After
my recent experience at the Two Breweries, the prospect of a similar race did
not exactly fill my heart with joy. I
had been somewhat naïve about the Two Breweries, having never set foot on any
part of its course, but had a much better idea of the Skyline terrain having
run or walked on much of the route. So I
knew exactly how steep the climbs were, and how many of them there were.
Although
I’d entered well in advance, as recently as Wednesday I’d have said that the odds
of my withdrawing were probably “evens”.
But then I invested in a new Inov8 Race Elite bumbag from Pete Bland
Sports, which I was itching to try out, and that just about tipped the balance.
Sitting
in the house on Friday night, I noticed a post on FB from the Stave about the
Manor Water Hill Race the following day.
And the fact that it formed part of a race double with the Skyline
called the “Man(or) Mouse Challenge”.
Suitably “refreshed” and emboldened, I reasoned (ha!) that the condition
of my legs was still rather uncertain after a fortnight of not doing very much
at all, so a run on the Saturday might provide vital clues as to whether the
Skyline was feasible or laughable folly.
If I couldn’t handle the more gently inclining 10 mile race, then I’d be
sensible to avoid antagonising its bigger meaner brother. There is a sort of logic to it.
After
doing the hockey run in the morning (and, incidentally, competing with
Carnethy’s Neil B to see who could contain their frustration for longest before
blurting out exasperated instructions of “get it away”, “shoot”, “tackle her”
and the like at a bunch of 11 year old girls – a thrilling 4-4 draw being the
final score), I made my way back towards Peebles. It turns out that the Manor Water route
crosses the Two Breweries course at the evocatively named “Dead Wife’s
Grave”. Let’s hope that it doesn’t turn
into “Dead Nick’s Grave” and I can find some sort of redemption on these
unforgiving killing fields.
Arriving
in my customary good time (more on that later), I had an opportunity to take a
look at the preparations for the sheepdog trials to which the hill race is an
adjunct. I also got to have a quick chat
with Messrs Lynch and Son, before they headed up to the highest point (the
Scrape, at 719m) to act as sweeper runners off the hill. Mike said that he hoped we wouldn’t be
running together.
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| Did I leave my specs in the West Wing or the East Wing? |
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| Entrants in a different event |
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| Game face |
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| The off (part 1)! Points to note - (i) me in "numpty vest" second from left, and (ii) Brian M with bare feet second from right (photo: Digby Maass) |
Coming
under starter’s orders, I noted a number of faces I recognised including
Carnethys Graham N, Jim H, Neil “Harry” G, and the aforementioned Neil B. Oh, and a barefoot Brian M of Haddington!
The
start was gentle enough, and I managed to resist the urge to tear off too
quickly, take up an inappropriately high position in the queue when it got
steeper and then hold everyone up. As we started with the younger junior and
older junior races, it was difficult to be sure which of the youngsters were in
our race or in their own. I did spot one
lad naughtily ditching his mandatory kit by a wall after about half a mile,
presumably with the intention of collecting it on the way back down, and then
pretending at the finish that he’d had it with him all along. A poor show.
Anyway. I settled into quite a nice rhythm behind a
chap that I would later learn was Magnus.
We seemed to be pretty well matched in terms of when we’d run and when
we’d walk. Happily I found that we were
running for a decent proportion of the first 4 miles, and the walking was brisk
enough when we weren’t. I also had the
visual cues of Harry G just ahead, and Neil B just behind, to give me the
reassurance that I was making a better fist of this race – much better than at
the Two Breweries for instance, where Neil B ended up trouncing me by more than
half an hour.
It
was a pleasant thought to get to Dead Wife’s Grave and know that I hadn’t had
to clamber up that f*cking god awful firebreak in the forest.
The
last section up to the Scrape did kick up a bit more, but the proximity to the
turn was ample consolation, and everyone I could see seemed to be walking as
well anyway. Brilliant – all the hard
work was very nearly done. A few words
with Mike at the top and I piled headlong into the descent. Forgetting that we actually still had 5 miles
to go. And that there were a couple of
small, but not insignificant, climbs on the way back. I must have airbrushed those out on the way
up. The places gained on the first half
mile of the return were therefore very quickly lost again. And more when Magnus and Neil B (both of whom
I’d summitted just ahead of) came past.
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| Mike and son (photo: Digby Maass) |
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| Smiling! (photo: Mike Lynch) |
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| (photo: Mike Lynch) |
As
we approached the last mile or so, the ground levelled off, and I was able to
increase the pace a little to the finish, managing to pip the 2nd
lady, and Harry G. Which is a pretty
good return as far as I am concerned. I certainly
didn’t feel too disheartened by the outing.
Indeed, I was left thinking that I had almost enjoyed it, that my legs
felt better than expected, and that the new bumbag had performed well in
comparison to the far heavier hydration rucksack.
