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.

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

The Wettest West Highland Way

What a weekend....

Unlike last year, I'd known for months that I was marshalling this year's WHW race.  Early in the year, Sean put out his usual call for "volunteers" and sounded pleasantly surprised when I jumped at the chance of being at Kinlochleven again.  Midge central, the longest checkpoint shift ... but from my point of view, the most time to actually see the race come through and past, to watch rather than be frantically busy, time to talk to support crews if not the runners themselves.  Being indoors with access to proper toilets and hot water is also a plus, I find...

In the days running up to the race, the British summer was in full flow.  Quite literally.  As usual, the declaration in deepest southern England of drought conditions and hosepipe bans prompted the heavens to open and torrential rain to ensue.  Scotland seemed to be doing a little better - more than once I found myself leaving Edinburgh airport in bare legs and sunglasses only to arrive in Hampshire sodden and shivering.  I'm half-Scottish now; I really should know better.

In the run-up, the Facebook group page exploded as bored runners tried to fill their taper hours with something other than psychosomatic injuries and frantic list-writing.  Have I done enough?  Should I go for one last long run?  What's this pain in my foot?  How do you keep your feet dry in the rain?

And sadly, the last few names were scored off the start list.  How agonising to have to pull out only a day or two before the start.

John K and I spoke briefly on the Wednesday about the checkpoint and we agreed to change the time process slightly for Kinlochleven, as opposed to earlier checkpoints, to ensure we captured the departure time of runners.  Just in case...

And then ...

Friday

A day off work and a chance to pack bags and make sure I have everything I need for the checkpoint - pens, highlighters, scissors, food, small clock, change of clothes, midge repellent.  Midge repellent!  I bought some last year and used it on WHW and the Devils races - it worked superbly, at least on the bits of skin I remembered to apply it to - and I know there's plenty left in the bottle.  But I can't find it anywhere.  I practically demolish the spare room in trying to find it but it's gone to that place where the "other" odd socks go.  A flying trip to the nearest outdoors store where there is the choice of some feeble looking wrist and ankles bands or a bottle of Deet.  I lie to the assistant about having used Deet before in other countries and being fully aware of its lethality and safe use.

There is another slight hiccup to the days plans, although not mine.  All the goody bags and merchandise are at Run & Become's store in the West End of Edinburgh to be collected by van today.  Unfortunately some builders working on a neighbouring property choose today to discover a WW11 cache of grenade and ammunition and the entire area is sealed off.  Immutable Chinese whispers have turned "grenade" into "bomb" and I become quite nervous to calculate that this is only a few hundred yards away from me.  The situation is not helped when the heavy rain turns into thunder....

I'm not going to the start this year.  I don't have accommodation booked and I'm still tired from work.  Better to get fully prepared here and head across country on the Saturday morning to pick the route up at Crianlarich.

But FB and Twitter are starting to fill up with excited updates as runners and support crews gather.  The Red Wine Runner (supporting Mrs Shanksi this year) is travelling back from Poland and only landing in Edinburgh on the Friday evening.  Cutting it fine.  But even that is surpassed by the support runner for Keith Hughes who is flying in from Perth (... yes, the one in Western Australia!) on the Friday afternoon, running the later sections with him before returning to Amsterdam on the Sunday afternoon.  Unless aliens are planning on joining a future WHW race, there won't be a longer trip to take part than that one...

I'm not going to Milngavie.  I'm not.

Until about half-ten when I go "F*** it, I'm going".  It's only about fifty-odd miles.  Each way.

So I find myself hurtling down the M8, knowing that I'm going to get lost when I turn off the motorway, that the patches of bright sky that still shine in this last hour before midnight are going to disappear behind clouds very soon, and that I really can't bear not to see the race start.

At Milngavie, the station car park is as packed as ever; cars, vans and motorhomes squeezed into every available parking space and more besides.  I can spot the beautiful vintage VW motorhome of Martin Hooper as I walk up to registration.

It's past midnight and technically registration (in a different and much larger room than last year) is over, but there are still plenty of people milling about, chatting, using the toilets.  I'm greeted by John K with a hug and the words "I thought you weren't coming here?"  I will hear this several more times tonight...

Davie Hall is also here and warns me that the A82 lochside road will be busier than usual as the heavy rain has caused another landslip at the Rest and Be Thankful on the A83, resulting in all traffic being diverted past Loch Lomond.  As always I'm struck by how many people are working here - registration, goodie bags, merchandise, checkpoint packs, safety teams - all people that the runners will only notice if their jobs are done poorly or not at all.  Sean spots me and I find myself agreeing to take scales and timing sheets up to KLL on Saturday - which now means I have an earlier deadline for leaving home after a later night...

Andy strolls in looking entirely cool in sweatshirt and cut-off denims.  I don't think my description of him as my "normal runner" can last much longer and I don't expect to see him at my checkpoint as he should be through whilst I'm trying to rest in Fort William.

Down in the car park there are so many familiar faces.  Last year I knew only two people - only one of which will be here tonight - yet this year, every few moments there is another person greeting me by name with hugs and cheery words.  How the world changes in a short twelve months...

This year I'm close enough to hear Sean's safety briefing clearly.  The infamous line "there will be weather" has never been more apt.  Although dry now, the forecast is for unremitting rain and showers throughout Saturday.  There are very few bare legs or arms on display already.  The Carnegie girls - Fiona, Pauline and Sue - are wearing ponchos over their bright running clothes.  Tim is even more basic, keeping dry under a black bin bag.

