Ben Rinnes

Ben Rinnes was one of two long distance Scottish Hill Running Championship qualifiers this year. We didn’t fancy the Ochils race (the other qualifier), so it was a trip to Dufftown Highland Games which hosts the show.  Me and Speedy Joe drove up to Dyce on the Friday night, getting bogged down in Dundee as we tried to avoid an incident, but otherwise it was a good journey and, arriving late evening, we celebrated in the Carvery opposite the hotel with a plate of chips, pigs in blankets (just without the blankets) and a carvery bap. I blagged more sausages after complaining about the scantily clad piggies. At nine o clock the vegetables looked like they needed a little help. 

In the morning after Coffee and good work by Speedy rounding up some porridge pots from the local Spar, we drove up to Dufftown, home of my fave, The Mortlach Whisky. We arrived in good time at the scenic highland town and got our numbers. Our entry for the race also included free entry into the Games. The crowd began to gather around 11ish as blue sky broke through the mid-morning gloom. The forecast had been very sketchy, and kit choice was tricky. This 14 miler with 5000ft of ascent had attracted a good field and after being counted in, we were off, the caber-tossers grunting and gossamer light dancers providing bookends to the 150 starters or so.    

After a lap of the field, which allowed the 2000 strong audience to get a good look at the soon-to-be doomed and vanquished, we took off up a lane and across the edge of the golf course, two golfers perched on the grass by the bunker taking in the scene.  Eighteen holes would surely have been a better choice than 3 hours chomping across the heather and boulders that lay in front of us. Smithy passed me just before the mile and Lomonder Davis at around 4 miles. We navigated Little Conval and then Meikle Conval taking a steady pace. Smith was well out of view but Lommie with his distinctive red compression knee length socks  wasn’t too far ahead and this gave me something to work with. The descent from Meikle was steep and a water stop awaited just before the ascent to Ben Rinnes. I think it was Damon Rodwell who kindly poured me the water out and swept his hand across the table of sugary delights, inviting me to help myself. As I started the ascent to yon big hill, it took an age to chew through the Haribos Jellies, all the time holding my plastic bottle and supping the water to which I had added some salt. By Roy Hill, about halfway up Rinnes the leaders were on the return leg, weaving in and out of the ascenders. I was with a group of 2 yellow vests and a Cosmic.

Was Lommie coming back to me?...'yes', I thought 'he was'...most definitely. I was less than 20 seconds off him at the summit, getting up there in around 1:32. The sun was up and it was warm. Taking it steady on the descent I refilled the bottle and worked hard back up Meikle. I caught a bloke with grey hair. Clearly his wheels had come off and he was making very slow progress. I fished out a gel. As I squeezed one end of the gooey pus into my dry cavity, it was oozing out the other and at least one of my legs was coated with the sugary sludge. I had another but couldn’t find the willpower to excavate it from my bum bag. Maybe this explains why most of the fotos I took with the phone were blurred.  I stepped to the side of the narrow heathery path to let a runner pass me and immediately ended up in the undergrowth. It was a little more dramatic and embarrasing than it should have been.

Anyway, back to the race. As I shuffled back up Meikle Conval there were only 2 places between me and Davis and I hoped to catch him on the last climb up the back of Little Conval. I imagined outsprinting him as we ran around the Games field, grabbing the glory, being interviewed later and perhaps being asked to stay on to judge the Lemon Curd, Marmalade and Jam entries. However, as I tracked a younger runner, staring at his heels all the way up, Lommie had discovered some reserve of latent energy and he motored out of sight as we descended Little Meikle and back toward the golf course.  My pace was slowing, my focus had evaporated, all hope dashed in the bunker of life.  I was bushed. I surveyed the approaching town with dead salty eyes, deperate to hear the ancient drone of bagpipes from the Games that meant it was near. With no water left, I stuck the empty bottle down my t-shirt.  I was on my own across the golf course, but was then caught by a youngster. He shuffled a little quicker than me and we both shuffled onto the Games playing field, my legs protesting as I tried to 'up the pace' to make it look like a comfortable last 100. I attempted to join the sack race which was lining up on part of the finishing straight, but was shooed away as the parents shielded their kids faces from the haggard mess in front of them. And then it was over. I poured a jug of water over me and lay on the grass, all the while surrounded by the fast and gleaming athletes for whom this sort of malarkey is a trifling diversion to the mundanity of the week. 2hrs 49 was the time - well within 3 hours, but at what cost? I was cream crackered. They can keep their Games. Next year I might be one of the golfers watching!

