2009 Race - Kingshouse to Kinlochleven

Appearances can be deceptive.

My impressive descent down to Blackrock Cottage may have given the impression that I was feeling great. What the crew hadn’t realised was my addled brain just figured the quicker I ran, the quicker I could rest in safety.

I believe this is the point where things started to fall apart. The crew tell the tale better than I, as to be honest I’m not sure how much I was aware of.

I remember lying in the back, with my feet on Hendo’s shoulders while he massaged my legs. I remember it being hilarious that he was doing so.

I remember not wanting to eat, and not wanting to change clothes, I remember being surprised at the amount of midges swarming around. I’ve no idea how long we were there for – it could have been 2 minutes, it could have been an hour.

I remember being persuaded to move on to Kingshouse – just over the road and less than a mile away, as it would offer some protection from the weather, which had set in with quite a forceful wind and was stealing all my heat generated from the run.

I remember Siouxsie giving me her midgie net, and securing it with a buff. I remember Steve escorting me on the journey to Kingshouse.

I remember wanting to be sick, and continually stopping and lifting the midgie net up as I didn’t want to be sick in it, as it was Siouxsie’s. I remember dry retching over and over again and nothing coming up.

I remember it being quite a quick journey. But apparently it wasn’t, taking over half an hour to do what should have been a ten minute walk.

I remember getting into the car again, and Hendo telling me that I was going to change into dry clothes.

I remember hearing Hendo and Steve having a furtive conversation behind the car about what would happen next.

I remember they kept leaving the bloody boot open so I kept getting cold. Grr.

And then I was being undressed and dressed. Maybe by myself, maybe someone helped, I don’t know. I had two vests on, a running jacket, and a waterproof, windproof, all weather proof jacket, and waterproof trousers on. And the midge net and buff. And a fluorescent bib. And I was still shivering.

Ready for the Devils Staircase

Santa and Steve were ready. They were both going to run with me for the 22 miles until the end. Just in case.

We set off, slowly. The tarmac for the first half mile or so was easy on the feet. Then the bumpy lumpy moor bits. It was now dark, and the three of us were being guided by the light of just two head torches. Steve and I stayed together, and Santa was pathfinder ahead, trying to mentally pull us along.

This path is not the easiest, even in daylight. With numerous streams to cross, large stones and rocks to step over, it’s not conducive to smooth running. I’m not sure we actually intended to run anyway. I think I had made noises along the lines of ‘walk the rest’. Any step of running that I managed would be a bonus.

The break had revived me somewhat, but I was still incredibly tired, and I don’t think Santa and Steve were faring much better. We had all skipped a night’s sleep, and it was now almost midnight on the following night. Our bodies were desperately trying to communicate to us that it was sleep time now thank you very much. Any adrenaline that had been keeping us awake had long faded.

We were now Garminless as we had initially forgotten to put mine back on after I’d changed, and Hendo and Siousxie had driven back to us to return it. Steve kept it so that I couldn’t get upset by the slow progress but the batteries shortly ran out anyway.

When Steve's Garmin died too, we were left not knowing how far we’d gone, and how far we had left. This was to prove a bit of a trauma on the descent.

We reached the base of the Devils’ Staircase, and I was really looking forward to some more banana milk, until I was reminded that I’d absent mindedly sent Hendo and Siouxsie on to Kinlochleven - there would be no more banana milk for a good few miles yet. I may or may not have cried. I may have been too tired.

We set off up the Devil’s Staircase. Which I really don’t mind at all. I’ve said before it’s an honest climb, as you can see the path the whole time, and you can tell how far you need to go to reach the top. Of course that is invalid in the dark, and we just ploughed on and on, up and up.

We got to the top, and almost immediately descended a little, only to go back up shortly afterwards. Santa and Steve were not too impressed at climbing again.

They had no idea (and nor had I really) that before long we would be cursing descents, and longing for a bit of flat or uphill track.

This should have been quite magical - up on top of the mountains in the dark - but the reality was that we were cold (and I was hot too, from wearing so many layers and getting sweaty), we were tired, and it seemed like we were getting nowhere.

As the descent began, we trundled on mostly in silence.

After seemingly hours, we saw two medics – they told us it was a mile and a half until Kinlochleven. As we had no Garmins, we took this as fact, and were buoyed up by the fact that the hellish descent would soon be done.

The track was difficult at times – lots of big rocks to scramble over, and I kept turning my ankle, which after the first few times was causing me considerable pain (it still is 10 days later, and I may get it xrayed at the weekend).

And it just went on forever. I was getting confused, as I remembered the descent into Kinlochleven as being a long wide gravel road, not this track on the moor. If we kept descending on this, there wouldn’t be enough mileage left for the gravel track – were we even on the right track?

And I fell asleep a few more times, luckily with an alert Steve to catch me before I toppled over the sometimes steep drop to the side.

And then we saw lights. It must be Kinlochleven. But we reasoned that it was too far away to be Kinlochleven, as we must be nearly there, and these lights looked miles away. But the track carried on, and after a while in became clear that we were indeed heading for the lights, and that was our next resting point.

And then the moorland track ended, and we reached the gravel road. We were almost there!

But my memory had been correct – this road did go on and on and on. I had forgotten just how much you descended to get to Kinlochleven.

If you look at a map, you will see that the track to Kinlochleven does a huge loop away from the town, and winds around the valley, before eventually spitting out out at the end of a residential road in town. In the dark, we weren’t using a map, and it was only after we’d been going on the track for so long that we stopped and checked the map and realised that as unlikely as it seemed, this was correct.

But now we were checking our watches. At 3.40, with no sign of the end of the track, and knowing that it was another half mile from the end of the track into the medical centre where the check point was, I realised we wouldn’t get there before the cut off at 4am.

It was all over. The torture that I had put myself through, that I had put my crew through, the years I had spent preparing for this, the mental effort, the financial cost, all the trips up to the WHW for recce runs, it was all for nothing. I would get disqualified at 81 miles.

For the umpteenth time that weekend, I cried. This time it was proper despairing sobs. I had lost.

But it wasn’t final until 4am. I had 20 minutes to prove myself wrong. Suddenly we found some speed. The route started to get brighter as lights from the town’s industrial areas lit up the track.

We reached the bridge, and suddenly I knew where we were, and which way to go (having gone the wrong way here before as it’s badly signed). We had less than ten minutes until the cut off.

We sprinted down the road, past the delightful young adults at the bus stop (at 4am?) who shouted that we were going the wrong way (we weren’t), past the river, over the bridge, and I saw Hendo. We were almost there. We had about 3 minutes left on the clock, I ran up to Hendo, only to be told it was open for another hour. Not only had we made it, but we had an hour to rest before moving on.

I may have cried a bit more.