Ben Nevis Hill Race 1/09/07
Ben Nevis Hill Race or The Ben as it is known, is the London Marathon of Scottish hill running. Always over subscribed, its 500 places sold out even more quickly this year following a feature on tv. Like its road running equivalent it is well worth trying at least once to see if it appeals, but it won't suit everyone.
Hill races tend to be very relaxed affairs - turn up 10 minutes before the start and pay a couple of quid to a person in a tent who doesn't have a megaphone and starts the race by saying go. The Ben has lost that small scale charm and the officials wanted to see ID when we registered (our registration cards hadn't turned up in the mail) before passing out cards that have to be filled in and carried throughout the race along with rain gear, hat and gloves, and a whistle and the numbered token you carry to the summit and hand to the marshals there. Any talk of exchanging numbers would result in a lifetime ban and a long long sit on the naughty step.
The day was a mixed bag of opposites - both good and bad experiences. The changing area was a bit cramped and the toilet I used was disgraceful, but the showers afterwards were excellent. General organisation was good, if strict, and marshals deserved medals for being up that big grey hill in dismal weather. Lots of bagpipes if you like that kind of thing. (Just the other day I was concentrating on not scooping up tourists onto my handlebars going along Princes Street when I heard a piper near the station. Approaching, I realised it was a police siren.) Anyway we were piped like so many haggis to the start where we gave the officials our red card as we entered the start pen. Having been caught out at Borrowdale I checked with Paul which direction we would be heading off in, and got a decent place near the front. Immediately we started I was blocked in by folk and had to run out to the edge and past as many as possible before we left the field and did a mile down the undulating road. In the excitement I forgot to check landmarks to let me know when the finish was within a sprint distance. I had been advised to reach the hill quickly to avoid bottlenecks and although I wasn't hanging around on the tarmac there was maybe 100 to 150 folk ahead going like the clappers, a measure of the quality of the field. After seven or eight minutes we went through a gate (serenaded by a man on a siren,) and up the path that began the 4000'+ of up hill. That's about 3 Empire State Buildings, 4 Eiffel Towers or nearly 6 Canary Wharfs.
I have only been up Nevis once before and it was in decent weather. The tourist path is a long stroll up to the burn then a zig zag to the top. The race is similar but more direct, taking a straight line after the burn. The views on a good day are modest until you get up towards the top. The weather today was overcast with a drizzle and light wind which became cold as we ascended. Initially the path is great running being hard packed sandy dirt with clusters of firmly set smallish boulders. Things deteriorate and before 20 minutes I was taking the occasional walk as we began to cut corners up steep earthy trods missing out hairpins. There were opportunities to overtake and even travel 2 abreast though I did see a near fracas with a descending walker who had grown tired of being hustled off the track by runners. All those walkers with their walking poles - worst day of the year to go for a jaunt on the Ben.
Overhead the massive rescue helicopter buzzed like a vulture waiting to carry off any serious casualties. In 1957 there was a fatality - a wanderer rather than a faller - which has probably led to more strict controls over the race. I tested the aluminium bridges for slipperiness on the way up hoping I'd be flying over them on the way down. (Good rough grip even though wet metal.)
Just after the path turns a left corner we all exit by a muddy well trodden route to cross the elbow of the tourist track and head up and over to the burn. This was the first of the muddy splosh and necessitated big steps on loose turf. Lots of water coming down and as Walshes got wet they expanded and I was glad I had tied them feet-tinglingly tight earlier. It had to be Walshes - nothing else I've tried gives the same grip on wet slippy rock. Though your feet get a royal bashing in the bigger rock flows. Eventually we get to the burn and as I crossed I pulled out a freezer bag from my back pocket and filled it with water. Biting a hole in the corner I drink plenty for the next hundred yards before emptying and replacing the bag. This tip from Jim Davies thank you very much. I was so pleased with myself I nearly missed the turn off the track and up over the turf and rocks. As I caught up with the runners ahead I wondered about the benefits of the direct steep route up lumpy ground versus the longer zig zags on good paths you could jog up. Hands on knees and the sweat falling from my face in sheets. On and on. Then at some point the grass turns into rocks and you go up on a semi-set concrete-like surface - a mix of sand, rock and mud that is fairly solid and quite grippy. Then small rolling stones that sap your energy and bigger stones that try to bash your feet. Various combinations of the same for ages and still more, before I start to look at my watch about the hour mark and wonder where the first men are. The mist robs you of any idea of what lies ahead and its tempting to keep your eyes on the ground and the periphery of walkers (nobody is doing any proper running here but there is a nearly tangible sense of urgency in the stomping) immediately beside you rather than look up the hill to choose the best route. There is no best route - its all loose boulders and if you place a foot wrongly it will skid and the guy behind will try to gain an advantage.
