Susan Donnelly

It was only when we drove into the Milngavie train station parking lot early that the race became a reality.  One week of vacation already gone and the traces of it almost erased now by irrational race nervousness. We were the first runners here, six or seven hours ahead of start time, and the parking lot was quiet.  Rob napped but I couldn’t.

As afternoon slowly turned toward evening, the parking lot grew more active.  Runners began to arrive by car and van and RV to check in and prepare for the start of their ordeal, as commuters left the station to head home from the end of theirs.

When the ambient anxiety grew too high to stand, Rob and I gave in and walked across the street to the church to check in.  We got our bags and weighed in.  The scale said 59, a number I was glad I couldn’t mentally convert into pounds, since we’d done nothing all day but drive and eat.  A volunteer calculated 5% above and below 59, and marked it on the index card I would have to present at the two weigh-ins during the race.  No problem.  In the last step, we got wrist bands, a welcome substitute for those bulky race numbers and horrible safety pins.

Check-in done, we headed back to the car to rest and stay off our feet.  Rob closed his eyes while I watched the growing stream of runners begin to outnumber the remaining commuters.

Our friend Mark Barnes found us in the parking lot by the England World Cup Soccer flags we were flying from the car.  He’s run the race numerous times and happened to be training for ? instead so he made the tough decision and volunteered to crew us.  Not to exaggerate the situation but we literally couldn’t do the race without him – a crew is required and his willingness to donate his weekend for us was no light matter.  Besides which, I know from experience it’s incredibly hard to watch a race you’ve run “from the outside.”  Still, he made the tough decision and the bonuses for us were that we got to spend at least a little time with him and got to eat the wonderful soups that his wife Elizabeth made for us.  We chatted, shifted all our luggage and gear to his car, and then all settled down to nap and rest for two more hours until the 1:00 a.m. start.

Setting Out

About a half hour before the start, the runners assembled to the side of the train station, the official start of the 95-mile West Highland Way Trail, for the briefing by Sean Stone.  Mark, Rob and I ran in to Eric Baird and Wendy Kelly, our crew from last year’s race, and American Mark Godale.  Rob and Mark Godale knew each other from Ohio days and it was nice to see another compatriot racing outside the States.  Eric was nervous because although he had three finisher’s goblets, he hadn’t trained enough after a serious bike wreck.

The weather forecast was excellent, so I was starting with a small race vest and one hand bottle but would be changing the small vest for a pack before crossing Rannoch Moor.  Rob was carrying two hand bottles and wearing his pack the entire race.

Sean started the talk.  He reminded us that we were a family in this together and to help each other to the finish.  If we saw another runner in trouble, try to help and then get word to the next station.  He also mentioned Dario, the beloved RD of this race who died two weeks after last year’s race.  I could clearly remember him and almost feel him watching over the race he loved and all the runners.  His wife Gillian was there for the start.

We turned, en masse, to the start of the trail through a tunnel under the road.  The clocked ticked the last minute down to 1:00 a.m., and at the signal, we were off.

Milngavie to Drymen

The field flowed through the tunnel and out the other side into the town center of Milngavie where late-night barflies lurched out to cheer and high-five us with a heady wave of alcohol fumes.

The trail quickly turned into woods and though the pace felt way too fast (same as last year), we worked to keep in sight of the other runners.  Rob made a quick pit stop while I waited and the next thing I knew, we were running with the sweep.  Argh.

Rob happily chatted to the sweep while I worked on getting away from him (no offense to him but even if I’m certain I can finish well within cutoff, I do not like being last!).  We caught up to and passed a few runners, enough to put the sweep behind us and I focused intently on navigating in the dark, trying to keep runners in view so that I only had to check their navigation instead do it all on my own.  We would only need a headlamp for a few hours but I didn’t want to miss a turn and the early mix of road and pasture crossings was an easy place for me to miss a turn.  I should probably mention that the course isn’t flagged like an American ultra.  Since it follows a signed trail, runners use the trail sign posts.  Thank goodness we remembered the course from last year.  It would be super easy to run by a post in the dark and never know it.

The trail wound through farms and tiny clusters of houses along dirt road, paved road, and what felt like an old railroad bed, occasionally passing through livestock gates.  Dawn was already started to lighten the sky.  In the summer, this far north, nights were weirdly short and I never quite managed to adjust, though I love it the extra daylight.  It looked like other people loved it too – house lights were on already at 4:00 a.m, even before the early dawn.  This must be a country of early risers.

