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

Hunters Bog Trot 26

 

I was up early and arrived at the station with 10 minutes to spare. The queue at the coffee stall was 6 deep, so I walked on to the deserted Platform Two and took a seat at the end of the short aluminium bench.   

An older woman sat down 2 seats away on the bench. Her daughter elected to stand outside the refuge on the Platform. ‘Well’, I mused, ‘everyone needs a bit of personal space’. After 2 or 3 minutes the daughter, in her sensible shoes and black jeans, poked her head round the opening and said to her mother ‘I’ve texted you your seat number’, adding, ‘just in case’….. Just in case of what? Was it about to kick off? Unexpected package on Platform Two. Was Travolta slouched in the drivers chair of this Trans-pennine train wielding a '45? Should I expect to see Denzel leaping up the stairs from the station underpass. 

On the train, the trolley woman announced that she and her trolley were on the train serving teas and coffee. She asked us to make our way down to the rear of the train, Coach E. Surely she should be coming to me?

I navigated my way through the gauntlet of slow moving doors and carriages, inquiring faces peering up from their seats. A sea of faces. Some were already tucking into beers and fizz. It was only 7.30!

Arriving at Coach E, the kitchen door was shut, so I knocked on the window. Trolley lady opened up and was happy to serve me an americano, adding that they only took 'cards' for payment. Wtf. Having lost my wallet earlier in the week I was, the day before, in receipt of two new near identical cards. The bank sent me two. I had tried one of the new ones in Lidls the previous evening. It had been declined. But what about cash? Nada. 

Armed only with the other, untested card, the question was ‘Did I feel lucky’? Well, do you? ‘.....No’ was the answer and I made my way, coffeeless, back up the train, simmering, with my tail between my legs. So much for promising to pay the bearer on demand.

I became a bit braver in the St James Centre and withdrew money with the other new debit card from the bank. Probably helps if you put in the right pin. It was a slow coffee in a café and then I dropped off my bag and jacket at half eleven in the bus station lockers. Always a worry that the contents won't still be there when you get back.

I jogged the short distance to the HBT race HQ, a gazebo sat at the edge of St Margarets Pond under Arthurs Seat. It became quite busy and there must have been around one hundred runners who eventually lined up in the sun. 

HBT, the self proclaimed ambassadors of dissidence were asking us to scan a bar code thing and complete a digital entry form on our phones. Whats going on? I said 'I'd rather not' and the lady said she would be happy to lend me her phone to do it. I took her up on the offer.  We're all getting led down a rabbit hole with nothing good at the bottom. Baah.

After the start I was passed by Des C. who kindly advised me that I was overdressed. I got into the familiar walk-run groove up Whinny Hill and tried to make progress, aiming at the wee group of six around ten seconds ahead. After the first hill, I passed one, but then was passed by another. The grass was dry and gradients forgiving, but the downhills were not in any way technical, so I had to rely on my stubby legs to do the grafting. The second hill which skirted Salisbury Crags was steep but short and before I knew it I was bombing down to the finish. Thirty five minutes. Mr C, who had finished, was jogging up toward me on his warm down. I evidently have work to do before Lomond.

I made a couple of new buddies who were also in my age group. They had come down from Inverness and after collecting my bag and jacket, I made my way to the local Weatherspoons and had a good chat for an hour over a pint and a plate of chips with the lads. 

Getting the train back, I heard the announcement over the tannoy ‘Tea and Coffee are available at the end of the train, Coach E.’  Sat in Coach A again, I couldn’t be arsed.  Trolley services; That’s a joke.  Substandard service? Digital progress? Don't make me laugh!  All in all, a jolly good day out.  

 

