West Highland Way Race 2015. Put t'kettle on, it's a long'un!

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

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

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 56^th place, I was 83^rd coming into Beinglas, my leg time 124^th 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…

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 76^th 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 74^th 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 62^nd runner to do so, clocking the 38^th 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!

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?