Throughout
my life, I’ve received kind words for my writing. My poetry won awards, my high
school essay-writing was deemed “best in session” – and a few of you like this
garbage I spout on here, too. But never, ever have I been praised for
conciseness – and I don’t expect that to change any time soon! Especially not
when the topic is…
…a
95-mile race.
It’s
been one helluva journey. But, eh bah gum, it’s been a long one!
I
guess it began on April 25, 2014, on the eve of last
year’s Highland Fling. Seeds were sown into my mind, and they grew pretty
quickly. So much so that, on April 30, I wrote the following to Mike (who’d
talked me into running The Fling, on the basis that it would be the “next
natural step” – the previous ones being marathon > HP40):
This
wasn’t a daily topic of conversation, but neither was it ever consigned to the
darker recesses of our minds. Because you don’t just turn up on the longest
Saturday of the year and run 95 miles: you need to train accordingly for
months, and indeed you need to be accepted into the race and get through the
ballot. My exchanges with Mike crystalised on September 30, when he told me
that he would not be entering the ballot. He dislikes running races without
having reccied them, and forty-two miles of unknown territory north of Tyndrum
did not appeal. That and forty-two miles after fifty-three already completed
did not inspire glee: he knew he could run them, but doubted he could enjoy
them. And he’s big on enjoying runs, is Mike. He’s from Nottingham. They must
mek’em jollier darn theyre.
So
Mike was looking for an opportunity to recce the beyond-Fling section of the
West Highland Way, ideally without having had to run those first fifty-three
miles. And I needed a crew to support me: not just a personal chagrin, rather a
regulatory requirement. It took me a while to set aside the demotivating side
of Mike’s note, a fairly simple “if he can’t, how can I?”: and, to do so, I
read this part of Mike’s e-mail many times over:
“it’s not that I don’t think I could complete the race (I know I could,
and I know you can / will too)”
Mike
thinks I could… Mike things I could… Mike things I could…
…well,
then I bloody well can!
So I
duly submitted my application. Because, much to the surprise of Mother, there
are indeed enough idiots wanting to run ninety-five miles to warrant a ballot.
I was fairly confident that my Fling experience meant my application would be
considered: but, beyond that, a ballot is a ballot. And, whilst the organisers
generally expect there to be enough withdrawals for everyone still able as well
as willing to run to be able to do so, hoping a fellow runner will have to
withdraw is not quite the right spirit…
…so
it was fortunate that, when the list of ballot
winners
was published on December 8, 2014, my name was on it. The second I read it, a
194-day journey began.
. . .
Now,
I’m perfectly conscious that I’ve not covered the training much on here. I
didn’t mention getting into the WHW in my “Christmas Message”; I briefly
mentioned it in my Greater Manchester
Marathon post,
if only to explain the relative lack of marathon training; and I obviously referenced it when covering
this year’s Fling, explaining why this great race had, in twelve months, gone
from my greatest ever challenge to a training run; then my post prior to
this
focused on football and Twitter, so no need to stress myself out. Because I do
find that talking too much about training backfires, as it sets expectations
that I can do without. Least I think that’s one reason I had one of my seizures
at Manchester 2014, that and the caffeine gels. Given I had a seizure during
the Clevedon 10k on June 8 this year (yes, WHW-12), however, having taken a caffeine gel for
the first time since Manchester, I think I’ve firmly established where the issue
truly lies. But too late to blog about my WHW training now… or is it?
You
can breathe. I won’t.
Not
in any great detail, anyway. In a nutshell:
1.
Run 62mi/100k a week throughout 2015, unless tapering/recovering
2.
For most of the year, the weekly routine looked a little like this:
Mon:
Long Run (something between 20 and 31 miles)
Tue: recovery 5k
Wed: Hill Reps or Yassos
Thu: A hilly 13-miler
Fri: recovery 10k
Sat: parkrun
Sun: a leisurely run
Tue: recovery 5k
Wed: Hill Reps or Yassos
Thu: A hilly 13-miler
Fri: recovery 10k
Sat: parkrun
Sun: a leisurely run
3. Throughout
May, running Back-to-Back long runs:
May 4 & 5: 20+20
May 9 (11pm) & 11 (3am): 23.2+26.2
May 17 (early, then late): 31.2+31.3
May 22 & 23: 40+40
May 9 (11pm) & 11 (3am): 23.2+26.2
May 17 (early, then late): 31.2+31.3
May 22 & 23: 40+40
The
forty-milers were all-nighters, as I set off at 20:49 and 20:11 respectively.
