One year on, a completely different experience.

I recently read a race report from a runner who won a Last Man Standing race; he’s a good runner who podiums at races now and again, and who certainly experiences the “pointy end” of races. He described in his report how it was a novel experience to be chasing cut-offs during a race, as he’s never had to worry about DNF-by-sweeper before. It made me think how different various runners’ experiences of the same race can be – likewise, I’ve never experienced the unique pressures at the front of the race, the mind games, strategy, and competitive camaraderie front runners race with.

I certainly wasn’t at the pointy end of the WHW this year, but I had a new experience of genuinely racing an ultra. I was running not just to finish, but wanting to run it well. Rather than setting out slow and hanging on, I wanted to be mindful of the right pace, not just the easiest pace, from the start. My time last year was 32:26 and training this year went so well that I had my eye on a sub-28 goal and hoped I might be capable of better. But there was also that lurking fear that anything can happen over nearly a hundred miles, and fitness isn’t everything.

Here’s how it went.

Milngavie to Balmaha (0 miles, 01:00 Saturday morning)

With the race starting at 1am, I did my best to sleep for a few hours in the evening and completely failed. Still, I tried to appreciate the luxury of lying down with eyes closed and feet up. If all went to plan, it was going to be quite a long time until I got to enjoy that again.

At 11pm, I gave up the ghost and went to get myself registered then sat with my crew chatting over a cup of tea and tried not to waste energy on nerves. “Que será será” was stuck in my head and turned out to be my mantra all race.

After briefings, silence for missed friends, and the promise of weather, we set off into the not-quite-dark of Scottish midsummer. I had a huge grin on my face through streets of Milngavie, determined to enjoy the beautiful route more than last year and to find out what hard work could earn me.

Most people are guilty of starting out too fast, but I’m pretty good at starting slow. If anything, I’m happy to mosey along and wanted to make sure I was keeping an ‘honest’ pace from the start. That’s a difficult thing to gauge at 1am in the dark but I ambled along happily enough, taking the cue from others for when a hill was hilly enough to hike.

My only mistake on this section was that I chose to carry just one 500ml bottle and not to ask my crew to meet me at Drymen. Well before dawn, the day was becoming warm and muggy and to be honest, even on a cool day 500ml for 19 miles is pushing it at my pace. On the bright side, this was the first opportunity to practise my mental strategy for the day – relax, enjoy it, que será será. I accepted that I’d run out a little before Balmaha and I did.

The schlep up Conic Hill was brightened by a stunning pre-dawn sky and I had my torch off well before then. I enjoyed the slightly tricky footing on the way down and ran into Balmaha pretty much on schedule and happy.

The plan was to minimise time in CPs, as I had sat down, however briefly, in every one last year. Tom met me with Captain, the team dog, and walked with me through the checkpoint. I passed a good number of people in each CP this way, although some would catch me over the next section. I refilled my bottle and drank half another bottle, then jogged back out, Captain Dog making loudly known how much he disapproved of me going for a run without him.

Balmaha to Auchtertyre (19 mi, 05:58 Saturday morning)

The next section would be a long one before I saw my crew again, but there were 3 points with drop bags- Rowardennan, Inversnaid and Beinglas Farm. My drop-bags were very simple- I had a sandwich bag of food prepacked for every CP, crewed or otherwise, with 100kcal snacks per 3ish miles of the next section, eating 100kcal every half an hour when my watch beeped. It kept the calories trickling steadily in and took decision-making responsibilities away from my running brain.

I enjoy the technical lochside section, although must admit I was finding the slow pace frustrating at times. I’ve since read a fantastic quotation from Fiona Rennie (legend and 15 time finisher of WHW), “If you fight it, it bites you”. It’s totally futile fighting the lochside, you just have to play along and get through.

The volunteers were heroically cheerful at midgie-infested lochside checkpoints and I had my bottle refilled, food bags swapped, and was on my way without any faff.

It felt good to stretch my legs off the lochside and once through Beinglas farm I was getting excited to see my crew. About halfway along this 10 mile section though, I started feeling very woozy and peculiar. I was struggling to focus my vision, feeling light-headed and stumbling. I felt much better running than walking, but was struggling with motivation to run on the flat. I decided it was lack of sleep and tried to get chatting to a woman who was of a pace with me, but she was struggling with stomach cramp and not in the mood for my admittedly shit chat.

Luckily, at this point another runner, Alasdair, caught me up and was very much in a chatting mood. Kept awake by talking, I was suddenly motivated to run to keep up with him, and the two of us kept ourselves going at an honest clip by not wanting to be the first one to slow to a walk or last to start running again. We went through Crianlarich gate much happier and I texted my crew to let them know I was close, before the twists and turns of the forest reminded me just how deceptive those last couple of miles in can feel.

Methini met me in Auchtertyre with food and drink but no van, explaining I was a full hour ahead of expected time and Robin would meet me at Tyndrum if I needed anything else. I drank plenty of water and asked for an ice lolly at Tyndrum, as I was feeling hot and sticky, and trotted off.

