Friday night (and not indulging too heavily in the pre-race partying) I'm driving up on the Saturday morning.  To make things even earlier, I'm giving Christina a lift up.  Setting the alarm for 3.45am is not a pleasant experience...

So up in the dark and cold, heading north as the light starts to break over eastern Scotland.  The thermostat drops north of Dundee as the landscape fills with snow.  The race route had been covered in snow earlier in the week but the last update from George says it's cleared, leaving only small patches of ice, and a cold and wet forecast for the day.  When we stop for a toilet break at a random service station, it's almost as cold inside as out, an icy wind cutting through the dawn.

At Duthie Park, there are a few cars and vans in the car park - which was only re-opened the day before - with the race registration/start/finish now at the top of the slope.  No downhill sprint for the line this year.

And it must be cold; George doesn't have shorts on.  I'm not sure I've ever seen George in anything other than shorts or a kilt.

Time to start on registration.  Jane and myself scoring off names and handing out numbers, Sarah on the clipboard, Karen and Les dipping in and out, George here there and everywhere.  So many familiar faces from the last few years, and new faces to put to names known only from facebook.  A nervous looking Scott, wondering what his irrepressible Antonia has got him into now.  The massed invasion of the Stonehaven Running Club.  (Later in the day we will talk of normalisation but I still wonder if there is anyone in the SRC who hasn't been infected with the ultra madness?).  Ray starting his latest SUMS series as dishevelled as ever.  Audrey running rather than directing this week.  The Pirate having actually trained, and Ada having barely run all year.

There are special numbers for three runners: 33 and 330 for twin brother and sister Alex and Katie "celebrating" their 33rd birthday by running 33 miles, and 40 for Caron celebrating that "life begins..." birthday.

In the blink of an eye, it's nine o'clock and the 240 or so starters are massed on the wide path.  A few words from George (now appropriately kilted) and they're away.  No pause for the checkpoint marshals, the last bits into the cars and we're away.  With a last minute change of plan, I'm driving and Laurie navigating to our first stop, the Tesco store at Banchory for our last access to indoor facilities and a stock-up on warm food.  The rain and sleet has already started, it's going to be another cold one.

Johnny Fling and Kynon are just at the half-way parking point (a residential cul-de-sac) when we get there and the process of carting shelters and tarpaulins and water and dropbags along the muddy path begins.  Not forgetting the priceless ultra flapjack (I manage to sneak a piece this year ... oh wow).

After the first load I volunteer to sort the drop bags rather than carry.  I'm becoming an expert on this.  On searching for the tiny number scrawled on yet another Sainsbury's carrier bag.  Of giant sports bags containing enough food and clothes for a week's holiday.  Of bags with no number at all.    Of discovering the bag of goodies from Noanie for the marshals.

Already the path is muddy, getting worse as the precipitation seeps through the trees.  By the time the main pack of runners come through, this will be inches deep, even after John has shovelled lumps of it away using a tea tray.  The tray will need to go back to Morrisons afterwards :-0

We plan our roles:  Kynon down the path calling out numbers, John and HP on times and writing, me on finding drop bags ready to hand over as the runner approaches.  Ah well at least I get to keep my gloves on - both layers of them.  Yes it *is* that cold when you're standing around.

And in no time at all, the first runners arrive and we're off.  At first singly but close together, then in twos and threes and groups, the mud deepens, the rubbish bags fill, the flapjack vanishes, the chatter gets longer and more time-consuming as runners take a break before the homewards leg.  Minty arrives almost shivering in a short-sleeved t-shirt and bare hands, but refuses my offer of gloves; I'm sure the fact that they're bright pink has nothing to do with it.  John M arrives holding an umbrella over Helen and we joke that he's escorted her all the way from Aberdeen like that.  I'm not quite sure what kind of massage he delivers on her glutes and thighs but it's certainly, um, intimate!

Almost the last to arrive are a group of three girls from north-east England.  Clubmates of Flip, they never intended to complete the full event and two leave here to go in search of Morrisons and the bus back to Aberdeen.  Somehow they don't find the supermarket which is only a few hundred yards away.

The sweeper bike arrives just ahead of the last runner and when we've seen him safe away, it's time to start packing up.  Other than the mud and churned up ground, there won't be a trace of our presence here once we're away, every scrap of rubbish bagged up and taken away.

Laurie and I are far more bedraggled on this visit to Tesco, leaving a trail of mud and water as we try to defrost under the hot air dryers and inhale doughnuts in the car.  Then it's back to Aberdeen and a miraculous parking space by the pond.

