Drop me off in Tyndrum and I'll see you in Fort Bill

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 the latter is undoubtedly what scuppered my effort in 2021, so I went all in on podcasts and books about mindset and mental resilience - kind of like an ultra running Bridget Jones.

But you know what they say about the best laid plans. After a fun day out at the Cowshed Backyard Ultra in April I picked up a few niggles and running became hit and miss. When I could run I began to notice some improvements in pace, thanks to more structure and lots of time on forestry trails. I won't run on the road as a lot of the joy in find in running comes from sharing time on the trails with my dog, but the relatively smooth tracks of Kershope Forest made for more consistent pacing than I might manage on more technical trails, and I definitely felt the benefit. Eventually though, 'managing' the array of difficult to identify nuisance injuries wasn't working and there were weeks with no running whatsoever.

What I should have done when the niggles refused to settle was to dial back the volume and hammer the bike and strength work. So I sat on my arse and drank too much wine, obviously. I know we're all meant to be paragons of self-improvement these days, it's definitely the smart choice. We've had a lot going on as a family lately, none of which is my story to tell, but I definitely struggled to maintain focus. Congratulations and well done to everyone who is able to channel trauma into structured training. You're all heroes, but I found myself lacking the emotional energy for anything that resembled heroism while I struggled to deal with stuff that mattered a lot more than whether or not I was fit to go jogging.

What became apparent during this period of being a bit of a dick, was that I didn't actually want to do Lakeland 100. I wanted to go to Lakeland weekend and enjoy the amazing atmosphere, but I simply didn't have any drive to do the race this time and it's too big of a challenge to undertake if you don't give all the fucks.This hardly constitutes an existential crisis though, and as Jim is fond of telling me in his blunt but always accurate brand of philosophy, you either have a shit, or you get off the pot. Running ultras is a daft hobby that's largely the preserve of the privileged few who have the time, resources, and physical well-being to be able to do so. If the prospect of this event wasn't filling me with good feelings then fine, find something else that lit me up instead. The withdrawal email was sent.

As is often the case after taking decisive action, I managed to find renewed purpose. I hiked a lot, did some sweaty turbo intervals (still not as many as I should have, but owt's better than nowt), and started incorporating a mixture of tough kettlebell sessions and quick bodyweight exercises focused on improving my terrible balance. A scroll back through my Strava feed shows I ran a 'tentative' mile and a half on the 19th June, and I happened to notice that there were still spaces available in the Devil o' the Highlands, a race I've wanted to do for years. It's a point to point from Tyndrum to Fort William along the West Highland Way - easily my favourite part of the trail.

Not so much devil, more of a mischief.

By the end of the June I was running regularly and more or less without issue, so I arranged our annual trip to Applecross to coincide with the race and threw my hat in the ring. Few things make me happier than the prospect of a trip north and the promise of a long run on a fabulous trail. Add in the opportunity to catch up (albeit briefly) with some of my favourite people, and the apathy I had felt about previous plans had vanished - I was genuinely buzzing at the prospect of toeing the start line. The fact that it's 'only' 42 miles on runnable terrain didn't hurt.

Even as I lay sweating in my sleeping bag in one of Glencoe Ski Resort's mountain huts on the Friday night before the race, having a mild panic attack about looking less than athletic in photos, I was still excited. I never weigh myself, having had a fairly fucked up relationship with my body since my mid teens, but I knew by the way my clothes fit that I was carrying more weight than I'm comfortable with. I am far happier in my own skin since I learned to focus on what that body can do, rather than what it looks like, but I'd be lying if I said I'm completely free from anxiety around the issue. I managed to have a word with myself and concentrate on important stuff, like how to avoid covering everything we own in Sudocreme after I'd completed my anti-chafing protocol. There's nowt quite like the glamour of ultra running to keep your feet firmly on the ground.

I take them to all the best places.

My first Scottish ultra was the Cateran in 2017. I'd driven up on my own after my Nana's funeral and I didn't know a soul. I remember feeling hopelessly lonely and not having the confidence to join in with conversations. Instead I sat in the car, rang Jim, and had a cry. By the time the race was done I was drinking beer and Champagne with new pals in Gulabin Lodge, so don't feel too sorry for me.

