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| Save yourself a lot of time: this photo says it all. Thanks Fiona Rennie x |
Shortly after the 42-mile Devil O’The Highlands, I
wrote that in a message and then stepped back at the realisation that it sounds
an awful lot like Peter Kay’s “The
Tour That Didn’t Tour Tour”… do we share the same comedic genius after all?
Hmmm… maybe not. I’d not take on Peter Kay in a comedy stand-off, that’s for sure. Not unless there were a second leg in the shape of, say, a 42-mi ultra… which is no joke!
Hmmm… maybe not. I’d not take on Peter Kay in a comedy stand-off, that’s for sure. Not unless there were a second leg in the shape of, say, a 42-mi ultra… which is no joke!
By “The Thing That’s Not A Thing Thing”, I mean The Triple Crown – the totally
unofficial name given to the virtual concept that is completing all three major
ultras run along the West Highland Way, namely:
1. The
Fling (53mi)
2. The West
Highland Way Race (95mi)
3. The Devil O’The Highlands
Footrace (42mi)
I
first ran The Fling in 2014, and loved it. Completing it gave me the right
to apply for a place in this year’s West Highland Way Race, and I got lucky in
the ballot. I again ran the Fling this year, as a
very special training run; and, aware of the Triple Crown ‘thing’, felt it
only right to return to Scotland for one last hurrah to finish the job.
It is actually something of which I’d been aware for
some time. After our 2014 adventure between Milngavie and Tyndrum, I wrote to
Mike to sound him out about us running the West Highland Way Race. Not out of
the blue: we’d loosely exchanged thoughts about it online and on The Way,
during my first taste of those glorious trails. Here’s what I wrote some
fifteen months ago:
Indeed – why not?
So, once I’d secured my WHW Race place, I was always going to run The Devil
O’The Highlands Footrace. The logistics were going to be a challenge, and some
people either of a non-running denomination or believers of a less fundamental
nature just couldn’t understand me. “It’s after the main race, so it’s not a
training run… you’ll have already run the whole way, so you’ll have covered
those sections and running just the last forty-two’s not going to represent a major
achievement… Why bother?” But they were applying logic of which I am perfectly
capable in a field in which I am happy to let it escape. And, in the process,
doing a disservice to what is an outstanding race in its own right, much as I
know I’m not alone in having done little dedicated training for it after… yes,
the main one.
So: what is this
here Triple Crown? What do you win?
It’s a concept. You
win nothing.
It’s a concept with a website, mind: one
I looked at closely last year. After my first Fling I analysed the data collated
by John Kynaston with
some purpose, looking for runners who’d clocked a similar time to mine to
establish what might be a reasonable WHW Race target, should I get lucky in the
ballot. I wasn’t fussed about names: that was just data. I was just looking at
times, and picked three rows. One included the name Ian Beattie: I’d no idea
who he was at the time: his was just another row. But bear that name in mind.
In these online
days, ‘concept’ and ‘reality’ can easily be confused. If there’s a website,
it’s real. No need for medals: run all three races and you’ve completed The
Triple Crown. Simples. And, if you’re going to head off to Scotland twice
anyway, then you might as well…
Exactly. With the
race starting in Tyndrum, getting to the start line was going to prove more
problematic than had been the case with getting to Milngavie, just twenty
minutes from Glasgow Airport. Race Director extraordinaire John Duncan (already
the heart and mind behind The Fling, now organising DotH for the first time)
was laying on a bus from Fort William to Tyndrum on the morning of the race, so
I booked myself into the Premier Inn at
the finish, hoping I wouldn’t end up in the room I’d used post-WHW Race and
left in a somewhat suboptimal olphatic state. Flight times and lift offers
meant the sensible option was to get up to Edinburgh, whence Ian Beattie (see?)
and fiancée Sandra (a
Twitter and Facebook friend, if one who’s yet to embrace Strava) kindly drove
me up to Fort William.
Traffic (in the
shape of the occasional large vehicle) slowed us down, meaning we had more time
for conversation. Not about day jobs (runners never talk about work), but about
things like football, scenery and Ian’s roles as Chairman of
Scottish Athletics and Race Director of The West Highland Way Race. This
gave me the opportunity to sneak into the conversation the fact that I’d taken
a wrong turn a mile from the end of June’s race, thus turning it into a
96-miler and denying myself a sub-24hr finish, casually bringing this to the
attention of the Race Director in the likely case he’d missed any comments on
social media and that his fiancée had not shared this with him. Because our
detour only became clear on the Monday, when Mike looked it up, so it’s not as
if we’d gone back on ourselves and reached the finish line via the correct route…
so yes, for a mile or so we were off the official track, making this harder for
ourselves having missed a turning in the midnight darkness… Anyway, I mentioned
this and his response was not a request that I return the goblet. Phew…
As an aside, Ian’s run
the WHW race eight times, a number that might be far higher but for the fact
it’s now his gig to run in a different way. His PB is an impressive 21:11’, and
when his focus was on road races Ian ran a 2:56’ marathon and a 1:17’ HM.