So far, the midgie-infested spots from last year weren’t bad although the media reported they were worse than normal this year.  Rob and I had tried unsuccessfully to find some Avon Skin So Soft before the race and ended up resorting to the DEET cream leftover from my trip to India, which we intensely disliked and applied sparingly, being careful to wash it off fingers.  The weather forecast was perfect and warm with almost zero chance of rain, so maybe we would get super lucky and have a midgie-free day.

As I was trying to judge whether we were ahead or behind last year’s pace, we spotted Mark waiting for us by the road in Drymen.  I needed to re-fill my bottle so Mark ran back to the car to get some Lucozade.  I love this stuff.  I tried it when we ran Hardmoors back in 2009 and found it to be the only sports drink (unlike Gatorade, Heed, Powerade, etc.) that tasted great the entire way, kept me fueled, and never caused any side effects. It has to be the formula.  Anyway, the company had added raspberry flavor, which I love, to their line and I bought an armload for the race.

Drymen to Balmaha

Mark looked a little worried at our pace and though I didn’t want him to worry, we’ve run too many 100s to get trapped into going out too fast.  Besides, the mission statement for us was to look around and enjoy the experience.

We headed into Garadhban Forest, still quiet before the dawn, and heard what sounded for all the world like a cuckoo clock.  We stopped and listened…sure enough, there was no mistaking it.  Did cuckoos really exist?  Weren’t they all in Bavarian forests where the clocks were made?  Had this one just strayed way off course into Scotland?

We left the forest and climbed Conich Hill.  This is our first glimpse of long Loch Lomond, and it’s stunning at sunrise.  So of course I took a ton of photos.  An unpleasant thought lingering in the back of my mind for the past few months was now a reality – we might not be able to pull this race off again.  This might be the last chance I get to stand here and see this, so soak it in.  I did my best.

The trail descended the hill in full sight of the view, then through a last bit of woods into the Balmaha parking lot.  Mark was waiting with homemade carrot soup (thank you Elizabeth!) on the stove.  Perfect!!!

Except that the midgies were waiting too.  They spare no exposed skin but seem to have a special preference for my forehead and the part in my hair.  For those that can’t imagine the all-over burning the vicious little things inflict, my only other close comparison are our southern chiggers, which only attack what you brush against in a meadow (your legs) and aren’t nearly as bloodthirsty.  Mosquitoes are isolated points of annoyance not even in the same league.  Imagine being doused in a burning chemical.  As welcome as it was to see Mark and eat good food, we weren’t tempted to linger.

Balmaha to Rowardennon

The trail here follows the shore of Loch Lomond, past marinas and open lake views.  It was going to be a beautiful, sunny day.  People camp at random along the lake, (actually, throughout the countryside) and this year had campers along this shore left noticeably less trash than last year.  Eric had been distressed about it last year, telling us there was a national debate about the problem with lines drawn along a generational divide.  Maybe this was a hopeful sign.

We found ourselves running near two guys that had run most of the trail from end to start the day before.  The plan had been to run the entire way down, then run the race back and they had come awfully close.  Wow.  What would that be like?  We tried the idea on for size but decided we’d rather explore as many different trails as we can while we’re over here than pull off a feat like that, but more power to them.

As our little group was running along, one of the guys dropped a banana half, then picked it back up, speckled with twigs and dirt, and ate it.  Did the ten-second rule really apply to bananas dropped on roadsides?

Rowardennon to Inversnaid

Midgies.  Clouds of them.  It was beyond imaginable.  They obscured the few photos I tried to take.

We hurriedly topped off our bottles and grabbed some GU for the road (who wants a midgie garnish on their food?), and then Mark walked us out to a lakeside monument before parting.  The trail from here hugged the east shore of Loch Lomond and since the road was on the west shore, we wouldn’t see Mark for until the two joined up again at the head of the loch, about 14 miles away at Beinglas Farm.

But…this is Rob’s favorite part of the course and it really is beautiful.  It cuts along the slanting side of a mountain that ends in the loch to our left.  The section is a forested one with ferns, moss, boulders, twisted trees and a good amount of single-track to boot.  I tried to take as many photos as I could without slowing us down, sprinting to catch back up to Rob each time like I was running a 100-mile fartlek workout.