Briefings over and more last minute greetings.  Sandra introduces me to her crew of Joopsy, Susan and son Stephen.  (We have a friendly contest scheduled around wearing heels for the Sunday night party, the choice of which is causing me much anguish.)  Antonia looks like an overexcited schoolgirl who can't wait to get going and asks me take a photo of her and her crew.  Dave, Lee, Wee Hannah and Mason, this year supporting Martin Hooper and big David Ross on his first WHW race.  Lucy supporting Richie as he attempts a third successive victory and already in possession of a cow bell to send the runners off in a cacophony of noise.  The Shanksi's down from Stonehaven with RWR and her boyfriend Kynon.  Carrie, finally making the start line after two previous years of injury.  Probably many more whose names have now blurred from my mind.  So many people and all of a sudden it's barely a minute to one and I need to be by the underpass.  I want to see the runners set off towards me, rather than looking down on them from the grassy bank.

Walking through the underpass and the sudden ridiculous thought that this is the one and only time I will ever pass through there at a race start with the likes of Richie and Mike Raffan and Andy behind me.

There are clusters of people up the steps, at the top of the ascent and even within the underpass - I hope they can run quickly when it starts but Sean walks through clearing the way, making sure everyone understands that the runners route needs to be entirely clear.

Countdown starts, the tension peaks, then the night explodes with the klaxon and cowbells, and 172 runners - silhouettes against the underpass lighting and their headlights - charge towards me, up the steps and off into the night.

Five minutes later it's raining again.

Saturday

I collect the scales and paperwork - a brief moment of confusion about whether or not there should be a list of runner's names and numbers - and marvel again how rapidly the car park can empty of vehicles.  Heading east in the now heavy rain, the M8 is thick with fog that wasn't there only a few hours before.

Once home, I'm wide awake and struggle to sleep properly.  I wouldn't have missed the start for all the world but it's close to four am before I sleep which isn't a good preparation for the weekend.  Ho hum, at least I'm driving and sitting, not running or walking.

When the alarm goes off only a few hours later, the first thing I do is reach for the ipad and check FB and twitter.  I'm bitterly disappointed to see a picture of a red and swollen ankle; the cause of the totally-mad-but-very-lovely Fiona McDonald having to withdraw very early on.  (How early on I only discovered later - she fell after barely a mile and a half but plodded on to the next checkpoint to retire).  She's cross, frustrated and upset that her race has ended so early - I think I'd be bawling in a ditch somewhere.

Essential weekend supplies that I haven't yet got include jaffa cakes and Irn-Bru.  (The diet is suspended for 48 hours).  I nip into a little Tesco's on the way out of town and am delighted to spot Smidge midge-repellent  by the tills.  I know supermarkets sell everything these days but I wasn't expecting that.  A complement to the Deet, I grab a bottle.

I've forgotten about the Highland Show by the airport and find myself stuck in stationary traffic for far too long.  I'm even eyeing up the central reservation, wondering if I can do a u-turn but the numbers of police vehicles around suggest this might not be wise.  Come on people, I have a race to get to!

Even in the worsening weather, there are still the usual dithering tourists on the A82.  Yes, your car is capable of travelling at more than 37mph, no, you don't really need to brake every time the road makes a slight bend and it's really sodding bad manners to speed up on the only straight bits of the road that I might be able to overtake on!  As for motor-home drivers.... oh dear.

However the car responds to the occasional request for a burst of speed to fly past the offending vehicles and I manage not to get any later.  Poor car - it normally spends all week parked up in Edinburgh, doing less than 20 miles a week.  In the last week, it's been driven from Edinburgh to Leicester to Sheffield to Basingstoke to Edinburgh to Milngavie to Edinburgh.  And now it's going to Fort William and back.

Once through Crianlarich I start playing the usual game of trying to spot the runners.  In the driving rain there are no bright flashes of colour to be seen out on the Way.  Nor are there many walkers it seems.  In fact, it's not until I've gone through Tyndrum and climbed up into the valley into Bridge of Orchy that I start to see movement.  Mostly dressed in dark clothes with long leggings, there are a few bodies jogging comfortably north along the route.  They're too far away from the road (which I am not paying quite enough attention to for the conditions) for me to identify, but when I spy two bare legged runners running together, my brain instinctively says "oh, that's Sharon Law".  A moment later, the other part of my brain points out that a) she's not running in the race this year (having been selected to compete for Scotland again in a few weeks) and b) she's heading in the wrong direction.  (In the days later I discover that yes, it absolutely was Sharon who, along with the Consanis, decided to come along and have a run south along the WHW to encourage the competitors and make their own unique contribution to the event).

The rain is relentless now and the visible puddles and mud make it clear that it's been raining all night.  At least last year, the race was mostly dry until late Saturday afternoon so the runners covered much of the course before getting sodden - hell, Richie probably never saw the rain at all.  This year, they will have been wet and cold all the way through.  It's well past midday so that's over eleven hours already.  And just ahead of them now is the bleak expanse of Rannoch Moor; not a place to be wet cold and tired on.

"It's going to be a war of attrition today" I say to Sean when I stop at Bridge of Orchy to see how it'd going. "No need for compulsory check kits though this year" he replies.

Stupidly I'd thought that the rain might deter the midges but the evil black beasts are ever present, many of the supporters standing on the bridge watching the foaming torrents covered from head to toe, wearing nets. I pick up my race fleece and head onwards, hoping to drop into Glencoe to see Karen R who's marshalling there after breaking a bone in the Fling.