With the second one unsurprisingly slower, I went out before sunset and got
home after sunrise! They served the dual purposes of running on tired legs and
through the dark. Joy…
…when
people asked me why I was putting myself through them, I’d reply that I’d
rather suffer then than during the race. Let’s hope that would work, eh?
The
B2Bs had been suggested by Helen right after The Fling, which she nailed. Equally, Marco
Consani had outlined their virtues in one of John Kynaston’s excellent WHW podcasts. And I should
spend a few seconds praising John…
Those podcasts
are a great source of insight into the West Highland Way Race, often told my
people who’ve been there, done it and got the goblet. Runners of all abilities,
from Paul Giblin… downwards. But here’s the thing: I started listening to them
a little late in the day. March, I think. So chastise me now…
…I
tried to glean as much as I could, but stopped listening to them with a little
over a month to go to this year’s race. Quite simply, by that point it was too
late to contemplate any change of direction: I had to stick with what I’d done
and not sow doubt in my mind that I might have messed up. I ended up running
404 miles in May, by the end of which I was already in some semblance of
tapering mode. I tried to run trails and hills whilst maintaining some
speedwork sessions, without dipping any further into John’s knowledge… but I
highly recommend it!
Anyway:
enough training. In every sense!
. . .
I set
off for Glasgow on June 19 safe in the knowledge that, for once, I’d tapered
properly. A delayed flight meant I met my crew at the airport rather than beat
them to the Bearsden Premier Inn, their detour to pick me up the first of many
helpful and selfless acts. This particular one was probably easier than running
forty-two miles or standing by a loch at the mercy of the midgies, but hey – it
saved me £25!
At
the hotel I threw open my cases and rearranged my belongings on the basis of
where they needed to be rather than on what I could least afford to see end up at a
different airport to the one where I landed. Food I could, at a push, find
last-minute – but gear… my gear…
…’food’,
by the way, being a dozen sets of that tried and tested pizza + pork pie +
flapjack combo, with some more of my own flapjack, some sweet sarnies (tested
on the B2Bs), chocolate bars and Coke for company.
Sarah,
Mike and I hit the Burnbrae restaurant adjoining the Premier Inn. Not a lot of
pasta on the menu, but I’d had 250g of whole-wheat fusilli on the plane… and
the linguini and meatballs did just nicely. Sarah and Mike tucked into a
delicious cheesecake to end proceedings, but I behaved… I’d come too far to
give in now.
Went
back to the hotel, finished sorting out bags, set the alarm for 22:30 and tried
to get a little sleep. Failed at the outset, but must have managed some
shut-eye given how I reacted to the alarm: and anyway, even if awake I was at
least lying still, calm and in the dark, away from the sensory disruptions of
technology. Soon enough I woke up and treated myself to a bagel with peanut
butter, jam and banana. Got dressed, packed… and headed to check out at a time
earlier than the one at which only earlier this month, whilst in Amsterdam for
work, I’d checked in!
Packed
the Wellsmobile and headed for the Tesco car park, where so many dreams begin.
Registration and weigh-in didn’t take long: the West Highland Way Race is many
things, but a mass participation event it ain’t, nor can it be – hence the
ballot. 187 of us embarked on this adventure: that’s 31 fewer than ran my usual parkrun a few hours later,
and Little Stoke’s not one of the busiest of those, either. As we gathered and
made small talk, we weren’t that different from a parkrun crowd. We’d just
elected to run thirty-one sets of 3.1mi runs, through the night, the midgies
and over hills… other than that, no big difference.
Got
in my daily plank around half past midnight, as I had little intention of
stopping mid-run to put my core through pain… listened to the briefing, looked
to the stars… and we were off!
So:
it’s taken a while, but I’ve got to the start. Now for the 95-mile race! Let’s
see how quickly I can get through it…
. . .