Athletics in general seems to do a better job than most sports at entrusting
leadership roles to people who’ve competed and thus understand the sport. I
personally believe Seb Coe (and, being from Sheffield and indeed a
neighbourhood whose hills he used to train, I’m allowed to call him ‘Seb’) did
a great job with London 2012 and would be delighted to see him get the IAAF
presidency. But I digress…
Having eaten half
of my cold red pesto fusilli pasta whilst waiting for the luggage to appear on
the belt (with, besides me, a man in full meditation, sounds and all: we must
have made for unusual sights and sounds…), I polished off the rest once checked
into room 44 (ground floor – yay!) of the Premier Inn Fort William. I headed
out for a pint of milk for Saturday’s breakfast cereals, which had also made
the journey north with me, as well as drop bags containing pizza, pork pies and
flapjack, plus assorted bagels, more flapjack, gels and ShotBloks…
Sandra and I had joked about this in the car, but, after struggling to find
somewhere to eat on the eve of Chester 2014, I always bring my own food with
me! Laid out my kit, sipping two cups of TeaPigs
chamomile tea in the process… and lay down at 10pm, alarm all set for
03:00. I jolted out of bed shortly after lights-out, just to check I had placed
a foil blanket in my rucksack… then again a few minutes later, upon realizing
I’d not got in my daily plank… and, having struggled to get to sleep, was
probably out for the count nearer 11pm. I unfailingly awoke before the alarm,
making a relatively unsuccessful trip to the bathroom (runners will
understand!), enjoying my granola, cup of Super
Fruit tea and peanutbutterandjam bagel before getting race-dressed and
heading out with time aplenty to board the bus to the start line… Sandra had
made it quite clear it wouldn’t wait for anyone and all but one runner were
settled in their seats by 03:59! The straddler got on at 04:01 – so we did wait
after all.
I’ve marvelled before at viewing through a car window a
route run the previous day, but this was the first time of doing so before the
race. ‘Marvelling’ was limited by a constant drizzle and the small matter of
darkness, but, with a little faith, as the sun rose you could still sense the magic
in the day ahead. And that was alright with me.
Getting off the bus (the last one to do so, partly out
of habit and partly as I was faffing with my non-running running bag), I saw Mike and Sarah. Conversation was short
as Mike still had to sort out his dropbags… honestly! Besides, we’d have time
aplenty to chat. I registered, pinned number 210 to my lycra shorts, joined the
queue for men’s toilets only to hear every single female competitor heading to
the ladies’ comment on how unusual it was for their queue to be shorter… then
finally met John Hitchen,
whose family were holidaying in Tyndrum. This was no surprise, as John had
promised to turn up at the start and finish lines, crutches firmly in tow. I’m
routinely aware of the good fortune I’ve had with injuries (or lack of), and
John’s recent travails only underline this further. Here’s wishing him a
patient and full recovery.
. . .
And there I was, outside The Green Welly, holding in my
head one set of two contrasting thoughts I have to balance when I’m out
running. As Springsteen said, “I feel like to do my job right, when I walk out
onstage I've got to feel like it's the most important thing in the world. I've
also got to feel like, well, it's only rock and roll. Somehow you've got to
believe both of those things”. Well, for me it’s running and it ain’t my job:
but I understand, Bruce.
Exchanged a few words with a few people before the off,
which came promptly at 6am as we headed into a storm. Or so most of us
expected, based on what had been a consistent forecast in the build-up: no
matter how many times I pressed F5, the picture never looked any brighter!
In the end, whilst the sun was hardly bouncing back off
the stones along the road, on the whole it was a good day for running. The rain
that did come made its presence felt, but the likelihood of post-run tales of
shoes getting stuck in the mud was low.
 |
| There isn’t a single metre of the WHW I’ve not shared with this man. Well, not many, anyway. (Photo by Sarah Chapman) |
I
pulled into the first checkpoint at Glencoe Ski Centre determined not to hang
around too long, and would have been successful but for also wanting to offload
the waterproof trousers I’d been carting around. I love my Salomon
S-Lab 12 but I love it even more when it’s light. I had contemplated
running with just my new Salomon
belt, which I bought after one of my soft bottles started leaking, having
established that the difference between a belt with a bottle and just a
replacement bottle wasn’t actually that prohibitive: after all, I could still
carry my waterproof jacket, some food and two 500ml bottles with it. But I
chickened out after seeing the forecasts. Now, a smarter runner than I might
have entrusted the belt with Sarah, Mike’s fiancée, and left open the option for
a mid-race swap. But not me…
I walked out of Glencoe munching my pizza, wondering
whether the first of two 500ml bottles of Coke was overkill for a 42-miler. By
the time I disposed of it, empty, at the Kings House Hotel across the road,
I was glad for it. But all the more so for a brief chat with a fellow runner,
one of those chats that set Ultras apart from any other distance:
“Hi – I’m Victor”
“Hi – Giacomo, ‘Gia’”
“Ah – you’re The Famous Squintano!”