Auchtertyre to Bridge of Orchy (51 miles, 13:24 Saturday lunchtime)

I promptly rejected the ice lolly at Tyndrum. I certainly enjoyed the run to Bridge of Orchy more than last year, when I was in a sulk and walking far more than I should, but the sleepy dizziness restarted after a while and was quite annoying. I started reciting “The Jabberwocky” out loud to keep myself awake, with occasional enactment of taking one’s vorpal sword in hand (but luckily not of resting by a tumtum tree), which was all very well but clearly not entirely effective as my pace over this section was a bit slow compared to the field.

Luckily, a runner and his very chipper support runner caught up to me and let me tag along with them and their cheerful chat. I asked them their names several times and have still forgotten, but they were hugely helpful and got me running at a better pace once we were together, banishing the sleep demons – for now.

I had my first brief sit down in a chair at Bridge of Orchy swapping water for coca cola in the hope of driving away the drowsiness and changing into a dry shirt for the evening. The low patch was passing, I had caffeine, and I was feeling good.

Bridge of Orchy to Glencoe (61 miles, 16:08 Saturday afternoon)

I’m genuinely proud of this section. It was my best of the race by far, and a total transformation compared to last year. I distinctly remember harbouring a dread of the Rannoch Moor by the time I left it last year. I crossed it at a shuffle, tired and grumbling about every false summit, unable to believe how long it went on and insisting that the rocky track was essentially unrunnable.

This year, I felt completely different. My attitude was intentional and started out as “fake it ‘til you make it”, transforming quickly into my real attitude. Que será será. An odd philosophy vaguely based on that song and a very loose understanding of proper physicists’ explanations about time being just another dimension of space had popped fully formed into my increasingly peculiar brain. The moor wasn’t going anywhere, so I may as well run, and at some point in the future I’m already off it, so it’s a done deal and I should just accept that right now this is what life is.

I ran some of it with a few men who were all very experienced Scottish hill runners and ultrarunners, enjoying some easy conversation, but gradually I pulled away ahead, running the flats and downs, hiking the ups with purpose.

This year, I could enjoy the stunning scenery and my immense fortune in being able to be out there running in it. Glencoe CP came into sight and I ran full pelt up the hill to it, truly excited. In my head, Glencoe is where I can start picturing the finish – Devil’s staircase to Kinlochleven, then just the matter of a 15 mile trundle to the finish.

In my excitement, I started gabbing very enthusiastically to Stacey Holloway, a volunteer at the CP who I met very briefly on the Lairig Mor last year in her lowest low patch and who was featured on John Kynaston’s fantastic blog such that I completely forgot she didn’t actually know me. She humoured me very well and I only realised this with a jolt after a good sleep on Sunday…

Glencoe to Kinlochleven (71 miles, 18:59 Saturday afternoon)

Methini and I had a good chat as we made our way along the sneakily hilly approach to the base of the Devil’s Staircase. Here is where I made my only real mistake of the race. I started feeling sick as we climbed and the plan had been – if I feel sick, accept it as inevitable, swtich to just water, hike until it passes. But I had only brought coca cola with me from the CP. I had also not eaten yet in the hour or so since we left Glencoe. I decided to try a piece of fudge and continue sipping coke and instantly knew I needed to puke.

For all that it was a mistake and I was feeling fairly sorry for myself- to put it in context, last year this section took me over 5 hours, feeling sick and awful almost the whole way. This year, it took me just under 3.5 hours because I kept hiking and we were over the top by the time things got their worst. Seeing as we had just passed the highest water on the hill, I emptied my coke out and asked Methini to fill it from the stream while I started hiking down. She dutifully, midway through her second ever marathon distance run, climbed back up the part we’d already descended, checked on a runner with a leg injury and stayed with him ‘til he started moving again, then ran and caught me up. Legend!

The descent into Kinlochleven was miles better too, not least because it was still daylight. We jogged most it and were back to chatting – mildly worried that I would weigh-in underweight having now eaten nothing and drunk very little since Glencoe, plus throwing up and a toilet stop.

Luckily, I weighed in at exactly the lowest allowable weight (4% weight loss, I think it is). I had my longest sit down, enjoying chatting with Robin while I got a packet of hula hoops in, emptied half the Devil’s staircase out of my shoes and socks, and watched other runners with their crews and the volunteers. I was trying to do maths to work out what time I could aim for, but it was too hard. I knew it would be over 24 hours and, barring disaster, under 30, but that was about it.

Kinlochleven to Fort William (81 miles, 22:23 Saturday night)

The hill out of Kinlochleven doesn’t seem to upset me as much as others. It’s a big old hill, but it’s easy underfoot and by this stage I think I’m quite glad of any excuse not to run. We passed a runner and his support runner having a rest (but in very good spirits) halfway up then set out onto the Lairig Mor.

