Scottish Masters XC Trials

A target for my newly acquired M60 status was to try for a Scottish Masters cross country vest. I was aware it was quite a long shot. Even though I am not a member of the Scottish Vets Association, I emailed the selectors with my details. They advised that I could join if I was selected. 

I duly trooped up to Glasgow on Saturday, arriving by train at Queens Street in good time. After a series of earlier minor mishaps (initial train delay, spilled juice) I found myself sat in the cool and quiet upstairs of St. Enoch Square supping a mug of tea, reading Glasgow educated William Boyd’s novel ‘The Romantics’ and surreptitiously eating my home made cheese roll.  I wandered to the bus stop and was re-directed to another, eventually boarding the No 61 at the Gallowgate. 

It took no time to arrive at Tollcross and I was still early for the 2pm kick-off. It was another cuppa for a quid at the Wellshot café in Shettleston (full breakfast for a fiver!) and an easy amble to the park. It occurred to me that the trials might not be on the grass but, instead, on the paths. I had only brought spikes and was wearing my trail shoes. Thankfully as I crested the hill I saw the tape and gave a gasp of relief. 

The temperature was well into the 70’s, as were a good handful of competitors, all either in denial or just living life and running 'cause they could. I lay under a tree finding the shade and listened to the various observations and pearls of wisdom rolling out from all corners. ‘Start steady and consolidate’; ‘There’s only 2 places for sure, so make sure youre up there' and so on..  

The familiar sound of drums and flutes from a small band making its way along Tollcross Road reached us and slowly ebbed away.  Lots of happy hot motorists backed up behind them, no doubt.  

Steve Cairns was warming up and I noted a few other notables. I pinned my M60 number on the back of my Bella vest and warmed up. I noticed one or two DNF’s in the Womens & M65+ race that preceded the 'young mans race' and wondered how hot it actually was. We lined up and after a 3,2,1 we were off. I found myself near the back of the field within 100 metres and the penny dropped that I was in the oldest age group and, as a result, should expect to be at the back. It was, nevertheless a surprise. Upson from Cambuslang was alongside but not for long and he bagan to steadily pull away. Halfway through lap 1 of 4, two wrinkly M60 grafters from Shettleston and Central AC pulled up alongside and then went ahead. They got around 30 or 40 metres on me and then I pegged the gap into the next lap where the Central boy pulled out. 'Happy days', I muttered. 

I continued to sweat my way around the laps and on the 3^rd lap convinced myself that Shettleston’s Williams was coming back. I tried to up the pace (this resulting in an impressive acceleration from 7 minute mile pace to 6.50 pace!). However, he was still around 10 seconds ahead well into the 4^th lap and I ran out of grass in the end. I finished the 8k in 34 minutes and 4^th M60. 

I have no illusions of selection, but was pleased I’d made the effort and after towelling myself and rehydrating on the way to the bus stop, I quaffed a cool pint of lager at the Tollbooth bar where I was royally entertained watching the characters and interaction from a corner of the bar, before moving on for a hot roll and another pint in Max’s. A session!  It was an easy train ride home and I had the next day off, cause I’m old and that recovery thing is important.   

Ben Nevis 2023: Top Run in the Sun

The penultimate long trip of this years season. The Ben Nevis Mountain Race in Fort William. Britain’s biggest hill and a race I took part in back in 2009 when the conditions were atrocious. I recall being intimidated by them, the prospect of running across wet boulder fields and super saturated scree probably armed with Salomon Speedcrosses which were, on reflection, not really suited to the steep terrain. It was unfinished business for me. I extended the invite and Speedy joe said she was ‘in’, although it was fair to say she dithered for a good while.  It’s a good path all the way, only the race takes off up the side and ignores the walkers path. If the clag is down, you can’t see where you’re heading and as the grey boulder field merges with the grey mist, you can become a disorientated towards the top.  Otherwise from the Red Burn down, about the halfway point, it’s straightforward and you have only the walkers to dodge.