“Famous… where?”
“On Strava!”
“Hi – Giacomo, ‘Gia’”
“Ah – you’re The Famous Squintano!”
“Famous… where?”
“On Strava!”
We chatted a little longer, giving me the chance to
establish that this was Victor’s first ultra, which he went on to finish in
eight hours. I’d happily have chatted longer, but fell off his pace. But “The
Famous Squintano” did make me smile and give me a much-needed boost. I usually
put people right about the spelling of my name, but ‘Squintano’ was glorious.
Probably a genuine mistake, although in my mind I like to think it might have
been a nod to “Only Fools And Horses” and “The Famous Raymondo” that appears in
“The Jolly Boys’ Outing”. It kept me smiling through the flat stretch to the
bottom of Devil’s Staircase… then things changed!
But hey, not for the worse. The Devil’s Staircase
doesn’t scare me. I enjoy it: I don’t expect to run it quickly, and I just love
the chance to take in the scenery. I jogged a few sections, purely because I’m
not good at “walking with purpose” and often find it easier to run slowly. Hey,
I was even quicker than Mike!
Much as I enjoyed it, however, the knowledge of what was to come slowly ate
away at my good mood. Because if you’re making your way up a hill, you know
that you’re going to have to come down it…
 |
| Approaching the Devil's Staircase, smiling at the sight of Robert Osfield - wouldn't be the same coming down! |
…and I hate descents!
Maybe it’s because I don’t train on that terrain. Maybe
I’m too cautious, potentially wary of falling as I have done in the past (on
flat and/or smooth terrain). Maybe the pain in my soles I sometimes feel
through my Brooks PureGrit acts as a brake. Maybe all of the above, maybe none.
I certainly don’t have the right technique: that much I’ve established by
watching dozens of runners gleefully fly past me. I wish I could improve my
technique over the rocks and therefore my time on the descents. But the 4.3mi from the
top of the Devil’s Staircase to Kinlochleven took me fifty-three minutes.
Which doesn’t sound that bad, looking back: and hey, that’s twenty-one minutes
less than on the WHW Race, when my swollen knee bore the brunt of it. But
almost every single yard was downhill, and the last mile or so isn’t actually
that technical. It certainly felt a lot worse at the time as runner after
runner overtook me, some asking me if I was alright. It’s nice to know folk are
looking out for you, but when you actually are alright, as opposed to dripping
blood as I was in April, it does get you wondering…
…actually, there was one thing wrong with me: and that
was the music ringing in my head!
Not sure these are grounds to sue Premier Inn, but a One
Chuffin’ Direction was playing at Reception when I checked in. And, much as I
loathe the way they formed and everything they stand for, the truth is that
whoever writes their songs has come up with some earworms: ‘Story Of My Life’,
in this case. A title not totally out of place with my West Highland Way
adventure, granted. But I needed to replace it… and, given how I was struggling
with the terrain and how many people’s dust I was eating, it’s hardly
surprising that good old Springsteen came to my rescue, with ‘Devils & Dust’. Not
the driving beat needed to get me to Kinlochleven as quickly as every other
beggar around me, but it was a massive improvement!
 |
| Heading into Kinlochleven. Couldn’t smile, but mustered a silly look. (Photo by Sarah Chapman) |
I ground it out and reached the checkpoint. I didn’t
feel hungry, so I left the pizza and the pork pie in the bag with Sarah so that
I could eat it the following day, because… that’s how I roll! I did, however,
grab the energy gel in the bag, the Coke and – a Yorkie bar!
August 1st is Yorkshire Day – and has
been since the year I was born! In December, granted… Anyorad: it weren’t that
I grabbed t’Yorkie aat o’luv for me county: Ah grabbed it coz Ah wanted
chocolate, like. It worked… a bit… I think.
The reward for that long descent is a slow climb right
after the checkpoint, without the wide-open views that Devil’s Staircase
offers. For a while I made conversation with Ross Leslie, or “Little Ross” as
he called himself in light of his usual support duties for Ross Lawrie,
who was completing his own very special Triple Crown, running all three races
in a Spiderman outfit. Just as I said I’d jog up the hill to make up for the
upcoming descent, the gradient got steeper. Before long, I was waving goodbye
to Ross.