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| One Man and his Dog |
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| Overall winner (a V40!) from Borrowdale |
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| Quick turn around leads to desperate drying measures |
Precautionary
measures were taken on Saturday night – submerging the legs in cold water,
foam-rollering, and drinking only alcohol-free beer. Newly enthused, I wanted to give myself the
best possible chance of waking up on Sunday and feeling that the Skyline was
“on”.
And
lo, the legs did feel ok. And my mindset
was pretty positive as well. While
attempting the double might, on the face of it, seem like unnecessarily making
things harder for myself, I think it was a benefit in that the Skyline was now
just a component of a larger undertaking – something simply to be completed,
rather than raced on its own, with the associated pressure to “get a
time”. I returned on more than one
occasion during the run to the thought that, rather than being only e.g. 8 miles
into the Skyline, I was 18 miles into the MoM, and therefore well beyond half
way. Whatever gets you through the long
lonely nights I guess.
Having
organised my race kit, I sat doing the crossword, to kill some time until my
planned departure at 10.30am. A nagging
doubt entered my mind at 10.15 that I should probably just double-check that
the race start was at noon. F*cking f*ck
– an 11am start!!! I had to get from
Dunbar to Hillend in 45 minutes! In fact
sooner, as I had to register, change, pin my number on, etc, etc. F*cking f*cking f*ck!!! I regularly have
dreams of being late for races, so this was literally the stuff of nightmares.
If
I’d been driving a DeLorean, the flux capacitor would undoubtedly have fired up,
and I’d have found myself back in 1955, instead of in the present, abandoning
the car in a totally unsuitable spot at the foot of the hill. A sprint to registration (collecting number
274 out of 276 – a couple of souls apparently taking a very relaxed approach to timekeeping), followed by a faster than
welcome run up to the start, saw my heart-rate elevated and with no need for a
warm-up.
There
was then (sods law) a delay for a random sample kit-check – what was my
hurry?!?! Which gave me a chance to say
a few quick hellos to clubmate Lee, Porty Roly, Carnethys (some on a second
claim basis at any rate) Kathy H, Graeme D, Gordon E and Matthew C.
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| The off (part 2)! (photo: Matthew Curry) |
I
then stood well back, waited for the gun, and strrrolllled over the start line,
conscious that I didn’t want to blow it on the very first schlep up
Caerketton. In the melee I bumped into workmate
Anna, returned the day before from a week in Portugal, who said that boyfriend
Gareth was a little further ahead.
I
was speaking to Magnus from the day before as we joined the near horizontal
path above the dry ski slope. Noticing
just how many people were ahead in the slow moving queue, the fact that there
was a nice strip of shortish grass just above the single lane track, and having
a sudden attack of the “gah, I’m way too far down the field”s, I mirror, signal,
manoeuvred into the fast lane and high-tailed it past around 50 or 60 people. That’s a bit better.
I
then found myself in quite a nice wee group that contained quite a quick
looking young lady and a slightly older useful looking chap in a white vest
with horizontal blue and red stripes around the middle. I stayed relatively close to them all the way
out to the Drove Road and beyond the turn.
After
the initial mist on the tops burnt off, we were treated to some nice sunshine
on the trip down to the water station at Flotterstone. I saw Mike at the farm at Castlelaw, and he
made me laugh when he suggested that I vault the gate rather than use the
kissing gate. He must be getting
confused with my namesake who runs for Carnethy (and incidentally was my son’s
Geography teacher) who turned it on for the Adventure Show cameras at last year’s
event.
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| Descent to Castlelaw farrm (photo: Mike Lynch) |
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| (photo: Mike Lynch) |
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| (photo: Mike Lynch) |
Since
I was carrying no fluids other than a couple of energy gels, I made the most of
the juice and water on offer at Flotterstone before embarking on the longest
slog of the day, in terms of total height gained from bottom to top, up
Turnhouse. Dauntingly, there was a long
stream of runners ahead, reaching all the way to the peak. A quick chat with a Penicuik runner helped to
pass the time as we trudged. He commented
that his familiarity with these hills was both a blessing and a curse – he wasn’t
subjected to any false hope, but equally knew exactly what was to come.
Carnethy
and Scald Law were both ticked off in reasonably regulation fashion, as it was
still early days and the legs were holding up fine at this point – the run/walk
strategy not overly taxing them. And I
continued to benefit from a more upbeat, determined, and stripped back approach
– no fannying about with the camera, no feeding the five thousand, and no
f*cking bitching and whining and feeling sorry for myself.
Speaking
to a lad from Stonehaven, he said that he’d got confused going up Carnethy,
thinking it was Scald Law, before reaching the summit of Carnethy and realising
that he was a whole hill worse off. I’d
know how he felt in due course, when I completely forgot that Bells Hill came
between Black Hill and Harbour.
