The Highland Fling – 53 miles of West Highland Way, 24/04/10
53 miles is about 20 more than I've ever run or wished to run but Mary managed to persuade me to enter this race after Ben and Richard gave it hearty recommendations. Its a monster that requires considerable training and great restraint of pace at the outset and the terrain covers just about every texture and surface-type that Scotland offers.
Essential equipmentTraining went very well and I began to relish the long runs down the off-road paths to North Berwick over the sand dunes of Aberlady and Gullane. The secret seemed to be about going slowly, eating regularly and enjoying the journey rather than trying to race to a finish. Carrying a camera and recording the process also became integral; to the point that it was unthinkable to run the Fling without a camera. I tried to get hold of a Nathan HPL 020 hydration vest to carry gear and fluid but got no results from many websites including Nathan. So I reluctantly filled a Hilly bottle-and-bum-bag waist belt with juice bottle and stuffed the pockets with waterproof jacket and cereal bars. Four drop bag zones along the way help keep carried food and drink to a minimum. Richard and Ben had talked up the organisation of this event and it lived up to the hype. Just brilliant from start to finish.
Mary had planned we drive, on Friday, to Tyndrum, where the race finished, leave the car and train it down to Milngavie (of the lost consonants) where the race started. After an anonymous Friday night in the Premier Inn, Mary switched on the lights at 3.41am, which did not cheer me up one bit. We ate the breakfasts we had brought and were on the street just after 5. Women and older guys were set off at 6am, MV40s at 7, senior men 8. My feelings were I'd rather the plodders were set off earlier, and the rest of us all at the same time – I was a bit hacked off not to be starting with Ben as I felt the first miles would fly past while we chatted and got settled. However Graham unexpectedly turned up which may well have been the best thing possible for my race.
Drop bags
Graham with pork pieAfter waving off the women and older men we hung around for an hour trying to keep warm. Nobody was jogging or doing strides the way they might if it was a 20 miler. We put our drop bags in the vehicles (Julia and Andrew were doing the Rowardennan aid station) and shuffled around in the misty grey morning until being set off in a relaxed and informal way under the Milgavie underpass from which the WHW race also sets off. How do you start a 53 mile run? Slowly.
Graham and I set off in the top ten or thereabouts, although I stopped within the first few minutes to photograph the large arch off the pedestrian mall marking the beginning of the WHW. I quickly caught up with Graham and we jogged steadily on the dirt paths heading away from Glasgow. I had never managed to recce the route and was surprised by the twists and turns and possibility of going wrong right from the first mile. Although most junctions seemed to be marked by a logo-ed fence post it would be pretty easy to go off route if not paying attention. Graham steered us well and we chatted away the first 10 miles not rising to the bait of being overtaken by a large group of fellow mv40s who had been closing us down for a mile or 2. Again the atmosphere, particularly at this point was friendly and encouraging. In a shorter event you would be keenly aware of the competition and reluctant to let a group slide by without jumping on the bus.
Conic Hill - upLots of tarmac, field crossings, gates and dirt trails. Interesting to note all the different kit approaches: from folk carrying rucksacks full of lord-only-knows to those in vest and shorts with maybe just a hand held bottle. Didn't see any Nathan HPL 020s! (though Lucy was wearing a European version.) My waist belt felt very heavy and I would have rather had the weight on my shoulders. Towards each aid station I would empty the bottle and I'd feel less weighed down until it was re-filled. At Drymen we crossed the road, a small crowd cheered and then we were off into obscurity again.
Conic Hill - downThe first big landmark was Conic Hill which we climb half way up then skirt round the backside of, to drop down to the shores of Loch Lomond. It was a pretty big hill and Graham had us tackle the rocky paths with vigour. I stopped a few times to take snaps and a fellow competitor offered to take my photo. I was about to say not to bother then thought why not and she took my picture. Larking around like this took the pressure off and I didn't really start to race until after Inversnaid (35miles). I was cautious on the descent off Conic Hill (in road shoes) as last year Graham had a heavy fall and didn't manage to remove all of the offending thistle until some time hence. All this took its toll and I arrived in Balmaha a bit dopey. I realised this when I couldn't remember my number to retrieve my drop bag. Sorted that out and scoffed some sports bars, filled bottles then set off over 8 miles of pretty bays and ferny rooty paths through the pines to Rowardennan. As the protein bar kicked in and the sun tried to break through the low cloud my spirits lifted. Beautiful winding paths began to take away my worries about how quickly I was deteriorating. Rowardennan marks about half way and I was reluctant to admit just how knackered I was. However you can't cover 27 miles without a bit of wilting at the edges.