Again, a tough ascent was followed by a bad (for me)
descent, accompanied by even more polite enquiries after my well-being.
Physically I didn’t feel I was doing too badly, but I wasn’t overtaking anyone,
whereas a few runners were going past me. Until that stage I’d hardly looked at
pace or time: I’d been running by heart rate and by feel. But, with the finish
now less than half a marathon away, it was time to start making some
calculations. Ross had mentioned he was hoping to go sub-8, allowing for the
fact it was probably not going to happen. Nevertheless, even allowing for it
had somewhat surprised me as I thought that was somewhat ambitious having left
Kinlochleven just under the five hour mark. Still, when I did some maths after
the ascent I realised that fourteen minute miling should allow me to achieve my
sub-8:30 goal: a loose goal, based on looking at spreadsheets during the week
and looking for Devil O’The Highlands times by runners with similar times to
mine in the Fling and the WHW, but as good a target as any. One I’d almost
discarded expecting the rain to blow any plan out of the window, but actually
the weather (of which there had indeed been some) had been quite good…
…other than for the section I walked up with Ross that
is, to the point that I gave in and pulled my waterproof jacket out of my
rucksack. I don’t actually mind getting wet, but I’ve learnt that waiting too
long means it becomes too late to prevent a particular male problem. £10
Decathlon jacket on, all set for whatever the West Highlands had to throw at me!
During the week, word was it was going to give us a
stern test. But the weather (or Whoever’s in charge of it) clearly likes
Ultrarunners – or at least respects us. It was a heavy shower, but it didn’t
last longer than quarter of an hour, if that. Least not where I was: anyone who
was further along the way may have been rained on for longer, but that’ll teach
them. Or maybe it just felt longer, because they covered about twice the
distance in the same time…
But for the rational fear that the rain may return at a
moment’s notice, I kept on my jacket for almost all the rest of the race. I
don’t like running with a jacket: I’m a shorts and short-sleeves kinda guy,
even on my 4am training runs in January. Exactly as had been the case in June,
at this point I had found some sort of focus, without which the end to any run can
be a killer. I knew what I had to do to hit sub-8:30’: and, with every mile
ticked off at a better pace, I knew I had some safety for two treacherous
descent sections towards Fort William, prior to the fire road. I kept going,
not elated but at least focused: still regularly overtaken, but aware that
achieving my goal was within my grasp and down to me and me alone. No weather
to blame, no unknowns as I’d recced the route – least that’s what I called the
last forty-two miles of the West Highland Way Race…
With June in mind, I knew there’d be a couple of
downhill miles ahead of this here sting in the tail everyone had been posting
about. Working backwards, I was surprised I’d not yet reached the steady
descent littered with evil white stones buried in the ground and ready to send
you flying at any moment. Stones that had shone under my headtorch’s beam as
June 20 turned into June 21, Mike in front of me giving me some helpful
guidance as to where the worst ones lay. Then I looked down and realised…
…that indeed, I was already on that section! In
daylight, it didn’t look any worse than most of the rest of the course, those
white stones looking cheeky rather than threatening. Once that had sunk in, I
prepared myself for the next test…
…I recalled a slippery section with mud-covered steps
that went on for longer than I liked. Sure enough, it soon turned up. But… just
as soon, it seemed to disappear. I’m sure it was both longer and harder in the dark?
Cheap gags aside (hey: I did admit to not being Peter Kay), I now knew that
the toughest sections had all been ticked off. Some ascent, then the run down
towards Fort William and whatever that already infamous final mile held in
store. I had never targeted fourteen minute-miling: that was just my safety
mark, all along I’d tried to do my best. Which now left me with 8:15’ as a
realistic target, especially if I could replicate June’s descent towards Fort
William whilst taking the right turn this time round. As in, the left one.
When I got to the top of the descent, with just four
miles to go, I stopped. Back in went the jacket and the Garmin chargers and
battery pack (sorry… but I can’t miss out on the last few miles for Strava, can
I?), out came one last slice of flapjack. I even managed a short chat with a
couple of hikers, who asked me the obvious “How long is zis race?” question. “Quarante-deux milles, donc environ, voyons… soixante-dix
kilomètres”. Whilst I sorted myself out and got my backpack back
on, we exchanged a few more pleasantries, and I took my lack of difficulty in
talking in my third language as proof that my brain was still functioning OK.
Well enough to get me down the hill and to the Leisure Centre, anyway.
I surprised myself with the final descent. Not with the
8’30” miling, but with the fact that only two runners overtook me whereas, for
once, I recorded a net gain. My quads were probably better-placed at that point
to maximise on the non-technical descent: there’s the upside of being totally
unable of pounding them on the rocks… Every cloud, eh?
