Carnethy 5 Hill Race 13/02/10
Ten Years of Chasing the Holy Grail
Photo Danielle GlendinningThe Carnethy 5 is an amazing race. However that does not make it a good race. The contradiction for me falls between the amazing organisation and popularity on one side, and frankly the desperation endured at various points round the course on the other.
This year was my tenth Carnethy. I've done it more than any other race – probably twice as many times as any other race, yet I never come away with a sense of achievement, nor sometimes even really much enjoyment. I much prefer the likes of last week's Forfar Half despite that one being longer and in some ways more intrepid and taxing. All this week my sense of dread has been growing as I approached my tenth consecutive thrash round this Pentlands 6 miler. I think because the possibility of doing badly is greater than the possibility of doing something special. Trying to analyse the reason for this, I came up with the theory that for two thirds of the race I am struggling up hills, and as this is the least successful part of my campaign I am always going to feel challenged by the course. Richie C – whose preference is for ascents and endurance (my diametrical opposite) always takes minutes off me here – yet last week I reversed that trend at Forfar. Which pretty much boils down to “horses for courses” and is the reason I don't run the Lasswade 10 miler or the Jedburgh Half. There's only so much swimming against the tide I enjoy. And Carnethy is right on the dividing line.
My first, in 2001, I did in 72½ minutes. Shaving increments off most years I had whittled it down to a pb in 2008 of 61.45 and for the first time, the sub-60 holy grail felt within reach. If all the elements were in place it should be possible – just – to do 59.59. Last year I maybe had the fitness but deep snow added a handful of minutes to everyone's time and although I ran a highest-place-ever it was past 63 o'clock when I flopped over the line.
Johnny had a tremendous first attempt.So why do I bother? Since my first Carnethy I have got to know so many of the folk on that 2001 results list (incl. Porties: Willie Jarvie at 65 minutes (2 places and one second ahead of Chris Upson,) Graham Henry U/A as I was then, Paul Eunson, still going strong and present for 2010 as was Tony Stapley – just 3 minutes behind me back then!) As well as the extended family of runners who nod acknowledgement as we pick up numbers and mill around in the Beeslack School before getting on board the buses to the hills. There's just too many good folk there to resist.
However before I get misty eyed about all my boyfriends and girlfriends there is the matter of that hellish course and being put through the 60 minute mangle. Despite my conflicting feelings about the race I made sure all the small stuff was in place – it wouldn't do to cross the line in 60.02 because of wearing the wrong kit or because breakfast was late. I got my go-faster haircut earlier in the week and made sure every possible advantage was in place. And I knew I would race the first ¼ mile like my life depended upon it in order to pre-empt the log-jam at the first gate.
The weather was relatively mild. Everything was falling into place for the Big Number Ten. Leaving Edinburgh (thanks to Rachel for the lift) the sun was shining and there was no wind. However this has been the case in the past then by the time you get to that monstrous field its like March of the Penguins.
Ronnie - with me in the background“So” I hear you say, “why don't you just train harder then run faster, fatty?” There was one year when I spent far too much of the winter doing Carnethy specific training: meeting at the bottom of the Radical Rd on Tuesday evenings and chasing Ronnie Gallagher and Phil Davies round loops of that life shortening circuit. (In the way a glacier chases mountain goats.) (I'm exaggerating for the sake of exaggeration.) I think that was one of the Carnethies I actually got slower.
After warming up I decided to run in only a couple of vests – no Helly Hansen long sleeve. Death or Glory. I started near Johnny. I neglected to underline the importance of a quick getaway to him as I felt since he had done such an outstanding job the previous week (6th place at the hilly Gala XC) he didn't require any coaching. I had little doubt he would come past in the race and Alex had even less, helpfully suggesting I give Johnny the camera so he could take everyone's picture as they came in behind.
The gun went. One year I'd just love to watch and take photos of the stampede as 500 dash through a swamp. Last year Derek Jablonski was telling me he fell and got trampled in the melee; fearing his little finger was broken after being stomped. So quite important to watch your footing over the treacherous ground with deep grooves of stream and swamp and plenty brown swill while everyone jostles for the best line. I was full of caffeine drink and flew over all this noting Don Naylor (56.10) only then cruising past as we climbed the rise to the logjam. (Mind you he was chatting, I was sucking like a Dyson.)
The course had a detour from normal to avoid spoiling a new fence and we ran onwards up the path for a few hundred before a drop left through some tussocky heather and out a gate, then up a steep climb towards the usual route. I felt it could have been slightly slower than usual and braced myself for a slow time-check at the summit of Scald Law. After a long haul upward during which there was much mild torment and unpleasantness the steepness is behind and you turn round the trig point. Briefest glance at the watch. Usual is 17 ~ 18.45. I see 16.49 and I have completed the first rotation of the sub60 wringer. My heart pounds. I don't have any memories of the next easier section to South Black Hill except to try to run, not walk up the little hill before turning and blasting down the single track to East Kip. I make ground on Greig G a Bella Heb3-buddy who left me standing going up the first hill. He is strong on the ups but as every up on this route is followed by a down I suspect I will prevail.