The
crowd of runners naturally broke up as we made our way out of Milngavie. I felt
comfortable with my pace and the group into which I slotted. The first few
miles are unspectacular at the best of times, let alone in the dark. I’d set
off with a detailed map (namely Ross Lawrie’s logo for the event) and with some
indicative split times based on a spreadsheet created by Robert Osfield and
adjusted based on my Fling times, all with a view of reaching Fort William’s
Leisure Centre at 00:50 on Sunday – less than twenty-four hours later.
A
laminated copy of this lay in a pocket in my shirt, with a back-up copy in my
rucksack. Don’t worry: they were really, really small… and light!
Much
to my surprise, I reached Drymen at 03:03 and Balmaha at 04:25. I was
frightfully on track, not least given that those nineteen miles vary greatly in
ascent and terrain, making the pacing of a roadie unsustainable. So I just
tried to head off at around 9’30” to bag some time for the climbs and behave.
Amazingly, it worked!
For
weeks, I’d been conscious of the risk of slipping whilst running down Conic Hill
in the dark. I needn’t have been: the headtorch had safely been thrown into the
rucksack by then, dawn slowly breaking its way through the light rain and mist.
So I duly slipped whilst running down Conic in the ‘undark’, instead…
You
may recall I’d fallen heading out of Inversnaid during the Fling: at least one
fellow runner here did… In April I’d fallen on face, elbows and knees, bleeding
like crazy to look a darn sight worse than I actually felt. This time I just
grazed my left hand, taking a bump to gluteus sinestrus and the outside of the
knee beneath it. Ouch…
…no
dramatic pouring of blood this time, but an acute awareness than my knee wasn’t
right, and not just because it was left. Not that I could do anything about it:
keep moving, don’t let it get worse. Which I did, covering it with a plaster at
the Balmaha checkpoint, the first time I’d seen Sarah and Mike since waving
goodbye in Milngavie. We were happy I’d got there in time, if less so that it
took me six minutes to negotiate the checkpoint, mainly because of locating the plaster.
And that came off soon enough, anyway: seeing the graze wasn’t getting any
worse, I just stuck it in a pocket and kept on running. And berating myself, as
I’d only fallen because trying to stay ahead of another runner sprinting down
the hill. To say running fast down hills is not my strong point would be an
understatement: but I’ll say it anyway.
Running fast down hills is not my strong point: having been fairly conservative
along Conic’s stones, I tried to speed up here for a confidence-booster. It
turned out to be a knee-booster. Still, at least I’d got my fall out of the way
and could carry on.
Much
to my surprise, heading out of the Check Point I found myself running with Robert Osfield, whose spreadsheet I’d used as the
basis for my splits. He saw me pulling up alongside him and asked if I was “the
guy from Somerset”, based on exchanges on Strava and Facebook in the build-up
to the race. I’ve lived here for sixteen years now but still think myself as
from Sheffield, at a push Genoa: but my current abode dictates my training,
hence its prominence in our exchanges. We enjoyed a nice mile or two together,
not least because running with someone who was targeting sub-21 almost thirty
miles in suggested to me I was doing something right. Robert was running by
heart rate and said he felt my breathing was heavy, but I felt comfortable. Did
some maths as to how many minutes I’d have to lose per mile from thereon in to
finish over five hours behind Robert (around four), and kept going…
…shortly
after, a younger runner asked me if my
face had recovered from my fall during The Fling. Not your everyday
question: before I could answer it, he added that he’d been behind me for a
fair section of the race and had seen all the blood pour down. Back in April I’d
fallen… well, not far from where we had this brief exchange, grazing my
forehead in two places, my left arm and both knees. I was told it looked pretty
bad, although equally it was just “a week graze” and one I could easily run
through. Always nice to make an impression, though – just, ideally, not onto my
own skin. And still I kept going…
…the
nice, smooth landscape alongside Loch Lomond turns into technical trail before
the Inversnaid CheckPoint, and stays thus pretty much up to Beinglas Farm. The
one thing my knee wanted was rhythm: the one thing it wasn’t going to get was…
…well,
there were quite a few, actually: pace, speed, agility – and yes, rhythm.
