Top Dollar

This is the first race I've done more than once, which felt like a double edged sword. On the one hand, it was nice to know the route and roughly what to expect, but on the other I realised I'd be disappointed if I didn't match or better my time from last year. Yes, I appear to have become a PB hunter. The weather certainly had no problem in matching its form from 2012: clear, sunny and warm with a light breeze. I packed as much water as possible in my bum-bag, and donned my new running sunglasses.

 There seemed to be loads of Carnethies milling about in the luxe cricket grounds of Dollar Academy, but with offspring threatening to hurl themselves off the pavillion balcony, I was too distracted to chat. Last minute child-wrangling did take my mind off pre-race nerves, however, and before I knew it we were herding along the road towards the woods. I'd forgotten that the start of the woodland steps is a bit of a bottle-neck, but a couple of other runners must have had this in mind and were ruthless with their elbows. I was pretty apprehensive about the ascent of Saddle Hill and White Wisp, remembering it to be a long, hard slog for the best part of a couple of miles. It didn't disappoint. Saddle Hill in particular is a bit of a killer, requiring a bit of scrambling / clutching at tussocks:

I was in no position to take photos. This is a very accurate artist's impression of my view as I grabbed handfuls of grass.

Once you're on top of White Wisp, this race is a cracker. The grassy tracks over the ridge of Tarmangie and Maddy Moss are very runnable, and the shortish ascents of Andrew Gannel and King's Seat offer a hydration opportunity with the change of pace. The views are also swoonworthy, but I was too preoccupied with keeping both my PB and the distant wee Helen-shaped fleck (who had motored past me and numerous other runners up Saddle Hill) in sight to focus properly on the scenery this year.

I'd forgotten how long the descent from King's Seat is: a quad-burning 1.5ish miles back down to the woodland. I seem to remember being overtaken by dozens of runners on this section last year, so it was gratifying (although slightly alarming) to be running mostly by myself with only the occasional glimpse of runners ahead to reassure me that I hadn't gone astray. My poor, abused big toe was being battered to a pulp as my foot slammed repeatedly into the front of my too-loosely-fastened shoe. On the plus side, I realised that my eyes weren't leaking as they usually do on the downhills, thanks I think to my extremely comfy, cheap, light Decathlon shades protecting me from the wind: evidence against Digby's hypothesis that the tears get shoogled out of the eyes by the bumpy running motion.

I galumphed and puffed my way past Chris Henty, who always seems so unruffled as he lopes along, giving the impression he's out for a civilised afternoon stroll. We exchanged mutual jelly-legged woes, and I headed for the shade of the woods. The cool, damp air was a perfect tonic and the narrow, rooty, stepped path gave that exciting illusion that I was moving at a dangerously fast speed. I kept getting a glimpse of Helen zipping along below me on the zigzag trail, and realised that if I could keep up with her I'd definitely beat my 2012 time. My feet, legs and lungs were all hurting by this point, and it would have been so easy to slack off on the pace if I hadn't had a red vest to chase! Out of the woods and with less than half a mile to go, I knew I was heading for a PB. I gritted my teeth and flogged along that last short stretch of road, feeling unsporting as I passed Helen. It feels a bit cheaty to pip someone on the flat when the hill-race "proper" is done.

The turning in to Dollar Academy was well marshalled this year, and I pretty much threw myself at the finishing line, before crawling onto the pavillion steps for a nauseated / stars-in-front-of-the-eyes lie down.Warm-down stretches were conducted by leaning over the cake table for huge slices of amazing Victoria cream sponge and cups of tea. Helen and I compared battle wounds on the sunny balcony: my minced toe, and her gouged and bloodied knee (an injury sustained at the beginning of the race, which would have sent me lesser mortals whimpering home).

So, a glorious day! The only fly in the ointment was a catastrophic failure on the shower-front. I'd hoped to freshen up before heading off for a night's camping, but the women's showers were all broken. We had to make do with splashing ineffectually in the sink while eye-rolling and tsking at the sound of grufty menfolk scrubbing in the showers next door. Oh, and the next day some bloke stole the limelight from my FOUR MINUTE PB and best ever percentage by winning Wimbledon.

Results!

