Wife. Mother. Average Superhero.

'So, yous are all running back to Inverness? From here, tonight? Are you fucking mental? Is there nae drink in the hoose?' (Incredulous bus driver, depositing twenty odd runners at Kilmallie Community Centre, 2300 Friday 30 June 2023).

It's not an unreasonable question, I suppose. Perhaps the paucity of our number gave an indication of the level of appeal that setting off to run 73 miles at 1am on a Saturday morning holds for the average person. And contrary to what we're often told by social media influencers and spuriously qualified life coaches, there's nothing wrong with average. OK, it's not wildly exciting, but life is challenging and plenty of people are happy to make it through the day unscathed, ready to face whatever the next one throws at them, without adding a lot of time consuming physical activity to their already insurmountable to do list. So it's hardly surprising that a Friday evening in front of Netflix with a bag of crisps and bottle of Picpoul de Pinet (McEwan's, tea, cocoa, whatever floats your boat) sounds more appealing to the majority of the population than the prospect of hideous chafing, projectile vomiting, ruined feet, and episodes of existential dread.

Given the slightly inclement weather conditions that greeted us when we departed the bus, which were a shock to the system after recent temperatures, albeit far more typically Scottish, I can't honestly say I wouldn't rather have been on that couch myself. But putting aside my natural inclination towards twining about everything, the anticipated discomfort outlined above is one of the things that keeps me coming back to ultramarathons, despite a lack of any athletic ability and an abiding fondness for sitting on my arse with a glass of Aldi's latest, moderately priced dry white. 

You see, no matter how crap you might be at running, committing to cover the kind of distances on foot that most folk don't regularly drive, will simultaneously scare you shitless and fill you with a sense of empowerment that can be hard to come by when you're busy deciding what everyone has to eat for tea every night, reminding people that cleaning their teeth is not optional, and making sure they have clean socks that match. In short, it lets you know that you're alive, and while it's important to keep the suffering in perspective, all the while reminding yourself that being able to do this type of thing is a privilege not available to everyone, it's hard not to feel a bit like Captain Marvel when you find yourself deep in the pain cave and getting it done anyway. 

For the avoidance of doubt, this is the
actual Captain Marvel, not me.

The 'it' in this particular instance was the Great Glen Way, 73 miles of canal path, trails, and quiet country roads, following the Great Glen Fault from Fort William to Inverness. The official website describes it as a 'low level route' which it is, although the race follows the relatively high route option from Fort Augustus to Invermoriston, which involves climbing for around two and a half miles. Similar gradients await the weary traveller when leaving both Invermoriston and (following a mildly unpleasant section of pavement alongside the A82) Drumnadrochit. 

The same website also suggests that the Way can be completed in 4 - 7 days. We had 22 hours.

Looks impressive on the map!

The race is designed so that you can run it without support, thereby reducing the impact on local infrastructure and keeping the guardians of the Great Glen Way on side. A highly sophisticated system of 6 labelled Ikea bags on the floor of Kilmallie Community Centre gave runners the opportunity to deposit their drop bags, to be collected at checkpoints along the route. Support was permitted at the three main towns where there was easy access and public parking, so seeing as I'd brought Jim with me, it was our wedding anniversary the previous weekend, and he loves waiting around in car parks with lube at the ready, I decided to let him join in with the fun. As is typical of the man, he managed to find a job or two in addition to meeting the demands of his increasingly needy wife, so I don't think he was too much of a hinderance or obstruction.

It's all in the planning.

When I first signed up for the race I had grand plans to recce the route thoroughly, in much the same way I had the West Highland Way in 2019. Had I managed to execute this plan I'd have been familiar with place names and much better able to describe my day out. But life's messy, the house we thought would take around six months to build still isn't finished two years later, we've had the usual family challenges that face most of us at some point in middle age, and since a second bout of Covid late last year, I seem to have become a magnet for every virus doing the rounds, so I'd never set foot on the trail (unless you count that weekend we spent in Fort Augustus around ten years ago when we had a bit of a saunter along the canal, before getting dialed into our dirty martinis, which I don't). 

I'm not at all phased by running in the dark, so the first couple of hours were pleasant enough, and for all the reluctance I'd felt about setting off at 1am, I have done it before and I do run at what I've been known to term 'fuck's sake o'clock' quite regularly, so I was content to tick away quietly along the Caledonian Canal, with nothing but my own thoughts for company. I loved the section through 'the Spooky Woods', and was only slightly freaked out by the stirrings of various 'wild' campers by the side of the trail.

I know Bill's published distances aren't necessarily what you'd call accurate, but when the first checkpoint still hadn't appeared by well over 11 miles, I did start to doubt myself and turned back until I met other runners, who reassured me that yes, I was going the right way, confirming in the process that buckets of salt should be applied to the schedule I'd prepared for Jim. Thankfully I had told him it was an absolute work of fiction so he wouldn't be bothered if I didn't show up bang on time in Fort Augustus.