The finish line is in full swing now and little for us to do but shelter from the wind and cold.  Somehow I end up in possession of George's phone and handing over a few foil blankets - to both finishers and under-dressed wedding guests heading for the Winter Gardens - before old habits take over and I find myself as barmaid.  If you ever want to be hear the words "I love you", hand an ultra-runner an opened bottle of beer.

Officially there was no beer.  We did not hide it all when the police came visiting, of course not. :-)

I've missed the fast runners but there's far more joy in seeing the slower runners finish, those who've battled the elements for hours longer before achieving something that was inconceivable months ago and still in doubt at breakfast.  Running, jogging or walking, they all cross the line to be enveloped in a George hug before being given the most unique medals in Britain (made by this talented lady)..

When they're finally all home, we pack up and dismantle, drinking our own beers before heading south to Stonehaven and the legendary after-party at the Station.  The drinks take away the pain of the rugby results and soothe the aching legs.

photo (and medal earned) by Neil Harkness

In the morning, it's still cold and wet.  There was indeed weather.

Out of Hibernation

I feel like a dormouse that slept through the winter, curled into a cozy nest somewhere sleeping and dreaming of spring, waiting for the next race to come.

While I was waiting I completed the Marcothon by running every day of December.  It wasn't fast and it wasn't pretty - running in a howling gale at Shap summit on the dark of Christmas Eve was perhaps not the most pleasant running experience of my life but it was much better when it was over!

And then ... finally ... the first race of the SUMS series, the D33 up in Aberdeen, organised by the lovely but mad George.  I wasn't going.  Really, I wasn't.  But it didn't take a great deal of encouragement from a few people to persuade me to offer my services and book up for a weekend in Deeside.

George gave me the option of helping at the halfway point or being race photographer.  I chose the camera duties thinking it would give me the chance to mooch in lots of places and see the start and finish, as well as maybe a few other points on the route.  For the last two years, race photos have been taken by the talented Annette but this year she was running instead.  Blimey ... I met Annette on Conic Hill in the Fling last year when she was feeding blueberries to Mike and I was sure she'd only run "shorter" distances then, 10k or maybe a half.  This is what hanging around with ultra-runners does to you; you start thinking it's normal...

There seemed to be so many people I knew entering this as their first ultra, either as a challenge to make the first step up to the beyond-marathon distance, or even as a very long slow training run for a Spring marathon. It's "only" 33 miles, it's flat, it's fun, there's cake at every stop and beer at the finish.  What more could you want?

Friday night and my Facebook home page is full of people announcing that they're in Aberdeen or Stonehaven.  I'm still in Edinburgh and wishing I'd booked for two nights, but also knowing that I would never have made it north when I didn't make it back from work until nearly eight.  Another 4.30am alarm call which is becoming almost routine.

It's dark when I wake up with the faintest lightening of the sky on the eastern horizon.  It's definitely spring with early mornings that most of the world will never see.  As I drive over the Forth, the rail bridge is glowing pink in the early dawn, beautiful and magnificent.

On the road bridge, the traffic is down to a single lane in each direction and already busy.  Overhead, engineers are carrying out emergency works to replace two failed bolts on the top of the northern tower.  I know too much about this bridge, about the bolts and bearings that hold it together and allow it to move with the wind and weather, about the cables that pull the platforms into place that are gradually unravelling and snapping.  Yet this bridge is barely 50 years old and already dying, unlike the much older iconic red rail bridge   next to it now wearing its new coat of paint and finally giving the lie to the definition of a never-ending task.

The mist and darkness fall away as I head north up the eastern coast, through another part of this country I've never visited before, leaving a glorious early morning of blue skies and blazing sunshine.  I'm very glad I remembered the sunglasses.

What I didn't remember were the gloves which comes as a bit of a shock when I get out of the car at Duthie Park.  Hmm, mid-March in Scotland, this really shouldn't be a shock!

At the edge of the carpark, I find George and Karen setting up the race paraphernalia from a large white van, with a few helpers.  There are frames to be erected, canopies to be hauled up and fastened down, generators to be set up, arches to be erected, trestle tables to be set up, race numbers and pins organised, lists, lists and more lists, t-shirts, high-viz jackets, enough food to feed the five thousand...  Karen greets me with a big hug and I am allowed to help with a few small tasks ahead of registration, and also take a few photos of the calm before the storm.  Well ... I think I do, but the camera has other ideas on the subject, although it doesn't see fit to tell me any of this for a few hours ... more later on this.

As runners start to arrive to register, I drift into helping with the on the day registration, of which there are a surprising number.  Surely no-one just wakes up on a Saturday morning and thinks "oh I'll go and race 33 miles today", do they?  Then Ross Moreland turns up and proves that, yes, some people do exactly that...