There was no danger of taking any wrong turns today,
courtesy of bright yellow signs and even brighter, smiling marshals. Whose
answer to the obvious “How far to go?” question as I headed up the final
section, my 410 telling me it shouldn’t be more than a mile, was an encouraging
“just under a mile”. This turned out to be a white lie, as it was nearer a mile
and a half: but, to be honest, you expect that underestimation towards the end
of any race. Well, I do.
With nobody within sight, either in front of me or
behind me, and sub-8:15’ looking good, I allowed myself to walk the
much-maligned hill. Breath I could have used on improving my time by a second
or two was instead dedicated to an impromptu rendition of ‘The Greasy Chip
Buttie’ and a couple of other Sheffield United anthems. It’s just a primal
reaction…
…as it is to get one’s arse into gear when threatened
by another member of the species!
I suddenly became aware of another runner’s presence.
One whom I’d seen a couple of miles previously and who I’d duly expected would
overtake me. I’d gained on him on the downhill: then, with less than a mile to
go, things got interesting. I could no longer afford to play the tourist: I had
to fend off the challenge of one Ian Beattie!
Even over eight hours into a race, the irony wasn’t
lost on me. Not only was I being chased by someone who’d kindly detoured on
their route from Edinburgh to give me a lift and actually enable me to run this
race, but this was one of the three people whose times I’d studied when first
looking into running The West Highland Way Race, unaware that Ian was its Race
Director. I’d looked up runners with similar times to mine, and now one of them
was just seconds behind me over eight hours into the run. Once I’d crossed the
finish line I’d see a number of runners doing so hand-in-hand, and inevitably
found out that’s what the top two had done. But, even though I’m never going to
challenge for a podium place in any race I run, I just can’t shed that instinct
to give it my all: and, with a mile or so, I could afford to risk blowing up
and went for it with whatever I had left.
That last mile featured two climbs: I’d seen Ian whilst
walking up the first, and that helped me run up the second. After that, it
truly was all downhill…
…took me a double-take to figure the way into the sports
centre for the final stretch, but I just about managed it. I then sprinted
(because 9’/mi forty-two miles into a race is a sprint!) towards the line,
easing up with ten metres to go to savour the moment and avoid slipping into
the mud beyond it.
Showing three fingers with one hand and a thumbs-up
with the other. I’d done it.
 |
| Sprinting after 42.5 miles. Which means one thing and one thing only: I hadn’t tried hard enough till that point. (Photo by Mike Wells) |
I acknowledged Mike and Sarah’s cheers, as well as
everybody else’s, then spotted Sandra in the crowd and went over to tell her
Ian’d be next. She pointed out she could already see him: indeed, there he was,
entering the field! I stood by to cheer him over the line before reaching out
to shake his hand. Time must have stood still for most of that, as Ian’s
official time of 8:14’46” was just four seconds slower than mine. I’d got a lot
done in four seconds! And I may need a new watch, as my Garmin had it as
8:14’28”! But I really, genuinely, couldn’t care less if a dozen or so seconds
have been added to my time. As long as the first three digits are 8, 1 and 4,
anyway. Otherwise… steward’s enquiry!
Unsurprisingly, John Duncan had laid on a great spread –
quality chilli and soup! And the beer was a good’un, too. I hung around with
Mike and Sarah to cheer on other finishers and indeed the runners who’d earnt
their place on the podium. Always worth reminding oneself that what for me is a
challenge, where finishing in the best time I can muster is all that matters,
for some truly is a race. And their times… wow. Just wow.
Ditto for Mike, by the way! He came in joint 18th in a
time of 7:06’24”. So I’d only kept him waiting an hour, eight minutes and
eighteen seconds: happy with that! A phenomenal performance: I can’t wait for
2018 when he smashes the West Highland Way Race! Ballot permitting, of course.
My 8:14’42” meant I claimed 62nd place out of the 180
finishers. 62 made me smile, as it was the exact same position I’d claimed in The
West Highland Way Race, which 155 of us finished. Both a darn sight better than
my Fling’s position, which was 251st … but then 647 of us finished that one!
 |
| Done it. Now what? (Photo by John Hitchen) |
So, there you have it. Not exactly in a nutshell,
unless you deal in mahoossive nuts. But then you don’t expect short posts from
me… and if this is the first of my posts you’ve ever stumbled across, like a
runner struggling down a rocky descent, sorry and welcome!
(The nutshell version: perfect logistics; nothing new
hence no nasty surprises on the nutrition side; run felt worse than it was as I
ended up finishing it fifteen minutes ahead of target, though on another day I
may have got closer to eight; but this, whilst a great race, was always the
last piece of a jigsaw for me, and one for which, by the time I’d recovered
from WHW Race and allowed for some tapering, offered a very small training window!)