It's a truth generally accepted that when running through the night, daybreak will bring renewed energy and optimism, so I was mildly pissed off when it was time to remove my headtorch and I felt like shit, which given that I still had 50 odd miles to go seemed a bit premature. The views over Loch Lochy were misty and atmospheric (AKA grey and cloudy) but I struggled to distract myself. I was eating and drinking regularly and running well within myself, so I just had to make peace with the bad patch and keep on trucking. 

A well worn myth about this race is that the first 30 miles are flat. The first 7 miles very much resemble a pancake, but after that there are some welcome undulations. As I stomped up the gradual climb from checkpoint 2, forcing down a gel (having smiled unconvincingly at the lovely marshals, in a vain attempt to persuade both them and me that I was having a great time) I gagged for the first time and did my best to quiet the voice of doom inside my head that told me this was going to be A Very Long Day Indeed. I tried not to count the miles or think too far ahead, but I will confess to having some choice words to say about the race organisers when I joined the canal path again, recalled that long ago weekend saunter and realised I had the best part of five miles of flat, hard packed surface to go before I reached the checkpoint. I did get a brief laugh at the bloke outside his house who asked if I'd been running all night (I obviously looked exactly like Captain Marvel). When I gave the economical response that 'yep, from Fort William' he expressed surprise and gave me the sage advice to 'keep drinking fluids!' Aye, right, thanks pal. I'd never have thought of that by myself...

I always intend to be in and out of checkpoints with minimum fuss, but given that I was struggling to eat and my pants were making mincemeat of my lady bits, I resigned myself to a longer stop to increase my likelihood of finishing in one piece. I'd also been on my own for six and a half hours, so a bit of company was welcome. Solid food, Lucozade, ample lube (who said romance is dead), and dry clothes made me a new woman.

I loved the climb that followed - after those canal miles where there was no excuse to walk, the opportunity to use my hiking muscles was a joy. The views over Loch Ness were spectacular and once I'd gained a bit of height the trail was a runnable roller coaster, flanked by my favourite kind of moorland landscape. I was well and truly out of the funk that had plagued me for hours and genuinely enjoying myself - temporarily at least.

Taking photos mid-race is not
one of my strengths.

The run to Invermoriston was uneventful; I enjoyed the trail and was pleased to find my quads weren't shot on the descent, although despite my love for my Scott RCs, they aren't great on wet rock, so there were some damp stone slabs that I chose to take my time over. I still struggled to eat anything on the move but was taking on liquid calories, and I'd asked Jim to have some soup ready when I got to the checkpoint, so accepted that this was going to be a day of longer stops to take on fuel, rather than grazing my way round the course. I felt pretty crap, but I'd been feeling that way for long enough that it just became normal and I wasn't concerned about it - when you can't necessarily change the way you feel, you can choose the way you respond and I was electing to be cheerfully miserable.

Straight out the box: 100% toenail retention,
zero blisters.

It's a long way to Drumnadrochit (almost 15 miles) and there's another decent climb, which once again I thoroughly enjoyed. The quicker short course runners, who had left Fort Augustus at 9am started to come past on this stretch. It was nice to finally exchange a few words with other people and cheer them on their way. There's a water station about 5 miles before the main checkpoint, where I had a nice chat with the marshals and a brief sit down while they sorted my bottles. I was feeling very, very sick by now but weirdly happy. I'd been sharing the trail with a guy (who I now know is Ross) who was also a bit bust and I distracted myself by bossing him around and telling him quitting because you feel crap is unacceptable. I'm not sure who I was trying to convince.

The spew kicked in not long after I left the water stop and it was mighty. It was also a particularly disgusting colour and consistency but I'll leave the description there. I felt temporarily better for ridding my stomach of its contents and managed to run a good chunk of the road (yes, more tarmac), until my bowels decided to show up to the party and I had a definite sense of humour failure. This was further compounded by the fact that the checkpoint in Drumnadrochit seemed to take forever to appear but the reception I got when I arrived both lifted my spirits and kept my manners in check.

My internal monologue was in full swing, repeating variations on the theme that, yes it's hard, of course it's hard you pillock, if it was easy everyone would do it and there'd be no value in the outcome. I know it's become an ultra running cliche, but Courtney Dauwalter's analogy of picking up her chisel when she's in the pain cave and chipping her way out a piece at a time, always comes in handy when it really hurts. Obviously there are no comparisons to be drawn between me and Courtney, but she's good value on a podcast and I can relate to her no bullshit approach to running. 

That frown is genetic, OK?