Despite the high number of first-timers in the race, I think I probably know every third or fourth person in the registration queues, even though some I've only known on-line to this point.   Among the new friends I'm delighted to finally meet properly is Rhona, the Red Wine Runner, running her first ultra only a few months after the frustrations of her first marathon.

Among the ultra stalwarts is the legendary Ray McCurdy, seeking to pay his entry fee to hopefully complete his 99th ultra today.  George is having none of this and insists on him taking a free entry.



George calls all the marshals together for a briefing, followed by a team photo.  We all have "A Games Legacy for Scotland" t-shirts - even George who recognises that his "D33 - Do Epic Shit" t-shirt is unlikely to feature in any mainstream media - which results in some slightly undignified changing.  As usual, sizing is a little on the miserly side, and my "female - large" is rather tight and unforgiving.  Amongst the team is Andrew Murray, in his first weeks of a post with the Scottish Government promoting physical activity.  He was down to run the race but I register only that he's in jeans and clearly not dressed to compete.  Only when he tells me that he was hit by a taxi the day before, do I notice the stitches in his forehead, black eye and wrist bandage.  My observation skills are second to none...

George wants photos of the runners coming out through the park gates - when they will still be heavily grouped together - before they turn onto the Deeside Way proper and one of the locals walks me through the park to show me the place.  I'll miss the race start proper but will have the joy of seeing the pack hurtling towards me.

Race start (Photo by Muriel D)

I find a perfect vantage point just outside the gate and jealously fend off any unwise drivers who contemplate parking there.  A minute or so after nine, I see and hear the horde approaching, raise the camera to capture Grant and the following pack, click, and ... "memory full" it bleeps.  What the....?  Click.  Bleep.  Oh f***, oh f***, oh f***, oh f***...  If you heard this, I apologise... *blushes*

I sprint to the pillar where I've tucked my bag, grab my mobile and manage to capture a few of the later runners emerging from the park.  Some race photographer I'm turning out to be. :-(

Then it's back across the park to the start line to meet up with Jim who is going to lead me to the 6-mile point for the next photo opportunity.  As I walk (and drive, oops) I'm trying to delete photos from the camera, discovering in the process that I don't have a single photo from the early morning.  Bloody machine!  

Despite an awkward right turn out of the car park (where did all these vehicles come from? ... 200 runners probably) and the inevitable snail-paced Micra on the country roads, we make it to the crossing by half nine.  Across the road Nywanda is setting up the Fetchpoint with yet more food.  A quick mental calculation tells me that Grant is likely to be here within 5-6 minutes.  I don't know who else will be with him, if anyone.

Almost exactly on cue, the lead bike arrives, closely followed by Grant and another runner.  His face is familiar to me but not well known, and I can't put a name to him immediately.

Grant and Gareth leading at 6 miles

There is a gap of a minute or two - most runners can't do six minute miles full stop, never mind contemplate them at the start of a 33-mile race - the next runners arrive.

At the point the camera goes phut and shuts down entirely.  Oh ffs, what now?  Despite being fully charged yesterday, the batteries are now entirely flat.  I'm tempted to hurl the entire thing into the River Dee but don't have time so revert to the mobile phone, knowing that this will have limited charge itself.

It also has a very delayed shutter action; I have to remember to take the photo a few seconds before I want it, else the runners are already out of shot.

Annette, Ian & Donna: led astray and loving it

Mike Raffan and Andy are amongst the early leaders, looking like two mates out for a gentle jog, rather than two very competitive runners.  No doubt that will come later...

Away from the town and the coastal breeze, it's positively warm and a few of the runners are already sweating profusely.  I'm fascinated by the variety of clothing being adopted, from vest and shorts, to long sleeve tops and tights, from sunglasses to woolly hats. Sophie as usual is clad as is for an Arctic expedition with sufficient kit and clothing in her rucksack to meet any eventuality.

The thing that nearly every runner has in common, however, is a smile.  Maybe for some of them, it's a forced response to the camera but they all look genuinely happy to be there, to be running 33 miles on a glorious day.  Even the tail runners smile and wave, particularly those doing something amazing for the first time.

What is it about this corner of north-east Scotland that produces such quantities of ultra runners?  Is there something in the air that encourages it, or is down the influence of people such as George and Mike who treat it as something normal, that everyone can do if they train for it?

By the time Elaine comes through as the tail cyclist, I've flattened the mobile phone and half the remaining power of the works blackberry (possibly inappropriate use of company assets but needs must!).  I'm seriously beginning to wonder if I can find somewhere in Aberdeen to buy either new batteries or a new camera before heading to the finish, but Jim has a camera in the car that he offers to lend to me.