Snowden: Gwlyb a Gwyntog

 

The Snowdon Race has been re-branded. Its now the Ras Yr Wyddfa.  As we sat in the Hotel, the rain lashing down and the wind having its evil way with the Sycamores outside, we gazed with mouths agog at the board on the wall above the table opposite. The board contained 10 common phrases in English such as ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘wheres the sun’ with their Welsh equivalent. However, we didn’t know where to start. There was no indication of how to pronounce these words nor any clues or phonetic guidance for us ignoramii.  To me it remains an inaccessible language. If we were to make a habit of running the Snowdon International Race, we’d better brush up next time. As it was, the race was shortened due to the conditions, the distance being reduced from 10 miles to 6.4 miles. It was a complete contrast to last year where runners sweltered and teetered on the edge of hydration and heat exhaustion as the mercury hit the high 70’s, where runners simmered slowly in their own juices and the ice cream man did very nicely, thank you.

This year in the saturated conditions no one was shouting out for more water, no one was eating ice creams and no one was complaining that the course had been shortened. The race commentator tried to be as upbeat as possible as we warmed up in the field and checked we had packed our goggles, trunks and kick-boards. It is chip timing, so I took my place toward the back of the field with Marg and with Speedy Joe somewhere at the front after making it into the elite field. 

I had my woolly hat, gloves and waterproof jacket on. After the start the tarmac takes you for half a mile to the lower slopes which are very steep. After this, there is a turn around 1 mile onto the gravel and cobble path and the gradient, for the most part, is very reasonable. As I ascended I kept an eye out for other old duffers who might be in the M60 class. There was a yellow vested Mercia runner ahead and another red vested Northern Fells type in with the group I was with and Mercia Man began to pull away toward the turn. A very tall Ranleagh runner kept stopping and starting just ahead of me and I pushed on to tuck in where I could. Soon enough Richards, Costa and Douglas were clambering past in the opposite direction with the enough momentum to flatten a bull, trying to get a clear line down the hill and shouting ‘track, track’ as they flew past. The procession of runners soon became more intense and I knew we were near the turn. It was blowing a hooly. The heavy showers came and came abit more. The bemused, fully hydrated and lightly salted walkers on the hill, almost all clad in black coats and hoods hugged themselves nervously, lifting their eyes and looking up and out occasionally to see if the coast was clear from these marauding hoodlum type runners who were laying waste to the mountain path. 

After the turn I absolutely hammered it. Mercia man was dust and Northern Fells blokey ate my shorts; all of them. I took a couple of random scalps. Toward the lower gravel slopes I spied a group of 6 or 7 and took aim. I was full tilt. 

Just before the tarmac I was past all of them, but I could feel their displeasure in the Matrix behind me as I cast my jacket and hat onto the grass verge with complete abandon. As the gradient eased on the tarmac back into the village I could feel the turbulence behind me. I was being used as a target and they were closing in. My pace slowed. I imagined being chased by Chuckie and his mates. The finishing straight is 100m of grass and I was well in the lead of the gurning competition as I closed in on the line, my face contorting into a hideous Munch-like feature as I squeezed everything out.  I recalled how I’d been overhauled on the flat tarmac at Goatfell after all the good work on the downhill and I vowed to finish strongly or die trying. As it was, I died strongly as Eyri M60 man 1 and Eyri M60 man 2 came past within 20m of the line and I grabbed defeat from the jaws of victory, much like Partick Thistle last season. I was only a neck ahead of Bronwen - where did she come from? It was all turning to sheet. Wet sheet. At the end the chip results gave me 10 or 15 seconds on the three locals. However, when the results came out, it was the gun time that was used for the placings and I dropped from 2^nd M60 on chip to 4^th M60, the local 'youngsters' grabbing 2^nd and 3^rd places by 1 and 2 seconds respectively. Gwych. I'm not bitter. Note to self: remember to ignore chip timing next time.

