The Perfect Ten

West Highland Way Race 2019.

If I was being polite and opting to flex my vocabulary a little bit, I might say that my race reports are characterised by self-deprecating humour. In my normal everyday idiom, what I mean is that I take the piss out of myself for cheap laughs. This isn’t hard; to utilise a lazy cliché, you might even compare it to shooting fish in a barrel – I’m a pathetically easy target. If we could get the goblet incident* out of the way in paragraph one, my husband correctly guessing that I was the cause of the sound of shattered crystal and the attendant, horrifying, collective intake of breath that followed, without actually witnessing the heinous act, should give some indication of the level of fecklessness at which I operate on a regular basis.

Ultra race reports are prime fodder for this approach. I like to think of them as the antithesis of your typical Instagram account, where legs are always fresh, smiles are broad, outfits on point, running is a medium of spiritual transcendence, and the sun invariably shines. Conversely, it’s not uncommon for ultra-blogs to recount details of genital chafing, explosive alfresco shitfests, projectile vomiting, emotional meltdowns, terminal boredom, and 90% toenail loss. There’s often a bit of transcendental waffle thrown in for good measure, generally at least one reference to ‘type two’ fun, and much is made of the legendary camaraderie to be found on the trail, but there’s no denying that the uninitiated reader could leave with the impression that ultramarathons are an exercise in abject fucking misery. They’d be wrong, for the most part, but I’m certainly guilty of deliberately playing up the darker elements because it’s easier to be a bit crass and mildly entertaining than it is to be serious and write well.

The problem with applying this formula to any retelling of my West Highland Way Race experience is that it just won’t work. I made my way on foot from the Glasgow suburb of Milngavie** to the Highland town of Fort William without shitting my pants or losing my lunch; at no point did I sob or have to dig myself out of any psychological cesspits; my sense of humour remained functional throughout, and I still have every one of the toenails with which I started. I almost feel I should apologise. I’m going to have to rethink my usual approach to this; bear with me.

There’s some disagreement about the source of the maxim that ‘whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it’ but this isn’t a critical enquiry into literary origins; things are strictly lowbrow round here, and I don’t care whether it was Goethe or Gordon the Gofer who said it first The first time I came across the quote was in another ultra-blog (a far more sophisticated example of the form than mine), and despite the fact that its usage now verges on the ubiquitous, it has particular resonance for me in relation to the West Highland Way Race. Having recently started running to lose weight and, not to put too fine a point on it, escape my very wilful toddler for short periods, I accidentally stumbled across the world of ultra-marathons as a result of an aside in a local magazine article. It wasn’t long until my reading led me to the West Highland Way Race and, call me bold; arrogant; ambitious; stupid - whatever you like; I believed it was something I could do. I don’t think I’d run into double figures at the time.

Seven years later and I’m standing in a car park on the outskirts of Glasgow in the middle of the shortest night of the year, together with 238 other runners and their support crews. I’ve been up since 5am, my plans to spend the day resting on the couch scuppered after I set off on the school run to find my fan belt had snapped and the car wasn’t drivable. Easily remedied, but the day hadn’t quite panned out as I hoped. No matter, I’m well-conditioned to sleeplessness, and even if I wasn’t, well, tough shit – the race starts at 1am and that's all there is to it.

 

Sage advice from Edwina.

I felt remarkably calm; my legs weren’t in the shape I had hoped they would be and I was carrying a hamstring niggle as well as some decidedly less than loose IT bands. Nothing bad enough to prevent me toeing the start line, but there was more than an outside chance that I’d be hobbling by checkpoint one at Balmaha. In some ways this wasn’t a bad thing; my expectations were low and any excitement I felt was tempered by the added uncertainty. Strong emotions, whether good or bad, are a bit of a waste of energy in the circumstances, so the calmer I could be, the better I knew I’d feel.

Race briefing.