If the Rannoch Moor was my best section, this was definitely my worst. Blaming sleep deprivation is easy, but I guess it’s also that I let my firm hold on my positive attitude slip. I resented every water crossing (there were many), fell back into old habits of claiming the rocky terrain was too risky to run in the dark, paranoid that we were going the wrong way, and became jumpy and distracted by mild hallucinations of big cats and men looming at the side of the road, a tank in the middle of the track, and other bits and bobs.

Methini was unbelievably patient with me and we managed to chat about normal things in between my whinging. The mountain rescue fizzy juice station was visible from miles away but simultaneously seemed to appear out of nowhere and I claimed a little sit down on the side while Methini got a drink. After several declarations that Lundavra checkpoint didn’t exist, and the admission that it isn’t visible until you’re right on top of it, we heard cowbells and cheering ringing through the darkness towards us. Even that wasn’t enough to get me to run until we rounded the last corner and their lights came into sight. It was a huge lift, not quite enough to make me happy, but it switched my sulk into anger at my own dillydallying and determination to pick my feet up.

After posing for a photo in the incongruous photobooth we decided to turn on my phone’s tracking so that it would announce every half mile travelled, for the boost of positive progress. I set off running up the short hill, announcing I was getting the hell off this moor. Possibly in slightly stronger language.

The path to and through the forestry had been mildly confusing in daylight last year and I was full of fear that I would take a wrong turn now. Hesitating at a fork, we were passed by a runner (possibly Rowena?) and her support runner who had recce’d it recently and was sure of the way. She was moving incredibly strongly and ran off into the night. I decided I needed to keep up with them or I would definitely get lost and probably die in the forest. It was the kind of pointless stupidity that makes a lot of sense after 24 hours of running.

I was pushing as hard as I could, legging it down hills and marching up them, trying to keep up with this pair as they inexorably pulled further and further away. My certainty of foresty doom if I lost them had lit a fire under me, though, and I was moving as fast as I could – however unimpressive that pace is objectively when I look at it now!

Unsurprisingly, my fears were misplaced and the path was clearly marked by arrows. At last, we were at the top of the long downhill to Braveheart car park and looking at my watch, I saw that I had around 45 minutes to get in under 27 hours. I couldn’t remember if it was 4 miles to the road (and then 1.5mi to the finish) or in total, so I started running as hard as I could. I passed the runner I had been chasing, then a couple of men walking, and kept running.

It was magical, actually.

After 25+ hours on my feet, several hours of walking and crying and begging for a nap by the side of the track, I was running and I felt amazing. Not good, obviously. It hurt. But my breathing was steady and my legs were moving. It felt wonderful.

Methini shouted to me that I should go ahead – a sprint finish wasn’t what her legs had in mind after a weekend of crewing, a marathon spent looking after my every whim and an extra jaunt back up the Devil’s Staircase. At first I wanted her to come with me, but I quickly realised I was being a bit too demanding to expect another couple of miles out of her just so she could see me finish. I phoned Tom to let him know I was coming into the finish and to ask him to get Robin to pick up Methini, and kept running.

The last comedic twist was to come as I ran into town. I knew the way to the old finish, and that the new finish was some way past it and around a bend, but I wasn’t quite sure where. I was pushing hard, still not sure how much time I had to my arbitrary new time goal, looking frantically around for signs to the new finish. A fluorescent yellow arrow pointed straight past the old finish and I ran on. Another pointed left a little while later, but I could see runners straight ahead and tape hanging from lamp-posts.

“Which way is the finish?” I called as I ran to them.

“Follow the arrows and tape!”

A chalk arrow pointed straight ahead on the road. Another yellow arrow was across the road from me, pointing away towards what looked like a residential street. I slowed down, staring at it, and it dissolved into nothing before my eyes.

I was hallucinating arrows!

This was unhelpful, but at least now I knew not to trust my senses!

I kept running and approached another pair of runners.

“Which way!?” I called.

“Follow the arrows!”

“I’m hallucinating arrows!”

They laughed and shouted directions, and I kept running. I realised I could trust the chalk arrows and concentrated on the ground. Finally, the Nevis Centre came into sight. The old tradition was to touch the front door of the leisure centre at the finish and I ran in to do that only to be urged to keep moving into the centre and across the finish line with a time of 26:44:43.

Fort William, 96 miles 03:44am Sunday morning

I dibbed my dobber, sat down, and promptly burst into happy, exhausted tears.

Reflections

I have a lot of reflections on this race, particularly on what changes I made that gave me an almost 6 hour PB, but this report is already long enough so I’ll save them for another time.

The West Highland Way Race is a spectacular race – not only is the scenery unremittingly stunning, the atmosphere of the event is unsurpassable and epitomised by the celebration at the prize-giving and huge cheer as the last finisher was presented with his goblet by the winner of the race. I definitely want to come back and run again, but I think next year I’d like to give back by being on the other side of the race as crew or volunteer along the way. I know I devoured others’ blogs for race inspiration and preparation so hopefully this rambling report might help another runner that I may see along the way next year!