Glenmore 24: #DontBeAFanny, Off You Fuck, & Other Stories.

So you want to run an ultra?

Glenmore is a quintessentially Scottish experience. I'm not referring to the fact that it's located in the Cairngorms National Park on the shores of Loch Morlich; nor am I talking about the ubiquitous Scottish midge which, however unwelcome, is an inevitable feature of most visits to the Highlands during the warmer months. And no, there wasn't a deep fried Mars Bar* or a macaroni pie in sight - although the goodie bag did contain a bottle of Irn Bru and a Tunnocks Caramel Wafer, which certainly gave it some Scottish specificity. 

No, what I'm talking about is less tangible but is nonetheless deeply embedded in the national character, and that is the level of piss-taking and abuse to which participants will be subjected by marshals and crew. If at some point over the course of the weekend you haven't been called a fanny or a dickhead at least once, then were you even there? This isn't meant to cause offence; bear in mind that there's a separate, Scottish definition for the word cunt in the urban dictionary (i.e. cunt is widely used to replace the word 'person') and you'll begin to understand that what might seem like insults to the uninitiated, actually represent sincere encouragement and genuine goodwill. 

If this doesn't amuse you then probably give Glenmore a wide berth. 

Pre race fuel at the Calendonian Hotel.

The format is simple. You rock up, run around a really beautiful four mile loop as many times as you can for 12 or 24 hours, whoever clocks up the most miles by the end of the allotted time is the winner. Straightforward? yep. Easy? Aye, right. 

And when I say straightforward I am of course talking about the running. I don't know a great deal about what's gone on behind the scenes, but I understand it's been damn hard work to bring the race to fruition this year. I get the distinct impression that race director Bill does not put on a shit event, so hoops have been jumped through and compromises have been hard. The weekend was not the raucous affair that it's famed for being, but if this is Glenmore dialed down then I can only imagine the pre Covid levels of insanity. I think everyone has expressed their gratitude on the community Facebook page but I'll reiterate here how appreciated the efforts were. Living as close to the border as we do means that races in Scotland are some of the most accessible for me and I've made some great friends. Getting to be part of this small and bonkers community again after the year that went to shit meant the world, so huge kudos Bill and team for their efforts.

Although I've had my eye on Glenmore 24 for years, the timing has never quite worked out and given the shitshow that was 2020, it wasn't on my radar for this year either. Then Hassan rang me as her and Jenkins made their way home from marshaling at Lakeland weekend to check I wasn't sobbing into my beer and let me know they both had places at Glenmore. 

I was neither sobbing nor particularly broken (there are silver linings attached to a DNF), so, in the spirit of all the best laid plans I thought, 'fuck it, why not?' It was only after I'd stumped up my cash that I learned Rory's first day at secondary school would be Monday 6th September, not Thursday 4th in line with the official start of term. While I'd characterise my parenting style as one of benign neglect, I do think leaving him to his own devices on the morning in question would have been pushing it, even by my standards. No comfy bed in Aviemore on Sunday night for me then. There are loads of laybys on the A9 so I resigned myself to a long journey home on Sunday with plenty of pitstops for napping and eating.

It's probably symptomatic of what the event meant to everyone involved that I want to write about interactions with friends, old and new, more than I want to give a blow by blow account of my run. The fact that I was a bit of a twat and exhibited the kind of behaviour I would, at the very least, mock in other runners might also have something to do with this reluctance. But regular readers (we might be up to half a dozen now) will be familiar with the fact that these accounts are very much warts and all, so I suppose I'll have to apply that methodology to documenting those times when my sense of humour deserted me, and I made your average stroppy toddler look like the epitome of charm and composure. As one half of our Super Crew (more on them later) the inimitable Noanie said to me afterwards, 'you didn't die, you didn't give up, and you didn't visibly shit yourself' - all about perspective, eh? Get over yourself and move on.

On the subject of crew, Jenkins had immediately told me that she had it covered, but then said very little else. I'm not someone who panics about details and I don't tend to over plan, but I like to have half an idea what's going on, especially if I'm going to subject myself to the character building undertaking of running in circles for 24 hours. I dropped the odd gentle query on our WhatsApp group, which received similarly vague responses. I'll admit to rising feelings of mild concern. 

