My abiding memory of this race is of a 'moor' run, a long ascent, a nice long descent and spending an inordinate amount of time during both trying to find good ground dodging around patches of peaty mud, mats of rushy grass and mattresses of spongy sphagnum.
This time, as we drove up past Gala, we were hampered by axes of foreign lorries, shuffling grimbles in their old cars and regiments of horsey people and their steeds on the road. I swear that the many sets of temporary traffic lights were slung off the wagon the night before to slow us down. It took us over two hours to get to Kirkton Manor up by Peebles and a wee bit longer to find the new race HQ.
They parked us in a field, which, in my book, is a recipe for trouble when the claggs in, and the rain is out.
We had our kit checked and I remarked how thin the field was. There were 60 pre-entered. The pre-race count made it 49. or was that 46? In the M60 category Gilmore from Carnethy was there. He's had a good season and I had my work cut out for me on this 9.3 mile, 2000ft affair. I also spied Plummer from Hartfell who is also handy. I've had a passable one and my weights dropping, so it could be interesting.
There had been some rain an hour before and the sky promised more at any time. But the sun made an appearance at the pre-race briefing. We were advised to 'stick close to the wall and fence'. Its an out and back affair. 'Not too much of a navigational challenge' I mused.
I had had a decent breakfast of porridge and a banana in the car, but little else. I bumped knuckles with Speedy and off we went. We kicked off up along the path and within five hundred yards I was already falling behind Gilmore. Not a great start. I sat in with two younger runners as we turned left and began the ascent proper and stuck to my task for a mile or two. But Gilmore, who like me, slowed to a walk on the ascents, began a slow advance. My wee posse split and I invited myself out the back. It was a slow death. Death by slog. Grassy, boggy slog. I counted 40 seconds at the next feature as I ran-walked. I entertained myself with thoughts of a death defying descent after the turn to snatch V60 victory. But I was deluded. In the low sun, all I could see were disappearing silhouettes making their way up and over the difficult boggy ground.
I spent the third and fourth mile alone in the wind, picking my way through the sinuous field of broken dry heather roots, a brittle forest of calf high jagged sticks that had been exposed by a farmers hedge cutter. They stuck up just high enough to force everyone to lift their legs just that little bit higher with every step. I adopted a 10 second walk, 10 second run strategy to keep my sanity. This seemed to work for a while as I overtook the runner ahead. But, like a kid in a car, all I could hear in my mind was 'are we nearly there, yet?'
Near the turn, at a hill top called 'The Scrape', the runners in front started to come back down and with the path being so narrow, I was nearly mashed twice by the faster path-huggers descending at speed. Speedy looked relaxed as she passed me and shortly after the tall Carnethy vet came past with 3 or 4 behind him. I realised the game was up. To add insult to injury, it had began to hail at the top. Horizontal hail. We love that shit. The lone marshall at the top must have been brassicks and I thanked him. Upon turning, I realised that there were about 10 runners within a minute of me and quite the coachload. Better get my skates on.
I wish I could tell you that I careered downhill like a runaway juggernaut, but I lost a place immediately to the lad I had passed near the top and he made effective use of gravity. After 7 miles I realised that I was slowing badly. At 8 miles I wasn't even sure I was going the right way. I seemed to have been running downhill for a long time. The landscape was unfamiliar. There was no one is sight. All the hills ahead looked the same.
I glanced back and saw that I was about to be overhauled by a women runner. As she glided past, she gave me some encouragement; which was nice.
She was descending with some certainty. I tried to up my game, but my body was an empty larder. I had become a shuffling grimble. The reserves had gone and the last packet of biscuits had been snaffled. I was running on empty. Low blood sugar is a bummer. You begin to feel a bit light headed and I was going all daffy duck. I was completely daffy ducked.
We turned right and passed the last marshall. I had already fallen about 20 seconds behind the young lady. It was back along the gravel path, pockmarked with cattle hooves. More rain. More puddles. Would this ever end? With four hundred to go, I looked back and saw Hartfell bloke tracking me. I could feel his laser eyes. That was just enough of a 'kick up the erse' I needed to find the last vestige of a spark and I just got to the line before another place was lost.
The hail had returned and it was blowing a hooly outside the finish tent. All I could think about was getting a pie from Greggs. Saddo. That, and managing to get the car out of the wet field. Depriving Speedy of her moment of glory at the presentation, we left immediately to run along the wet road to the field to retrieve the car. Thankfully we got it out onto the road. Relief. Speedy remarked that she had begun to get concerned at how long it was taking for me to get to the finish.
During my laboured descent, it had dawned on me that this sort of affair was a great long grassy slog, like Sedbergh in many ways and that my short fast-twitch muscles were lost on these type of affairs. They are designed for something more dynamic, like the sharp twisty turns of a rocky Goatfell or Lomond. Maybe I should stick to that type of course.
We made it to Greggs in Peebles. I am ashamed to admit to succumbing to greasy pie and tea. Shortly afterwards, I couldn't stop myself turning right at the Metropolis that is Galashiels for a box of salty chips and a hamburger smelling of fish at McDonalds. No wonder I can't get up the hills!