Lairig Ghru 2013

The two-and-a-half hour drive from Edinburgh to Braemar gave me plenty of time to contemplate my suggestibility and lack of common-sense when signing up for races. The Lairig Ghru is a 26.5ish mile race through the heart of the Cairngorms: a marathon over rough ground. I had completely bypassed any training or tapering schedule, opting instead for a single bash along the canal to Linlithgow the weekend before (resulting in two more throbbing, blackened toenails). By the time we arrived in Braemar, I'd worked myself into a lather of fear, having tried in vain to latch onto a positive angle to the day. Weather forecast: poor. Foot and leg condition: creaky. Distance: 6 miles further than the point at which I'd fallen apart on my canal run. Track record on navigation: piss poor. The runes were falling in the shape of Mountain Rescue vehicles, and rather than feeling like a plucky adventurer, I increasingly felt like an irresponsible fud.

And then I met Jim. "What food are you taking, Jim?" "Oh, er...packet of crisps and a bag of sweeties." "And what about water?" "Well the race organiser says there's plenty of water in the burns, so I'm just taking this empty bottle. It'll be fine. Don't know what you're so worried about anyway." And then he reminded me that fellow runners John Ryan and Alex McVey had run the leg-destroying Arrochar Alps yesterday. In John's words, Carnethy "Home for the Bewildered" truly is bursting at the seams.

So, as an apparently lone beacon of quivering nerves in a sea of in-yer-face nonchalance, we set off for the first roady few miles. I chatted briefly to Melanie Sinclair who was "just doing it as a bit of a training run" in preparation for the Devil O' the Highlands. Bonkers. After about three miles I noticed that my hip was hurting quite a lot, which was a worry. I decided to monitor the situation and decide whether to continue at Derry Lodge (about 9 miles in). We turned off towards the Mar Estate, and stopped for a swig of water at the unmanned refreshment point at the turning onto a landrover track.

Uneventful.

The miles between the Mar Estate and Derry Lodge were fairly uneventful: a barely perceptible incline along smooth gravelly track. My hip wasn't easing off, and now my rucksack strap was cutting into the back of my neck. I wasn't particularly happy. However, Derry Lodge took me by surprise at 8.5 miles and I didn't feel ready to bail out so I grabbed a fistful of Jelly Beans and pressed on.

Luibeg Burn

I took a moment to cool my heels at Luibeg Burn, and take some photos (secretly hoping someone might fall in). My hip demanded some attention, so I slapped on a dollop of ibu-gel. The trail from this point was a bit rougher, which I liked, and as it swept round the base of Carn Mhaim the clouds gloomed eerily around the peak of The Devil's Point.

She'll be coming round the mountain when she comes...

I spent most of the next few miles bracing myself for the boulder fields, so much so, that I didn't fully appreciate the journey. I paused at a particularly crisp looking burn for a few swigs, and being out of breath accidentally inhaled the water. Not sure if the thirsty runner downstream appreciated my spluttering and snotting. At last (must have been near the 16 mile mark) the path disappeared into rubble. I would LOVE to see the fast guys on this stuff. Do they run? Who knows. I picked my way through the heaps of rocks very cautiously and was overtaken by several runners. As I slowed to snail's pace I felt a pang of hunger, and decided to take a few minutes out to have lunch. I picked a rock (tricky decision) and sat down for a few handfuls of my "race mix": granola, honey roasted cashews, chunks of fudgy chocolate brownie, and sultanas, laced with mint TicTacs (Chris Henty's suggestion, which results in a Russian Roulette-ish frisson of anticipation while chomping through the sweet stuff).

I slapped a bit more ibu-gel on the hip and boshed a couple of amphetamines (just kidding Mum, it was paracetamol) and, feeling renewed, weaved my way round the Pools of Dee. The gorge was quite awe-inspiring at this point, and the steeply curved scree slopes seemed to sing of their glacial history. I read that when the Lairig Ghru was used as a drovers' road, the villagers would be paid to keep the track clear of rocks. I might have a word with Deeside Runners about that for next year.

Rocky rocks.

Loadsa rocks.

Rock o'clock.

Eventually the valley and the clouds opened with a vista down to Aviemore. For some reason I'd been expecting the trail to miraculously become runnable at this point, but it was mostly still very technical and demanded high concentration not to fly arse over tit. I stubbed my toe several times along here. However, I was making good progress and overtook a few runners.