There are patches of white high up on the mountains - snow not yet melted by the summer of washed away by the rainfall - and up at the ski centre, the weather is no longer vertical rain but horizontal.  Camped out on ground to the side of the car park, Karen and George have a gazebo pegged out over the rear of the estate car and a small low tent pitched to the side (the sort that looks like a blown-up sleeping bag).  It should be a great idea but the squally wind gusting down from Rannoch Moor is threatening to rip it out of the ground and send it flying down to Glencoe valley.  And this is in a position seemingly sheltered by the mountain itself and the trees behind the car park?  How bad are conditions out on the moor?

In between trying to restrain the gazebo, Karen tells me that the first two runners have been through and the third is expected soon; his support crew parked up just down the track.  The leader is a runner called Terry Conway; not a name any of us know but there is some association with the Lake District it seems.  Added to which, he came through the checkpoint 30 minutes before Richie's time from last year.

Mental arithmetic time.  If Terry can maintain the pace over the Staircase, he'll be in Kinlochleven 30 minutes before Richie was last year.  That's 2.40pm less 30 minutes puts him there at 2.10pm.  Which is just about the time that Jez Bragg made it when he set the course record...  I'm not a stats geek; I only know this because I'd looked up times only a day or two before while agreeing with Lesley what time the checkpoint needed to be open.  I'd made a joking remark that 2.00pm would be fine, unless someone was after the record.  Looks like someone is...

Think I better get a move on; it's a long haul round to Kinlochleven through Glencoe.  The low fuel light is starting to flash on the dashboard but I suspect I don't have time to stop and fill up.  I didn't expect to be racing a runner along this stretch.

At the community centre, Lesley and the doctor are mostly set up but nervously awaiting the papers and scales.  On a "just in case" basis, the surgery scales have been brought over in case I didn't make it in time.  There are crews already here and the buzz of an imminent arrival.  Peter Duggan wanders in - he's seen some of the times being posted from checkpoints and thinks "something special" might be going to happen.  Lesley tells me that it seems Richie has pulled out and I'm disappointed that his run of great finishes and two wins has come to an end.

Last year I never got to see the leaders at all, this year there's no doubt of it.  But even so, I'm still caught a little by surprise when he sprints into the checkpoint.  The first thing I register are the shorts and bare legs, hardly the most appropriate for the weather?  He looks fast and happy, like he's just jogged a 5k, not 80 hard miles in brutal weather.  He's in and out so fast we almost don't catch his time.  12:59 ... Christ, that's ten minutes ahead of Jez.

A few minutes after he's gone, John K rings to warn us that we may have an early arrival.  You're a bit late, I reply, he's been and gone.  You do realise that he's ahead of the record?  On a day like this?

John asks if we can text the times of the first three runners through to him so he can update Twitter, and then to start phoning through times in batches.  I remind him that I'm leaving for a few hours but Lesley will be in touch.

I have good intentions but some Australian walkers come into the centre and start asking about the race.  They are doing the traditional multi-day walk north and heartily glad to be stopped for the day.  Pete keeps them entertained for some time.

Paul Giblin's crew are waiting for him to come in as second place.  Consisting of the Giblin family, they've become a familiar and popular sight at many ultras over the last year or so.  On last year's WHW, Paul took a wrong turn coming into the village that cost him an hour in time.  His sister tells me about shouting at him in the checkpoint when he was angry with his mistake and needed refocussing.  Everyone has fingers crossed that he won't do the same again this year.

He arrives safely but now an hour behind Terry, having lost time from Glencoe.  I wonder if he took the descent a lot slower in a deliberate plan not to get lost.  Whatever the reason, it doesn't seem likely he's going to catch the leader; barring a major drama up on the Lharig Mor.

It's now gone 3.00pm, I need to get away from here.  By the time I've bought fuel (the garage owner tries to tell me that this is the first day it's properly rained in Lochaber this year and I really can't decide if he's being truthful or merely bored of telling tourists about the three legged haggis) and queued at the multiple roadworks on the way into Fort William, it doesn't seem likely I'm going to get any sleep this afternoon.  Just as well when JK gets his phone numbers mixed up and phones me twice (on two different phones) trying to call the checkpoint.

Before leaving we'd debated long about Terry's possible arrival time into the finish line.  Jez's record is 15:44 but with what is widely held to be an incredibly fast final 14 miles.  I probably should go straight back to Kinlochleven but I'm only a half mile away from the leisure centre and it seems crazy to miss what may be the only year I ever get to see a race winner.  As for seeing that record broken...

As I park up, I'm really sad to see Sandra standing on the steps with her crew.  I was under strict instructions to give her a hug at Kinlochleven and then kick her out.  Same as last year, her ankles have let her down.  But this time much earlier and she pulled herself out at Auchtertyre.  She's smiling but there's an undercurrent of bitter disappointment in her voice.

There is a moment of panic when a large 4x4 parks in the line of sight across the car park.  I trot over to stand on the grass bank where I can see down the road.  Someone else is far more pragmatic and asks the driver to move.

There are crew down on the pavement watching out for the winner, I keep scanning my watch as the seconds tick away.  Oh god, it's getting close.  Why don't I have a watch that tells the time properly instead of making me guess at the minutes and seconds?

Suddenly there's a frantic semaphore from down on the road.  He's coming!  I yell across to the waiting group at the centre doors.  No doubt now, the record has gone.  Here he is, flying across the car park at a pace most 5k runners would envy, up the steps, greeted by Ian and the whooping and hollering of the small group who have just witnessed something very special.

15 hours 39 minutes 15 seconds

95 miles in horrendous weather

Jubilation over, I call Lesley to tell her the news - you have no idea how many times we'll get asked about finishing times through the night - and reassure her that I'm on my way back.  On the drive alongside the loch, I even see a patch of blue sky and sunshine.  It doesn't last long.

