Lost in a great expanse of sand
THESE days it should be easy to train for, and run, a marathon. There are lots of training programmes on the internet telling you exactly how far and how fast to run.
All you have to do is follow one of them and, lo and behold, after a few months, you have built up from nothing to running 26 miles. Even easier, there are apps for your iPhone which use GPS to tell you exactly what speed you should be aiming for and how far to go. They probably also have an alarm which tells you precisely when to go out and train.
The key to training is to do one long run each week and a number of shorter runs, increasing the mileage week on week. By now, eight weeks or so before the Loch Ness Marathon, I should be up to around 19 miles for my long run. Funny then, that when I took part last year, most folk I spoke to had never done more than 14 or 15...
My problem is I really don’t like running on roads. That’s the main challenge for me of the Loch Ness, 26 miles of pounding on Tarmac. If it were cross-country, I’d find it a lot easier. In training, I can never summon the determination to run the long road distances. There are so many nice routes over moors, mountains, beaches and cliff tops, and you can cover a lot of ground in 15 to 20 miles. I console myself I must be building up more fitness and stamina with all the hills and rough going, however, that won’t do much good if the muscles seize up with cramp on the race itself.
Perhaps a little early into the training session came my Morven run. Six miles out from Braemore to Gobernuisgeach bothy, a hard stony track over the moors but not a road. Nesting arctic skuas call, four miles out. A cool, bright day, rain threatening. On runs into wilder country I have to compromise between carrying nothing and having the full hill-walking kit with all the waterproofs, compasses and safety gear. Generally I tie an extra sweatshirt or waterproof top round my waist, carry a couple of cereal bars, and rely on speed to keep me warm.
A rough, wet mile down the river from the bothy, then up a tributary stream, following faint deer paths, now walking, on up over the moor and heather to the col between Morven and Small Mount. Up the last steep slopes, taking great care as always on the piled boulders, over the top with a quick survey of the view then across the plateau and down those horrible steeps of deep heather and boulder to the refreshing green of the springs at the foot of the cone-shaped peak.
Plenty to drink, then a long jog down the sheep paths to Corriechoich, a large herd of Highland coos and a bull make a detour prudent. The last three miles of dusty track with soaking feet and weary muscles are, no doubt, good training... but it’s always worth it to sit on the parapet of Braemore bridge, munching an apple and drinking sweet tea from a flask looking back up to the hills. Perhaps a total of 13 miles, but no roads.
LATE one afternoon I head south, 400 miles to drive. Rather than do the journey in a day I head up the Cairngorm ski road from Aviemore, park in the top car park at 2000 feet and walk in the late evening up into Coire an Lochain to put the tent up at 3000 feet. Many, many years ago I stayed here for a few days, helping with the renovation of the now long-demolished Jean’s Hut.
The main change in 40 years is a complete absence of ptarmigan, you used to hear them croaking all the time. Ben Macdui is less than four miles away, it’s a chance for a shorter training run, though again hardly roads.
A morning of drifting cloud and light winds, heavy showers forecast later but for now the tops largely clear. By seven I’ve scrambled up to the plateau, then a long slow jog across the bare ground of stone and moss, with the occasional pink clump of moss campion. Benign conditions in a place which can be truly wild, and the whole vast plateau to myself, dozens of folk will be heading this way later in the day.
The summit is flat calm, views of grey peaks partly hidden by grey cloud – and a single handsome snow bunting, very white with black wing patches, singing its heart out on the very top of the trig point at eight o’clock in the morning. An hour later and I’m packing up the tent as the first walkers of the day head upwards.
Living in the North certainly gives some dream destinations for long runs. Like Sandwood Bay. It’s overdone as an iconic wild place but is still a very fine beach, breakers rolling into two miles of sand just south of Cape Wrath. I’m supposed to be doing 17 miles and it’s only four out to Sandwood so I’m planning also to circuit some of the cliffs and run an extra six back along the road to where we’re staying on the other side of Kinlochbervie – at least some of the distance will be on Tarmac.
It’s an afternoon of clear blue sky and unbroken sunshine, fortunately a cooling breeze. The car park near Sheigra is almost full, dozens have walked out to the beach today. I carry a sweatshirt, a drinks bottle and a couple of cereal bars, extras which certainly impede the running but I haven’t the nerve to go a long way out into relatively remote country in just shorts and a thin T-shirt.
Usually I’ve walked out here with a huge pack, so now the miles of sandy and stony track seem very short. Past sunlit lochans of dark blue, the high peaks of Foinaven and Arkle white to the east, ahead the bare rocky scarps of the Parph country. There are little groups of two or three people on the path, many of them from abroad, all drawn to the famous beach. I cross the last crest and am greeted by the familiar view, beyond the ruins of Sandwood cottage the Sandwood loch, its red sandy shores leading onto the yellow sand dunes of Sandwood Bay and the wide sands with white rollers coming in from the open sea.
I jog on down through the soft sand, there’s a brilliant blue flash from a tiny small blue butterfly. One or two folk have tiny tents up. On the beach itself, maybe a couple of dozen folk, almost lost in the great expanse of sand.
I HEAD back south along the breaking waves, climbing up from the southern end of the sands towards the cliffs overlooking the rock stack of Am Buachaille – the shepherd. A small path hugs the cliff tops with spectacular views of sunlit sea, stack and beach, of mountain and moor. A party ahead, doing a guidebook round walk, has turned off the path too soon, I carry on, following the narrow trod back inland at the next valley. By now, under the strong sun, I’m wishing I’d brought a sunhat and more sunscreen, the spare sweatshirt remaining unused for the whole run.
Soon I’m climbing back towards one of the lochans, and see that group picking its way down rough slopes above the path. Now, back on the main route, it’s just two miles to the car park, I pass some weary-looking walkers, here is a young couple with the lassie dragging behind… but I’ve still a long way to go. The public toilets, provided by the John Muir Trust, are most welcome for a break and a refreshing drink of cold water, my drinks bottle long empty.
I wasn’t sure about the wisdom of a six-mile run along roads at this stage of the day, but needn’t have worried. On such a glorious late afternoon, with sparkling seas and the sunlit sands of Oldshoremore beach below, with a wealth of roadside wild flowers and magnificent mountain views ahead, the miles are almost too short. It’s a hilly road, but I take my time on the ups and enjoy coasting down the downs.
A path round Loch Innes provides a bypass for Kinlochbervie, starting incongruously at a typical west-coast scrow of old quarry and rusting derelict vehicles then turning into a lovely grassy path along the loch side past unconcerned Highland coos. The path comes out at the back of the little Kinlochbervie Church of Scotland, the door is unlocked so I go in to sit in the cool peace of the simple building for five minutes, one of the highlights of the day. Can we not keep more of our Caithness churches open, especially in Thurso?
It’s a steep brae out of Kinlochbervie, I decide walking is permitted, then the last easy mile, mostly downhill, the sunlit Loch Insh below and the mountains ahead. The run had taken over four hours, slow and perhaps a little on the short side. But I doubt many who train for a marathon have run such a scenic 16 miles.