Goatfell 2026

This is the third time we've made the pilgrimage to Arran for the Goatfell Mountain race. Organised this year by the new club on the block, Queens Park AC, the weather was ideal, dry, sunny and cool for the 10 mile affair with 2800ft of ascent. 

We stopped at Stevenston on the Friday night, thanks to Speedy who re-booked us after she noticed that we were booked in for the 8th May, and not the 15th. Doh! I might have as well chucked a pile of tenners out of the car window. Hotel accommodation that you don't show up for is profligate buffoonery. 

It was a tangerine and porridge pot for breakies and I stuck a couple of  gels in the bum bag. After Deesides Alan Smith;'s early withdrawal at the previous weeks Ben Lomond, he made an appearance at Brodick and my vision of an casual wander up yon big hill was torpedoed. I held him off for half an hour, but really it was a re-run of Nevis a couple of years ago.  More hill work required.

I ditched the two shoe strategy I had tried previously. It takes about fifteen seconds to change your shoes once you hit the mile run-in on the road and I stuck with the Salomons which have at least a little bounce. As it was, I grafted up the hill and got some snatched GoPro footage for my budding new career in the movies industry on the ascent. 

Soon the fast lads were descending past us, the rapid and diminutive Tom Spencer miles ahead of his Westerland pursuers at the front end. 

I dug out the 2nd gel near the summit and put the camera away for the descent, which was a pity because I might have banked some good footage, but probably of me taking a dive and smashing my recent dental work someway on the rocky tracks.  I must have twisted my knee somewhere on the way down where I managed to hurl myself past six or seven competitors with my pitter-patter stubby legs doing their thing, but three of them easily overhauled me on the last flat mile of tarmac. I hate that road bit! Another 2nd place M60 and 3 bottles of Arran Ale. Musn't grumble. 

Ninety ran. Speedy snaffled first woman, so she got the coffees in. The crisps, cakes and tea were plentiful and we got the ferry back, talking over two plates of something that resembled Chicken Tikka to three blokes who had seen us on the hill. This morning, the knee is still up like a cauliflower, but I'll dig out the frozen peas, put the leg up and endure.        

Ben Lomond Race 2026

Well, it wasn't pretty, but I was pleased and exhausted with this years run out at Ben Lomond. Its taken me four days to recover from the 8 mile combination of forced march and semi-freefall, although as I hugged Dave Allsop's shoulder for a mile or so downhill (before he eventually dispatched me), I caught a glimpse of what I used to be capable of, while realising that my downhilling isn't, now, what it once was. 

Earlier I had tramped up the hill, much of the time with Hanna from Strathearn. Clad in yellow, Westerlands vet Anderson, M60's winner at Dumyat, had started ahead of me and it stayed like that as he disappeared over the ridge at the halfway mark. Oddly, having seen Deeside's Alan Smith mulling around the start, I was waiting for the legend to come past and pace me back up to Westerland; but unbeknown to me, he wasn't running and I spent most of the race resisting being passed by my imagination. 

I made no ground on Anderson throughout the race, but I was stalwartly intransigent in my slow capitulation as I asecended, gathering the vestiges of residual energy from mitochondria who think I should have thrown the towel in years ago. These days, they only manage a grumpy whip-round to help me out. I found myself breaking into short reluctant trots, but only as the gradient permitted. It wasn't convincing. Not at all.    

As Westerlands and me crossed paths near the top, I guessed my competition in the M60 category was about 2 minutes ahead. He was going down, while I was still going up. There was definite work to do on the descent. 'Was I too far back?' I mused as I fed myself my solitary gel. 

Once off the top I was passed in quick succession by 2 younger guys on the steep and heathery section of the race. My grasp on running on heather and reedy grass is slight. As I hit the track, Allsop came past and I sat in for a good while. Having a heavy breather (like me) behind must have done his head in, and he admitted the same afterwards. However, all good things have to come to an end and the elastic snapped and off he went. I came past another guy halfway down the hill and then my tiny mind got excited as I caught a leggy lad in green vest (who we shall call Jason, cause that's his name) on the lower reaches and just before we hit the wide forest road.  The punters and trekkers kindly stood aside and fairly gasped at the agility of an old baldie as I skipped and dodged the rocks and outcrops trying to put some daylight between me and Jason. However, once we were onto gravel and the half a mile run in to the finish, his long stride gathered momentum and he motored past me, darting over the cattle grid a.k.a potential ankle breaking race hazard, to the finish 8 seconds ahead:  1:37 for the race and 30th.  

Now that I've got rid of the Doms, we'll see if this weekends Goatfell Race on Arran can break me. Humph. Speedy won the womens race. Photos (by Marg) at  

https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipMooaTGkdk5E56VBm1F67UjQnA8Ev20c5CYRIeBSlyeO6XlQ0oexuMQkcR7OvjqPA?key=cnVJMHF5dEtFRnYxZm5SUTBicUM0aHZ5TXJ4N29B