Halfway there. (My watch reads 4hrs26 on the original photo - taken by Julia)Andrew welcomed us into the aid stop and directed us towards Julia who pointed us to our drop bags and took a photo. As I opened my bag I had a moment of rising nausea, not sure if I was about to sneeze, vomit or shit. It passed quickly and I pretended not to be concerned. The lady who took my photo on Conic Hill said her second attempt had been marred by constant puking and she was nearly timed out. Neither Graham nor I had had an easy week's work and its just that sort of prep and a lack of sleep that can set off a downward spiral. I think I did another couple of sports bars and more sports drink while witnessing Graham demolish a Muller Rice with a filthy hand; like a bear at a picnic. I asked Julia about Mary's progress and learned she was about 15 minutes ahead and going fine. I reckoned we would catch her about Inversnaid.
Graham felt this race would be about perfect if the finish line were at Inversnaid – 35 miles in and just before the loch-side path deteriorates into a twisting, shambolic, tripping, scramble that makes progress tricky. His plan was to slow from that point onwards as he hadn't really trained enough. He would get me to there then like a Saturn 5 rocket boost me onwards while he dropped away. Sure enough the last few miles before Inversnaid he picked up the pace on the single track and began a frenzied attack on the rocky rooty dirt trail dodging and bombing along picking off fellow runners as we went. Up ahead I spotted a bright red top and called out to Mary, pleased she was going well. We overtook her and after a bit of chat headed on to Inversnaid which largely seemed to be a waterfall with an up-market hotel outside of which a bunch of greasy runners had their faces in nose bags chomping down carbs like they hadn't eaten for a week. I asked about toilet facilities and was directed into the poshest hotel I have probably ever been in. It was so posh the immaculate receptionist managed not to show any disdain as this sweaty old bloke in shorts who looked a bit sunburnt and delirious rushed in to deposit something unspeakable in their pristine rest room.
In this drop bag today's first secret weapon – a marmite and honey sandwich. Perfect blend of sugars and salts and although I had my reservations while building it the other night it absolutely hit the spot. Mary had appeared while I was indoors so we now had a mini Porty picnic in the sunshine and things began to look up. Maybe we could get through this thing? We set off again with light hearts and pretty quickly the path deteriorated and we were jogging single file and larking about. Someone came up behind going fast and I called out “watch out – proper runner coming through.” Graham had been insisting I take off, and feeling the boost from my rest break and food (and the first of my high caffeine supplements) I reluctantly agreed to wave bye bye to M and G and light the turbo. I quickly began to relish the challenge of the gnarly trail with jumps, drops and sharp turns and shortly I found myself 2 steps behind the proper runner. Not sure how long that went on for, (2 minutes / 10 minutes?) as I was just playing a follow the leader video game where you had to lift your feet high enough or you would trip and die. He stepped to one side and waved me through. At first I didn't understand and said I was rather enjoying following his pace. Then I thought he might not be enjoying my proximity like I was hounding him, so I added that I'd take a turn setting the pace. I carried on about the same lick. Never saw him again.
Then the path became really treacherous. The steep rock was slick from last nights rain and at one point I put the camera away for safety as I had to scramble down some nasty slithery drops. My thoughts went out to the more senior of today's competitors and how on earth they would cope on legs that had already covered 36 arduous miles. I had thought “technical” was going to be like the Lairig Ghru but this was like a coastal scramble rather than a run. And it went on and on. Every now and then I would look up from the trail to see if the end of Loch Lomond loomed, as it would shortly before Beinglas, the final drop zone. Usually the answer was NO lots more Loch to go. Dougal of Bella scorched past reassuring me he was part of the relay team. Miles and miles of shoreline round the next headland then some more. After many very sweaty miles jiving and hopping to a lively beat there was an ending of sorts and the path suddenly flattened out with swampy ground and possibly planking or was that later. Its a nine and a half hour film with little change of pace so forgive me if I forget the exact sequence. In fact a lot of the race I didn't really know how far we'd come and how far was left to go. I thought I'd learned the names and distances but the running effort had shoogled the map details about in my head until I was just spaced out, knowing we'd come a fair bit and had a fair bit to go. (Couldn't be bothered fishing out the miniature folded laminate I was carrying.) Too much fine tuning and you might go nuts with the knowledge. After all here we were not yet 40 miles in the bag at which point you'd have a bite to eat then kick off for a pretty full-on half marathon. (The “half” distance might be a tad short but the difficulty of the ground meant Greig of Bella who can knock out a 1.16 half took 1.28 to run this section of the relay on fresh legs.) On reflection I was pleased I had neither recce-d any of the route nor had any previous knowledge of what lay ahead. It might have stomped all over my confidence.