I
really ought to have studied the map a little more before the off. I couldn’t remember if we went directly to
the Kips from Scald, or had to go to South Black Hill first – maybe that was
just on the C5? Ah, no, that’ll be a
line of runners going to South Black. Oh
well, at least the run out there is reasonably flat, so I told myself to enjoy
the pleasant running. Because the steeper
descents were already starting to make my feet feel uncomfortably warm as they
slid forward in the shoes and my toes banged off the front. I was also a little worried by the fact that
my thoughts had already turned to the water station at the Drove Road.
Where
again I had a cup of juice followed by a cup of water. The lady who appeared to be head marshal told
the fast girl that she was 2nd lady, and that the first lady was not
that far ahead. While putting my cups in
a bin-bag, Eoin from Carnethy/Hoka (who in my slightly dazed state I confess I
hadn’t noticed) said hello, and I said well done on his recent Glencoe Marathon win. I then ruined the effects
of the liquid taken on by grabbing impulsively at a custard cream, which
quickly turned to dust in my mouth and took the best part of five minutes to
clear. Not quite spitting feathers, but
certainly spitting crumbs.
Once
more, I made sure to enjoy the good fast (hey, it’s all relative) running on
the Drove Road, and decided that Hare Hill (up next) looked not too bad. I’d been warned that the return leg quickly
becomes quite tricky with a lack of good paths until you get back towards
Capelaw. But going up Hare Hill seemed
fine – the path was narrower, akin to rabbit scrapes, but there was still a
line through the heather.
All
that changed when we started down the other side, which was marked with flags
because no path was discernible through the heather. High knees were required, but even that wasn’t
enough to stop us from stumbling. One
guy had been going pretty quickly before wiping out. That seemed to convince him to “ca’ canny”. Plus, it started steep and then turned near
vertical towards the bottom. There was
plenty of slipping and sliding from those in front, which almost made it seem worthwhile
scooting down on my ass like a toddler going down stairs.
This
was where the really hard miles started.
Each successive climb seemed progressively harder, although I’m sure Black
and Bells would seem murderous wherever they featured. Bright spots on this section were harder to
come by, but nevertheless arrived in the shape of first Graeme (who I passed
running in the same direction and didn’t realise it was him until I recognised
his voice from behind shouting “well done Nick” – he wasn’t racing, but just “out
and about” to support Kathy), and then Charlie Ramsay who gave me a “good
running Dunbar”.
I
was becoming increasingly doubled over on the ups, at times with my hands on
the ground in front. But this just
increased the tension down the back of my legs and put more pressure on my
glutes. I tried to put my hands in the
small of my back, keep upright and take smaller steps so as to keep my weight
closer to my vertical axis – hopefully using the bigger muscle groups and
avoiding straining calves and other more vulnerable areas. But everything was starting to sing by this
point. I just kept trying new things –
hands driving the tops of the thighs, hands driving the knees, etc. And it was obvious that my feet were now completely
shredded – there was little doubt in my mind that blisters were ripping and new
ones forming where the old ones had been.
As
I mentioned earlier, I felt the Stonehaven guy’s pain when (having
mis-remembered the number of hills on the way back) I asked a couple of
hillwalkers if we were approaching Allermuir, and they said “no, Capelaw”. Holy shit sauce.
The
disappointment was made a little better by seeing Matthew C at the summit of
Capelaw with what he described as his “austere aid station”. Fizzy juice, water and Haribos seemed pretty
generous to me, since it hadn’t been advertised.
But
some progress through the field continued to be made – the 2nd lady
had now dropped back, and the 1st lady (surely not!) gradually hove
into view going up Allermuir. I caught
her as we made our way up the final climb to the cairn at Caerketton, and told
her that she had a safe enough lead on 2nd place. Whether this caused her to rein things in a
bit, I don’t know, but I was able to make more of the gradient back down to the
finish than she was, and finished a little ahead of her.
All
in all, I am very happy with how the weekend went – about as well as I have any
right to expect given how little proper hill training I do. The main thing (as you can tell from the
pictures that Mike took) is that I actually enjoyed myself in the hills
again. Which has to be the most
important thing, surely? If you don’t
enjoy it, go and do something else you weirdo!
My
positions or times aren’t going to set the world alight, but I’m glad they are
respectable, and I don’t feel like I am wasting my time. And I am glad to have avoided the award of
the Mouse trophy – coming nicely in the middle of the pack as some sort of
man/mouse hybrid – DangerMouse perhaps?!
I’d take that.
Most
of the friends that I spoke to afterwards seemed happy with their runs – in
particular Lee, who knocked 8 minutes off his PB, and Kathy who slashed 15
minutes off of hers and was delighted to go under 4 hours for the first
time. Well done both!
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