Birnam Hill Race 2022

 

Arriving at Birnam with a spare half an hour before the race, I joined the queue to get my number from Adrian's impromptu race pop-up tent HQ, set up in the rear yard of his B&B. Ten or so late entries swelled the race numbers; most had pre-entered. The sun was up and it was warm, and I elected to go with the fashionable black Bella T-shirt, black shorts and twee powder blue socks. Around 100 runners assembled in the lane next to the park for the start. The need for full body cover was spelled out. It was chip timing (PROTAY.CO.UK) so no need to rush off the front. However, having run this previously in 2017, I recalled that some of the course is narrow, so getting stuck behind folk was best avoided. There were a few old faces and I had a chat with Steve M from Hawkhill. Some said it was their first proper hill run for quite a while. The race started and we set off, winding our way up the steep lung-busting, head down climb to the top of Kings Seat. The race is really a good old fashioned ‘all up and all down’ affair, with only the slenderest romp across the top. The descent is quite technical in my mind, given that you should be flat out and marginally out of control going down. I crested the top at around 40^th and tried to recover running across the heathery path and dry rushes. Then the descent began and I passed around 8 or 9, spurred on by gravity and cracking my internal whip as I opened my stride, the sweat on the forehead and eyelids misting my eyes and clouding my brain, which I had disengaged for the descent. The last mile is an undulating run through the forest and is taxing but I sat in behind a Carnethy girl. I couldn't find any more speed. Around 80 metres ahead was a small group, but they seemed to break up as we inched closer. Hitting the top of the lane, I moved ahead, half expecting Carnethy girl to reveal her sprint, but there was none and, instead, I found myself catching Alan Smith, cap on, top off and him cruising to the finish. I couldn’t get past him, but it occurred to me that the chip timing might decide on the placings. Sure enough, I had beaten him for the first time by one second. Fair enough, he’s now M60 and I'm still a year off that, but I was pleased with the run and scalp. 

Peter Bracegirdle was on the hill with camera and took some great shots. The one attached has been photo-shopped to remove the stringy slaver dribbling down my chin. This development which I noticed at the signals relays, is slightly worrying and appears to be establishing itself as my race look, my ‘de rigeur’, the mark of someone who has lost it. It is not the genteel look that I'm striving for, me being the nearly elder statesmen of the club athletics scene.  Anyway it was 30th place and soup and prize-giving back at race HQ. There had been one casualty apparently, but hopefully nothing serious.  As I had entered the longer Deuchary Canter to be held the next day, me and missus mac retired to top up our vitamin D and sit in the sun in the beer garden at the Atholl Hotel with pale ale at six quid a pint. Good business if you can get it.