I mentioned how pleased I was to have finished the nasty bit to a guy coming up behind. Marco (an 8am starter who had set off an hour after me and was to finish 2nd senior overall) replied that the next section was also tough, which didn't cheer me up. However I found after the rock hopping torture I made quite good ground over the rising trail and overtook a steady flow of 6am starters. After a while the long slow climbs lost their novelty and I fell in behind an older guy whose previous experiences predicted our finishes at 11 and 10 hrs. He also ushered me onwards when I was quite happy just falling in behind. We chatted for a bit then I moved on, interested to see if I could beat 10hrs. Although I felt no pressure to do any particular time, I had noticed (last year) Ben did just under 9hrs and Richard, just over 10. I refined my likely arrival to be in the order of 9.35 but that was if there were no problems – and it seemed less and less likely it would be problem-free as things went on.
After loads more miles and stiffening legs we came to Beinglas Farm checkpoint and bag drop. The small funny buildings/caravans/wigwams add to the unreality and I was having something of a wobble as I got my drop bag, beeped in the timing chip and worked out what would sicken me least to force down my throat. I was well tired of sweety sports bars so took one for my waist belt, filled my bottle and was just finishing off a caffeine drink when a voice from behind startled me. It was Ben Kemp and he hurtled through the station grabbing a couple of things a mouthful of scran and headed past while I spun in his turbulence. I barely had a chance to utter a couple of swear words at him and get my camera out to catch a snap of his back disappearing over the next hill. I went from thinking things were progressing nicely to utterly flattened in those moments. He had made up an hour and was leaving me in his dust. Holy Moly!
Ben's back over the hill.Pulling myself together I set off thinking perhaps I should be a bit more focussed. As the caffeine worked its restorative magic I began to feel better and forged on, running hills others were walking. After a short while I saw a white top a couple of bends away and yes it was Ben. He seemed to be getting closer. Another while (2 minutes / 10 minutes?) and I reeled him in making some comment about rushing to track him down to pay his annual subs. He was going well but having to focus to keep the pace. He had an idea he was well up the field and so not treating the whole thing with the sort of levity I was. We chatted for a bit but he seemed to go through a bit of a trough so I moved on ahead, enjoying going past quite a few more runners, a lot of whom seemed to be wilting in the warm afternoon. The sunshine was doing me a power of good and I felt invigorated by its rays. I went past a small group one of whom said my name and I recognised as Andy from Bella, a better runner than myself. Usually. That was the first moment I thought I might be doing quite well.
I occasionally looked behind to see if I was keeping my lead over the folk I was going past. I saw a white vest catching me up but it was only when it got to about 100 yards I recognised Ben again. I called out some abuse but didn't get an answer, wondering if I had abused a stranger (oops). No it was Ben and when he at last drew level I put the camera on movie mode and interviewed him. He bluntly said he couldn't speak much. Fair enough! He caught me just after the cows. Thirty highland cattle standing in ankle deep mud and cow flop. Right in the path, there is no path; its just wade through the cow flop mud. For the first 6 hrs of the day I avoided dirt and puddles to keep socks dry and avoid blisters. For a while I wasn't bothered but after the mud I hit every puddle and stream to the finish line: partly to wash the mud out partly to cool my baked chapati feet. (No blisters(!) but my index toe and the one next door on both feet have been tapped end-on a million times with a light ball-peen hammer.)