Back at the checkpoint, there have been about nine runners through, including the first withdrawal - sadly from the third placed runner.  How frustrating to be doing so well, but to have to pull out through injury.  Despite the fast pace of the early runners, this is a lot fewer through than the same time last year.  No women either; this time last year Kate had been and gone, with Debbie and Sharon not far behind, showing why they run in their country's colours this summer.

Two runners - Charlie and Ed - come in exactly together.  This is unusual for this position in the field, normally it's much further back that runners group together for moral support.   I assume it's a fluke of timing and only much later do I realise they've covered the entire course side by side, finishing in joint 10th position.

The clock ticks over at six o'clock, allowing competitors to have a support runner, being four hours since the leader.  Only one person has even asked about this so far and sounded quite relieved that their runner was too early, clearly not relishing the threat of 14 miles in the continuing weather.

Ten minutes later the first lady is through.  Rosie Bell, I know the name if not the person.  Hot on her heels, barely a minute behind is the second, Gaynor Prior.  (Before I came to Scotland I'd never heard of ultras but, to reinforce the small world concept, Gaynor lives in the small village next to the small village I spent sixteen years living in prior to moving to Edinburgh.)  Gaynor's crew asks about the permissibility of a support runner, Rosie's doesn't and the two women leave, mere seconds apart, but one with a support and one without.  This prompts some debate in the checkpoint - is there an advantage to having the moral support of a de facto pacer?  Should there be a separate time period applied to the women - these two will not take overall placings, but they are certainly competing for the ladies' prize.

Shortly after Ross Moreland comes through, there is a lull in the incoming runners and I take the opportunity to phone John and give him timings for the runners that have come through already.  He's also able to confirm to us the runners who have withdrawn earlier in the course; some familiar names among them, amongst them David Ross, Bob Steel, Louise Jones.  So disappointed that people I know and like have been defeated by the day.

I start to spot familiar faces in the support crews - brown clad HBT girls supporting Carrie on her "third time lucky" race entry, HappyG supporting Andy...  wait a minute he should have been and gone already?  No, he's had a bad section and struggled for some distance.  But when he arrives at the checkpoint, looking utterly bedraggled in a red waterproof, he still has the character to strike a pose as he comes through the doors.  Right now shift your arse out of here and go get that goblet, Mr Normal Runner!

Antonia is also having a tough time and I spend quite some time chatting to her fiancee Scott.  I've seen him at a few races but not really spoken; this evening we have a united desire to see the small blonde New Zealander collect her first goblet.  Unfortunately I actually miss her coming through the checkpoint as I've gone on a food run to the neighbouring chippy to get supplies for myself and Lesley!

My apologies to the runners who came through while we were eating chips - we did try to keep them out of sight, but the delicious smell was irrepressible!

More familiar faces:  Terry Addison (the first of the Kirky crazies) and his support crew, Peter Macdonald whose wife (and final section support runner tonight) Heather I first met on the banks of the River Ayr late last summer.  The checkpoint's starting to get busier with both crews and runners avoiding the continuing rain by heading indoors.  Peter Duggan has been out for a run along the route (other than this, he spends almost the entire night at the checkpoint - even when you don't run the race, it still has its hooks into you, it seems...)  and spots a familiar face amongst the crews.  I know less than nothing about mountain climbing (other than that I get vertigo on a step ladder and have absolutely no desire to find out what effect a cliff face or narrow ridge would have on me) but apparently "Scotland's best climber" is part of a runner's support team.

Donald arrives in the infamous and legendary tartan shorts.  And he's incoherently talking complete and utter gibberish.  I'm half convinced his wife Elaine is going to pull him from the race but she tells me he's actually in better state than last year.  I'm decidedly unconvinced by this, especially when he picks up my bottle of Deet and repeatedly sprays it directly into his face.  Um, I'm really *not* sure that's edible....  Once again I'm astounded by what this race can do to people mentally and physically.

And what not so normal people can do in return.

Into the later hours of the evening and the "rush hour" begins.  Runners come through every few minutes in varying states of physical and mental energy.  Last year Lesley and I took it in turns to look after runners; this year we're joining forces and most people get the two of us working as a tag team - I bring the runner to the scales and call out their number and weight, Lesley reads off the race time and writes it down.  This year the cards are in zip-loc bags - a great idea to keep them dry, but a bloody pain in the arse to get open.  More than one gets ripped apart in frustration, sometimes even by the marshals.

I get to have a craic with most runners, be it teasing them about how effective their diet has been (when they're showing a weight loss), promising them there's "only a half marathon left" (well, give or take a mile or so), making a younger male runner blush when I tell him not to strip off too far before he gets on the scales.  And occasionally there are slightly sharper questions, maybe asking runners for their childrens' dates of birth when the scales show a weight gain and they're showing signs of tiredness that may just be the result of 80 miles hard work in twenty-plus hours, or may be the start of a serious physical problem...

Around this time, the casualties start coming in and the doctor starts patching up blisters and soreness.  Through the night I will see far too many feet that have been wet for twenty four hours or more; it's really not a pretty sight...  But there are also an increasing number coming in with painful ankles and shins.  Much later when we talk about it, the consensus is that the wet and slippy conditions have put massively increased strains on the soft tissues around the ankles in trying to keep the body stable on unstable terrain.  Unlike last year, there will be a lot of withdrawals at this final checkpoint; runners who recognise that they can go no further, that the weather and their bodies have said enough.  It's bitterly sad to watch - one young runner is practically in tears when I cut off his wristband and all I want to do is hug him and tell him it's okay.  Instead I ask if he wants to see the doctor and help him through.