This was just after Carnethy summit and between there and the finish line I took 2 minutes off 205. Photo SHRAlthough I zoom past on one of the next few descents we spend the rest of the race within places of each other. Topping out on West Kip the marshals advise caution. However as Martin Laing has just thrown himself off at terminal velocity I also ignore the advice. I catch Martin through the gate at the bottom and steady myself for the best running of the route on fast paths down to the Howe. I am enjoying this (I always make a couple of places here) and feeling good until Martin, Craig Love (Dundee HH) and a thin guy come hurtling past down the steep rough ground where I bumslid on snow last year. I resist the urge to sit down on the steep grass and goaded on, bumble down to the flat ground along to the white house and the last huge ascent. Imagine climbing stairs at full pelt for 15 minutes after 37 minutes sprinting. To keep the motivation going I try to shadow Martin and I think we managed to get past one or 2 who were flagging. Just then Johnny appears and tells me its his first and last hillrace. I know exactly what he means. This isn't good fun, this isn't even running. Just self abuse. I am blowing too hard to speak. Martin complains we're outnumbering him so Johnny gives us some space by moving up twenty yards then by the top of Carnethy out to about 100 yards ahead. I wonder if I have what it takes to turn another crank of the 60 minute mangle. I was 50 minutes to the shoulder of Carnethy and it seemed unthinkable to get up the last 2 minutes worth then down and across the swamp in less than 8. I forget to check my watch at the top as the ground requires careful study with steep drops and tired legs. I note the lines Martin is taking (running just to the side of the last of the hard packed ice) and try to match his outrageous speed. I am just yards behind as the marshal turns us off the ridge into the steep heather descent. I catch a couple of lucky rabbit runs and after zipping down a snow patch (realising they are very fast,) aim for more.
This year's route off Carnethy Hill down snow and scree.We were hurtling at such breakneck speed I wasn't sure if I was ahead or behind though I did notice we both shot past Johnny. Martin was first through the gate and I sneaked a lightening peak at my watch. Usually at this point it says 60blah and the game's over. Today it read 57.57 and I got a massive surge. I'd never timed myself over the swamp but surely I could do it in 2 minutes? Martin, (who ran 54.09 for 19th in 2001) must have thought I'd shaken something loose as I hurpled past making all manner of gasping noises. I was giving it 100% knowing that if I missed the one hour it wouldn't be from slacking. I picked a careful route across the minefield of soggy bog and tried to measure my steps as efficiently as possible. This was the best shot in ten years and hey maybe if I nailed it I could retire from this dreadful business. I was so near to death I had no feeling for time passing and so it was a complete surprise when I finally jumped the last watery hurdle, pulled up the final incline to the finish and put off my timer at.....
60.16! I roared an involuntary brown word and looked so aggrieved that Steven Fallon (57.19) asked was I okay. I hurrumphed over to my clothes and got changed. My black mood didn't last too long as the backwash of runners-high flooded my bloodstream, and I focussed on the quality of runners behind rather than in front, always a restorative viewpoint. (Having said that, Aidy Davis and TV's Des Crowe were only just seconds ahead, which is pretty good company.)
Greig cheered me up loads – he had been on my heels to Carnethy summit before losing ground on the steep descent and then on the way across the mire had taken a headlong dive into the black soup. He was good enough to pose for photos and I remembered why I turn out for this malarky. Its not (just) about the winning. And probably yes, I will be back. Chasing the hour.
Doesn't make it a good race though.
Report and photos PB. Many thanks to the very impressive army of helpers and organisers who make this logistic nightmare of 500 cold runners running 3,000 hilly miles for 500 hot school dinners and the bus rides from one to the other as painless (and great value) as possible. Keep up the good work for those ungrateful punters who come along year after year and do nothing but complain.
Other photos Danielle Glendinning and Scottish Hill Runners
Results hereHere is Johnny's impressionist painting of the event with photos and film from a friend spectating....