Keen to get in under five hours, I didn't stop for any more photos. The SHR website described the next section as a "long tiring flog through the forest", but the first couple of miles were fantastic: a gentle descent through sun-dappled trees. The path was a bit rooty, which relieved me of the pressure to go full pelt, and lined with heather so luxuriant that it felt like running through a well-tended shrubbery. As the path flattened out and became wide, smooth, fast-runnable landrover trail my legs, predictably, started to falter. The trees lining the path loomed tall, which simultaneously exaggerated the length of the track ahead and my own smallness. By Coylumbridge, I was very tired, and demoralised by the prospect of a couple more miles along the road. I chummed up with another runner, and we puffed and grumbled our way along the tarmac, literally counting off the minutes and metres. A road sign declaring we we entering Inverdruie was met with mutual anguish. Surely we must be on the outskirts of Aviemore by now? I was exhaling in little sobs. At last we hit the signed fork to the right, taking us along a path to the bridge over the Spey. I could visualise the map, and knew we were so close to the end, although my watch was already reading 26.5 miles at this point. We ducked under the railway line, and up onto the main road ("Last hill...push it up this one!" said my chum, and to my surprise I obliged). 

Where was the goddamn police station?? We slogged on and on, looking for some sort of flag or finish line. "You're nearly there!" shouted a supporter. "HOW NEARLY??!"  I raged. "About 100 metres!...just there!!" I  looked ahead and felt surging joy to see Rosie tearing towards me. We high-fived and she cheered me in to the finish-line (which was actually a guy with his arm stuck out). I flopped down in the car park and was informed repeatedly by small family members that were were cakes and biscuits "just there" and that they were "only for the runners" <meaningful stare>. I got the hint and went to stock up on a cup of vegetable soup and a cheese & herb scone (delicious) and rather more cakes and biscuits than are feasible for one person. 

Jim rocked up for a chat, having cruised in with a sub-four hour time and a magnificent 19th place, with John Ryan and Alex McVey coming in shortly after (Arrochar Alps? Bovvered!!). And at last, I squeaked into the top half of the field. Chuffed!

Hokas Pocus?

I've been keeping my ear to the ground about good ultra shoes in preparation for running the Cotswold Way in August. It's mostly trail and some road, and I'm not sure my beloved MudClaws or cheapo road trainers are best suited to it. I've toyed with the idea of Hokas over the last few months, on account of recommendations from other runners who know their onions when it comes to long distance running, but have been hesitant a) because they look ridiculous and b) I'm a wannabe barefoot runner (who, sadly, over-pronates and has weak muscles and inflexible joints, and probably should just give up on the whole running malarkey full stop). 

And then I had one of those impetuous shopping experiences: I'd heard that Hoka's new Rapa Nuis were a bit less maximalist and ridiculous looking. Interest piqued I found that the online shops had all sold out. I'm a sucker for wanting things I can't have, and felt duly aggrieved that these cushiony trail-friendly shoes were unavailable to me. And then I chanced across the information that Tiso had them discounted in store in my size. It was fate. I had to make them mine.

While in Tisos I actually tried on several Hokas and was interested to see that they varied considerably in fit:

• The Stinson Evos in size 7 were very short in length. I could feel my toes at the very end (even though I'm usually a 6 to 7 in other trainers). The 8s on the other hand felt far too loose. 
• The ladies' pink and grey Rapa Nuis in 7 were very slightly too narrow for me (I have widish feet). 
• The men's (unisex!) size 7 Rapa Nuis were perfect, which was a relief as I have an aversion to pink.

They all felt really quite odd as I jogged around the shop. If I stood on tiptoe, I could actually feel the spongy midsole squish into my arch. I wore them around the house and then out and about on the school run etc, and was amazed at how comfy they were. There was absolutely no rubbing from the inners (I tend to need a lengthy "wearing in" process, especially for my knobbly heel bump). A jog along the canal felt excitingly bouncy, and I noticed at the end of the day after hours of standing/walking/jogging my feet weren't feeling tired and achy as they would usually.

And that m'lud is why I made the mind-bogglingly stupid decision to take them out for a long hilly run. Matt and I had planned a day of toddling around Baddinsgill and the rougher southern tail of the Pentlands in our matching His 'n Hers Hokas. (I can't believe I lured him away from his resolute monogamy to his Inov-8s!) He had nevertheless decided to bring his usual shoes as back-up, whereas I, fool that I am, was sure that these fat-soled gutties would be just fine and scoffed at his suggestion to copy him. 

Guns don't kill people, Rapas do...

Within about three minutes of running up Faw Mount, I realised I'd made a bad call. The lumpy grass and tussocks that would pass almost unnoticed underfoot in hill shoes became ankle-wrecking hazards in my platforms. Matt changed into his old faithful Inov-8s and I struggled on hoping (I knew in vain) for smoother tracks further ahead. The strain of balancing on such uneven ground was incredibly taxing on my calves, and by the top of Faw Mount, I realised I was going to have to abandon the plans for the day. Matt redrew a route off the hills towards trail and road, and heroically resisted any tsking or I-told-you-sos. I ran on to Mount Maw in my socks, marvelling at how well-designed our feet (yes, even mine!) are for carrying us over rough terrain. 