I needn't have worried. I eventually learned that all the prevarication was in aid of surprising Hassan with the fact the we had some of her faves for crew, who also happen to be absolute pros when it comes to all things ultra.  And, despite the beginnings of some stress on Friday night, when Jenkins continued to deny any real knowledge of who had been recruited to look after us, citing the possibility of some random person named Kerry, the sheer delight of the surprise on Saturday morning was worth all the bullshit we'd had to spout to keep the poor woman in the dark. I'm not even going to explain the Chesney Hawkes masks, just embrace the utter ridiculousness of the moment and know that there was much joy. The surprise would be a nice but insignificant gesture in the normal scheme of things; in the current climate it's hard to overstate how special it felt.

The one and only Noanie and Sheona make Hassan's year.

The race starts at midday on Saturday. Noanie and Sheona had set up a crew station that was second to none. They also adopted the very lovely Rhona, who was crewless, and offered to help out pretty much anyone else who needed it. The camaraderie that ultras are famous for doesn't just extend to runners; support teams often go way above and beyond to help each other out and make sure everyone is taken care of - sometimes at 4am on a Sunday morning, when most sane people are in their beds. I do think this applies across the board, but at events like Glenmore where the community is small and everyone knows one another, the family feeling is particularly apparent. Do not mistake this for some kind of happy clappy love-in mind. While there is much care given it's not necessarily expressed in terms that are recognisably affectionate. Help will always be given to those who ask for it at Glenmore, but exhibit any twattish tendencies or an unwillingness to deal with the inevitable discomfort associated with what you signed up for, and your ears will ring to the tune of 'don't be a fanny' and 'off you fuck.'

Check out this video from the fabulous Debs for more crewing insights.

Things were relatively uneventful for a good chunk of the race. I felt fairly comfortable, although the period I thought had ended decided to launch into quite spectacular death throes on my final trip to the loo before we set off and, as usual, my bowels showed up to the party early, made their presence known, and thoroughly out stayed their welcome. When I eventually mentioned this to crew I was given two immodium and reminded that drugs (barring NSAIDs,** of course) could be my friend if things went south. Who knows, maybe if I'd spent my 20s off my tits on illicit substances my brain would be wired to seek chemical assistance in times of crisis. My left hip and glute started to grumble after about four laps, which is a new one and did worry me a bit, but experience teaches you the difference between inconvenient pain and the type that's actually harmful. I pegged this as the former and remembered to ask for paracetamol, which quickly had the desired effect. Lesson learned.

I've said previously that pacing has become one of my strengths and that I thoroughly enjoy reeling people in who have gone off too fast. Technically I think there's some schadenfreude going on here, which isn't a very nice thing to admit, but there's no doubt that feeling good while other people suffer puts a spring in my step. The upshot of this is that I've become very risk averse: I'll do as much as I can to avoid feeling rough. On one hand this is smart; you absolutely need to mitigate against avoidable pain, injury, and unnecessary obstacles that might end your race or negatively impact on your performance. But as any ultra runner worth their salt will tell you, the trick with this sport is get comfortable with discomfort, because at some point, it's going to hurt. To this end I resolved to push a bit more, take a few risks, and even - shock horror - run up a few hills. There would be some natural attrition and I reckoned that banking a few miles while I still felt relatively fresh would give me a bit of leeway if the wheels started to come off later on. I wanted 100 miles and knew that I was theoretically capable of it. Part of me wondered if I could manage a bit more.

There's tendency to invoke the language of conflict in endurance sport, especially when things start to unravel. But I don't want to go to war; I'm not interested in ignoring or suppressing my emotions, and I'm ambivalent towards the notion of toughness; I'm far too inclined towards using negative self talk in other areas of my life and it doesn't do me any favours. I listened to Badwater 135 winner Sally McRae talk about this subject with incredible eloquence and good sense recently. She spoke of choosing not to be hard, but to be courageous instead. This is a a beautiful idea, and while I'm not a huge fan of mantras, I found myself repeating her words a few times during the hours of darkness - notably after throwing up the watermelon I'd guzzled and the repeated dry heaving that followed. 

But courage takes a bit of cultivation and as the night wore on, I became distinctly less brave (didn't scream at the Grim Reaper when he popped up though - be warned of this development if you fancy a crack at Glenmore!). Also bear in mind that relentless positivity is not my natural disposition. Misogynistic wankers have been telling me to 'cheer up love it might never happen' for as long as I can remember. If I'm not going to yell at myself, grit my teeth, and tell myself to toughen the fuck up, I'm not sure how to spin the narrative. That's where incredible crew come in.

After a lap of mostly stumbling, extreme heaving (but no actual puke), the return of bowels behaving badly, and not insignificant pain in everything for which I have anatomical terms of reference in my left leg, I was done. I hobbled into our crew station to find it temporarily unoccupied, wrapped myself in Jenkins's snazzy blanket and a sleeping bag, and resolved to sleep until the race was over.