Lets start at he beginning by rewinding back to mid when my fellow band of runners and I recce’d the Carnethy 5. The conditions back then and ensuing battle that awaited us that morning were perhaps more akin to those that the great explorer Ernest Shackleton faced at Antarctica. Ok, the Pentland hills are no match for the windiest and coldest continent on earth but they weren’t no walk in the park run either and to have the imagination stretched by such an idea that it never again regains it’s former proportions is what gives me the determination and enduring spirit to complete and even enjoy such endeavours. So fast forward to the start line of this years race I was immediately transported back, this time to 1297 and the battle of Stirling bridge; where the frozen tundra of January had given way to boggy moor land and naked hillside attempting to cover it’s dignity with swathes of burnt out heather and random patches of frozen snow. The battle re-enactment was in place; the warriors of that day with their medieval swords and renaissance clothing had been replaced with hi-tech (some might say and believe go-faster) clothing. But what had not changed was the archetypal Scottish complexion of pasty white skin on show, that I could deal with, even lobster red and steel blue but should I return with stygian black fingers and toes due to a self diagnosed condition of winter onset peripheral arthritis then I might be a little more than bothered. But what of the auld enemy? Well, that was taken care of with the tying of one Rachel Berry’s shoe laces and if that distraction failed then there was the half tonne rock fresh from Hadrian’s wall placed in her bum bag (does my bum look big in this?). So the starter pistol fires and we are now in the equivalent of a present day grand national, only I felt like a jockey lest at the start without a horse. One would think that having recently forayed into the world of XC I would have been a little more wiser and save as to the need to get to the front of the rampaging hoard from the off but no, I was left wanting and waiting at the traps like a greyhound more interested in chasing a stick than a lure. I soon found myself shift into second gear before resorting to a pace reminiscent of the highly lauded sherpa on a summit to mount Everest due to being stuck in a long line of runners (some might say walkers with running gear on) up a single track which reminded me of a pilgrimage to Mecca I have never made.
crossing the swamp at the start
the leaders reach the first gateCrossing a burn/bog/quicksand to begin the first hill ascent before Scald law proper my right foot became detached from it’s shoe like a retina might become detached from the choroid after suffering a violent blow to the head. “Don’t make me a target” I screamed from within as the hoards continued to rampage towards me threatening to send my sunken shoe further into the depths only made only retrievable by archaeologists in 5 score years. Rescued but due to the ineptness of my already numb fingers I was left to squeeze my shoe on like that of one of the ugly sisters and the glass slipper, but it was on and I was off on my merry way, and merry it was for I had only just begun the first ascent when looking at the leading pack with bewilderment I was instantly reminded of Dr R. Berry’s 2008 seminal work entitled “ The true origin of species: an anthropological phenomenon at Tinto Hill”. Yes, that’s right reader, Darwin got it all wrong, Tinto Hill was where it all began, and now The Pentland Hills was the site where the species was evolving from primordial being to something mirroring that of King “I’m the king of the swingers” Louie. Immediately I spun on my axis as quick as the earth might to avoid an incoming and catastrophic meteorite to search for the Good Dr to witness and document this phenomenon as a credible witness but alas she was nowhere to be seen but was soon reliably informed that she was further down the line studying perhaps a greater evolutionary cycle of that from salamander to fully develop homespun. So it was left to me to sing within… Oh, oobee doo I wanna be like you I wanna walk like you (and I was, the gait adopted, the knuckles almost, but not quite scraping the burnt heather roots; you should have seen long arm Rachel’s, like she had been in a bare knuckled fist fight …ha!) I wanna talk like you (and I was, grunting and other ape like noises), too, you'll see it's true an ape like me Can learn to be human too. Whatever gets you by. Right? The rest of the race was mostly spent chasing my arch nemesis Peter Buchanan who I trailed for the best part of the race until climbing (yeah, that’s right, where was all the running eh?) the gully south of the Howe where I managed to overtake him after a gentlemanly exchange of words on the local geology, flora and fauna, after all we were running on reserves of oxygen at this time so what better way to use it. So it was my brain was becoming depleted of oxygen (obviously altitude sickness) and although my legs were still driving me forward with some unknown strength I was becoming weak of mind but perhaps more damaging weaker of heart, which only adds credence to the debate that the mind rules the heart and when the former lets the latter down at a race of this nature or any other race for that matter is it time to spit the dummy out? Hell no, a kick up the back side from an older but more mentally tuned runner to the right frequency was what it took to give me that momentum to glide up Carnethy hill, the last ascent to glory and a sub 1hr time. But if I am a mountain goat on the climbs then I am the pail that never came tumbling down the hill after Jack and Jill for Peter stormed past me like I never existed. A desperate dash back across the battlefield to the finish line (followed not long after by a flaming hot Rachel and a rampaging Tony the tiger…what a team!!!) was not enough to catch Peter and his fantastic personal best, nor was it enough to record sub 1hr. Still, when all is said and ran and the racing demons outrun if not the leading pack then I guess a pretty good day’s work was done. Would I do this race again? I’d have to be crazy not to, but being a little of the grid helps. Another race report? Now that is crazy!
kick off