Much relieved - George will have his race photos - I make my way back to Aberdeen.  Duthie Park is now heaving with children, families and exercise classes and I'm lucky to find a space to re-park the car.

As always there is a pause here, everything is happening miles away, although George's phone seems to ring non-stop.  The halfway checkpoint report that mystery runner #213 has been through in 1hr 41mins with Grant a minute behind.  This is a surprise; there was no-one in the pack expected to provide serious competition to Grant today, and even identifying #213 as Gareth Mayze provides no further illumination.  Again, his name is familiar but I still can't place him.

Not long after midday, an STV camera crew arrive.  Down by the smelly lake, they interview both George and Andrew, although it's George's words that are broadcast later  News comes in that the leaders are through the final checkpoint and there is a possibility that the course record will be broken.  Also that there is now a clear gap between the leading pair with Gareth in front and Grant struggling with a back injury.

The minutes tick away and there will be no course record.  A helper is sent to stand at the top of the slope to watch for the leader and we all look up to him constantly.  We have no priority of use of the park and the paths are full of people enjoying the spring sunshine.  Every one of the runners will have to dodge small children, pushchairs, dogs and cyclists, even the winner.  The best we can do is to ask people to keep to one side of the finishing slope.

Finally the marshal waves; the wait for the winner to appear is seemingly interminable but finally Gareth arrives, sprinting down the hill to be greeted by a round of applause and a hug from George.  The finishers' medals (designed by Annette) are, as ever, unique and wonderful - this year they are branded wood harvested from the carnage of Hurricane Bawbag.

Almost immediately, the tv crew interview Gareth who is remarkably coherent and articulate for a man who's just run 33 miles in a final time of 3hrs 32mins 32 seconds.  At a constant pace, that's about 6 mins 24 seconds per mile, which many of the runners I know would be happy with for a single mile...

Grant arrives over ten minutes later, still fast but visibly pained and immediately lies down on the ground to ease his back.  It's never good to see injured runners, but still astounding that he can achieve a race like that whilst not totally fit.

Craig Stewart, the third placed runner, comes in at 3:51 and after that they arrive thick and fast, including the familiar faces of Gerry Craig and Andy breaking the four hour barrier, along with the first lady, Rebecca Johnson (second lady at the Glen Ogle 33).  I'm pretty sure now that I remember Gareth from that race but it's not until I get home that I can verify this and confirm that he was second placed there.

For the next three hours it feels as though there is a continual stream of finishers, everyone managing to produce a smile and a credible attempt at running to finish.  Each crosses the line to cheers and applause, to be greeted by name by George and hugged, prior to being given their medal and goodie bag.

The one and only Ray McCurdy at finish #99 (photo by Laurie M)

Ray finishes to a chant of "Ninety-nine!  Ninety-nine!" and actually seems to smile.  Hopefully he'll finish #100 in Edinburgh next weekend to an even louder cheer.

Some of the loudest cheers are for the first-timers, the locals inspired to "do epic shit" including the girl who is raising money for a local special care nursery and has reached her target of a thousand pounds.  She crosses the line smiling then bursts into tears.  She cries even more when George gives her an additional donation.

So many finishers - 192 in total of the 199 that started - that I can't remember them all.  But I remember Mr Shanksi celebrating his 40th birthday, Triplet Dad completing his first with such a wide grin, the Pirate completing another ultra on almost zero training (he swears there will be no more and no-one believes him), big David Ross and two Strathaven Striders finishing with Irish leprechaun hats on to honour St Patrick's Day,  Mrs Shanksi having trashed her race-day haircut, Fiona of the Wee Grumpies, Ada, Terry, Bill, Colin (only stopping for 2 photos - unheard of!), Robin, Sue, Anne, Tim, M1nty, John Duncan (the Fling RD), Antonia, IanS, Sand Demon in the infamous tartan shorts, the Rentboy, Soph (finishing last having stopped to rescue a bird from a railway carriage), the young bet-losing squaddie (having stopped to smoke at checkpoints) and many more.

Annette is one of the final finishers and falls into Mike's arms.  I suspect I would be more inclined to kill a fiancee that had induced me to run 33 miles but I find myself snivelling and wiping my eyes along with everyone else.

But my favourite finish of the day is Rhona.  When I first started reading her blogs (after she supported Mike on the WHW last June) she was a "wannabe marathon runner" who ran her first last autumn, finding it hard, painful and unsatisfying, following an ITB injury.  Today she finishes with the widest smile, arms wide and I greet her with a hug, delighted to have been there for the first of what will undoubtedly be many ultra finishes.

Rhona  (photo by Rhona' s dad)

This is why we run.

This is why those of us who can't run still want to be a part of it.

See you at the Fling.