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