I asked Ben how far to go – “seven miles.” Then after some thought, “no, six.” You couldn't make that four could you? I was now keeping up with Ben which was okay until you have a slump then its like everything aches. The muscles over the top of my rib cage go tight (is that a heart attack starting?) I sweat and I know my stupid sunbaked face is throwing a whitey, then slowly that fades until you put a foot wrong trying to skip a rock and a jolt throws a cramp snaking up my inner thigh. So how long can this all go on for? Well quite some time.
Just in case anyone is enjoying the last few miles the route viciously climbs into a forest and choses the most unlikely combination of near vertical ascents and descents. I have climbed onto Kemp's back when he wasn't looking and am riding him through this hideous pine wood. He says there is a waterfall up ahead where we can get a drink. I realise my tongue has been wood for the last 5 miles and a drink is all I can think about. Ages later we fill our bottles and charge past yet more runners. Crikey its all getting a bit competitive. I had adopted a policy of saying Hiya to all as I passed. I tried a Good Afternoon once but couldn't carry it off and it came out sarcastically. Ben modulates between hi's and silence. (Some of these folk are his competition. They mostly seem to be too young to be in my age group and are therefore an hour ahead of me. We are all in a merry dance with our own demons and only the females are saying well done as we thrash past.) As this is all being witnessed by a blown fuse box through a red misty wall of sunstroke none of these details are in any way correct or accurate.
After far far too much we drop down to a farm and again the needle is into the red along the flat road. Surely we get to stop soon? NO. Along some more off-roady trails and a big loud hello to Davie Duncan who I spoke to a lifetime ago back at the start line both of us first timers and a bit nervous in the cold morning air. He looks shagged. We storm past and with too much bravado I charge down to a stream bed and up the other side where the cramps nail me to the ground. Ben asks my permission to continue as I wrestle the vice grip from the top of my leg. I tell him to run on and after 30 seconds I slowly limp back up to cruising pace. I realise the danger of complacency and try to stay alert for what must be the last mile or two. No more upsets please. I try to run smoothly and keep my eyes peeled for the fence post markers that lead, eventually, to the promise of cold beers. Suddenly I am on the small road that leads round to Tyndrum Station where yesterday we stood in the rain for the 1.15. Where is the Run and Become arch and the finishing line? I shout at random strangers who point to the small trail across a stream where in the distance a piper pipes. That'll be the finish. But no its yet another bend and finally there's the free beers, the complimentary stovies, the goody bag with the tech t shirt, the bottle of fizzy blanc de blancs, the free meal voucher, the medal and another free beer and you made it in one piece, the longest run ever and when you pass under the Run and Become arch you have very nearly, quite possibly, actually, Run and BECOME.
Are we there yet?
I'd like to thank the sponsors...Epilogue: my legs were more tied up after (and during) the 2 Breweries, I've picked up worse injuries in the hills, I felt worse during the last five miles of the Lairig Ghru and I've finished way lower down the field in many races. Hell, most races. I came 17th which I'm very pleased about and it didn't kill me which seemed to be a serious possibility along the way. I haven't yet said “never again” (which I said for the last five miles of the Lairig Ghru and most road marathons,) nor have I seen the light and converted to l-o-n-g. I imagined it would be worse (walking from mile 30 with crawl breaks) but really there were enough bad moments for me not to think the Big One (the full 95 WHW) would be something to entertain. I can see how the length supposedly adds depth and how a day out could easily be confused with a pilgrimage, a near religious encounter.
(Thanks to Glendinnings for photo.)I think if I chiselled away at it I could take 30 minutes off that Fling-time (9.31) but doing things like abandoning the camera, having shorter breaks and raising the pace could just as easily add an hour or two as save 30 minutes. (Ask Richie who was bookies favourite to win with his 190 mile training week who sadly crashed and burned somewhere along the way.) And it might remove all the good stuff, the chatting, the laughing, the views and the joy from the process. Mind you Ben did seem happy with third senior and 8.29 when at last I interviewed him. An exceptional performance especially when considering his whistle stop tour: dashing up from London where he now lives arriving Friday night and heading back Saturday after the race. Says he might even find time soon to pay his subs.
Report and photos pb
Additional photos Andrew and Julia, more on way
Website and results here.
Mary's Blog
Mary approaching the finish.
Well done Robert.
John who reported a trip downhill to the local shop next day was ouch ouch ouch.
