Another Ben and gone ...

Well that is another one between the ditches …

Anyone who knows me well enough, knows I  fucking hate the whole official new year thing. It is the one day of the year I dinnae like being Scottish. I've long since stopped shouting at the TV as Jackie Bird destroys another song by the bard and found that shortbread goes stale if you keep it too long. For the last eight years, I have marked the end of one twelve month period and the start of the next with the Ben Nevis Hill Race.

One Saturday morning I read this on Twitter:

Letting go isn’t easy,

Dwelling in the past isn’t smart,

Loyalty isn’t common,

Good things don’t always last, 

Life is a struggle, 

Be strong.

Given all that has happened since the last Ben race, it seemed appropriate.

Nice change for this year was my Dad coming up for the day. We met at Balloch before heading north noting the wind and rain was thankfully decreasing. By the time we arrived in the Fort, the sun was out and the extra layer where confined to the kit bag. Registration sorted, it was time to catch up with pals for a bit before a wee jog round the field. More than any race, the Ben puts the fear of death into me and it was good to get started.

As tradition dictated, I ran wide round the field before heading out onto the road. On the way out, this bit hurts but not as much as it does about two hours later. Onto the mountain track it was time to settle down. Maybe a sign of age but it took me a while to find my pace. Turning up to run parallel with the Red Burn, I saw some of the Lochaber MRT who do an amazing job of providing safety cover for the event …took note of who it was and what was being passed around (see below). The good weather had also provided good crowds and every bit of support helped.

Over the burn and sharp left onto the scree – amazing how very small route choices here can make a few seconds difference. Sometimes, this leads to closing a wee gap with a runner in front …sometimes the opposite. It was impressive to see the race winner Finlay Wild command the race with a huge lead over the second place runner. 

Up on the plateau heading towards the summit, it was very clear I was a mile off my PB but given the complete lack of specific training, was happy to still be upright. Shout of encouragement from fellow Westie Paula was braw (although I am not entirely sure she enjoyed the beardy hug I gave her).

Round the summit and the real race began. I tried to hold my position for at least 10m before realising the descending legs might have been left in a small Mexican Cantina. Big antelope strides were replaced with a more delicate tip toe thing as scores of runners passed me. Down the screes and onto the flagged green wall and things improved a bit i.e. I went fast enough to fall over a few times …back to the tip toe technique to ensure further time and place loss.

Back onto the path proper, it was time to search out the MRT guys since the object being passed about contained whisky. The reader may think it inappropriate to stop mid race for a dram but it was braw. I had a brief reminiscence with one of the guys about a night in bar of the Kingshouse many years ago before continuing. Any time lost stopping was made up thanks to the pain relief provided by the whisky.

Seeing my Dad and hearing shouts of support gave that much needed lift for the transition onto the tarmac. It hurts …but the quickest way of stopping the pain is to keep moving as quickly as you can.

The finish time was almost irrelevant but can confirm it was my slowest at 2:16:56. Personally, I was glad to still be upright …that wasn’t always a guaranteed outcome.

Quick chat with folks …followed by a visit to the golden arches and a drive south.

As always, a bit of recovery before  looking forward to the panic of ensuring an entry for next year.