We got up around 5.30pm on the Friday evening and we went for a shake down along the Loch front. I felt remarkably chipper as the pace greased along at 7 minute miles.  A bowl of pasta and a comfy bed for 8 hours kip and it was up at 7am. The forecast was good, but I didn’t want to tempt fate. I had a 2 mile jog around the town then wolfed down some Weetabix and a caramel shortie before driving Missus Mac and Ant to the Parkrun.

It was five quid for the parking at the Ski and Mountain Bike centre, but we decided to just accept that the town is pricey and with no shortage of tourists, rates for most things are greatly inflated.  The park run was a modest affair and a little traily and before we knew it we were back in the car and heading for a jog to registration for the Ben race followed by a 40 minute lie down: a little time to consider your future, to imagineer the race, to fortify your mind.

We returned to the football park at 12.20pm and completed our preparations, pinning on numbers, nodding to the various great and the good. There were around 430 or so athletes from across the UK.  Headed by the pipe band, we walked around the field for a lap, gladiators before the cheering crowd bathed in early afternoon sunshine. It was a good day to run. We were soon off and I must admit I was pretty focused. Having made such as hash of the 2009 race, I was adamant that there would be no fear today, no distractions from the task in hand. We were soon threading our way up the hill and I was at the first checkpoint at about 32 minutes. We passed the red burn on the ascent and I gulped 3 handfuls before moving on.  We hung a sharp left and hit the scree slope and then it was up and up for 2 miles. My 4^th mile took me 27 minutes, a slow slog.  Alan Smith and a Highland Hillrunner came past on the right at around 4 mile. I wondered if I should have tucked in behind him, but he seemed happier on the boulders than on the finer scree and I stayed put.  

Some bloke behind wanted to chat, but I have no time for the misplaced false bonhomie in a race and I was happy when the one-way chatter stopped toward the top. Soon the bodies were careering back down. Speedy passed me on her way back – she looked to be in 3^rd place and gave me a wave – always a good sign. 

There was some light mist around but visibility was good as I came to the turn. It was busy and it was as though we had ambushed the walkers on the hill – they looked bewildered as runners selected their own line down the hill cutting across paths and appearing and disappearing in a sweaty arm flailing morass. As I descended, I was very happy with my shoes, VJ Irocks, and I got past a good handful of less suicidal or committed athletes. Conversely, I was passed by a good handful as well and tried to take inspiration from some and a better line down the hill from the others who looked like they had some confidence or route knowledge about them.  Hitting the walkers path at the Burn, I gubbed 5 mouthfuls of water and was off again. I vowed to take it easy on the way down as I didn’t want the legs to go all rowntrees jelly in the last mile on the tarmac run in to the finish. I was still making good progress and elected to take only one cut through the ferns near the base of the hill, gaining me perhaps 2 or 3 places.  Missus Mac made an appearance in support and Ant handed out the water bottle, which, as arranged, was gratefully received. It had been hot and I gulped another mouthful before discarding it. Three of us ran along the tarmac. As we entered the football field the Highland Hill runner and Calder Valley runner forged ahead, but I suspected neither were in my category and had just about energy to fall over the line in 2:20 and 128^th place, a minute slower than 13 years earlier but 80 places higher up. Smithy had taken 3 minutes out of me in the last mile of ascent and a further 5 minutes on the descent, so hats off to him. As it was, I was 2^nd M60 and had executed my plan successfully, the weather making this race such a contrast to my earlier experience. I cramped for a bit as I caught my breath, lying spreadeagled on the grass, but was soon up and about and well chuffed with my race performance. We dined royally in the evening and I slept the sleep of Hades afterwards.

Speedy managed to conjure up 2^nd (womens) place, passing previous multiple winner Sharon Taylor in the last wee bit of the hill in just over 2 hours, so it was a double celebration, and with the parkrun experience, our wee party were a pretty happy bunch.  With the news that Linds had won her race in the Cheviots earlier in the day, it was all going very well, I must say.