It’s
hard to describe the “technical section” that leads to Beinglas: your best
bet is to run it. Or crawl it. It’s all single track, with rocks and roots to
contend with which truly limit running opportunities. Least they do for me:
Paul Giblin can’t have hung around much… But, whilst running in a straight line
wasn’t a problem, I didn’t feel comfortable jumping off my left leg, and even
less so landing on it. Comparing splits to the Fling is misleading: the Fling’s
a sprint in comparison, you know you need to give it all before walking along
the red carpet at By The Way whereas that would be racing suicide in the WHW
Race, which expects you to carry on for another forty-two miles. That said, back in April I’d covered the
6.5 miles from Inversnaid to Beinglas in 1:50’: this time round, it took me
2:13’. Which doesn’t stand up too badly. Yet it felt so much worse, as runner
after runner overtook me – and not just when I stopped to connect my Garmin to a
battery pack, something no self-respecting Ultra runner should actually do…
Having reached Rowardennan in 56th place, I was 83rd
coming into Beinglas, my leg time 124th for the race. Only one
runner who would finish ahead of me would be a fellow member of that particular
“100 Club”. Now granted, it doesn’t help these stats that in Beinglas I
refuelled before scanning my chip: but trust me, it really didn’t make a huge
difference.
 |
| At Beinglas Farm, smiling at the thought of leaving THAT section behind me..! |
Next
stop: Auchtertyre! Once I’d limped out of Beinglas, as neatly captured on film
by Mike. Quite simply, if I stopped even
for just thirty seconds, I’d need to ease my knee back into running. It would
lock and hurt. But never, ever did it make me question whether I’d finish the
race. Yes, approaching Beinglas I had wondered whether I should have made a
note of cut-off times on my laminated sheet. But that was around the same time
when I was wondering whether those B2Bs had actually made any difference,
whether I’d have been any slower had I spent those nights in bed rather than running
along the Avon. And I was determined to find out.
The
section to Auchtertyre was remarkably solitary, which didn’t help the mood. But
I was running again, not being constantly overtaken and hey, occasionally
overtaking someone else. Ultimately my race was against the clock: but I was
hoping to finish in the top half, maybe top third, and let’s be honest,
overtaking someone helps the spirit. It can make the difference between feeling
you’re in the middle of nowhere and on a gloriously beautiful Scottish trail.
And I didn’t want to be in the middle of nowhere.
The scenery was familiar, as this is the final section of The Fling. It was full of ramblers, mainly German: ich habe keine Ahnung, what the heck they thought about all these runners with backpacks but no numbers. Were they in a race? Or just mad? If approaching a hiker I detected they were speaking English, I’d ask if I was heading the right way for Fort William, partly to see how aware of the race the wider public might be. Let’s put it this way: nobody said “no” and nobody said “why do you ask, you imbecile?”. So maybe they were…
The scenery was familiar, as this is the final section of The Fling. It was full of ramblers, mainly German: ich habe keine Ahnung, what the heck they thought about all these runners with backpacks but no numbers. Were they in a race? Or just mad? If approaching a hiker I detected they were speaking English, I’d ask if I was heading the right way for Fort William, partly to see how aware of the race the wider public might be. Let’s put it this way: nobody said “no” and nobody said “why do you ask, you imbecile?”. So maybe they were…
For
all the glorious views, the sight that told me I was making decent progress was
that of a low underpass leading up to a steep climb. Mike and I were hoping to
run together from Aucthertyre, but rules dictated that this would be subject to me getting there at
least four hours after the leader had left. We both expected Paul Giblin to be
that person, and John Kynaston’s spreadsheet duly shows that Paul got there
4:33’ ahead of me – so Mike and I could jet off together! I was a mere 3:08’
behind the second runner to reach Auchtertyre, so Paul signing up for the race
a week out was no small mercy for me. Right Mike – let’s go!
Er…
Mike? Where are you? Mike? Sarah? Mr Wells? Mrs Wells? Anyone?
I got
to Auchtertyre and, er, chipped in – the 76th runner to do so,
gaining seven positions. Looked for my crew: nothing. Got myself weighed,
something I’d have to do there and at Kinlochleven so that I could be monitored
for excessive weight loss or gain: all good, but I needed to provide a card for
this to be captured. Sarah had my weight card. Sarah? Sarah?