The world outside our wooded sanctuary was waking up and the sound of traffic was constant along A82 across the long, narrow loch.

We reached the waterfall next to Inversnaid Hotel as someone caught up and said we had a minute to spare on cutoff.  Rob?!?

Inversnaid to Beinglas Farm

In the hotel parking lot, Rob said we were ok on cutoff though we needed to pick it up some.  I felt bad about slowing us down to take so many photos and vowed to cut down from here on out.

This is a remote aid station that crews don’t get to so race organizers allow you to leave an expendable drop bag that you won’t get back after the race.  This means that by the time we arrived, there was plenty left over from other runner’s bags and expecting this, we hadn’t bothered to stage our own.  Volunteers had placed all the food and supplies out on the table and the surrounding asphalt like a smorgasbord, and I hit the jackpot with an unopened bottle of orange Lucozade while Rob scored some candy bars.  They urged us to eat so they wouldn’t have to pack it all up and take it with them and we were more than happy to assist.

The next half of the trail along Loch Lomond looks much the same as the last but with easier footing, either dirt road or less-rocky single track.  All in all, a bit more tame and a good place to build a cushion on cutoff.  We worked on it somewhat seriously and gradually lost our sometime companions behind.

As the loch ends, the mountain side opens up into level grassland.  We passed a few day hikers and through hikers and when I mentioned to one picnicking party that it looked more fun than the race, the older gentleman of the group simply laughed and said “all the glory be yours.”

Coming into Beinglas is pretty – past an old cottage and the stony ruins of some crofts, up a hill and over a stile, past a small pond, and through some thin, grassy woods.

At Beinglas, a few runners were already sitting there in chairs.  Mark had chairs out for us and had lugged our heavy food bag and one of our gear bags up from the parking lot.  Unfortunately, my gear organization was atrocious and the sunglasses needed for the section ahead were in my backpack…in the car.  I was tempted to go without but Mark ran down the hill to attempt to find them, and finally just returned with the backpack.  If we managed to do this race again, this is something I’d definitely improve!

Beinglas Farm to Auchtertyre

We slathered on sunscreen (yes, this is Scotland), ate and filled up our bottles before walking out with Mark.  We wanted to give him more opportunity to get out with us for a run but the day was heating up and I, at least, needed a moment for the food and Lucozade to settle.  Besides, we could talk easier while walking.

The first part of this section follows high-tension powerlines.  Very open and totally exposed to the sun.  It’s a great place to skip the photos and make some time.  The trail does merge close enough to the Falls of Falloch to hear the roar catch a partial glimpse.  Not far from there, as the River Falloch gets wide and shallow, we watched a cow lead three sheep across the river.  The sheep didn’t look happy with their choice of leadership but they still weren’t letting the cow out of their sight.

When the trail reaches picturesque Carmyle Cottage, it crosses under the rail line and then under A82.  It’s a neat place because we would be taking this very rail line down to Milngavie the next day to pick up our car, and then driving A82 back up to Ft. William.  It’s the first point on the course where our present and future co-exist.

Once through both tunnels, the trail covers an open section marked by a permanent plaque noting that another race made recovery and re-building of this section possible.  I sent a mental thank you to the race and its runners.  It’s always good to see trail users give back.

This wide rocky track eventually gives way to more forest, and a particularly beautiful one.  I’ll never understand why Scotland doesn’t grow more forests, simply for forest’s sake.  The ones we see here are gorgeous – deep, dark, green, and mysterious, right out of a fairy tale and full of magic.  Instead, however, forests seem grown exclusively as crops in little squares and scraps located awkwardly here and there in tidy little plots instead of natural green curves.  We’d already noticed a shocking amount of clear-cutting since our visit last year, without encountering a single re-planting and we couldn’t even recall seeing a teenaged forest.  The forest authority might argue otherwise but to this casual observer, the Scottish forest seemed like a species teetering without hope on the brink of extermination, which was a true shame.

Near the top of the wandering climb through the forest, Mark was perched on a rock and  waiting for us.  We got to run with him, and even saw Wendy on the way which meant Eric was still running.

At the bottom of the following descent, the trail runs under a high railroad bridge next to the road, and Mark left us here to fetch his car and meet us at the nearby Auchtertyre checkpoint.  After checking both ways, multiple times for safety, we crossed A82.  We weren’t as alert as normal and this was definitely not the place to make an error in judgment.

