It's Only Running...

It's 5am on Sunday morning and I'm stumbling around a field on the edge of Glenmore Forest, looking for my husband. Had I been writing this in the late 90s it might very well have the prelude to a tale of pissed up teenage misadventures (and yes, said husband would still have featured, albeit in the days before we wasted all that money on a wedding that we should have spent on a campervan instead). Let's be honest, it could be the noughties, 2010s, or anytime in the last 25 years and that sentence wouldn't take much editing - just vary the location, remove the word 'teenage' and the job's a good 'un. But while I may still be partial to the odd beverage now and again, I've added running for extended periods of time to the list of questionable things I do in a bid to avoid housework. At this moment in time I've been on the go since 12pm the previous day, I have run around a four mile loop of the aforementioned forest 18 times (remember this), and I

There's a theme developing when it comes to writing up my runs on Scotland's most famous national trail. Much like the West Highland Way Race itself, back in the heady, pre-pandemic days of 2019, my first attempt at the Devil o' the Highlands Footrace (to give it its official title), offers very little in the way of opportunities for gratuitous toilet chat or instances of my habitual fecklessness. In short, it went quite well. In all likelihood, this account will descend into naval-gazing whimsy that has little to do with running. It might just be a bit tedious. It will definitely be far too long because I'm on holiday and the weather is crap. Strap in, or bail out while you still can. This year's main race was set to be Lakeland 100. Again. After last year's sub-optimal performance, in which I had a bit of strop and decided I just couldn't be arsed, I was keen to a) train a bit smarter and b) work on my mental game. The lack of preparation with regards to

I was born in the English city of Carlisle, despite my parents being resident in Dumfries and Galloway when I made my entrance into the world. I've lived the vast majority of my life in North East Cumbria, with a good chunk of my childhood spent in that furthest flung corner of the county known as the Debatable Lands. My immediate family still live there (I'm all of 12 miles down the road). My Phillips relatives haven't moved far beyond the parishes of Bewcastle and Stapleton since at least the 1600s, so you could argue we're not a very adventurous bunch. That said, there's a persistent rumour that my great granny Phillips (nee James) was related to the infamous outlaw Jesse. I've made no effort whatsoever to confirm the veracity of this claim, but I'm not inclined to let the truth get in the way of an amusing anecdote that I might be able to exploit for a blog post. So my bones are Cumbrian, I think of myself as British, but I've never made any secret o

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