Turning up at registration for the Devil a little over five years later couldn't have been a more different experience. There were birthday presents to hand over, hugs to be had, and a general feeling of welcome and shared excitement at the prospect of the task ahead. This year's race was the first since 2019, which no doubt added to the sense of anticipation. I also had company as Jim had driven me down to the start and brought the dog (Rory having elected to go back to sleep). Apologies to all those who, taken with Loki's good looks, attempted to make a fuss of him. He has the pointer trait of aloofness in spades so ignoring you was nothing personal. Unfortunately he also shares the Labrador tendency towards abject greed, and I'm equally sorry to those eating bacon sarnies in the Real Food Cafe, whose trainers may now be stained with drool (I did say this might have fuck all to do with running).

Hassan collared me at the start to take photos and make introductions, dragging me far closer to the front than I'd normally position myself, but it wasn't a particularly big field and I was determined to run my own race, so I didn't worry too much. I'm often too cautious in races; I used to get caught out by my ambition outstripping my ability and had some horror show puke-fests as a result. I've learned to pace myself, but I've become too risk averse in the process. I'm never going to threaten any podiums, but I've under-performed in a few races partly because I'm not brave enough to push myself. It's a fine line and I'm sure I'm not alone in getting it wrong. 

Our plan for the day was for Jim to make his way to Fort William and do some food shopping before collecting me and heading onwards to Applecross. I don't like setting time goals but I had to give him an idea about what to expect. I said I thought I would run sub 10 hours, secretly hoping that was a bit conservative, but it's always best to prepare the family for the worst. Turning up broken, battered, AND late at the end of the race does nothing to improve familial relationships and morale. Bear in mind I'd already made them sleep in a hut and take the very circuitous route to our holiday destination - the A9 would've been a lot quicker!

I messed about with waterproofs at the start, wondering if I needed a jacket. It wasn't cold and I tend to run hot so wearing a coat would simply result in me becoming soaked with sweat, which I thought was counter productive. This turned out to be a good decision.

I struck up a chat with Tina for a while on the way to Bridge of Orchy after apologising for accidentally letting a gate slam in front of her. She was on her way to a triple crown completion. For the uninitiated that means completing the Highland Fling (Milngavie to Tyndrum), the West Highland Way (Milngavie to Fort William) and the Devil (Tyndrum to Fort William) in the same year - just getting to the start line of all three races is an achievement in itself! Being in conversation meant that I caught myself running harder than I wanted to, so made the conscious effort to say I had to pull back every time the effort exceeded super comfortable. Managing your effort requires concentration and I've fallen foul of a lack thereof many times in the past! 

Not long after I hit the old drove road over Rannoch Moor I must have spoken out loud and I heard the words 'judging by your accent' - this either means someone thinks I'm from Newcastle (only people who are not from Newcastle think this, and mostly folk south of Manchester), or, seeing as though we're running an ultra in Scotland and my first name is on my race number, it's just possible this person has heard me on the Young Hearts Run Free Podcast. The latter was the case, and the chap in question was Frank McGaffney who had similar aspirations in terms of time and was a pleasure to chat to. I still had to be mindful of my effort, as well as remember to eat (for my own future reference, those Belvita soft centre biscuits will be grand with a cuppa, don't bother when you're running), but Rannoch Moor flew by. I did think it had gone extraordinarily quickly when I gleefully announced that I had walked to this bridge with the dog last night and there really wasn't very far to go until the Glencoe checkpoint. Then the next three bridges looked awfully similar and I realised my mistake. Kept my gob shut though.

Approaching Glencoe Checkpoint
Photo credit Willie Irvine.

I had no intention of hanging around at checkpoints so I grabbed my drop bag, said a quick hello to Jim, who I'd taken by surprise with an earlier than expected arrival, said thank you to the marshals who were being feasted upon by midges, and walked down the road eating the samosa I'd been looking forward to. Quite a few people ran past me at this point, but I knew I needed to eat something other than a gel. My Mountain Fuel jellies were still palatable, but I was craving proper food and decided to get some down while the urge was there. I'd also needed the loo since Bridge of Orchy but had elected not to queue, so I availed myself of the very nice public toilets at Kingshouse where the queue was thankfully shorter. 

Everyone complains about the section from Kingshouse to the bottom of the Devil's Staircase because you climb away from the road, only to drop back down again. It's the route though, there's no point bitching about it. It's nice, easy terrain too, so you can make good time, and there were lots of hikers out to say hi to, many of whom offered encouragement. I was also feeling brand new because I'd finally been to the loo!

The foot of the Devil, for which the race is named, seemed to appear in no time. The weather had brightened up at this point too, so I was in excellent spirits and looking forward to the climb. Last time I'd been there I had already covered well over 70 miles, so I was comparatively fresh this time. My mood was boosted further when I heard my name again, only to see my pal Johnny dressed in full anti midge regalia and out to cheer runners on their way up the climb. It's always a massive boost to see people you know, but even better when it's a surprise and I was so grateful that he'd stopped on his way home from his own adventures further north.