More soup, sandwiches, and Lucozade, a clean T Shirt, 2 minute micro-nap, and a massive poo once again had a transformative effect. A marshal asked me if I'd given up while I was washing my hands and hearing someone say those words aloud horrified me, which made me realise just how much a finish meant to me on this one, regardless of what it looked like. Not to mention that I was one of only two women in the race and I was fucked if I was going to be the only lass that quit.

There's well over a mile of pavement on leaving Drumnadrochit, which made for easy running, even though I hate tarmac, but messed with my head a bit as I kept wondering if I'd misinterpreted one of the way markers and missed a turn. The trail came eventually, along with another climb, which once again I didn't mind and there were a few more people about so snippets of conversation helped to keep me awake and reasonably chipper. The weather deteriorated enough for me to put a jacket on at one point, but I was alert and awake enough to remember to do it, and I reflected on how much worse the conditions could have been. 

Parts of this section reminded me of the later stages of the Cateran Trail, which I'd had to miss back in May due to some tendinitis. I'd run it last in  2019 when I'd first met Jeni who would become my great pal, and who had run a blinder of a race the previous weekend at the Moray 100, despite soaring temperatures and all the puking. This in turn led me to think of Fran and her epic performance on the 160 mile Spine Challenger North in the depths of winter. I was never going to quit at this point, but it definitely didn't hurt to think of remarkable friends and lend a bit of their strength in the process.

The final checkpoint at Abriachan was a welcome oasis of friendly faces, hugs (astonishing bravery at this point in the day when I must have smelled like a dead goat), and really excellent ginger beer (Jenni C you made my day!). Fiona was out with her camera so I made a conscious effort not to gurn and I went on my way feeling renewed by the kindness of people who give up their time to make races possible.

Above and beyond the call of duty.
Photo credit Fiona Rennie,

The tarmac road that snaked into what appeared to be infinity did not fill my heart with joy, but it was the way back to Inverness and twining was not going to put this to bed. I counted a lot of steps and made multiple deals with myself, while trying to sip miniscule amounts of Mountain Fuel, which was threatening to make a reappearance with every step. The trail turned off the road eventually and I kept focused by trying to catch up with other runners. There's nothing exciting to say about this section - I struggled to keep even water down and when I wasn't actually puking I was dry heaving. Eventually I gave up on getting any fuel down and trusted that I wouldn't actually collapse if I didn't eat or drink anything for the last few miles.

Having not had the opportunity to recce the route I'd read as many blogs as I could find, They all mention the trail making its way through a housing estate, over the swing bridge, then round the corner onto the athletics track and the finish. This is a bit misleading. I'm pretty sure there were another couple of miles to go after the housing estate, which is a mere nothing in the scheme of things, but was cause for a great deal of swearing on my part, while I attempted not to throw up in front of any pedestrians going about their daily business.

Eventually I could see the bridge (no boats, thankfully) and the end was in sight. The final twists and turns were well signposted and Jim was waiting for me just before the entrance to the track, cheering me on and telling me I looked strong (i.e. lying through his teeth). I knew I had to run around the track, and I was determined to pick my feet up and give it a good go. I might have dipped below ten minute mile pace, although it felt like a sprint at the time.

You're on the wrong blog if you were expected glamour.

The schedule I'd prepared had me finishing between 16 and a half and 18 and half hours. I thought the lower end of my estimate was wildly unrealistic off the back of the preparation I'd done. Don't get me wrong, I do run consistently and I rarely dodge my 4.45am alarm, but my diet had been crap, I'd let any strength training slide completely, and I'd generally lacked focus - all of which is on me. After a les than perfectly executed race I finished in 16 hours and 52 minutes, surprising myself in the process.

In a world filtered through social media and rampant oversharing, it's easy to get caught up in the way other people train and compare yourself negatively. I'm pretty good at not giving a fuck about this, but I'll admit to feeling a bit inadequate going into the Great Glen, as though I should have done so much more. What this race taught me is that years of consistently plugging away at my running, doing what I can in the face of whatever else is going on, and never forgetting that there's no point if it doesn't bring me joy (I mean, it's not going to make me rich!) makes it possible to achieve extraordinary things. 

Running 73 miles isn't heroic in the true sense of the word, it's a privilege and something that I paid to do, about which no one else really gives a shit. It's only running. It did make me feel like a superhero for a few hours though, and I'll keep choosing this 'fucking mental' stuff over spending every Friday night on the couch for as long as my body allows.

I was second woman to finish (also the last one 😂) so I took home some excellent loot to display in my new house, when the damn thing is finally finished! 

Woman awarded prize for being shortest person to finish race.
Photo credit Fiona Rennie.

It's a belter of a race - incredibly friendly, low key, and well organised, thanks to Bill and his team of super-marshals. The route is beautiful. It's not to be underestimated, but it is achievable with a bit of work and the right attitude. More women next year, please!