. . .
If at the start of a race there is one set of
contrasting thoughts I need to balance, at the end there is another one. On the
one hand, I know I’ve achieved something, and that in order to do so I’ve
worked hard, made sacrifices, gone out in the rain, run through the night – and
other daft stuff. On the other: hey, anybody can do it. Anybody can run along
the West Highland Way, anybody can earn their Triple Crown. If they put in the
training, anyway. And if their name comes out of the hat.
Oh yes, about this thing that’s not a thing thing…
…well, Ross is looking into making t-shirts – what more
proof that it might be a thing after all?
But hey: what is a thing? What does it matter whether
something is regulated and codified?
Each of the three races is strictly regulated and
excellently managed. The “Triple Crown” needn’t be anything more than the
spreadsheet it currently is. For the outside world, anyway. For those who’ve
done it… well, we know what it means. It’s a cracking series of three awesome
races on breath-taking scenery, which just so happen to be delightfully
scheduled: a 53-miler that is enthralling in its own right but which acts as a
great training run for the long one, for the whole thing, with a 42-miler that
is also an amazing race in its own right but equally doubles up as the lap of
honour from… well, Hell, I guess!
But, as always, that’s just a running view. In this
all-connected age, The Triple Crown and its individual components are so much
more than solitary runners covering each and every step of the West Highland
Way twice over something close to a hundred days. That’s the core, the
necessary component without which nothing else means anything. But beyond that
there are comments on runs and virtual pats-on-back, shared photographs,
questions aired about gear, routes, nutrition, and if you’re lucky maybe even
actual, real runs shared with friends… and that’s just before the races.
Afterwards you have that shared sense of achievement, the shared beers, that
‘look’ into a fellow runner’s eyes which says all there is to say about
empathy, about how you each ‘get’ exactly what the other one is thinking or
feeling… and, of course, the conversations.
In that respect, The Devil was definitely different to
previous races, where before and after I’d pretty much stuck with faces I knew.
It’s what I generally do: besides, times worked better this time: I’m sure the
Fling’s Ceilidh is everything it’s built up to be but I’m typically tucked up
in bed before it begins, and when you finish The West Highland Way Race at
01:07 partying isn’t exactly top of mind… plus there are hardly any fellow
finishers around at any given moment! But with all finishers safely over the
line by 18:30, it would have been rude not to pay the local Wetherspoons a
visit…
 |
| Looks more like a bath to me..! |
…Mike and Sarah were staying further South to get a
head-start on the drive down to the East Midlands on the Sunday. I knew a few faces,
but am generally more comfortable at a keyboard than at a (non-space) bar – you
may not be surprised that I met Mrs S on a dating website! But it helped on
Saturday to be heading to The Great Glen with Alexa, who was marshalling and had
kindly replied to my appeal on Facebook for a lift back to Edinburgh on
Saturday and to whom I’d subsequently offered use of my hotel room shower after
a hard day’s work marshalling at Bridge of Orchy, Lundavra and the finish. An
offer I would not have made had Alexa known there’d be showers, but it appears
that John Duncan kept that as a secret… he seems to like surprises at the
finish!
(By the way: if you think I’m a nutter for running these things, how might you define the likes of Alexa, an Equinox 24 runner who, currently injured, was volunteering having already run in a relay team at The Fling and supported a runner for WHW? Or the likes of Sarah, if indeed she’s not unique, who volunteered at all three? They don’t see a penny, often sleep in their cars… they make running a hundred and ninety miles over three races look distinctly sane! Oh, and some bloke called Paul and a lass called Debbie were helping out with water bottles in Glencoe. Presumably faster than anyone else.)
(By the way: if you think I’m a nutter for running these things, how might you define the likes of Alexa, an Equinox 24 runner who, currently injured, was volunteering having already run in a relay team at The Fling and supported a runner for WHW? Or the likes of Sarah, if indeed she’s not unique, who volunteered at all three? They don’t see a penny, often sleep in their cars… they make running a hundred and ninety miles over three races look distinctly sane! Oh, and some bloke called Paul and a lass called Debbie were helping out with water bottles in Glencoe. Presumably faster than anyone else.)
. . .
Heading for the Great Glen
with Alexa had two key benefits. Firstly, her phone had enough power for the
GPS to get us there: with hindsight not strictly necessary, but I’m instantly
weary of getting lost in (or around!) Fort William, so this put my mind at
rest… and indeed gave me confidence for the return leg, should my drinking
problem of running too many miles and not drinking enough ales meant my
navigational skills deserted me!