After that, it’s a wide metal bridge over the River Fillan, where people were strolling in the sun and fly-fishing.  Then it’s straight ahead to a farm on a wide dirt road, left turn past the mossy ruins of St. Finan’s Priory, and into the beautiful green valley that cradles Auchtertyre, our first weight checkpoint.

Auchtertyre to Tyndrum

At the race tent, we fished out our weight cards and I stepped on the scale.  The volunteer asked me to read the number, clearly upping the level of difficulty to include an eye test.  I was right on the money, still at 59 whatevers.  Rob checked out fine as well and released to proceed, we trotted over to Mark’s car where he of course had chairs out and our food bag open and ready.  Not only had he made the race possible, he was a great crew.

The way from here to Tyndrum is short, mostly level and wanders through woods and a wide, un-treed area covered in heather that reminds me of a green “heath bald” in the Smoky Mountains.  As if it needs to be prettier, it’s dotted with fluorescent yellow broom bushes in full blooming glory.

We had apparently left Auchertyre just ahead of a small army of runners that must have been sitting at the checkpoint.  Now, through the heath bald part, one member of the army kept surging towards in an odd, distracting way.  We tried to pick up the pace and put a little distance between but the guy made one more surge and gasped out “are you Rob Apple?”  Goodness, tell me I wasn’t going to have to endure another “Rob Apple moment” (as his best friend Wesley and I call them) here in Scotland?  Nope, turns out Rob had dropped his weight card back on the trail and the guy was nice enough to pick it up and work hard enough to catch us and give it back.  He handed the card to Rob, relieved, and said “I would hate to see you get disqualified.”  That right there is an example of why I really love this race and its community.

We navigated through the outskirts of Tyndrum, passing people sunbathing in the backyards (yes, this is Scotland).  The actual parking lot at Tyndrum is on the other side of a super-busy section of A82.  We waited for an opening and quickly crossed the two-lane road over to a waiting Mark.

We were consuming drinks at a fast pace, so Rob gave Mark someone money for more Coke (for him) and Lucozade (for me).  While Mark was on his errand, I wolfed down half of a “flapjack,” something I’d been intrigued with but never tried.  The first three ingredients on the package of the regular-flavored one I’d chosen were oats, sugar, and vegetable oil.  Not perfect, but not bad, right?  Kind of like oatmeal, in a way.  We had exhausted Elizabeth’s soup and it was nice to get some more real food in the belly.

Tyndrum to Bridge of Orchy

We said ‘bye to Mark and turned toward the hill ahead but right out of the parking lot, I could tell the flapjack was a mistake.  It didn’t want to stay down and was getting worse instead of settling, totally distracting me from the scenery.  Unfortunately, there was no where to discretely private enough to toss it back up.

Not only were we within clear sight of A82 but there were hikers everywhere.  It was a sunny afternoon on one of the prettiest sections of trail near busy trailheads.  Once you get over the low pass, the trail passes around the flank of Beinn Odhar, ducks up toward a quiet glen and then turns to follow the main valley along a level topo line around the huge, round base of Beinn Dorain, with the river Ault Kinglass sparkling in the sun through the valley floor.  There’s even a herd of highland cows in one of the pastures.  If I were a hiker, this wouldn’t be a bad place to be.

At the entrance to the valley next to Beinn Odhar and across the railroad line, we saw Mark standing on A82.  He was just far enough away and there was way too much traffic noise to say anything so we just waved at each other.  I tried to feel better and muster the ability to run.  No luck, it was slow going but the view here was one to savor anyway.

Next, along the never-ending side of Beinn Dorain, we spotted red, carnivorous, bog-dwelling sundew plants on the sides of the trail.  It was a cool first for both Rob and I.  Hopefully, they would catch their weight in midgies before the day was through.

Mark was waiting at the left turn down to the town of Bridge of Orchy – in flipflops.  Sigh…there was no disguising it now.  Despite our efforts to speed up, we had slowed to flip-flop speed.

We passed under the Bridge of Orchy train station, another place we’d be passing the next day in our train ride to Milngavie, and crossed A82 yet again.  Then, the few yards over big, stone, beautifully-arched Bridge of Orchy itself.