Tussocky terrain. Bad...very bad.

Cauldstane Slap and the Roman roads around West Linton and Garvald enabled me to test the Rapa Nuis on about ten miles of gravelly track and road, which I guess is what they're designed for. I was willing them to feel good, so as to avoid facing the possibility that I'd made an expensive mistake, but they really did fare well. Interestingly, they felt more stable than my hill shoes over the large gravel. Where small rocks might cause my foot to seesaw to the side in my Inov-8s, the Hokas just seemed to engulf them in their smooshiness. It felt a bit like running on that springy tarmac you get in playgrounds. 

Gravelly track: bueno!

Descents (albeit gentle ones) felt particularly lovely: I'm a forefoot / midfoot runner usually, but tend towards heel-strking on descents, and it can feel noticeably jarring on hard ground. Not so in the Hokas, as I bounced and glided down. However, I'm dubious about the ascents. The blurb about Hokas says something about them encouraging a "rocker motion", and I'm not sure this is a good thing for me. It feels like my foot is held in one position, and not allowed to flex properly. I think I must be very forefooted in my ascents, running / walking almost on tiptoe, and the Rapa Nuis seem to hamper this. It feels like I'm missing out on the final springy take-off bit of my stride, and I'm concerned that it might lead to bad running form / less muscle strength if I were to train in them frequently. Any technical terrain which required nimble footwork also felt like hard work, but I think this might be a case of getting used to the out-sized sole. The shoes themselves are quite light, so perhaps I just need to get acclimatised to running with "bigger feet"?

And the day after? Well, surprisingly good considering I ran 16 miles with at least 10 of them being on hard track. I'd expect my knees to be a bit achy, but they seem fine. And no blisters, which I think is quite remarkable!

So, the verdict is out for me on the Rapa Nuis. I'll persevere with them on trail / road runs for a bit, and if they don't work out I can always keep them in reserve for Shawaddywaddy fancy dress emergencies.

They let him out for the day.

Dodging the Law

Through a series of cunning manouevres I managed to wangle my way out of racing at Traprain yesterday, although being appointed in sole charge of the wains, it was not an unmitigated victory. As far as family-friendly race events goes, it was perfect. The East Linton Gala day offered more bouncy castles than you can shake an (unsharpened) stick at, plus Luca's ice cream vans, and a great playground next to the final uphill sprint to the finish line...ideal for spectating/supporting while the urchins played.

Stewart and Cali

It's Trapraining Men!

 I felt very smug as the runners clustered near the start line. It really was Far Too Hot for running. In fact anything above midwinter Siberian levels tends to make me wilt. Luckily it was Just Right for ice cream eating, and as the runners sprinted at ungodly speeds towards nettles, rivers and a big nobbly hill, I made my way with equal haste to the Luca's van. Strawberry cones all round.

The least exciting ride.

I have a pet human on my shoulder.

 After some bouncy-castling and mini-train riding (the latter being a rather anti-climactic 20 second chug along the grass on what looked liked an oversized roller skate), we went to loiter near the finish. It was very exciting seeing everyone come in. Stewart Whitlie sprinted back in first, looking as fresh as he had on the way out, with second and third men hot on his heels. I was greatly impressed to see how many runners put on a final burst of speed on that last uphill drag. How do they have the energy? I can barely drag myself over the line at most races. Anyway, it made for some dramatic finishes, and I enjoyed trying to capture them on camera.

Stewart Whitlie - 1st Male

Peter Buchanan - 1st Super Vet

Jill Mykura - First Lady

Bob. Whoa there, boy.

Fionna flying...literally?

And then the stripper arrived.

Bill Gauld.

Cali looking far too cheerful.

I waited for Matthew to come in....and waited....and waited...and saw Matt Grove and thought aha! He'll be along soon! And waited...And began to worry as at least three quarters of the field had finished. Fionna (who, incidentally, had put on a truly formidable sprint at the end) came and relieved my angst by telling me that Matt had stopped to help another runner who was suffering from exhaustion in the heat. Gallant though this may seem, I reckon he saw it as an opportunity to stop running and wallow near the river for a bit. And who can blame him! The poorly runner recovered well, by the way.

Here he comes at last!