From looking at previous results I had conjured up a schedule of 75 minutes to the top and 45 down making 2 hrs. Preferably this side of 2hrs. The first descender appeared a few minutes after the hour but when Angela Mudge zoomed past at 66 minutes I knew I would be well over ten minutes behind her and nearer 80 than 75 to the top. The panic and imperative encouraged me to jog past a Fifer I'd been marching behind for 15 minutes trusting to his navigation and feeling a bond that didn't really exist except in my brainless head. With the exertion your mental capacities diminish to a remarkable degree. [eg When I did eventually get to the top it was 80 minutes and I knew I couldn't possibly descend off the hill in the remaining 20 to get to the line in 2 hrs. It took about ten minutes to realise there are 120 minutes in 2 hrs not 100.] Slowly the rubbly martian terrain evened out though the big blocks made uncomfortable going. Hazard tape guided runners past the ghostly gullies that dropped off left down an eerie North Face. The amount of returning runners was now alarming and I think I might have heard a collision on the trail behind. I didn't look: you had to keep your eyes ahead and on the ground and sense where the approaching runner would go. At long last I got to shangri-la, the cul-de-sac of marshals, the misty part-human apparitions at the top who stood in a mournful line taking tokens and noting numbers, and one, in a sombre timbre, offered me a jelly baby. I declined, did the u-turn and tried not to think of the awful ground I'd now have to scramble down. I headed off at what I thought was the maximum possible pace over this rocky moraine only to see the Fifer shoot past going twice the speed paying no heed whatsoever of the rocky uneven surface underfoot. I tried to keep in touch but soon he and a couple of others were off into the mist below. I was running alone and despite the ascending runners, only absolutely sure of the route when someone went past. I nearly took a header over some of the bigger stones, just retrieving my feet in time to avoid major blood-spill. Later I slid on some of the smaller scree: losing footing and accidentally body-surfing while trying to overtake a girl. Constantly trying to route-find to easier ground, the surface would change and you would do five minutes of steep grass then a bit of steep muddy steps with brick melange. It was a great relief to pass across the burn again (no drink required this time) as I felt more confident about the lower path. I picked up speed and went past everyone just ahead (possibly including the Fifer) flying over the bridges and overtaking folk on the boulder strewn path. There was a good mix of moving targets; slow (walkers) and fast (runners) to navigate, which made the experience like a video game and I really enjoyed the last couple of miles. Hitting the road I tried to run through a few puddles to remove the mud I felt must have collected in my shoes but I think it was just heavy legs from the hill. I ran past the walking wounded and aimed at the next target. I was joined by a bluff old geezer who overtook me on a small rise on the road but during the final lap round the field I took the place back. I wasn't really racing him so much as the clock which I noticed had left me 6 or 7 minutes to run the last mile from the gate. Since it had taken longer than this on fresh legs on the way out I knew I was up the creek, but didn't want to throw in the towel without a final effort. So I pretty much gave it everything and looked to my unused road legs to try and beat the 2 hrs. After a long gallop round the field I stopped my watch about 45 seconds late. However I couldn't help feeling I had done my best and on a dry course would have managed quicker. I wandered around like a zombie for a bit before going down to the river with the bluff old geezer who had done the race 17 times; last year 2.00.08 this year just behind myself. Adrian Stott had said that a lot of the old hands would soak their legs in the cold water - not just to wash off the mud and blood - but as defence against the doms which can leave you stiff legged for days. I could see the nearby spectators questioning the wisdom of this as it was not really weather for paddling.
I then had an excellent hot shower (I was the chubbiest there by far, man those skinny hillrunners!) and changed into dry clothes: deep joy! Paul and Mary both had injury-free runs and Paul in particular was pleased with a possible pb time. I found a tent that was giving away really good vegetarian food and we all enjoyed standing around watching the stragglers arrive. A bystander, Fiona, took our team photo. Clean and dry, drinking a beer in the light drizzle it was hard to believe we had all been to the top of Britain's biggest hill and back. I am fairly unimpressed with Ben Nevis - you have to stand a long way off to get a picture of it and it still looks like a big misshapen pile of shale. (The Buachaille for instance has a much more impressive presence, though obviously not as tall.) There are few decent views on the way to the top via the tourist route and most of the time it seems to be raining. The climbing on the North Face is allegedly good but since I haven't done any I couldn't comment. The running is every shade and lots of it.
Every runner gets one of these.I meant to take a photo in the injuries tent - a fellow runner who had twisted his ankle badly on the way up, and subsequently 4 or 5 more times on the way down - had said there was quite a queue of scraped, bleeding, twisted and wrenched being repaired. There was also a tv crew doing the rounds at the finish line. So if you see the end product and it inspires you - get your entry off at the double.
Recommended, with reservations. I will be back, chasing the 2hr thing.
Report pb
Photos pb and Fiona
Bridge photos from hundreds on Borrowdale site here. Many thanks.
Website here
Interesting related reading here: history of race and experiences of an American in 1997 (that year).
Altitude sickness.