I
carried along to the end of the stretch, hoping to see them. They were nowhere
to be seen, so I grabbed one of the two drop-bags I was carrying with me for
emergencies and pulled out my phone. Turned it on, went to call Mike… but he
beat me to it and called me.
He
was frantically apologetic. He’d just received a text from the timing system
telling him I’d reached Auchtertyre. The previous such text he’d received had
given him an ETA for me at Auchtertyre that was some fifty minutes or so later.
Presumably this had been based on my speed on the leg to Beinglas, from which
I’d reached Auchtertyre in the 74th fastest time: nothing
spectacular either way. Anyway: he got there, Sarah went off to get my card
filled in, I got my water bottles refilled – and we were off!
Well,
first I was introduced to Mr (Steve) and Mrs (Madeleine) Wells, Mike’s parents
who were joining my crew. Not usual circumstances to meet someone new, let
alone to thank them for traveling up from Nottingham to support my mad
endeavour: but then little about this whole caper was ever going to be usual. I
slowly hopped into gear and Mike and I got into our rhythm…
…but
one of us kept going on about what had just happened!
Of
course I was worried when Mike and Sarah were nowhere to be seen, but mainly
because I know Mike well enough for that to make me concerned that something’s
happened. And yes, it would have been nice for them to have been there rather
than delayed by a luscious burger at The Real Food Café. But, in the great
scheme of things, I wasn’t that fussed. I was the butt of a few jokes by other
crews, but nothing unbearable! Besides, even fifty miles into the race, I was
too overawed by their generosity of spirit in coming up to support me to
begrudge them a wee delay. But Mike… he wouldn’t shut up about it!
We
couldn’t turn back time: that was only ever going to crawl inexorably forward.
So we had to do what we could to make up at least some of those twelve minutes,
hopefully by running rather than crawling. Besides: a wee rest might have done
me good! My left knee was going to need to wake up again regardless of the
length of time for which I’d stopped running, so… Let’s go!
 |
| A beautiful sight. To the right. |
The
split to Bridge of Orchy wasn’t great but then I’d spent those first twelve minutes
waiting. What mattered was that I felt good. We left Bridge of Orchy
destination Glencoe Sky Centre, again with those first five minutes for my knee
to loosen up. And that’s where things took a turn for the…
…better.
I ran
the four miles into Glencoe at an average of 12’10”. Not quite my parkrun pace, but
very pleasing in the context of an ultra with sixty-six miles behind me. They
were undulating but fairly straight, with no obstacles to trouble my knee. I
passed quite a few runners, which suggested I was in good shape – and I felt
it.
We
didn’t hang around at Glencoe, hitting the road to Kinlochleven. By now our
mental arithmetic skills were in full flow, as we looked to establish the
feasibility of sub-24. Whatever the numbers, we knew that we didn’t know what
lie ahead. Devil’s Staircase, yes: but what exactly would that mean?
It
meant beauty, but certainly not speed. Not on the way up, not on the way down.
We got to Kinlochleven 20:08’ into the race, with fifteen miles left to go.
Fifteen miles at around fifteen minutes/mile would see us do it. Sounds so
simple, right? Right. Now – do you know what the miles leaving the Kinlochleven
CP look like?
. . .
Well,
we didn’t. We knew it was as urban an area as the WHW goes through, but soon
enough found ourselves walking up a trail. Yes, up. And yes, walking.
I
soon realised Mike and I had forgotten to throw on our tutus, but there was no
going back. It wasn’t a cruel climb, but it was a climb nonetheless. This
impacted more my mind than my legs, as, even when we got back into running
mode, I couldn’t motivate myself to bust a gut. Sub-24 was surely out of the
picture, so why not just plod on? It wasn’t the most even of trail to run
along, so my left leg wasn’t any more enthusiastic than the rest of me. I wasn’t
struggling, I just couldn’t an extra gear. Sometimes it’s just all in the mind.