 Injury worries aside though, I was confident. My training had been consistent and specific; Eddie Sutton had written my coaching plan, which I sometimes think is a luxury for someone as distinctly average as myself, but regardless of my relative ability, I like to give myself the best chance of success on my own terms. Having a coach keeps me accountable, prevents me from over-training, and helps me establish a routine. As I’ve already alluded to, organisation ain’t one of my fortes and I often suffer from low mood when life gets on top of me – knowing what’s in the plan for the week and sticking to it prevents the onset of depression, and the training itself keeps me sane. Plus Eddie is the perfect combination of cheerleader and taskmaster - no bullshit is tolerated but there’s no shortage of kindness either.

 I had recced most of the route in the previous six months, and after managing to turn round an absolute shit show of a race at the Cateran five weeks previously, I knew I’d upped my mental game – no pity parties permitted! I didn’t really have a schedule other than to say I’d be a Balmaha in around four to four and a half hours; thirteen to thirteen and a half at Auchtertyre, and I said I’d like to finish in under 30. I’d signed my husband up for the text alerts – no tracking apps would be feasible on his relic of a phone – so they would be his guide. Jim’s a farmer. He doesn’t work to schedules (other than those dictated by the weather and the menstrual cycles of cows and sheep), and I’m not entirely sure he knows what a spreadsheet looks like. The low tech, laid back approach suited us both.

We got married on midsummer weekend thirteen years ago and I very clearly remember the sense of total self-belief and certainty that I was doing the right thing. I probably shouldn’t use this analogy in Jim’s earshot, but the way I felt in the moments before the starting horn went off wasn’t dissimilar. He, on the other hand, was probably questioning his wedding vows and both of our sanities by about 3am on Sunday morning. I still maintain it’s the most memorable anniversary weekend I’ve ever organised for us, although it’s definitely the only double all-nighter we’ve pulled that didn’t involve alcohol and/or a screaming baby.

Milngavie High Street is a sight to behold once the runners emerge from the station underpass. I wasn’t quite prepared for the level of support or the noise. I grinned all the way to the official start of the West Highland Way path, while trying to keep the pace down to the easiest jog I could muster. It’s a bloody long way to Fort Bill.

Running in the dark doesn't bother me; during the winter months I barely train in daylight and I do so on far gnarlier terrain than the early sections of the WHW. It was mild and dry, there was no indication that my hamstring was under any duress, and there were plenty of people around to chat to. I ran for a while with Davie Searil, who I met at the Cateran in 2017. He kept me entertained with stories about previous attempts at the race, both his and people he’s crewed for, as well as some of the well known characters associated with the race, and I didn’t really think about the passage of time.

I genuinely didn’t break a sweat until Conic Hill, and only then because it was muggy, I felt as though I was nailing the ‘so easy it feels ridiculous’ approach that I’d been instructed to adopt. The hamstring thing I’d been bothered about was non-existent, but a knee pain in my right leg that had ended my Cheviot Goat attempt at half way and meant I’d had to hike in the last ten miles of Tour de Helvellyn, was threatening to resurface. Potentially irritating given that it hadn’t been an issue for months, but I soon figured out that it eased off with every spell of hiking (and I hiked anything that looked remotely like a hill) so I decided it was manageable for the time being. I never thought further ahead than the next checkpoint - I know that’s always the theory but I’m guilty of not being very successful in that respect. I really did focus on staying in the moment and looking after the things I could control in the here and now. Focus on the process, and the result will take care of itself was my mantra. If I’d heard myself say this a couple of years ago I’d have thought I was a right wanker, but I’m forced to concede that it actually works.

 

Descending Conic Hill.

Seeing Jim at the checkpoint was brilliant. One of the few things I don’t like about ultras is leaving behind family for the weekend (I know, pass the bucket), so knowing he was never far away gave me a massive boost psychologically, but leaving Balmaha I started to feel my IT bands. I knew they weren’t right so was expecting a bit of soreness. You learn to distinguish ‘bad’ pain from inconvenient pain, and this was definitely the latter, so safe to ignore. I wouldn’t see any crew for 30 miles now and if I started to let aches and pains bother me I’d be in for a miserable ride.