Watergate 5k: Verdict - Misadventure

Spooling back in sepia history, I can regale you of the Watergate 5k trail race last Thursday night.  I have assiduously avoided these short events, all flat out and no prisoners. I have mainly been preferring to immerse myself in the fell and hill running scene this season tagging along with Speedy. In this theatre of running, if you slow down, or find a stretch of the course tiresome, you can slow down, you can even walk. Yes, you might lose a place or two, but frequently if you walk, the runners behind take this as a signal and they start walking. All very civilised.

I noticed a little while ago that the Scottish Vets Association was holding trials in Tollcross for the Home Nations vets cross country championships. Might I be considered? I realise that this is a fanciful notion, a dopey whim. After all, I reckon on the strength of parkruns alone, I figure around 20th or 30th in the M60 arena. I understand that if the selectors (on my radio) are undecided, they will refer to the Power of 10 website, the 'go to' website for all anorak runners; a website that likes UKA licenced events. A website that doesn’t report fell or hill running races, those soiled off-grid races I have been running all season. Well, 'running' in its loosest sense. 

My addled state of mind figured that maybe it would be an idea to populate my page with a couple of recent decent performances, should I make the radar of the Bo-selectors. I could see them sitting at their desks, pencils in their hair, adjusting their steamed up glasses as they gasp incredulously at my credentials and reach for another gin.

I lined up with Mrs Mac, the Dark Destroyer, a generous splattering of clubmates and another 200 around me. Watergate is a two lapper of a country park. Its not flat, but its not a bad course. It was a lovely night and I was confident that even though I still had Sedbergh in my legs, I could deliver a 19-minuter.  It could be ugly, but it would be my sort of ugly. There was just a suggestion of misplaced smugness as the whistle went and I pulled my cap down to its aero-position. 

A kilometre into the race and the bunch were still shaking out, thinning as we hit a left turn here, a short drag there. I found myself with Lizzie and Stephen sitting just behind Mr G, who was acting as pacer for the night. 

MizBen. arrived at the 2k mark and then there were 5 of the blue and white hoops. I felt ok and just had to 'hang-in there' I thought as I peered through the mist of sweat dripping from the end of my cap over my monobrow. 

I could see the Dark Destroyer just ahead with JJ, a target for those willing and able to move up a gear. However, my legs had other plans and promptly moved down a gear, the axles beginning to creak, the carburettors stuttering as I came over all jangly and heavy legged. I had diesel in the petrol tank and there was no way back. The 'Peth groupetto moved on and I began to lose places. The 4k marker came and went and I was still losing places. I shambled in a slow motion death march to the finish line. It was lined with a thin group of supporters, officials and helpers with groups of the already finished huddled into clans of their club colours, the post mortems already developing..  I glanced at my watch. 20.05. With a first mile of 6.15, I had capitulated to a 6.50 mile by the end of the affair. A sorry mess. But this is what happens when you spend your time avoiding interval training, track and road events. Lets hope that the selectors don't bother to look at the Power of 10 website. Best just pull on my crimplene shorts, refresh the insulating tape holding my glasses together and give it some. If nothing else I will be a target for the Neds, a stooge in a future Still Game episode.

This weekends training gig is Ben Nevis. Its been 2009 since I last ran it on a horrible wet day. Although there is little opportunity of me beating my previous 2:20 time. I was passed by around 40 coming down the hill. It was a poor run. So I have always felt that I needed to return to make a better fist of the race. If I can stay on my feet, I might even enjoy myself.  I will be joined by Speedy Joe.

After finishing Tim Moores Vuelta Skelter and Mr Cadmus by Peter Ackroyd, I am due a new read. Choices, choices. 

 

Sedbergh: Camber Hell

 

We entered the Sedbergh Fell Race a good while ago knowing that it would be busy. The race is the long distance counter for the English and British Championships. We thought we’d have a crack at the latter this year, but in a moment of weakness, or simply good judgement, we bailed out of running the Welsh Counter at Llanberis a fortnight ago. The entry on the wall calendar stood like a monolith among the other fixtures. I had heard of several folk that it was a tough. A ‘toughie’ they described it as in an attempt to informalise it, to infantilise 5000ft of climbing in the Howgills.  