Four steady
miles later, we redid our maths. Somehow 15’-miling would still see us creep
under a day, the difference being that the trail now allowed a clearer
semblance of rhythm. Mike offered to pace me; not wanting to find myself
wondering what might have been, and still feeling (relatively) strong, it’s an
offer I was only ever going to accept. I knew Mike would push faster than 15’,
although it turned out to only be around the 14’ mark: and let me tell you, it
felt a darn sight faster…
…for my
five mile from 86 to 91, I averaged 14’31”. Just like my mind was earlier stopping
me from finding an extra gear, as Mike and I aimed for a 10k and a parkrun to
see out the day my mind was stopping me from slowing down. That was the rocks’
job: white rocks of the immovable, stuck-in-the-ground-for-centuries type, where
you know there’ll only be one winner if you, the movable runner, try and take even
just one of them on. Mike and I were both in headtorch mode by now: and, what
with my track record in giving “fell running” a new meaning, I was grateful he
was ahead of me and advising when things were perilous.
We
were going really well, and, without stopping there, we’d been told at the
Lundavra CP that the finish was “six miles and a wee bit” away. Perfect . Then
came mile 91.
My Strava record will tell
you that mile 91 featured a 112ft descent. What it won’t show is that said
descent entailed steep steps and treacherous roots. The sight of that, combined
with the ignorance of how protracted it would be, was a blow to the heart. Was
this were the dream would finally end?
As it
happens, no – ‘twas not. It was a beggar of a section, but it was shorter than
I feared. Followed by a brief, anonymous section, Mike and I found ourselves
heading downhill. And it was set to be downhill all the way to the end. As my
quads allowed me to reach the dizzy heights of 12’-miling, the maths now spelt
out not so much that sub-24 was possible, rather that it would take a disaster
to miss out on it. Our mood changed again, rising further at the notion that
our giving it a go was paying dividends and that I was on course to achieve my
A goal. Sub-26 would still have been a time I’d have been happy with: but,
bombing it downhill, the dream was truly on.
We
reached the bottom on the descent, and were surprised not to see clear
directions to the Leisure Centre. We took a left along the main road, finding
ourselves in the dark in every sense of the word. He rang his dad to check
directions, and it seemed we were going the right way, although our reference
point of the cemetery didn’t ring any bells. We approached a camp site, at
which point Mike went to ask for directions as I ensured I didn’t seize up. As
he headed back to join me, having scared the living daylights out of a poor
soul in a car, he asked me a very simple question:
“Do
you want the good news or the bad news?”
“The
bad news”
“You’re
not going to get sub-24”
He’d
been told we were still around three miles from the finish. It turned out to be
nearer two: however, when you’re running at 12’/mi and you’ve around twelve
minutes to secure sub-24, that’s an infinity.
I
gave it what I had, eventually reaching the Leisure Centre in 24:07’46” and
crossing the line in what, by ultra standards, was a veritable sprint. I was
the 62nd runner to do so, clocking the 38th fastest time
on the final leg from Kinlochleven. I was still elated, just a little baffled.
Mike would solve the mystery two days later, realising that we’d taken a wrong
turning running down into Fort William… we’d stuck on the road we’d been on
round a hairpin bend rather than heading down a smaller lane right ahead. I
honestly can’t recall us even having a decision to make: but then we were two
Sassenachs at the feet of the West Highland Way. So for a brief section we
veered off the official course, which is why our WHW came to measure 96.1 miles.
Least mine did: Mike only ran 46.6!
 |
| Considering I've just run 95 miles, I don't look too bad. In fact, I've looked a lot worse without having run a single mile! |
Physically,
I felt surprisingly good at the end. I wasn’t disappointed with going over 24,
just baffled, not least because of what we’d been told at Lundavra. I had no
recollection of any doubt over the route, so it was only when Mike dropped me a
line on the Monday that the truth became clear: after all, this would not be
the first instances of a GPS mismatch, although one mile over “six and a wee
bit” is significant… As technically we veered off track, I’ve offered to return
my goblet: however, as we gained no advantage, the offer’s so far to be
accepted. Phew.
Talking
about declined offers, Sarah and Mike camped in my Premier Inn room, not
accepting my offer for the bed as they took to the floor. Now, on the one hand
that was a somewhat suboptimal arrangement: but, on the other, it summed up the
camaraderie of an experience shared, of a journey that might have my name on it
but that ultimately we overtook as a team, with Madeleine and Steve also
playing a major role. I was still buzzing so didn’t get the best of sleeps, and
when my endorphins and Mike’s snoring ganged up on me around 5:30 in the
morning I was never going to get much sleep. So what?