At times during the night, the checkpoint looks like a casualty station with bodies stretched out on chairs, on the floor.  But there are no major issues and no summons for the doctor from the mountain rescue team either.  The bad weather is presumably keeping many of the tourists off the paths and summits.

Karen and George are in, whilst waiting for Johnny Fling to arrive.  Right now, Karen has the thing I most want in the world - ginger beer.  Fabulous.  When John arrives, he is as cheerful and mad as ever.  (I have since seen a race photo of him dancing in the rain at Inversnaid ... it sums him up perfectly).  He wants to stop and chat but his support team are having none of it: "No time for that!" and he's hustled out the door with George's foot only a metaphorical inch from his backside.

Adrian Stott (of Run and Become) arrives.  A man who has a very large collection of race finishes, some from the years when that didn't earn you a goblet, merely the satisfaction of knowing what you had achieved.  When he ran the winter ultra last December, I'm sure he said that it was his first ultra in several years.  Some things the body - and mind - doesn't forget.  Although, rather inappropriately for a member of the race committee, he's not easy to pin down long enough to get onto the scales and his weight card retrieved!

Midnight comes and goes without us even noticing.  This time last year, there were only isolated runners coming through and it wasn't difficult for Lesley to leave around one.  Tonight we're still busy with the weather slowing most of the pack down.  It will be nearly 2.30am before she leaves and only then because I convince her to.  In the few minutes between arrivals, I'm trying to keep up with Facebook and Twitter to get the race news.  With no wi-fi signal, this is being done on the work's Blackberry.  I have yet to confess to my boss but will no doubt have to do so when the bill arrives.

Kynon arrives to wait for Mrs Shanksi, the rest of her crew with her on the long walk over the Devil's Staircase.  We chat for some time but he's looking exhausted, as do many of the support crews.  When he gets a text indicating what time they will be arriving, I suggest he lies down on one of the mattresses in the sports hall and sleeps for an hour or so.  I promise to wake him before Vicky's due in (he's under orders to have a cup of tea waiting) and warn him that he'll be evicted from the bed if it's needed for a casualty.  We all worry and fret about the runners being awake and on the go for so many hours but the time frame is just as bad for the support crews.  No wonder so many of the old hands use two crews.

John K had told me he wouldn't be at Kinlochleven but has been convinced to visit by Dino, the Race Princess and legendary Race Control of previous years.  Added to which he wants to see the progress of some of his local runners, mostly Silke and Caroline, who are hunting their first goblets after years of supporting their respective husbands.  Mostly he's enjoying the new challenge of Race Control but his logical mind is immensely frustrated by runners who seem to vanish at one checkpoint, only to appear at a later one.  Or worse, those who he has been told pulled out at Glencoe but are still coming into Kinlochleven as competitors.  Sometimes it's like herding cats...

When Silke arrives, her crew seat her at the end of the pool table we are using as our marshal station and fuss around her.  She looks like a queen holding court.  She also looks like a woman on a mission; nothing is going to come between her and her goblet this weekend.

Just before 1am Fiona Rennie arrives.  She's probably the only runner outside the top ten to have the same arrival and departure time, standing still only long enough to be weighed.  I haven't learnt yet, I instinctively still ask her crew to let me know when she leaves, only to be told "Ah'm going now".  Another warrior queen that will stop for nothing before Fort William.

Ten minute later, a dark-haired woman hobbles into the centre on stiff unbending legs but with the widest smile.  She's the tiniest slip of a thing, in a field of small and slender athletes and I swear she barely reaches my waist in height.  How can this tiny creature cover 95 miles?  But Lesley will complete her race, even if she doesn't manage to collect her goblet in person.

After ten, every runner leaving the checkpoint is supposed to be accompanied, either by their own support runner or by buddying up with another competitor.  It's not actually easy to police, but many runners are with their support by the time they reach us anyway.  Even so, we spot a couple who seem to be leaving alone.  They're pulled back and reminded of the rules.  The explanation is a little challenging when the runner (Paul?) appears to speak no English, but the message is finally understood and his son gets changed into wet weather running gear to go with him.

Not long after 2.00am there is a kerfuffle at the door and Caroline arrives in the midst of her support crew.  In over a year of marshalling I don't think I've ever seen a runner in such a state; she can't walk or talk, seems barely conscious, and it takes three of us to keep her upright on the scales.  I've practically written DNF on the list already.  But Neal her husband is adamant she'll be fine and bears her away to a chair where she's surrounded by the dozen or so family and friends making up her support crew.

The doctor goes over to investigate and catches her as she falls from the chair.  Sweeping her up, he carries her into the sports hall and lies her down on a mattress to sleep, ordering that she's not to be disturbed.

I've thought through this many times since.  I'm not a doctor or a nurse; I have no medical training beyond basic workplace first aid.  I'm not a runner, I can't draw on my own experience.  But throughout the time that Caroline is in the checkpoint, I can't conceive that she is going to be capable of walking out of the building, never mind covering the 14 miles to the end.  Her crew are determined she's going to continue but I can't help wondering if they're projecting their own determination onto a body that's defeated.  Are they going to carry her over the Mor?  Even with the benefit of hindsight, I still think that - had I been at that checkpoint alone without medical support - I would have refused to let her continue.  Not that I think I know better, but that I think it would take considerable medical skill to have been sure that there is nothing seriously wrong with her; that continuing is not going to cause her serious harm.  Or worse.