I had ran the Blyth Park run the week earlier and crept under the 20 minute mark, so I knew I was in reasonable shape, but still a little off the pace.It was me and Speedy joe in the jalopy as we hit the M6 going south. We’d been to Sedbergh twice before this year both for middle distance runs. However, we’d never gone deep, never penetrated the backwaters of the range and we weren’t fully sure what to expect. 

 We got off to a sketchy start at the kit check where my checker was taking no prisoners and failed my jacket on the lack of taped seams. The flimsy orange jacket had been with me since thick and thin and seen me over the Stuc and the Ben. However, on a quiet Sunday morning in the Western Dales, it was consigned to the scrapheap. Luckily Speedy had two and I sailed through the 2^nd check, albeit with a different checker. We got our dibbers (to register our locations at checkpoints) and I decided on the backpack rather than the bumbag, adding a couple of flexible water flasks. I also added 3 gels and a packet of oatcakes. Yes, I know they’re about the most difficult food to masticate when running, but I have every confidence in the food choice of my ancestors, and I didn’t have enough space in the bag for a couple of cheese rolls and a hipflask of malt, although God knows, it might have made for a more pleasant run.  

A flat bit!

There were around 350 starters at the Peoples Hall, and off we hoofed. The first 2 miles are a long steep climb to get up the first hill. The paths are for the most part in this area are well trodden and it was a long line of runners I photographed in front of me. Soon afterwards we ascended into the mist. It was a little showery and noticeably cool when the drizzle swung by, but most runners had adopted a single layer strategy and for a change I was in singlet and shorts. I found myself largely with the same group through the early stages of the race, some passing on the up then dropping back on the down, others passing on the down….you get the idea.  We were faced with a river crossing after around 3 miles and my new trail shoes were baptized with full clear water immersion and then a boggy desert afterwards.  

As the miles clocked past I remembered to dip into my runners picnic, a gel here and an oatcake there.  I began to take on water from around 5 miles as we would our way around the slopes of the course. There was nothing flat in the middle stages of the race. We followed each other through the very narrow, hummocky, reedy sheep trails, the occasional peat washout giving way under the repeated pounding of earlier runners. The width of the paths, the irregular grassy surfaces but mostly the awful cambers were exhausting. Cross slopes designed to drain your reserves.  My mental fortitude began to crumple. As I tired, so my peripheral activities came to a halt: I stopped taking photos after a while, then hadn’t even the energy to wipe my legs or check for ticks after the sections through the rusty early autumnal ferns. I heard the occasional bleep from my garmin and after a while I glanced at it as it registered 8 miles. I thought this race was 16 miles and was ready to chuck it. However, even though I had a map, I hadn’t given it a look and presumed that we were at the farthest point away from the start. Our wee group ground on. There was another stream crossing. More squelchy feet. The two Keswick girls slowly moved on ahead and I was joined by some new faces and vests and some I’d been with at the start.  My mind wandered a few times but for the most part my eyes were fixed on the track and I tried to keep my mind empty, which these days is an easy task.

We began a long slow climb around the 10 mile mark and I sat sheltering behind a younger runner. It was a good move and I felt abit more upbeat as we crested the Calf and I hoped that we were on the last leg. Sure enough after a stretch of wide gravel followed by another plod around the side of another grassy knoll. We were in the sun 11 miles and I recognised where I was and it was all downhill from there. I upped my pace a little, finished my water and crushed up the remains of my oatcakes in my sweaty palm in celebration. I hoovered up an early scalp and then picked off another two old timers on the last slope before waving to Speedy as I hit the tarmac. 

It was all over at 3:14 and 14.5 miles and 5000ft of camber hell.  For a change I had run within myself and didn’t feel the need to collapse in a heap or take myself off to a quiet corner for a dry boak. Speedy was 5^th and I was 220nd and 11^th v60 which was adequate. I’ll continue my swimming this week and with a 5k on Thursday evening, It might be quite a low mileage week. We took off armed with a couple of hot rolls, pints of cool milk and hot drinks for the journey home.         

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!