On the run... and well worth it!
INVERNESS on a Saturday afternoon is an awful place. Once upon a time this was a Highland town, full of character. Now the shopping precincts and stores could be anywhere in Britain, with few of the redeeming features you find in “proper” cities like Edinburgh.
At least the steady rain kept the crowds down a little while the swollen River Ness and glimpses of the mist enshrouded woods of Ord Hill across the firth provided reminders that real, wild country is not far away.
My sole reason for visiting was to register for the following day’s Loch Ness Marathon.
Not realising there was plenty of space near the race HQ at Bught Park, I’d parked at Eastgate and had to walk right through the depressing town centre. The thing I could have done with – a cheap digital sports watch to replace one lost when working in the wood – not one shop seemed to sell.
Strenuous activity the day before a marathon is not recommended, so the Saturday became a day for pottering around. I’d stopped earlier to have a look at Big Burn, Golspie – well worth a visit now with the trees turning to their autumn colours – then turned off the A9 just south of the Mound to explore a little hill called Ben Tarvie.
South and east of Golspie, a series of rocky knolls grace the landscape, each sculpted by ice into a similar teardrop shape with gently slanting northern slopes and steep smoothed rock scarps to the south.
Silver Rock, Mound Rock, Princess Cairn, Ben Tarvie – distinctive, heathery hills 800 to 900 feet high, the home of some rare plants as well as wild goats, yet how many travellers on the A9 stop and visit? No, not even I had been to Ben Tarvie, it wouldn’t take more than a hour’s gentle walk to the top.
THIS country just west of the A9 and Dornoch is an attractive mixture of woods, small farms and crofts, giving onto a landscape of heather moorland and lochs.
From Clashnagrave an easy track leads westward, passes a ruined farm then climbs up towards Loch Laoigh.
New plantings of native trees to the west and south of Ben Tarvie made the access more difficult than expected, with deep heather and ditches to pick my way through to the foot of the short, steep crags guarding the summit.
It had been a calm, very grey, morning; rain was starting to spot and very low cloud was moving in, threatening to hide the view.
Expending a bit more energy than I’d intended, I scrambled quickly up to the north of the steep rock onto bare, stony ground with just a short walk to the heathery top, graced by the remains of a small cairn and a peaty pool.
There was a glimpse of hurrying traffic on the main road a couple of miles to the east. To the north-east mist drifted over the tops of Princess Cairn and Mound Rock, to the west stretched a grey moorland landscape. I picked my way back across the rough, wet slopes to the track and wandered down to the car as the rain set in.
Many folk stay the night before the race stay in local hotels and B&Bs, I prefer to ensure a good night’s sleep by camping out. So, thankfully, leaving Inverness behind, I drove a few miles across the Kessock Bridge and up to the car park north of Ord Hill. A short walk through the forest took me to the old hill fort on the top, shrouded in mist and, with the city and bridge hidden from view, a place which could have been miles from anywhere.
After putting up the tent, all I had to do was cook an easy, substantial meal from tins: stew, potatoes, carrots and a steamed pud to follow.
My paraffin stove, though, refused to perform. The jet was blocked and the pricker wire broke as I tried to clear it in the dim light. I’d have to get a fire going if I didn’t want a cold meal. There was plenty of dead wood and heather but it was all soaking wet... Ray Mears would have had a fire in seconds.
Fortunately I had a fat copy of the Scottish Daily Mail which they’d been giving away free, with the aid of this and half the bottle of paraffin from the stove I eventually had a bright enough blaze going to cook my tea and even give out some cheerful heat.
An owl screeched from almost overhead as darkness fell, only a muted roar from the city a couple of miles way indicated I wasn’t in some wild Highland forest.
A cold breakfast had to do, I needed to be away by 6.30am in order to get to Bught Park in time for the bus transport. In the first glimmerings of dawn I tramped back down through the mist and drizzle-enshrouded trees to the car and drove the few miles over the bridge to where the runners were gathering.
The whole place was bustling as several thousand people arrived and queued for the dozens of buses waiting to travel, in cavalcade, to the marathon start near Whitebridge.
It was a good thing I’m generally a good traveller, I found the last seat in the middle of the back row at the top of a double decker and sat for the next two hours as the hot, stuffy bus bumped and swayed its way round the bends and hummocks of the single-track roads up Strath Nairn.
Glimpses of yellowing woods, heather slopes, rushing burns, stone crofts and low craggy hills rising into mist and rain came and went through the steamed-up windows.
On occasions like this I kid myself that most of the hard work is done by the time we reach the start, which was cold and misty with steady rain setting in as we waited a delayed 10 minutes.
OFF at last. Walk for four minutes and begin jogging as we cross the start line. I’m near the back, aiming for around five hours. This really is a fantastic event to take part in, with miles and miles of scenic running through birch woods and along the shores of long Loch Ness. It’s also mostly downhill for the first 10 miles.
I run much faster than my usual pace, averaging 10-minute miles, knowing it will be a lot slower later. It’s known as a very hilly course but my main difficulty is simply having to run 26 miles on roads.
For ordinary folk – at my speed I’m very much among the ordinary folk – a marathon is a very tough challenge. Sometimes we fall into the mistake of thinking it must be easy, so many do it, some run in little over two hours, some run 50, 100, even 200 miles. But these are the rare supermen and women.
Gradually the rain eases off, the temperature rises, the sun starts to appear. I discard an old, torn sweatshirt and tie my windproof top round my waist.
Every few miles I drink – water and Lucozade – with cheers and encouragement from helpers. By about 14 miles it’s starting to hurt, and everyone around me is also beginning to suffer.
Now it’s a case of just letting the body keep running, relying on all that training to make it to the finish. The feet and thighs are sore, but not getting much worse. Around 18 miles I catch up with a couple. The man is doing his best to encourage his wife who keeps lagging behind.
“Keep it up,” he says, “soon be downhill”. “You’ve just got to keep going. You can do it.” She’s starting to protest. “I can’t.” His encouragements get more vociferous. As I draw ahead I hear yells from behind – “Get your hands off me!”
“Married couple...” comments a runner alongside me. I reply that I hope they’re still married by the finish.
Where I can I run along the grass verges to help the feet, though often the way is strewn with discarded drinks bottles. At last the outskirts of Inverness, now sunny.
The 22-mile marker passes... 23... 24. Just a two-mile run now, only down the road and back, I think. Across the river is the finish; you can hear the loudspeaker announcements. But a drinks station is strategically placed by the footbridge so no-one can take the tempting shortcut.
At long last, over the main road bridge and back along the river by the cathedral. I really couldn’t manage to run much further. Not done enough training.
Approaching the finish a squaddie, running in full pack, gear and boots, puts on a sprint to race past and come in ahead of me.
Only a sudden appearance of an aggressive Nessie from the river would speed me up now. But, surprisingly, I finish in almost the same time as last year, just a minute faster, in a few minutes under five hours. Most of us late finishers are now reduced to hobbling. Showers are available but nearly a quarter of a mile away – nobody bothers. The sun’s bright but the ground is a sea of mud. Lots of tents and music, and people.
I stagger in for a professional massage, a free perk as I’ve been running for Highland Hospice, then walk slowly across to the big tent serving food where I get a small bowl of stew and a lovely cup of soup. A live band plays loud, cheerful Scottish music. This is as close to heaven as it gets. I raised nearly £600 for Highland Hospice, thanks to all my sponsors; that’s what made the day worthwhile. But at the moment I’m thinking, never again...