Ultimately I don't have to make that decision.  Doc Ellis talks to her at length once she wakes up and has eaten.  Whilst still a little groggy, she can now talk and move without support.  His verdict is that she is exhausted, nothing more, nothing less.  There are enough people going over the next section with her to be able to carry her out without risking a rescue crew.  It's his call to let her continue but I still fret over her until prize-giving the next day.  As does he; when he comes into the Nevis Centre, his first question to me is "did she make it?" having first been to the Belford Hospital to see if she was there.  The answer is yes, Caroline now has her first goblet.

I haven't heard her post-race podcast yet.  I've been saving it until after I finish this.  I think it's going to be fascinating to hear how many different ways a scenario can appear to the people present.

I'm delighted to see Fiona McD in the checkpoint.  Although out of the race herself, she's now joined Vicky O'Reilly's support crew and cheering everyone up around her. Vicky is limping slightly and the doctor is highly amused by the sight of one injured runner being supported round the checkpoint by another even-more-injured runner.

We're down to the last few runners now.  Before he arrives, Charles Gordon's support crew warn us that he's suffering with his feet and is "a bit grumpy".  Ah, no wisecracks at the scales for him then.  In an unusual piece of medical practice, the doctor offers to craft some temporary orthotics to support his battered feet over the final stretch.  Peter (who will be there until we close) fetches some from home that can be adapted as required.  But even after all this, and a period of rest, finally Charles has to decide that he can't carry on.

The final support crew arrive in the shape of Dave W and Dino.  Mrs Mac and Wee Hannah are sleeping in the car, DQ is out on the trail, coaching Hooper over long slow painful miles.   It's a long wait in the growing light and we eat cake and drink coffee.

Twenty-seven hours and 39 minutes after leaving Milngavie, Hooper shuffles his way down the drive and into the centre.  We have already agreed that he will use every last minute available to him by resting, then leaving at fifteen minutes after five, the last possible time for a runner to clear the checkpoint.  But when the time comes, he can't walk.  Heartbreakingly, this is the end of the race for him; a man in such physical pain, he flinches with every pulse of blood through his aching and battered feet.

The fast guys and girls, they make it look easy.  But don't ever let anyone tell you that's true - this sport will take you and do its best to destroy you physically and mentally.  It's tough at the back.

The checkpoint finally closes at 5.45am after I've tidied up, washed up and bagged the lost and found items. Breakfast at the doctors' again, deliver scales, stopwatch and paperwork to the finish line, then finally back to the hotel.

Sunday


A little sleep, never enough and it's time to get down to the prize-giving.  Unlike last year, it's cold and grey still and I choose to drive the few hundred yards.  Even there, there are still more things to be done.  Goblets to be taken out of their crates and stacked onto the table, race merchandise to be unpacked and sorted.

Adrian is there in his capacity as runner, as shopkeeper and as reporter for Scottish Athletics.  Barely hours after running 95 miles.  My respect goes up another notch and I mentally slap myself for feeling tired and whingy.

Hopefully I will see this many times in the future and I suspect it will always be something special, something unlike any other event.  And every year, I suspect there will be those few things that cause the audience to cheer a little louder.  This year, there are new champions and a new record to be cheered for, there is a special award for Dino in recognition of her ten years service to the race, there is Ada collecting her goblet in a wheelchair, there is a cheer for Lesley who cannot collect her goblet as she's been admitted to hospital.  But the loudest and longest may well be for Pauline Walker (Fiona's twin) as she joins the exclusive ten club, being the first woman to complete ten WHW races.

Afterwards I help Adrian sell t-shirts and fleeces and buffs and barely get to talk to anyone as they drift off.

Despite my tiredness, I don't sleep in the afternoon, which is not the best preparation for the evening social at the Nevis Bar.  But I mooch along in my best Stella McCartney heels (Sandra and I agree that we have a draw on the heels contest) expecting to last an hour or so.


Ian greets me with the words "So are you running it next year?"  That man has a very strange sense of humour...


There are lots of drinks and chat and gossip and fizzy stuff with Sandra (we tried for champagne but it obviously wasn't that sort of place...).  There are friends and family old and new.  I even cope with England going out of the football (it was to Italy, I have divided loyalties!).  And sometime after midnight, the bar staff finally throw us out.

Just to prove what a warped sense of humour Mother Nature has in the Highlands, I wake to bright sunshine and blue skies at 4.30am.

See you next year?  I'm sure we're due a dry one...

Mountains, Miles and Marcothon

I keep on thinking that it's the end of the season ... no more races until next Spring.  Then, something comes along, and there's "just one more" to be done.

The Yamaa Trust Winter Ultra was always on the radar.  At one point, I was seriously contemplating entering the 10k run from Bridge of Orchy to Tyndrum.  However, common sense took over - the West Highland Way in December is not the place to run a first 10k.  Dave Scott, who heads up the Trust and is also the Mongolian Consul to Scotland, caught me at a weak moment in the pub after the Glen Ogle 33 and I found myself agreeing to report for marshalling duties at Kinlochleven at 7am again.

Last year, when I did this as my first ever marshalling trip, it made perfect sense to drive over from Edinburgh and back in the day.  This year, I'm looking at the map and trying to work out how to get there without setting the alarm for 3am.  I fail.  Friday night accommodation it is.  No post race drinking for me this weekend though; there are things I need to be back home for.

In the days running up to the race, the forecast is ... interesting to say the least.  Snow, gusting winds, windchill, rain, sleet.  Thursday night is spent working out just how many layers I can wear at once, and wondering if runners are really going to turn up for this.  Also sulking bitterly that the Real Food Cafe is closed for two months and I'm still not going to get the chips I've been promised since the Fling.