I loved every minute of that ascent and I knew I was climbing strongly. Those good feelings are cumulative, the more little victories you stack up, the better you feel. I passed several people, including Frank, who said he now had 'John and Steven in his lugs' to help him on his way. It obviously worked as I know he finished well inside his target time.

I'd been looking forward to the run down to Kinlochleven ever since I entered the race. Not just because the views get really spectacular once you're over the Devil, but also because my quads were absolutely smashed by this point in the West Highland Way Race and I couldn't take advantage of the long descent. No one who knows me well will believe it when I write that I overtook lots of people by DESCENDING WELL, a combination of words that has never been associated with me in my life, but my feet and my brain were on speaking terms for a change and I had a brilliant run to Kinlochleven - I even remembered to wish Fiona and Pauline a belated happy birthday on the way! For clarity, it's not very technical, but I guess it depends what you're used to.

Still grinning like a lunatic. Photo credit Fiona Rennie.

I jettisoned most of the contents of my drop bag at the checkpoint, other than another samosa and my gels. I heard someone telling me to 'wake up, eh?' on my way back onto the route and was delighted to see Jim, Rory, and the dog (Loki was easily the most excited of us all). I hadn't expected them to be there so it was a brilliant surprise. Rory proceeded to ask me how many times I'd been to the toilet, and had I been dicking about taking photos? I was five minutes late, apparently. You reap what you sow, etc.

They walked along the road with me while I nibbled my spicy snack. I really didn't want to eat it and was tempted to let the wildlife of the village fight over my leavings, but I knew I'd gain more by walking steadily and getting some calories in, than I would by running the short distance to the bottom of the next big climb. And it is a climb, from sea level, but I relished the chance to use some different muscles after the long descent and enjoyed the hike.

I love the Lairig Mor. It's wild, lonely, and magically atmospheric. It's also runnable for the most part, especially without eighty odd miles in your legs, and I was determined to walk as little as possible. I know from experience that it's impossible to keep your feet dry on this section, so I didn't bother fannying about trying to avoid puddles, and when I thought it was wise to march up hill I took on fuel. The path ahead is visible for miles and gaining on other runners continued to add to my store of small wins - they don't call it taking souls for nothing!

Lundavra was no more than a timing check, water top up, and a thank you to the marshals. I rarely look at my watch when I'm running and I'm definitely not preoccupied by time. I run to feel and the outcome looks after itself. I did have a squint (literally, I can't see well) at this point though and was surprised to see 7 hours 13; with only 7 miles left to go I had a good chance of obliterating the sub 10 estimate I'd given Jim, and as long as I wasn't a knob, sub 9 could be on the cards.  

Something I'll definitely take away from the race is my lack of pace. I am stronger than I've been for a while, my endurance is reasonably good, and my mental game was the best it's been for a very long time, but while my quads were in tip top shape and I had no issue letting gravity do its thing on the long down hills, as soon as I hit a flat section I was slow. I didn't entertain walking, but the running was less than impressive. I suppose I'm going to have to do some kind of interval training if I'm bothered about improving that.

Plenty storage in those shorts!
Photo credit Christopher Hardy.

Knobbishness well and truly avoided, I dragged myself around the Cow Hill circuit that marks the end of the route and is, frankly, sadistic, enjoying that sweet sense of a job done not too badly at all with the sound of finish line cow bells and cheers ringing in my ears. Loki was beside himself to see me and joined me for the run across the line - Rory being far too peng (or whatever) to take part in anything so naff these days. I finished in 8.34 and change, which absolutely shattered my expectations and certainly spurs me on to try a bit smarter. I won't say harder, I am a diligent runner; I get up early and I put the miles in, but if I want to improve, and I think I do, I need to make a few better choices and structure my training. It's not rocket science, but it takes application and will.

Finish lines are better with friends.

I'm on my holidays now though. Mostly eating langoustines and drinking Chablis. All about balance, etc.

Enormous thanks, as always, to the people who make these events possible. A final thought from one of the many, many podcasts I have listened to this year in a bid to improve my mindset (and I'm paraphrasing so don't correct me if you heard it too): we are all born with the same currency and that is a finite number of heartbeats. Spend them well. Do things you love, with people you love, who love you back. Happiness is a choice and if you follow this formula you won't go far wrong.

See you at Glenmore, pals.