This is an important check point in the race.  Rannoch Moor is close at hand.  There is mandatory gear you must carry across the moor and the sun will be setting soon.  At the moment, however, the weather was still perfect and instead of loading down with our moor/night gear here, we postponed it by agreeing for Mark to meet us at Victoria Bridge at the head of Loch Tulla – on the course but an extra stop that’s immediately before the trailhead over the moor.

Bridge of Orchy to Victoria Bridge

After letting Sean know we’d be picking our gear up at Victoria Bridge, we headed up through the forest to the open hillside and saw of all things, a flag and a person silhouetted in the late afternoon sun.  It turned out to be none other than Murdo McEwan in an unadvertised race checkpoint.  He was checking off the runners as they came through to make sure no one cut the course.  We’d passed one of these when we first reached Loch Lomond in the morning.

It was good to see Murdo, one of the race family we’d gotten to know here.  He said he’d been there all day, or at least since leader Ritchie Cunningham came through.  He wouldn’t be at the awards ceremony but as he said, would “be there in mind.”  It was sad to think this was the only time we’d see him, for at least a year.  It also reminded us that our time with Mark was getting short.  The race was going so fast!

I snapped some photos of Murdo, the odd group of lenticular clouds that had formed to the north, and the valley with Victoria Bridge below.  Then we wished Murdo well and parted company for another year.

Our army caught up and followed us down to Inveroran Hotel and along the paved road to Victoria Bridge.  Again, there were people camping on the side of the road, something we don’t have in the States that is allowed by the Scottish Outdoor Access Code.  It’s kind of neat yet disconcerting at the same time.  The oddest thing with this group was that a deer was grazing alongside the camp and neither the campers or the deer thought it odd.  As you get tired in races your perception can skew and you get so used to running along and observing things that the weirdest sights just seem “interesting.”  Alice in Wonderland could probably appear my mind would just register “oh that’s what she looks like.”  I wasn’t sure at this point if the camper-loving deer was weird or normal.

We met Mark at a handy parking place near the bridge and geared up.  The weather was still nice but after so much time in the Smokies, I never depend on the weather not to change and the sun was going to be setting before we reached the next checkpoint.  I traded my light Nathan race vest for an old Ultimate Direction running pack with larger capacity and stuffed it with my rain jacket, rain pants, hat, gloves, space blanket, then shifted the food and supplies from vest to pack. The small army passed us in the meantime but that was ok.

Victoria Bridge to Glen Coe Ski Center

Loaded down, we headed off.  At least we knew what was ahead this year.

First up was Telford’s Road, a military road that the famous civil engineer improved upon in 1803 and was still in use as an access road today.  It’s essentially a gradual climb paved with rough cobblestones that are unkind to a runner’s feet in wet conditions.  Thank goodness for the dry day.  I actually had fun on the cobbles this time.  The only downer was having to clean my dry contact lenses, a new pair I’d picked up the day before the trip.

We were still trying guess whether we were ahead or behind last year’s time.  Rob thought we were ahead, and it did look like we would have more daylight on Rannoch Moor, but I still felt somehow we were behind.  However it worked out, we were ahead of cutoff, feeling great, and Rob wasn’t sick this year like last year so our last two sections were bound to be faster.

Finally, we were up on Rannoch Moor.  One website I read called it “bleak and inhospitable.”  While I’d certainly hate to be on it in a storm, the bleakness and expanse is why I love it.  The wide open space looks like tundra and extends for miles, dotted with small lochs and bordered by highland mountains.  It’s high, wild, stark, lonely, and I love it.  I ran across last year and have seen it from a car in both sunny weather and driving rain.  That last wouldn’t be pleasant.  In fact, we were incredibly lucky we’d had perfect weather both times here.  Mark said he’d run this race and over the moor in the rain and had been the last person to pass through the King’s House checkpoint before they cut the race short one year.  Good weather was not to be underestimated.

The sun set over the mountains casting dramatic sun rays over the valley as we passed Ba Bridge and the lonely ruins of Ba cottage, where someone had once chosen to live on the moor.  Then we reached the monument to Ian Fleming’s brother and took the new approach into the new checkpoint of the Glen Coe Ski Center, which replaced the one at Kings House Hotel.  Before I was ready, the moor was over.

