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!