We
indulged in a full English before heading over to the Ben Nevis Centre for the
grad… sorry, the prize-giving ceremony. In my mind, it’s still a graduation
ceremony. That’s partly because of its structure, with the Head, Ian Beattie,
calling down his pupils from first to last, starting with Paul Giblin who’d
clocked a record time of 14:14’44” to win by over 148 minutes. When you’ve got
your head round that, please drop me a line: I’m still struggling. The
sixty-second student to be called up was Giacomo Squintani, who thus felt a
true Ultra runner. Sure, he’d previously completed races of 53 (The Fling, twice),
45 (Green Man) and 40 (HP40) miles: but this felt… different. This was… well,
proper long stuff.
. . .
Right:
now for three basic questions.
What worked?
Nutrition,
probably. I say ‘probably’ because I can’t tell you if other options would have
worked better: but my staple diet of pizza, pork pies and flapjack, with a
packet and a half of ShotBloks and one solitary gel, had had some positive
impact. But let’s not underestimate the Snickers bar, Dairy Milk biscuits and
Yorkie bar that I washed down with bottles of Coke: those were the ones that
gave me a tangible kick and helped get me into a good rhythm that outlasted the
sugar high.
I got
to Fort William without a single blister, so my Brooks Pure Grit had again seen
me in good stead. This
Compeed stuff may have helped, I don’t know: it certainly did no harm. And
that Avon So Soft stuff kept most of the midgies at bay, although I have felt
the souvenirs left by the rest of them more since getting home, not least on the
back of my calves. But that’ll teach me not to pull up the compression socks I’ve
bought specifically to protect myself from midgies, right?
Oh, and I loved my Ron Hill WHW shirt – the one I could buy without having to earn! Short sleeves all the way to Fort William!
Oh, and I loved my Ron Hill WHW shirt – the one I could buy without having to earn! Short sleeves all the way to Fort William!
What didn’t?
Dunno…
though I felt a reyt wassack getting to the end of WHW without knowing which
way to turn! Research, Squintani: research. And falling didn’t work. Never does.
Did I
feel epic, as some suggested I should have?No, not really. Because I work on
the basis that I am an ordinary guy, with no natural talent other than stubbornness.
So, if I can achieve something, it’s can be that big a deal. Sure, I’d sweated
my way through a lot of miles: but hey, if I can do something, anybody can. And
there was no real skill involved in the running, just time squeezed in around
life’s more important commitments: over sixty-eight hours for me in May, for
example. Right?
Right.
Now, that does assume that somebody puts in the training: you don’t just turn
up and run ninety-five miles of arduous trail. I didn’t, Paul Giblin didn’t and
none of the other one hundred and fifty-three finishers did. The journey we’d
shared had started way before 01:00am on June 20, 2015. We’d all had ups and
downs way before climbing up and down Conic Hill and all the other hills and glens
alongside the West Highland Way. And now there we were, gathered in the Ben
Nevis Centre, living proof that yes, ordinary people are capable of
extraordinary achievements. Me included.
A
special atmosphere pervaded that hall. Mike and I had commented at some point
on the previous day (sorry I can’t be more specific…) that the West Highland
Way Race had a different feel to it compared to The Fling. This was more
serious: not unreasonable, what with it being forty-two miles longer than an
already decent fifty-three miles. But, with the mud, sweat and tears now dealt
with, the sense of family that I’d heard so much about was now coming to life.
And there I was, about to collect my goblet, about to be accepted into the
family. I was like Steve van Zandt.
My
plan to get back to Glasgow Airport had broken down. To be precise, the car of the
person who’d offered to help me had. Which is a shame, as I was looking forward
to a chat with Josephine about how exactly her son managed to run this thing in
fourteen hours-summat. I was relieved that her car breaking down hadn’t
hampered her support efforts, mind! Ian Beattie, the race director, kindly shared
my plight when I went down for my goblet: that’s not me acknowledging the crowd’s
applause in Springsteen-like fashion in the photo below, that’s me raising my hand
looking for a lift!