Jeffreys Mount

On the face of it the Jeffreys Mount fell race looked like an event that might not be expected to tax the system unduly. At a touch under 5 miles and perched on the edge of the Lakes at Tebay, it might have been construed as a likely candidate for a training session. Certainly these days, it would cost around forty quid to get there, such is the cost of fuel and add on tax, but with 2 of us going it made the trip slightly more justifiable and, well, we both need the hill training. This was the nearest workout we could find, short of Ben Ledi or Screel in Dumfries. With an ascent of 590m, it would be a respectable season opener for me. A modest training session. My expectations these days are such that I should be grateful to run any event and I need to pace myself, watch the heart rate and take in a little more of the scenery. However the best laid plans and all that! We sped across the A69 and down the M6 and were parked up in good time. The village Hall was race HQ and we paid our eight quid and got a recycled number. We joined the other 50 or so runners and jogged a mile down the narrow lane and across the footbridge to the start. Jeffreys Mount looked down on us as the sun broke through scattering grey clouds. It was still five degrees and the wind was brisk adding an element of wind chill. The race route has two steep ascents and is a figure of eight. There were plenty of locals from Helm Hill, Eden and Preston. I had my gopro and decided I might do a fell run video. We set off and I watched most of the field disappear over the hill. I was walking soon after the start and in a group with a few grey haired men and a couple of women. We were straight into a headwind and it was a slog, but we were soon past the first checkpoint and swinging north west, just as two of the fast lads came past, having gone left instead of right at the checkpoint. There were a herd of fell ponies on the ridge with the sun behind them, a super silhouette. It would have been a great photo. By the time I arrived they had scattered. I managed to get into a rhythm once we started to descend along a long grassy hollow out of the wind and I passed a younger bloke who said, ‘like your hat’, then added ‘I like the way you wear it’. Quite frankly I detest these west coast fashionistas masquerading as fell runners. They’re everywhere! Not to be put off I gave him the thumbs up and plodded on. It was a good slog across the long bleached grass and then we were swinging round to the second steep climb around a mile from the finish. This was a grassy mega steep affair and just as I began to ascend, Preston John came up on my peripheral vision. He was deffo a man of mature years and we climbed and scrambled the 300m or so of ultra steep climb together, spidering our way up and resorting to grabbing handfulls of grass to combat gravity and pull ourselves up. The hill was close enough to the M6 for me to hear the beeping and the abuse of bored passengers hanging out the car windows as we formed a bright and mental cavalcade scuttling up a bonkers gradient. ‘Fell running *ankers’ came the shout. I got to the crest just before Preston lad and he seemed to slow and I was off after hat man and the girl who had made light work of the hill. I passed hat man again just before the final checkpoint and had a huge tailwind down the final descent. However, once again like a bad dream, Preston John came up on my radar and I opened my stride…and still he came…I sped up…he was still coming….I was now full tilt and there was 50 metres to the line.The heart rate was on max. Johnie boy had to settle for 6th m60. There were five m60’s in the 6 runners around me, such is the sheer intransigence of truculent old men like me trying to prove theyre still someone on the hill. No matter, we shook hands and I was offski to the tea and cake table back at base with Speedy, who did alright. Checking my new heart rate monitor, I was doing really well until the last 400m, so it’s a ‘no thanks’ to having to fend off old gadgies trying to beat me on a sprint to the line.

Superquaich 2: The Farce Awakens

(courtesy Anth Robson)

Sunday saw the return of Superquaich; Superquaich Two. A trigger for an appropriate sequel title: The farce awakens; Welcome to the Jungle: Fury Road , yadda, yadda... 

I had had a pretty poor nights sleep fueled by a late fish supper and a couple of beers, an intermittent sweat about whether the car would be o.k. where I had parked it and the periodic shouty noises in the hotel corridor in the wee small hours in one of Dundees once finest establishments. They keep the windows closed to keep out the streetnoise, but the air-con is a poor second place to fresh air. 

Everything was still intact in the morning and we traveled to Lochgelly and blagged our way into the Marshalls car park within Fife Cycle Park. I had, after all, volunteered to Marshall a couple of races; but, ultimately, we were not required. We hauled the bikes off the roof rack and bolted on the wheels and took in the landscape of tape and plastic pegs. 

We picked up our numbers and watched the women warm up. They were off at 11.30am. A field of around 20 bolted off after the starting whistle and soon were spread out all over the course. There was a short sandpit where Speedy came to grief and a short steep click at the other end of the course, but generally it was head down-erse up along the soft mossy grass.  Speedy did remarkably well to finish 10th and seemed to enjoy the 50 minute thrash.  

I joined in the 45 men in the mens B race. I was feeling abit naff. Another Dundee Thistle rider was in the field and we nodded at each other. There is a gridding system in operation and I found myself on the 2nd row. I can't start quickly and braced myself to be overrun, which I duly was. However, I got into my stride after a couple of laps and a couple of spills and worked my wee sox off to pass and catch anyone remotely near. The course had become well cut up by the time we got on it and it sure was a slog. However, I collapsed over the line exhausted and pleased it was done. 

I didn't wait for the bike wash that was on offer and slinging the bikes back on the roof, we were off and relieved that we had done o.k. 

No medals, but this is cyclo-cross where you can gauge your success by how much of Fife's native clagg you can carry off in your knobbly tyres, the sticky brown mud caking everything in the car and a bit more.