Mary displaying her corpse feet - "the last time I saw feet like that" says Ian in blue, "they were in Silent Witness."
More damage limitation.
Just one wee ashtray between 4 Bellas. Ultra legend Jez Bragg second left awards second team relay prize.
Ben gets an ashtray to himself.
The real prize is getting to eat 2 breakfasts next day.Graham's report...
"They’ll Be Singing, They’ll Be Dancing, They’ll Be Highland Flinging"
The Highland Fling Race. What is this? 53 miles to get to know others, yersel and end up laughing yer head aff for days after. Aye, I have never stopped pissing myself laughing since finishing except when the Australian Keith Hughes picked up my rucksack at Tyndrum in error and I thought I was stranded. Nae money, spare car keys in Selkirk, thankfully my bag reappeared just before the 7 o'clock bus departed so no damage done. Then we had the Rochdale Bigot and things got even funnier. Big Gord is usually in Berkshire looking for his ancestors. Rochdale is the late Cyril Smith’s patch. He filled it well. They were the days.
The first time I came aware of the Highland Fling in a sporting context was in 1982 when one of Scotland’s Great Athlete’s Jocky Wilson became World Darts Champion.
Sid Waddell the Geordie commentator was giving it everything as he screamed out the title to this report when Jocky became world champ. I got drunk then took 3 attempts to get onto the bus hame and got a half fare – what a day. In honour of Jocky I had a pork pie before the start and one at the last drinks station. Jocky is a Legend and the Fling Race is developing a character of it’s own with Ellen and Murdo at the helm. I only entered the race the day before due to a combination of factors with Volcanic Eruption being one. Jocky has had a few them. He was married to an Argentinan lady called Malvina which means Falklands in Argentina and in 1982 when winning the title banjoed an official who was giving a bit of abuse about his wife. He was banned for a while. Jocky never brushed his teeth because his granny told him the English poisioned the water. Lost all his teeth by 28 and never wore his £1200 dentures as they made him belch. What has this got to do with the Highland Fling Race, well it is all these funny stories of life that I think of when running. That is how I survive it. You have got to be positive, even if you are hurting badly think of something funny. The Fling is good in a bad way.
Arriving at Balmaha
RowardennanAs a club we had a fantastic day. Ben Kemp came back to the greatest country in the world to finish 4th. Great to see such dedication: a long drive from the London area did not affect his performance. Peter Buchanan was 17th for a first time effort at the distance and course was an outstanding effort. Mary Hunter first PRC lady ever at the distance and great time. John Pickard and Robert Kinnaird first timers both finished so we got there. I managed a PB due to PB keeping me going to Inversnaid. Thanks very much.
At the finish.Big thanks to all the marshalls the organisation was spot-on and Julia ex Porty gave me a bit of her banana loaf before the start. Aye, bananas always remind me of politicians. They hang around in bunches, they are yellow and there is not a straight one amongst them. Julia and Andrew were up at 0400hrs to pick the scran bags up for Rowarndenen so shows what is required to put this great show on. I will enter next year early, under the correct name and not be doing building work until 1930hrs the night before. Got the call from Ellen at 1940hrs that I was in the race. Nae kit, food etc ready. What to do in that situation is to calm down to a panic. Up to the Coop and the doughnuts were 30p for 5 and pork pies reduced so nae problem. I think I got a club record for most food consumed in a race. 5 doughnuts, 10 slice of bread with peanut butter, 5 packet of crisps, muller rice, banana loaf (just a slice Julia) slice of cake and at the end we got a bottle of beer and a huge plate of stovies. Great day, great weather, great organisation, great runners. Get in there!
Vive Highland Fling, PRC, Ecosse. Ya Bass
Report Graham HenryForgot to mention Lucy was first woman, though it would have been more of a turn up if she wasn't despite her being off form recently.
some photos from Julia and Andrew and also the official photographer Oliver Coats whose cover shot currently gracing his website front page is a rather splendid shot of Graham...
Mary coming into Balmaha.
Richie - last seen alive towards Beinglas
Ben at the start
Mary coming into Rowardennan
JP at Rowardennan
Back to the official photographer - I am shouting Poaaaartobello...
while Ben does the charleston
about 10 miles to go
another sporting legend