But hey, I think I’d have found the pub on my own. What
I probably wouldn’t have found would have been the opportunity to sit down with
fellow humans, engage in conversation and have a darn great time!
Yes, I speak of community: and I believe it. And I’m
not as miserable as I make out (apparently). But nor am I the guy who walks
into a bar and naturally gravitates into an ongoing conversation. So it was
good to walk in with Alexa who knew a couple of other runners, not least Richard Bannister who’d
only gone and clocked 9th place having run some ludicrous number of Munros
earlier in the week. It was good to meet Victor again and congratulate him:
and, if you’re reading this Victor, don’t worry, I’ll be dropping “a.k.a. The
Great Squintano” off my Strava name soon…
…it didn’t instantly register with me that we were in a Wetherspoons pub, but it did soon enough after I’d been to the bar! I love Wetherspoons, me. Good call John Duncan, not least given the amount of people after burgers!
…it didn’t instantly register with me that we were in a Wetherspoons pub, but it did soon enough after I’d been to the bar! I love Wetherspoons, me. Good call John Duncan, not least given the amount of people after burgers!
I tried the whisky burger: seemed rude not to… I washed
it down with a pint of Lomond Gold and one of Devil’s Backbone. Wherever I am, I
always like to indulge in local ales. Although it now appears that the Devil’s
Backbone is from Texas, thus bearing no connection whatsoever with the Devil’s
Staircase, let alone the Devil O’The Highlands… ah well – I meant well!
Much as it was nice to know that the pub would be open till 1am, my eyes were never going to make full use of that. Around 10pm, Alexa and I headed back. As well as a shower, I’d offered her and her sleeping bag my bedroom floor: an offer she accepted, as it would be marginally more comfortable than her car and, if nowt else, would be closer to a toilet. In the morning, after we’d faffed around on our respective phones, we headed out for some fresh air along Loch Linhe: I got in a recovery 5k, venturing onto a pebble beach for a brief section, whilst Alexa got in some photos. I don’t care where you are: there is something primordial about us whereby we always connect with water, our original habitat, to the point that if I’m running anywhere near water I’ll generally end up alongside (but not in) it. Maybe it’s because I grew up by its edge, in itself maybe a reason I’ve ended up living alongside it, but its sight and freshness in Fort William were a welcome boost.
 |
| Loch Linhe at 7am: a sight that had escaped me post-WHW Race!(photo by Alexa Jury. |
I got back to the room before Alexa, which gave me a
head-start on a shower and on finishing off packing, which somehow I excel at
taking longer over than I should. A peanut butter and marmalade (hey – we’d run
out of jam!) bagel and a cuppacoffee would keep me going until The Real Food Café, which has been
where Mike, Sarah and I have ended up after the last two Flings and where Alexa
and I would stopping en route to Edinburgh. Indeed, when upon agreeing to cart
me back to Edinburgh she announced she “may have to stop in Tyndrum for fish
and chips on the way back” I knew exactly a) where she meant and b) that we’d
get along just fine! As it happens we were a bit early for fish and chips, so
my brain suggested a bacon and egg roll whilst my stomach was thinking a full
breakfast may be better… in the end my heart took charge and, throwing all
caution to the wind, went for the latter, aware that this could be my last
visit to this great Scottish institution, at least for the next few years. Oh,
and a coconut slice with jam, just to be on the safe side, and a cappuccino.
But not with chocolate sprinkles: best not get carried away! No, cinnamon
please.
The Real Food Café is awash with cyclists and runners
who are obviously either fuelling up or rewarding themselves. It’s a sort of
den of iniquity where otherwise healthy eaters treat themselves to stuff you
won’t find in most nutrition guides. Even The Ultra Amazing
Spiderman (not just your average Spiderman!) was there – although, to be
fair, recognising Ross Lawrie in his civilian guise takes a bit of
concentration. Until he stands up and dwarfs everybody else in the room!
 |
| Four touristy shots of Edinburgh. (I took these!) |
Alexa and I made good time and good conversation (least
I thought so) all the way into Edinburgh, although I was hopeless at
contributing much when she enquired after which waterproof running jacket I use, given
that my cheap
Decathlon top isn’t the most exciting… Once in her adoptive city she kindly
(and proudly) offered me a tour of the main sites from the comfort of her car. That left me
with a perfect twenty minutes to stretch my legs around Prince’s Street Gardens
and the nearby roads before boarding a bus to the airport, which I also reached
in perfect time. And having eaten two slices of pizza on the bus. Perfect.