Marg did the fotos and Ant did the videos, so we're not short of evidence that shows that we must try abit harder next weekend at Strathallen.     

Superquaich

Morning All. The big news is that its not raining; well, at least, not at the moment. The running has been patchy in the last month with a poor week following a good week. I find myself having to stop every so often when I'm out. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it in the words of Bueller. However, its more to do with managing my diminished energy resources and trying to maintain the myth that runnings fun in your 60's.  

I dodged a bullet at the weekend when I was due to run the last leg of the Royal Signals Relays for an over 50's team. The course was too icy. ice, ice, baby. I had secretly been out the night before with my ice gun giving it large on the course. However, it's lush to see blue sky and light after 4pm. 

As an alternative, we've been investing in the world of Bikes. Speedy got a new gravel bike last month and I've spent all the housekeeping on getting 2 bikes serviced. This is to ensure that we are in good shape for the 2nd Superquaich, a series of 3 late season cyclo-cross events. 

Speedy opened her account at Falkirk last month. It was a long day but a good laugh. I took part in the B race. I was surprised to see Des Crowe there and we had a right old battle - a battle of the ragged grimbles. This weekend its Lochgelly for Round 2. Should be a hoot. In preparation, we've been out a couple of times now on the bikes. I can see me reverting to a ride today rather than a run. Its a lot more fannying about getting ready for a bike ride than a run, but a damn site easier once you're out. My new years resolution of packing in more races has shriveled in the rain like the gaunt and bedraggled plan it was. Still, running is about the only thing that I can rely on to keep my weight in order, so I can't ditch it altogether.  

Elsewhere I am making steady progress with David Granns 'The Wager', a tale of shipwreck, murder and mutiny. Ahoy me land lubbers. Nearly time for another cup of grog.   

Life's a snowy Labyrinth

The new year has started with an interesting mix of weather. It has carried with it a hint of menace which has developed (in the north east of the country) into something pretty adverse and, for some, downright hostile.  As long as you're not driving and are not elderly or otherwise disadvantaged, its only been a mild distraction hereabouts. We've had to crank the heating up, mind.  

As a confirmed chionophile (who knew?), plodding around the woods in fresh snow brings a welcome change of aspect and I've managed to get out a few times last week. 

This weeks efforts have been much less successful. We have had to deal with the snows frigid icy legacy which offers a challenge, at least in terms of staying upright.  I like to think I know my limitations, but breaking my foot last year suggests that even the most assured off-road runner can misjudge conditions.  

As a sporty type, its an expensive time of year and various club subscriptions are increasingly bloated with additional costly contributions to national bodies in order that they can fund whatever it is they do. 

Checking a website used by several clubs for membership, I noted the average club membership to be around twenty quid with an additional twenty quid 'tax' in some cases for the national body. The fell running membership (FRA) is 16 notes, but as the magazine and website are very good, I don't grudge this at all. I'm never very sure what a tenner buys you for Scottish Hill Running, but an improved website would be welcome. 

At a time when most are squeezed financially from all directions, I find myself looking very closely at value for money. As an old grimble, club membership doesn't seem all that relevant, but if you like to take in the odd race or find that you are interested in masters title races and the like, you're stuck with putting your hand in your pocket. This, coupled with rising costs of race entry, makes for an expensive hobby...and don't even get me started about cycling and the cost of kit. Bah, humbug. 

On a separate note, we arrived in Pitlochry last Tuesday for a fleeting visit in time for a huge dump of snow, but as I was driving and we were staying over in Perth, I failed to embrace the conditions and, instead, found myself stressed out and impatient to leave, lest we got stuck somewhere on the A9. The snow disappeared around Dunkeld and by the time we got to Perth it was freezing rain, which is the worst. 

We also failed to get our entry in on time for the Falkland Race spending all week languishing on a virtual waiting list. Given the fresh wet snow this morning, I doubt we would have even attempted the trip to Fife.  Corresponding races at the Lakes and North York Moors were cancelled, so today its a jog around the woods or maybe half an hour in the gym, or a wee cup of hot coffee in one of our many cafes. Shouldn't grumble really, but I'm old and that's my prerogative. I've binned 'The Go Between' (L.P. Hartley). I struggled with the book when I was 16 and it seems my reading stamina has not improved. Instead I'm giving 'Mr Pottermacks Oversight' by Austin Freeman a go. Apparently its an inverted-Mystery classic - whatever that means.