It's Only Running...

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...

Montane Lakeland 50 I’d only been running for a few months when I first heard about the Lakeland 50. I wasn’t much good at it, but neither was I quite as shite as I’d expected to be, and I like taking things to extremes (although I understand now that the 50's the soft option), so I resolved there and then to have a crack at this event sometime before I was 40. I was 31 at the time, so this wasn’t exactly an ambitious target and, far from being phased by the idea of continuous movement over 50 miles of roughish terrain (it’s only running), I figured my navigational ineptitude would pose the biggest obstacle. I’m not a daft lass though, surely I could learn to read a map? Fast forward two and a bit years and my running hadn’t improved as much as I’d have liked; many marathons had been entered and then subsequently sacked off due to my apparently limitless propensity for mangling my legs. I’m not sure whether it’s because I run like a complete twat (not according to ...