The weather was a lot more quintessentially Scottish the last time I was on the section to Rowardennan in January and I’d barely been able to see Loch Lomond. This time it was magnificent. The sun was already warm and there were clear blue skies; the loch was a flawless mirror with utterly perfect reflections and it made for an excellent distraction from my gammy legs. Nothing technical about the path to Rowardennan but there are plenty of undulations and a few climbs, so it was easy to maintain a natural jog/hike strategy. My knee was ‘there’ but it wasn’t getting worse and I was cautiously optimistic that everything would work out fine.

I hadn’t recced Rowardennan to Inversnaid and all I knew was that the path splits and you take the Low Road, as per the song lyric. I thought about my son Rory at this point. I’m not sure how it started but he used to insist on a rendition of the Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond before bed every night for about 2 years; he would quiz us endlessly about the meaning of the lyrics and my response was to give him a completely bastardised version of Jacobean history, imprisoned soldiers, and lost love. He became quite fixated on ‘the soldier’ I invented for a while. Until he moved on to conflating Jesus and Santa Clause and the poor, entirely fictitious guy was forgotten about.

I digress, your brain does that on a long run. The low road was one of my favourite parts of the route. I hiked a lot as I’m not very efficient over anything verging on technical and my knee was grateful for the break from running. I moved very purposefully though and jogged where I could. I was on my own for a while, which is just as well as I’m sure I kept up such poetic utterances as ‘fuck me, it’s gorgeous!’ on a regular basis. The birdsong was quite something too.. I ran behind someone for a while who was moving at a similar pace but I got the sense they weren’t enjoying themselves. I could sympathise, I’ve been there enough times, but it was a very tangible reminder of how much energy you waste by fighting the situation you’re in. I ran with WHW legend Fiona Rennie for a short while (who went on to complete her 15th WHW race) and chatted to her about it. She came out with the phrase ‘if you fight it, it will bite you’ which is about as succinct and on the money as it’s possible to be.

One of the conditions of entry to the West Highland Way Race is that you have a support crew: a vehicle and driver and, after half way (or 50 miles anyway), someone who would be capable of running with you if needs be. In practice, most runners have more than this (unless you’re at the sharp end when no one’s allowed to run with you) but I’d struggled. Friends who would have helped out otherwise had their own challenges scheduled for the same weekend (more on which later), or were recovering from events the weekend before. After a chance meeting and a collision of dogs on Rannoch Moor (where else?) at the back end of winter, I’d managed to find a runner, and Jim was always going to drive, but I felt that this was a massive ask for two people, so I made a request on the race Facebook page. Within a few minutes I had a couple of offers of help from Chuck and Nikki, which kind of sums up the ultra community and the WHW race in particular - people who didn’t know me had offered to look after me at a point when I was quite likely to be tired, bad tempered, sore, and possibly prone to vomiting. I only managed this level of care for my son because of biological imperative; they’re either heroes or they’re nuts. Either way, they’re fucking awesome. 

I’d had a brief exchange with Nikki at registration on Friday night and she was marshalling at Inversnaid, so it was nice to be recognised once I got there. Other than sore legs, which had become rather like that irritating background noise that you can tune out after a while, I felt great. I was eating well and in a really happy headspace. I knew THE TECHNICAL SECTION was ahead of me, but I’d recced it and honestly didn’t see what the fuss was about. I wouldn’t be able to run on it, but I found a great fast hike rhythm and the less I ran, the better my knee felt. I also met Rowena along this stretch; we follow one another on Instagram and it was a treat to share a few miles. She was so strong and went on to have a brilliant race - one to watch, I reckon.

Farewell Loch Lomond.

Beinglas seemed to take an age to appear; I think maybe because so much is made of the lochside path that, once you’re off it, there’s a feeling that you’ve ‘done’ that bit. I ran an out and back from Beinglas to Inversnaid in April, so I knew how far it was, but brain function isn’t always optimal after almost 40 miles of running.