Fat fucking chance.

It wasn't long before Sheona found me and asked what I thought I was doing. Was this a power nap, or was I under the misguided impression that she was going to let me stop? There were four and a half hours left to go and I had a hundred mile target to bash out. I can't actually remember the specifics of what I said, I just know it was very petulant and stroppy, and I absolutely scoffed at the notion that I had any hope of achieving 100 miles. I tried to convey the extent of my misery, to which the response was something along the lines of well what the fuck did you think was going to happen? Everyone's miserable now. She made me sweet tea (I know, I haven't drank tea since I was a child but I'd discovered a fondness for it with masses of sugar when nothing else was staying down), then told me that I was standing up and walking out. I still protested, but Sheona reminded me that no matter how crap I felt, I still had the power to control the outcome here. It's only running (hobbling or stumbling) after all. Life throws a great deal of shite in our direction, but in this environment we can determine our own fate. Sounds a bit melodramatic, but it was exactly what I needed, and that was me telt.

Off I fucked.

Catchphrase of the weekend.

I managed another 3 big laps after the pep talk. Sometimes I could run a bit, there was some strong power hiking, mostly I dragged my feet and just hoped for the best. Hassan walked every step of my 24th lap with me and was unfailingly kind and engaging, despite my relentless negativity. The retching had been pretty regular but I still couldn't be sick, until one spectacularly noisy effort with about half a mile left to go, which finally produced some puke. I did feel marginally better but still couldn't run - partly due to the aforementioned pain, but also because any effort just set the bowking off again. Once you run out of time to run the big loop, there's a quarter mile lap around the field at the start where you can attempt to add to your total if you want to keep going for the full 24 hours. I was sitting at 96 miles and had resigned myself to missing the century. In fact, for most of the final lap I'd been adamant that I was just going to sit on the grass and have a sleep while everyone could please themselves.

I'm not that much of a twat though.

The small lap is mostly flat, apart from one short but tasty incline, followed by a matching descent. I walked the first lap until the top of the hill, then wondered if I might just be able to manage a jog on the more forgiving grassy surface. 

It didn't hurt.

I kept up the jog until the hill, walked, then let gravity do its thing again and discovered I was OK to keep going. The cheers and words of encouragement from marshals and support crews at this point were an absolute tonic - they'd watched us for a full day and it felt as though everyone was genuinely invested in each other's efforts. Noanie and Sheona set up on a corner and proceeded to blast out tunes while dancing like lunatics and cheering at the top of their lungs. 

I kept running.

Then I puked again - much to the horror of the poor guy counting laps who is apparently a bit vomit averse. I walked a lap to let my stomach settle, but my brain was functional enough to realise that if I could keep running I had an outside chance of cracking 100 miles. So I pressed on.

My watch had fallen behind as the day went on - not far, but enough for me not to trust the distance. When the hooter finally sounded it had clocked up 99.36 miles. I was pretty sure I'd done it, but I couldn't be certain until the laps were measured.

Around 90 minutes later I woke up in my car to a knock on the window. Jenkins, Hassan, Noanie, and Sheona were standing outside and Jenkins was waving a bit of wood at me. It was my 100 mile coaster. I'd slept through the pize-giving and Ada said I was a dickhead. I felt like one of the family. 

Jenkins was second lass and Hassan overcame feeling utterly bust to bag 75.9 miles. Chapeau pals.

You can see how bad I smell.

I've made this sound like a miserable experience and at times it was, but that's par for the course and it's on me to up my mental game. Suffering is a choice. It's not easy to choose courage when you feel like shit, but it is possible; it just takes practice. I need to ask myself what I want from running. Clearly I'm capable of a fair bit more than 100 miles at an event like this, but you can't wing it. Am I prepared to do the kind of work it takes? Or am I still selling myself the narrative that says I'm not a good enough runner to make the sacrifices and commitments required to do better? I suspect there's a middle ground to be had and my inclination towards hyper-focus and obsession are the things I need to address.

Glenmore you were as fabulous as you were fucking miserable. The changing light on Loch Morlich; the unexpectedly clear skies and gorgeous starry night; the chance to reconnect with old friends and meet new ones; and pushing past my limits when I thought I was done. A none running friend asked me how on earth this could be fun when I described the shitting and puking episodes. It's not at the time, but there's no better feeling once it's done. Until the next time, ultra family.

*I'm deeply sorry Scottish pals. Please forgive me.

**Nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs - too many of these in the middle of an endurance event won't do your kidneys any favours.