Yetholm Hill Race

With excellent weather forecast for today, we decided to descend upon Yetholm en famille. Matt decided to take the kids to see the Stob Stanes (towards the end of the route) while I trotted round the anticlockwise 7.7 mile circuit. 

We got there early, and between the five of us made extensive use of the non-flushing Portaloos. It was already pretty warm and I fretted a little over how much water to carry. In the end I packed about 200ml, just to tide me over. Despite the huge turnout (300+ I reckon), registration and kit checks were very efficiently managed. Strict rules were enforced, as one might expect from a race associated with BSARU, and they confirmed that I had to carry my bulky, heavy (not to mention fugly) full body cover. 

I prattled anxiously at Euan Boyd and Bill Gauld as the start-line jostling began. Having strained my left quad during a high octane ping pong match the night before, I was happy to loiter at the back and so was Euan (but then he would be, because he is fast and probably enjoys the extra challenge of nipping past people). The actual start was so low-key this time that I didn't actually hear it, but just noticed the herd shuffling forwards. Within seconds we were ascending Staerough Hill which seemed like a very good excuse to knock the running on the head for a bit.

 Gritty determination. 

I'd expected the terrain to be similar to sections of the Morebattle Monster which I ran last year: gentle grassy undulations. It didn't seem quite as forgiving as that. The hills were a bit punchier and the ground was a bit rougher. It might be that what seems gentle at 20 mile race pace is lost in translation at 8ish mile race pace. I fell in with a couple of Todmorden runners and we oscillated along Sunnyside Hill (it was very sunny!) and Wildgoose Hill (no wild geese to be seen). By Latchly Hill I was feeling pretty hot and tired. It occurred to me that suncream and maybe a parasol might have been more worth lugging around than my full body cover.

Nearing the summit, I looked for the trail of runners snaking ahead of me, but couldn't see any. Maybe we'd been given a reprieve?? Perhaps the next hill had been cancelled?? Perhaps I'd just miscounted the hills so far and was ahead of myself?? Hopes were dashed at I crested the summit, and saw a plunging descent and teeny weeny figures climbing The Curr. Mr and Mrs Todmorden overtook me as I wibbled down to the sheepfold, and JBF zoomed past me at the boggy base of the hill.

 The Curr is not the most lovable of hills. It's steep and a bit foliagey in places and goes on and on and on. Knowing that  this was likely to be the toughest bit, I just wanted to get it over with, so dug in and puffed and grumbled my way up, overtaking a few folk on the way. I treated myself to a few swigs of water, relieving my uncomfortably arid mouth. The first section of descent was disappointingly chopped up and squishy, which was unkind on the tired legs. However, Stear Rig was just lovely: a gorgeous, gently descending, smooth-turfed ridge. Catching up with JBF, he told me "It's just a fast run back now." Fast...hmmm. I tried to cock an eyebrow, but all energy was diverted leg-wards. 

Meanwhile on t'other side of the valley...

Stob Stanes

Multipurpose stone: waymarker, gypsy queen altar and chillaxing point.

 As the sun shone and a gentle breeze cooled me, I ran with gay abandon, taking in the miles and miles of Borders beauty, until  Oh NO! Serious quad pain. I think I must have just lengthened my stride a bit too enthusiastically, so tried to curtail left-handed stride length. It occurred to me that this asymmetry might result in me running in ever decreasing circles. I was really quite worried about it though as the muscle continued to stiffen over the course of about a mile. Walking back to the finish was a bleak prospect. 


"Luckily" I'd forgotten about a final ascent up White Law. My heart sank a bit at the prospect of this final inoccuous hill, but it seemed that a change from back and forward motion to uppy-downy stepping limbered up my unhappy muscle. Trundling off White Law, I decided to risk picking up a bit of pace, particularly as this was where I anticipated family spectating. I had to stride past my wains in a glorious fashion. No sign of them on the hillside. Perhaps they were at the finish line. They weren't. It transpired over post-race chat that they had waved and cheered the fast people, then GOT BORED WAITING FOR THEIR OWN MOTHER and gone to look at the stones. FGS.

Family relations were reconciled over Cadbury's popcorn chocolate (a strange yet beguiling creation) and paddling in Halter Burn. We spent so long footling around that we missed the prize-giving, and headed back to Edinburgh singing Honky Tonk Women, to the palpable disapproval of the children. Revenge is a dish best served loudly.

Euan and Lindsay

 

"We weren't there to cheer you because...[insert excuse here]"

Sock removal.

Astonishingly, this didn't end as you might expect.