The pain in my legs had become incessant and very difficult to ignore, but it still wasn’t ‘bad’ pain - i.e. the type that signifies injury, and there was nothing else wrong with me.  I didn’t sit down at Beinglas (42 miles) as I wasn’t sure I’d get back up again, so a bottle refill and drop bag grab were the order of the day. This was another part I hadn’t recced but I knew the infamous rollercoaster was ahead of me. It was my lowest section mentally, I think, partly because I knew I’d see my crew at Auchtertyre and that I’d be able to have support runners so I made the mistake of thinking too far ahead, rather than focusing on the job in hand. I did have a moment of silliness passing through the low tunnel when I couldn’t help shouting ‘echo’ as Rory always does in the underpass at the bottom of our lonning, so my sense of humour hadn’t entirely deserted me. The runner I found lying by the side of the trail might beg to differ, mind. Once it had been established that nothing was broken, no, we weren’t the sweepers, she felt sick and that she hadn’t eaten for 45 miles, I may have none too subtly suggested that she stop feeling sorry for herself and get some food down her neck. Anyone who’s familiar with my parenting style will know that this comes from a place of empathy and good intentions, but it would be easy to mistake me for a stone cold bitch if you didn’t know any better. I gave her a chocolate peanut bar and left her with a much nicer, far more sympathetic runner after a few minutes.

The previous weekend my friend had taken on and nailed her first Iron Distance triathlon. I texted her the night before the race and mentioned Chrissy Wellington’s advice that you should remind yourself to smile often, especially when you don’t want to. I felt myself grimacing at various points in Ewich Forest - the downhills were really taking their toll - so I remembered my own advice and smiled instead - shit eating grin especially for you Vic! 

Chuck ran out to meet me just before the checkpoint at Auchtertyre - Jim told me afterwards that he’d set off, then turned back to ask what I looked like! Social media isn’t much of a feature in the life of Jim Laird, so he found the whole concept of everyone knowing each other but never having met more than a little bit surreal. Apparently his description of me was something along the lines of ‘er, she’s small, pink soles on her trainers, wearing a skirt.’ 21 years, and that’s the best he can do…. 

Within approximately 90 seconds of arriving at the checkpoint, these almost strangers had their thumbs dug into my thighs and were examining feet that had been running in the same pair of shoes for thirteen hours. Welcome to the weird and wonderful world of ultras where friendships develop quickly by necessity. 

It’s hard not to feel renewed when you’ve got your own personal cheerleading squad who tell you constantly how good you’re looking, how well you’re moving, and how surprised they are by all of the above. In our messenger chats before the race Chuck had given me the no bullshit instructions that there was to be ‘no greeting and complaining that you’re bust at Auchtertyre - we’re all bust by then!’ I actually felt full of running (there’s probably something a little bit delusional about this; what I’m calling ‘running’ by this point might not be recognisable as such to other people), and not remotely bust. 

We had a brief meeting with Jim at the road crossing in Tyndrum where he gave us all a lolly from Brodies. I’d ordered a Solero only to be presented with a Calypso, but guessed it was all he’d be able to lay his hands on so didn’t think it was worth mentioning. He confirmed this afterwards when he also entertained me by describing the scene in Brodies, which was full of exhausted crew, on a mission to procure the iced goods of choice for their runners, while the couple behind the counter had no such sense of urgency and blethered away to locals as though the race wasn’t happening. I often say if Jim was any more laid back he’d be dead, so the thought of him trying to hurry anyone along was both alien and hilarious.

I made good time to Bridge of Orchy (BoO) and ate well when I got there. I was stopping for longer than I had planned in checkpoints but I’d decided that self care and proper refuelling were more important than formula one pit stops on this occasion. This was borne out by the fact that I often caught people who had gone through faster than me, but it is something I’ll look to refine in future.

One of the quintessential WHW Race experiences is being presented with a jelly baby by Murdo ‘the magnificent’ McEwan at the top of the climb out of BoO (or Jelly Baby Hill as it’s known to all involved). This year was to be Murdo’s last race so Chuck had brought a whisky miniature for the man himself and we exchanged a few words before pressing on to tackle the long slog over Rannoch Moor.