To rub salt into the wound, I found a bourbon biscuit had been lodged under my roof rack with no explanation, and, back at the accommodation, the owners hadn’t left any kindling, so we were huddled around the radiators trying to dry out until we eventually got the fire going. We toasted the soggy biscuit for dinner. 

Speedy had a good race and Marg managed not to be last or get blown off the hill, which was a victory in itself. Tidy. We all got a t-shirt and slate coaster. The good news is that my facial contortions got me a couple of seconds on the BBC programme on Welsh TV. Fat lot of good that’ll do me. On the plus side, I have got myself a new agent and a place at the Egremont Crab Fair where the world gurning championships are held. Ysblenydd. Wonder if its chipped?!

Melantee: Quad Hell

As well as being nearly unpronounceable to a non gaelic speaker like me, the Meall an-t Suidhe (Melantee, Fort William) was a hill race that just kept on giving. It’s given me the worst case of Doms (delayed onset muscle soreness) I have ever had; and it wasn’t even delayed. After jiggling my wheezy carcass down the impossibly steep grassy drop from the summit, I temporarily lost the means of forward propulsion (‘running’ in other words); Sure, my legs knew broadly what was expected of them, but my hips and quads were all over the shop, melted under the gradient and I felt like Bambi. I had been done in on a grassy knoll.  Its 4 days later and I’m still hobbling and even had to miss last nights 5 mile race at Newcastle Quayside.

The 4 miler, a short affair on Saturday, was a Scottish and British Championship race and there were some big hitters present both in the mens race, and also in the womens which had taken place 2 hours earlier. We (me and Speedy joe) had travelled up earlier in the day to Tyndrum. We had to change cars and rearrange some insurances after my car decided it wasn’t going (and jammed the rear handbrake caliper just to make sure).  The borrowed fiesta performed admirably and got us up to Fort William in good time, the heavy rain and leaden skies beginning to lift as we arrived at Claggan.  We got our numbers and after a jog, I set off a little way up the course with the camera. The women were soon on their way and Speedy was around 10^th sitting in the Sharon Taylor group. On the way back there was certainly some fun and games as many navigated the muddy track successfully, but some misjudged the terrain and found themselves face down in the bog.  Speedy, a relative novice at the fell race game, dropped 10 places on the return and jogged in after getting down and dirty in the mud.  She advised that we had the wrong shoes on.

At the start of the mens race around 150 lined up. Sure enough as I cast my eye around the competitors footwear I saw a sea of Inov’s and a handful of VJ’s but no Speedcross…’ Ah, well, I mused, can’t matter that much, can it?’

For a crusty trooper like me, the hill ahead didn’t seem to offer anything sinister and I was well up with Davis and then dropped to be passed by Smith and his woolly socks halfway up. Near the top both had drifted ahead and I began to falter, frothing gaily while grabbing at handfuls of grass and reeds near the windy summit.  ‘Come on shoes, get me up yon ‘kin hill,…’ I gasped…

At the turn I was 45 seconds down on Smith and an amazing 2 minutes on Davis. ‘Could I do anything on the way down’? ‘No’ was the answer. I gathered my loins and headed downhill. My technique was crapulent and I was passed by a good handful of punters. I haemorrhaged a shetload of more time on the way back, tripping once on concrete near the track.  It took me 28 minutes up and nearly 16 minutes to get back, coming in after an unconvincing lap of shame around the football pitch in 122^nd place. My claggy chest didn’t help, but I was puggled.

We retired to the B&B after a mooch up the High Street which never fails to disappoint and we dined at the Nevis in before having a swift one in the Volunteers.   The next day we were up and out and on the Hill by 9 and spent the next 3 hours padding our way up and down Nevis in between the showers. Both sets of legs were shot. We had 10 minutes at the bottom to watch the ‘Half Ben’ racers come past, a handful of them having put in a shift the previous day.  How do they do that, then?

The order has gone in for a batch of VJ irocs. It remains to be seen if these will arrive before Snowdon a week on Saturday, but either way, that Welsh beauty is quite a different beast to the Meall. Thank frock.