I've heard so many stories about the "luxury" of the Tyndrum Lodge Hotel but it seems a practical location for the Friday night.  What I don't expect (after an infuriatingly slow crawl west from Stirling stuck behind an eejit who thinks his car has a top speed of 30mph) is to see what appears to be a building in darkness with no signs of life.  Between the howling wind, torrential rain and abandoned reception, I start to wonder if I've inadvertently strayed into a Hitchcock movie.

I eventually discover a little note taped to the door of the dining room, saying "Sorry, closed.  Food available next door.  Check-in next door."  Aaah, back out into the weather.  Behind the bar in Paddy's is a very friendly man who takes some cursory details before leading me down a lopsided corridor to my room.  Oh, I see how this place has acquired its reputation....  This room was quite probably built and fitted out by an enthusiastic, if incompetent, DIYer in the late 1970's and hasn't been touched since.  And really, a vanity unit?  Oh my....

It's also completely freezing cold.  The nice man tries to fix this by adjusting the radiator and the valve promptly falls off.  We agree that I would be better in another room and he goes to fetch another key.

The second room is almost identical in build and decor but several degrees warmer.  I should, in fairness, point out that it's also scrupulously clean and the bedlinen still has the creases in it as evidence of out-of-the-packet newness.  The bathroom has its own challenges however in that it's rather, em, compact.  The toilet can only be approached backwards due to the lack of turning space.  The sink is, again, in the bedroom.

Back in Paddy's Bar, food and drink is cheap, good and plentiful.  The other customers are an intriguing mix of local families, hikers, posh English students and what appears to be the Tyndrum youth club.  Ada arrives later, with Terry and Susan as the Kirkie love bus is parked over the road.

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

When the alarm goes off the next morning, I can't hear either the wind or rain which I consider to be a good sign.  It is still raining, and it's breezy, but it's not ... weather.

The weather arrives about two miles up the road in a furious blast of sleet that rocks the car sideways.  It's intermittent but a healthy reminder that this is December in the Highlands and not to be taken lightly.

There's not a sign of life anywhere, no other vehicles on the road, no distant glow in the sky of reflected city streetlights.  On the climb up onto Rannoch Moor, I pull over into the viewpoint car park and stop the car.  Despite the weather, I want to stand outside for a few moments and drink in this world of utter blackness where I can't even see my own hands, never mind any sight of human impact.  It's awesome.

Despite being ten minutes late into Kinlochleven, there is no sign of life at the Ice Factor.  Dave will quite probably be late for his own funeral so no reason to expect registration to start on time!  When we do get started Geraldine is there again, as is Karen the Yamaa Trust administrator who I met at Andrew Murray's book launch.

With the weather forecast as it is, a number of runners have cancelled or just not turned up, although there are a few late entrants that bring the numbers back up.  Most of them I don't know, but I recognise the Loehndorfs - though I'm not convinced Thomas' surgeon and the Crazy German mean quite the same thing when agreeing that he can "run but nothing too strenuous".  The love bus gang are joined by Bill (having run his first post heart-attack ultra two weeks earlier and today having "forgotten" to mention that he's racing to his wife) and Mike who's sweeping the first section.  Also there is Adrian Stott, amazingly he says this is his first ultra distance race for three years.

The weather is wintry but not too horrific, although I do take pity on two shivering runners and direct them to sit in my car to get out of the wind.  But as the daylight comes through, it's strange to be able to watch cloud banks rolling in across the mountain tops and hiding them from view within seconds.  I don't think anyone's going to be complaining about mandatory kit today...

A brief speech of thanks from Andrew, a quick safety briefing from Dave and just after 8.30, we set off some thirty-odd runners on their run down to Tyndrum.  I'm sure Dave tells us we're heading directly to Bridge of Orchy but somehow this includes stops at Altnafeadh and Kingshouse Hotel ...

I stop on the way to capture some of the incredible views.  It's the first time I've seen this area in winter and it's breathtaking.  So's the wind....

Dave diverts to the Ski Centre to put up some marker flags and the three of us head on to Bridge of Orchy.  When we get there, another woman approaches us, guessing that the hi-viz jackets we're wearing mean we're part of the team she's also volunteered for.  With her are two adorable although noisy dogs.

Somehow it's already nearly half nine so I don't think it's too early to order coffee at the hotel for all of us.  Expecting best instant, we get proper Italian with little chocolates.

The original plan had been for me to go to Forest Lodge where the WHW comes down from Rannoch Moor but it makes sense for the dogs to go there instead and leave me to the A82 crossing.  In the meantime there are road signs to be set up (not that they seem to have any effect on the speeding vehicles), checkpoint supplies to be sorted out (water, crisps, chocolate, etc) but still time to wander down to the bridge and watch the waters tumbling angrily down.  None of us are quite sure where the river ends up...

Although the 10k isn't due to start until 12.30, the first runner arrives not long after 10.30 having driven over from Aberdeen.  We adjourn to the hotel for a second round of coffee and sit watching the hillside while we chat.

I'm not half way through my cup, when the first runner is spotted.  Oh f........, and we're scurrying out the door to get to the road before he arrives.  It's before eleven, which means he's covered over twenty miles in less than two and a half hours ... with a couple of hills and somewhat inclement weather thrown in ...

For me, it's the start of an almost continuous four hour stint stood outside at the crossing.  The nearby cottages block my view of the hillside so the first sight I have of any of the runners is as they come off the track onto the tarmac.  The third runner tries to head off south along the riverbank and I can't catch his attention to call him back.  Fortunately he realises quickly that he may be wrong and doubles back to talk to a family of walkers who point him over the bridge towards me.  There are many places to expect a directionally challenged runner to veer off course ... but that isn't one of them.