Things were starting to feel a bit hard at this point, my chat was definitely drying up, but the encouragement was still coming in a steady stream, as were the crisps and sweets that I would have forgotten to eat if left to my own devices. I love Rannoch Moor and I was still moving well, helped along by Nikki’s brilliant idea to play Thunderstruck on her phone when she could see I was struggling. I don’t think I made it clear how much I appreciated this at the time. We’re big AC/DC fans - Whole Lotta Rosie was the first dance at our wedding, make of that what you will!

Rannoch Moor.

I was thrilled to get to the Glencoe checkpoint and even happier to find that I could still eat well. I’d been looking forward to seeing Ellen too. Ellen’s the runner I bumped into on Rannoch Moor in February and immediately offered to step in as my support when I mentioned that I was struggling to find anyone. She lives in Tyndrum so it was a pretty perfect solution. We also share a very similar sense of humour and low tolerance for bullshit, so things couldn’t have worked out better.

Clearly not one of those women who always looks glamorous in rce photos.

Nikki hopped in the car with Jim at this point - she’d been a source of much hilarity and constant kindness for the last 20 miles. If you ever find yourself in need of someone to keep you entertained on a long run, I’d highly recommend you find yourself a bottom doctor for company :-) 

We had a great run to the bottom of the Devil. I’ve heard people complain about this section because you climb away from the road then drop back down again, so the effort is a bit pointless. I wasn’t bothered though - can’t change it, don’t stress about it had been one of several aphorisms I repeated to myself throughout. If you tell yourself something often enough, you do eventually begin to believe it.

Jim met us at the bottom of the Devil for a quick bottle change and to collect Chuck, who he’d now drive back to Tyndrum before coming to meet us at Kinlochleven. Supporting is not easy by any stretch of the imagination; if there’s one thing that kept my manners in check it’s the full realisation of the commitment people have made to allow me to pursue an utterly ridiculous hobby that I’m not even good at.

Massive sweaty hug and yet more words of encouragement from Chuck, then Ellen and I began the climb up the Devil. I’d never been worried about this; I like hills and it was always going to be a hike. I said I was OK with it being a bit slow, but I didn’t want to stop, and that’s pretty much how it went. One of the things that sticks in my mind about the climb was a conversation about niche activities and how there are worlds within worlds that you would never find out about if you didn’t take an interest in what your fellow humans get up to in their spare time. Ultras are one, but Ellen told me about her brother’s involvement in brass banding and how he’s a pretty big deal in those circles. Keeping my brain engaged was a genius move; it kept the sleep monsters at bay and distracted me from the pain.

Devil done!

The weather had been incredibly benign all day and we were treated to a belter of a sunset as we began to descend to Kinlochleven (KLL). My quads were minced by this point and even though I had the energy and the will to run, I wasn’t moving any faster than Ellen’s hike when I tried. I was frustrated because I had worked on getting them in shape, but I guess it takes time to condition them to this kind of distance. The furthest I’ve run previously was 55 miles so it was hardly surprising that things were sore at 76. 

At least the sunset distracts attention away from the frickin’ awful hair day I’m having.

Darkness fell just before we reached KLL and I felt sleepy for the first time. I think this was a physical response to nightfall and my body’s suggestion that it would be more sensible to head to bed right now than it would be to set out across the Lairig Mor. Sometimes ultras are nothing more than an exercise in ignoring your body!

  The marshals at KLL were very complimentary about the fact that I was still smiling and I did feel in really good shape mentally. Jim had my soup and sandwich ready and Chuck had driven up to see me too. Jim said afterwards that this was the first time he’d seen me look really knackered all day and he was relieved I had Ellen with me. My legs had tied up and I knew the infamous climb from sea level at KLL wouldn’t be pretty. To cut a long story short (I know, how novel!) it took a while. I had an ace up my sleeve for this moment though and I’d purposefully saved it for the first time I felt myself really wobble.

On Friday night while we drove up the M74, I watched my friend Ange storm into Keswick to complete her Bob Graham Round on Facebook Live. I’m not ashamed to say there were tears. Angela was diagnosed with cancer 8 years ago and aggressive treatment has left her with a seriously deficient immune system. It’s taken her years to be able to string together the right block of training to be in shape for the BGR; it was only a few months ago at Carrock Fell Race that she told me she’d made peace with the fact that it wasn’t going to happen. Bullshit. Nicest, most glamorous lady in fell running; hard as fucking nails! 