As it turned out, the ceremony ended in time for me to catch a bus back to GLA. But I never did board it, because Tim and Muriel Downie offered me a ride in their camper van within a minute of the final round of applause. I was confident somebody would be able to help, but the speed at which Tim headed my way was symptomatic of that WHW family spirit. It also meant that I enjoyed a great conversation along the A82, occasionally looking to the left to spot the route from the previous day. It’s kind of odd to be looking out of a window two hours into a car journey knowing you’ve just covered that ground on foot… but then everything about running ninety-five miles is odd, I guess. To non-runners, anyway. We know it makes sense.
. . .
I don’t
think Mike noticed, but there were instances when I struggled to keep it
together on Sunday morning. I was far closer to breaking down in the Ben Nevis
Centre than I had been at any stage along The Way prior to that: and I fell on my
arse, ladies and gentlemen. But a thought had made its way from my mind to my
heart, and was pulling at my eyes.
I was
there because I’d managed to run ninety-five miles. I was there because I was
fit and healthy, occasional epileptic seizure notwithstanding. I was there: and
they weren’t.
My
brothers had helped carry me to Fort William throughout the entire journey, as
they have done at other moments in my life. I had thought about them at times during
the run, and I was now sat in the stand fighting back the tears. Because, in
true ultrarunner fashion, I knew that, if I started, I wasn’t going to stop. My
only chance was to not start at all.
And I
managed. I held it together. Saved myself a lot of explaining: you know, the
whole “my older brother was still-born, my younger brother died shortly after
being born” thing.
 |
| Blood brothers. In respective club colours. (Well, if nowt else it rhymes...) |
As
for thinking about my brothers during the run, the setting helped keep it
together. Especially during those last forty-six point six miles.
Because
there I was, on trails I’d never previously trodden, with a silence that held
me tight in what could be either a loving cuddle or a hurtful squeeze: it all
depended on how my foot would land next, on whether those dark clouds on
Rannoch Moor would settle down or move along. But the silence was equally
broken by the one human being I had for company: someone who’d given up their
weekend (and their fiancée’s, and their parents’) to join me for those last few…
well, forty-odd miles. Someone whose guidance had helped me get to the start,
let alone the finish.
Someone
who, as have many other great people in my life, has helped fill a void, or at least offer an alternative. None have had to be asked to
do so: whether by banging a drum or lacing up running shoes, grabbing a
tennis racket or straightening a Subbuteo figure, they just have. They’ve
helped me realise and rationalise that we all have our cross to carry, and
actually mine is lighter than most. It occasionally knocks me over (wee epileptic gag for you there!), but it
never stops me carrying on.
. . .
Thanks
Karen for giving up on asking why I had to run through the night. Thanks to all
my runner friends on Strava, Twitter and Facebook for their guidance and encouragement.
Thanks Tim, Simon and Stuart for parkrun. Thanks Ian, Sean, John and the rest
of the WHW Team for putting up such a great race and helping those tackling it
do so with the benefit of as much insight as can be gleaned indirectly. And
thanks Sarah, Madeleine and Steve for… I mean… why did you bother? What have I
ever done to deserve your support?
Thanks,
Brothers. Always. Because it’s never, ever just about the running.
. . .
Time
for one last question: will I be back?
Possibly,
yes. But not in any great hurry.
And
that’s not because I didn’t love it: I did, with every heartbeat. But the
logistics are a challenge: not just the getting to Scotland bit (there’s
EasyJet for that), but getting a crew together. I wouldn’t ask Mike & Co.
again: and no, that’s not because of Auchtertyre… that’s because the next time
he’s there for the WHW Race he should be running it! Would be delighted to
support him, but that wouldn’t be till 2018 anyway. Until then…
…well,
maybe I can discover other breathtaking corners of the British Isles via
running. Say the corner nearest to me, for example. You never know, there may be
an ultra going from the most westerly point of Great Britain to its most southerly.
It may be a shorter route (say 44 miles?), but that’s OK. Worth looking into, anyway.
. . .
Thanks
for getting to the end of my musings: it’s no mean feat! Oh, and in case you’re
wondering…
…I’m
still waiting for the good news. You know, from the campsite. It obviously wasn’t
that good. Or maybe my brain never recorded it. Would you blame me?