I could tell now that we were behind last year, though we managed to surprise Mark at our faster arrival.  We been trying to imagine ski center and couldn’t.  Turns out the center was new and despite the chilly wind, the parking lot was midgie-infested.  We hid from the wind on the lee side of Mark’s car so we could add some layers, re-fill bottles and eat but without the wind, the midgies tormented us mercilessly.  Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

With the wind and setting sun, all forecasts expected conditions to be cold on Devils’ Staircase, the pass dominating the section ahead.  We said eventually said ‘bye to Mark and parted in sweater, jacket and even pants.

Ski Center to Kinlochleven

We trotted down the paved road past the awesome, imposing pyramid hulk of Buachaille Etive Mhor that presides over the boundary between Rannoch Moor and the head of Glen Coe.  It’s an incredible, postcard view even at twilight.

The trail crossed over A82 again and ran past King’s House Hotel, sitting all by itself on the edge of the moor with warm golden lights on inside.  People were no doubt enjoying a warm meal and pint of ale in the pub as we ran by outside in the dark.  The field behind the hotel was carpeted with tents, most likely climbers.  As appealing as the inn seemed, camping in the cold did not.  I’d rather be running.

We ran up the side of a hill, then roughly parallel to A82 into the head of Glen Coe – I didn’t remember this part, though it made sense for what came next.

We were later, for sure, than last year.  Surely I hadn’t taken that many photos?  We knew we’d make time on the next two sections without trying since Rob wasn’t sick this year, but I wanted to catch up to where we should have been.

At the bottom of Devil’s Staircase, in a pull-out along A82, we turned sharply uphill.  As Rannoch Moor was the entity we dealt with on the last section, it was now Devil’s Staircase.  It’s the most notorious climb on the course, though do-able.  I wanted to go without headlamp as long as possible, especially since the footing is pretty easy.  I prefer this and once you turn on your headlamp or someone near you uses a headlamp, you lose your night vision.  Last year I’d turned mine on at the top of Devil’s Staircase and I wanted to do the same this year.

However, Rob turned his on earlier than most everyone else on the hill.  I said something and was going to propose we separate a bit further so I could continue, but he got mad and climbed off without me.  We both climb well anyway and now ended up climbing faster than anyone else on the hill, passing a bunch of people on the way.  This wasn’t the way I wanted to spend my race but in retrospect it was a blessing in disguise because it kept me very much awake.

At the crest of the climb, I checked my watch.  Last year I reached this point without at an amazing 11:00 p.m. before turning on my headlamp for the descent.  This year, we were about an hour and a half behind, which was frustrating, but I still got to do the climb without a headlamp.

Just past the crest, there was a check point where a couple of volunteers asked if we were okay.  Yes, we were fine.  And just beyond that was the first of two Search and Rescue groups on the course, there to help anyone with hypothermia or other ailments.  With the nice weather, they were probably bored.  The cold conditions never materialized and just past the Search and Rescue camp, what little wind there was died and we found ourselves very overdressed.

The descent took a while last year, not only because Rob was sick but because we were navigating by ourselves and there weren’t many markers along the way.  This time, I remembered it.

Rob and I joined back together and ran most of the way down into the town of Kinlochleven.  Always a welcome sight, Mark met us way out on the trail through town and guided us to the check point, thank goodness because it was in a different building than last year.

Inside the door of the leisure center, we weighed for the second and last time and both passed with flying colors. The atmosphere beyond was quiet to the point of being grim and brought the three of us to whispers.  We were, not surprisingly, at a low spot for both of us but only a mild one that was easy to handle and would be quick to pass.  Mark said there were runners sleeping in the back of the building and that people had dropped out here – hard to believe since we were only 14 miles from the end.

I shed my pants and my jacket, ate, and re-filled my bottle.  I remembered the next section less than fondly, with lots of loose foot-killing rocks.  Maybe, like Telford’s road, it would be easier this year with dry feet.

Kinlochleven To Lundavra

Mark escorted us to the trailhead and we parted ways once more and started the climb.  We passed another runner and his pacer and may have been passed in turn, I honestly can’t remember.  It’s a stiff climb, steeper in my mind than Devil’s Staircase and just as long.  Tough to do near the end of the race.  I was sweating by the top.

The dirt road at the top was gently rolling and would be easy running if not for the confetti of loose rocks littering the way.  Anger gone, the past two nights of little to no sleep caught up with me and I found myself starting to stumble along, falling asleep on my feet.  I’ve been doing this way too often in races lately and had to get more sleep.  As tough as the loose rocks and the stumbling were, many of the sections this year seemed shorter.  With the short night, I could make it for sure to the dawn.