So when I felt a bit tired, the climb felt as though it would never end, and 15 more miles felt pretty insurmountable, I pulled this one out of the bag and told myself not to be such a soft twat. It was quite effective.

Once up on the Lairig Mor I willed myself to be able to run. I actually managed to make OK progress when the terrain was good but I had to hike on the rougher stuff because I didn’t trust myself not to faceplant. It was around now that my body started to reject fuel. I didn’t stress about it though - I’d eaten well pretty much the whole way so I wasn’t going to keel over now. The path was sodden on this section too so my feet got soaked and I started to suffer with them a bit. We laughed a lot while discussing exactly how to pronounce Lundavra, as in, where exactly the emphasis goes. I thought it was on the last syllable and the name always conjures up something a bit ancient and mystical for me - maybe it’s because I associate it with bonfires having read so many WHW blogs over the years. Whatever, Ellen was having none of that bollocks and said the way I pronounced it made it sound like ‘Wonderbra’. Must be the Cumbrian accent.   

Still smiling after 25 hours.

I got a real second (or 102nd, perhaps?!) wind leaving Lundavra/Wonderbra and managed to hike and jog for about a mile. Then we started to descend and there were enormous steps, which are a struggle for my short legs at the best of times, but they ruined me now. It was just a war of attrition from this point on. The long descent into Fort Bill was cruelty, but somehow I managed to start running. Then I had to poo, and next came the dry heaving, so we decided hiking was the best option. The last drag is along pavement into the town and I knew about all the little milestones (as well as the fact that they’ve moved the finish by half a mile this year so that gave me something to swear about, and trust me, I have a rich lexicon of filthy swear words). Once we got through the 30 mph signs and I could see the roundabout I decided I would jog to there, then I found I could keep going to the old finish at the leisure centre, and after that I thought ‘fuck it, you don’t have to do anything else today’ and I ran all the way to the Nevis Centre while ringing Jim to say I was on my way. I think I disturbed the first bit of sleep he’d managed to grab in hours. Twenty eight hours and six minutes after leaving Milngavie and I’d joined the ranks of West Highland Way Race finishers. Proof that just believing you can do something is at least part of the battle.

I thought I’d be an emotional wreck when I finished, but I was too spent, and I’m still struggling to process the fact that it all went so well. No chafing, no explosive shits, very little nausea and no actual puke. There was no point at which I questioned my sanity, and I said I’d do it again while I was dragging myself along the fire road just before Fort William.  

Goblet #1.

I’m under no illusions that things would have been different if the weather had been rough, and there’s no way I would have been able to muster that level of mental robustness without my fabulous crew. You guys made the whole experience for me and your willingness to step in and help a complete stranger sums up what’s special (and a bit fucking mental) about this community. I can never say thank you enough times. Offers to return the favour still stand.

I tell Jim he’s my hero at least once a week, but I’m usually taking the piss. Deadly serious on this occasion - never think I take it for granted. 

Tenth ultra in the bag and it was everything I hoped it would be, which is saying something because I’ve been dreaming about this one for a long time. I’ll definitely be back; I think I can even go quite a bit faster, but I can’t believe it gets much better than that.

*For the uninitiated, the West Highland Way Race is followed by a ceremony where all finishers are individually presented with a crystal goblet. The final competitor across the line is given their goblet by the race winner, an acknowledgement of the fact that completing the race is a huge achievement, regardless of finishing time. The goblet is a big deal.

I'm presented with my crystal. I have my photo taken. Chuck gives me a hug and I make my way to stand with fellow runners. Then I throw my goblet on the floor.

Don't ask, I still can't figure out what happened.

The collective intake of breath was horrifying. Fortunately there were spares.

We had a quick chat with Ian Beattie, race director, in the pub last night in which Jim asked, surely that's happened before?

Nope. Never. Only me.

**Pronounced Mull-guy. Cumbrian readers shouldn’t be surprised by this - we have Torpenhow, Greysouthen, and Aspatria, to name a few.