All pretty nondescript from thereon in (other than the
new experience EDI afforded me of weighing my own suitcase and sticking
on the RFID label!), the flight back South giving me the time to finish Tom
Fitzsimmon’s “It’s
Not About The Beard”, which I highly recommend. It’s not the first book by
a recovering alcoholic-turned-ultrarunner I’ve read, and I suspect it won’t be
the last. Equally, it’s not the first book detailing a coast-to-coast run from
California to New York. I guess some themes are more common than you might
expect amongst the ultrarunning community…
In the taxi home from Bristol Airport, I truthfully
answered the driver’s default enquiry about my recent travels. What wasn’t
default was the pleasant conversation that followed, the driver telling me
about his injury problems when he tried running and his subsequent success with
cycling long distances, as we went on to talk about training, recovery and a
bunch of stuff that folk rarely want to talk to me about in the real world.
Shortest journey home from BRS I can recall in a long time – at least it felt
thus!
Walked through the door to two excited children and one
wife. Unpacked, left my shoes out for a bit more air… put The Boys to bed… took
a while to figure out what I’d done this time… apologised to Karen for
contemplating running a forty-mile Social Ultra on Saturday, for posting a
constructive message about her attitude to my running and for not calling while
away (I never do – I’m more of a text kinda guy)… promised to not post mocking
comments about her attitude to my running… ate homemade focaccia… and went to
bed.
. . .
Again – thank you, West Highland Way. It
truly has been emotional. As I posted on Facebook:
Thanks
to all those who made these three races for me - be that organising them,
volunteering in them or sharing in the experience with them.
To those who passed me and to the elite group that I passed.
To those with whom I shared brief chats walking up, to those who asked me if I was OK as they flew past me heading down.
To those who gave me lifts, be it in their car or by making me smile along The Way.
To those who refilled my water bottles and handed me my drop-bags, down to every last slice of cold pizza, pork pie and piece of flapjack.
To each and every one of you involved in The Fling, The West Highland Way Race or The Devil O'The Highlands. Far too many to tag. It is a family, and it's one of which I'm proud to be a member. A lifetime member, I hope - even though I won't be flying up from Bristol for a wee while now. I enjoy all of my runs, but not all enrich me and leave an indelible mark on my life. These one hundred and ninety miles, these forty-three hours, twenty-eight minutes and thirty-six seconds... hell yes, they have.
Because it's not just about the running... it never is.
To those who passed me and to the elite group that I passed.
To those with whom I shared brief chats walking up, to those who asked me if I was OK as they flew past me heading down.
To those who gave me lifts, be it in their car or by making me smile along The Way.
To those who refilled my water bottles and handed me my drop-bags, down to every last slice of cold pizza, pork pie and piece of flapjack.
To each and every one of you involved in The Fling, The West Highland Way Race or The Devil O'The Highlands. Far too many to tag. It is a family, and it's one of which I'm proud to be a member. A lifetime member, I hope - even though I won't be flying up from Bristol for a wee while now. I enjoy all of my runs, but not all enrich me and leave an indelible mark on my life. These one hundred and ninety miles, these forty-three hours, twenty-eight minutes and thirty-six seconds... hell yes, they have.
Because it's not just about the running... it never is.
 |
| (Yes, I was actually smiling on Fiona's beautiful photo at the top..!) |
I do hope to be back on your trails, Scotland. Just not
next year, when I want to explore other trails, in the ambitious hope,
certainly not expectation, that they’ll warm my soul and steal my heart the way
yours did. I may hate running along Lochside, just as I’m in no hurry to head
down to Kinlochleven at a dubious pace: but, even in those moments, and even
when cursing Johnny FlingandnowalsoDevil, I was always in awe of what I saw.
Not least the people.
So thanks indeed to you, one and all. It would be a
real shame if, after all these miles and all these smiles, we were to lose
touch altogether. You guys get this here running thing: you get my madness, I
get yours. So I hope to meet you again further down the road, or maybe on
t’Internet. Till then…
stay hard, stay hungry and stay alive, if you can
and meet me in a dream of this hard land.
best,
g.o.s.
p.s.: it’s taken me so long to write this that, since I
started, The Thing That’s Not A Thing Thing has pretty much become The Thing
That’s Not A Thing Thing That’s Now A Thing! Well, it’s got a Facebook Group,
anyway. That may be whence you got into reading this junk. And, in 2015,
anything with a Facebook Group is real. Especially when it also has a t-shirt.p.p.s.: if The Thing That’s Not A Thing Thing That’s
Now A Thing did aggregate times, mine would have been 43:28’36”. Not too bad
for 190 (191? 191.5?) miles. I thought I’d made the Top Ten, till it transpired
a fellow TC’er had accidentally been left off the list: and, sure enough, he’d
done better than me… But hey: 10th, 11th, 27th… when you’re part of an elite
group of twenty-seven, it really doesn’t matter. It’s sooo isn’t just about the
running!