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

Many times I've heard the expression that in Scotland, you get all four seasons' weather in a single day.  Today I can see all four seasons at once.  But mostly I can see the "wintry showers" coming down across Rannoch as they block out the mountains, before delivering their cargo of rain, sleet and snow.

And the wind never stops.

Thank god for a self-indulgent trip to Tiso last weekend, and the acquisition of a fur hat and very expensive gloves (I thought a requirement of keeping me warm and dry, while still being able to hold a pen, was pretty simple - apparently not!).  However I probably should have been investing in a new pair of boots as well as the left one is letting in water at an alarming rate, resulting in some significant squelching.

Ah well, at least I'm only standing here; I'm not running up on the high open ground.  I'm the sane one, right?

Not surprisingly, there aren't too many walkers out today.  As usual there's an element of curiosity as to what the race is, and what the runners are doing.  Maybe it's the fact that you have to be reasonably hardy to be walking the WHW in December, but there doesn't seem to be the same level of surprise as I've encountered on other ultras.  However the white van driver delivering down to Inverornan is sufficiently impressed to give me a pound as a donation.

Phil arrives accompanied by the first withdrawal - a runner who stands, shivering in vest and shorts, until I quite bluntly tell him to get inside the hotel and get warmed up.  There may well be a foil blanket in my car but I don't wish to have to use it!  Oooh car ... in the expectation of a long stint in the middle of nowhere I made a flask of coffee first thing and it's still in the boot.  I fetch it along with a box of Jaffa cakes (not quite sure why there weren't any jelly babies - poor planning!) but Dave offers to cover the checkpoint for ten minutes while I have hotel coffee (which he's paying for).

The advantage of the A82 checkpoint is the proximity of proper toilets.  It's far too cold to be exposing any naked flesh, and with the number of layers I have on, would probably take half an hour to complete!

I try not to drip too much water in the nice restaurant area of the hotel, and also not to defrost too much as the weather isn't going to be any better when I do go back outside.

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

The 10k runners are a mix of serious and fun runners, including the Gobi United team in kilts ... and two runners dressed as parrots.  I can't begin to imagine what any walkers seeing those coming towards them are going to think.  Possibly check the flask and assume they've mixed up the coffee and whisky?

Back at my crossing, the runners arrive at increasingly distant intervals.  They've had four, five, six hours out on the hills in some savage weather but they're still going.  A pause for food, a brief chat, maybe a bit of friendly banter and they're away for the final stretch down to Tyndrum.

Thomas comes back with Neal Gibson (who should have been running but acquired an ankle injury on the WHW a week or so earlier).  Both Silke and Caroline are still out on the hill, Thomas having finished earlier and now onto support duties.  Their purchase of takeout coffee is inspired, especially when I get to hold one of the cups and relish the warmth.

Eventually the car comes up from the Forest Lodge checkpoint to say that the last two runners (Mark, an experienced competitor and his girlfriend on her first ultra) have just left there so will be here in 45 minutes or so.  Everyone else has come through, so the sensible thing would be to head indoors and watch out for them. Unfortunately, my mind is thinking more about the obligations of the Marcothon....

I had thought of running my 25 minutes after finishing here and heading down to Tyndrum, with the opportunity of changing into something more appropriate, but I'm tired and cold and know I won't do it.  And I certainly won't run when I get back to Edinburgh.

But I've just spent four hours looking at the West Highland Way and, well, I've never run on it and this really was where it all began.  Seems a shame not to take the chance while it's here....

So my Marcothon for the day consists of a slow jog up the hill west of Bridge of Orchy and back down again.  This is not a path, or even a trail - it's an avalanche of lumpy rocks and water tumbling down the hill, and I'm really not dressed for it in any way, from the furry hat on my head to my leaking boots - but it was fun.

Eventually Mark and his girlfriend arrive; she looks numb with cold and tiredness but still smiling and determined.  After they head off up to the station, and on the finish line, there is a checkpoint to be tidied up, rubbish bagged up, signs collected, etc

Then it's down to Tyndrum and into a heaving Paddy's bar.  More coffee and chips (okay not the Real Food Cafe chips but they were good :-) ) and chatter with those who finished hours ago, and those who are only just finishing now.  I talk to Caroline for the first time and she tells me that when she fell on the final stretch, her first thought was that she might not be able to do her Marcothon.  It's not obsessive, really....

A number of people are staying over in Tyndrum for the night, and there is some serious rehydration already started.  Sadly I have to be back in Edinburgh to keep an commitment the next day in Stirling and it already feels much later than five o'clock.  By the time I leave, I think I've promised to come back next year.

When I lose my footing on the outside steps and fall awkwardly, my first thought is that if I have broken my ankle, at least I know exactly where the nearest doctor is - even he's not entirely sober - and my second is that I won't complete the Marcothon.  Not a thought I could even have contemplated after the end of last year's event.  (Although sore for a few hours, the ankle was okay which is more than could be said for a discoloured and swollen finger).

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

On the Sunday morning, I'm heading back up the M9, this time on my way to Stirling University.  Overnight it has snowed and the motorway is down to a single lane through to Falkirk.  The blizzard that descends on the final stretch is even more worrying.  But it passes over.

Then starts up again as we head out to the track for the Fetch mile race.  My previous mile race was on the hottest evening of the year; this one is going to be in a snowstorm.

As I expect, I'm last by a considerable margin but much encouragement sees me cross the line at 12.13, looking like a drowned rat and not sure whether I want to laugh or cry.

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

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

See you in 2012.