Some way along the road in the dark, we passed another Search and Rescue station.  They sounded hopeful but we told them we were fine and kept moving.  I remember this as being a quiet part of the course.  Last year, we were near a bunch of other runners but not one was talking.  This year, we could hear two chattering women surging up behind us and Rob swears they were speaking French. They never passed us and eventually faded back when the stone abated we were able to turn off our headlamps and start running.

We finally arrived at Lundavra but no Mark and we couldn’t spot his car down the road.  At Kinlochleven, he mentioned that he’d never been here by road and had to get directions from Elizabeth.  Had he missed a turn?  We weren’t going so fast that we could have outrun him.  I was a little worried.

We hung out and waited.  There was a fire for warmth and midgie protection.  We had plenty of time to finish and weren’t there to set any speed records anyway.  Rob took a candy bar offered by the check point people and since this last section was long, I topped my bottle with some of their limited water.  It couldn’t have been long, but as the two women appeared at the checkpoint, we decided to move on…right as Mark arrived.

We couldn’t think of anything we needed but it was so reassuring just to talk with him, compare notes, and let him know we were on the way to the finish.  Mark was astonished at the clear-cutting surrounding the checkpoint.  When he ran the race two years ago, it had been a lush, green forest.  Now there wasn’t a tree standing nearby and whole trees lay everywhere as they had last year.  It seemed like such a waste.</p>

Lundavra to Ft. William

Eventually, this section does move from clear-cut into forest with plenty of green grass and ferns.  This is where Rob had been the sickest last year, forcing us to a virtual crawl.  It’s a beautiful section and we could now appreciate why Eric had pointed out that Ben Nevis appears ahead in the trail as you round one of the corners.  It’s an impressive sight and cool to recognize it and know we’d been up top.

As we ran, Rob remembered bits and pieces but there were huge parts missing for him.  We got to talking again about how fast the race had gone and before we knew it, we were on the gravel road to the Braveheart Parking Lot.

Heading down the gravel road, we passed two separate runners going the opposite direction, presumably going out to meet a racer.  Mark was waiting not far after.  He had come out to run in with us, a real treat, and we talked as we ran until we got to the Braveheart Parking Lot.

This is where we went wrong last year (well, actually, where we followed the trail instead of the race course) and had disappointed Dario, the previous RD (not to mention worrying Eric and Wendy).  I can still see the expression on this face.  Dario died two weeks after that race, and finishing the right way was one of the reasons we were here.  To tie up a debt we owed him.  We’d come a long way to get to this point and set things right and I could almost feel him smiling at us.

Rob and I looked at each other, then took a breath and broke last year’s spell by running straight through the parking lot, turning left on the road, and running strong down the road.  I had plenty of legs left and knew the road and where it would take us but was still a bit out of breath enough to ask Mark how far we had left.  Only a block or two?  Amazing.  It wasn’t far enough – as much as my feet hurt and as tired as I was, I didn’t really want it to be over.

Sure enough, a short bit down the road and there was the Lochaber Leisure Center.  We ran through the parking lot and in the front door, as is custom, Dario smiling with us the whole way.  This time, I took the traditional dram of whisky without reserve, though I’d swear Sean was a bit generous with it.

And it was over.  That bubble of existence that is the race evaporated.  We sat with Mark for a while until we decided on a game plan, in which he took off on the long drive home in daylight.  It was safer for him though it was hard to part, knowing it would be a long, indeterminate time before we’d see him again.

We showered at the leisure center, then walked our gear the short way down the road to our hotel for them to store while waiting on our room to be readied (we didn’t count on being done this early).  While waiting, we walked into Ft. William and got a nice breakfast that did not include GU or Lucozade.  By the time we returned to our room we were able to move our stuff to the room, catch a quick nap and walk to the awards ceremony (our car was in Milngavie and you can walk to most anything here).

The ceremony was one last gathering of the field and their friends, family and crew, but the moment was almost over.  You could almost feel outside obligations tugging gently but insistently at all the happy runners and proud families in the gymnasium.  These people, at this time in their lives, would never gather for this race in exactly the same way as it all happened this year.  I watched everyone and breathed the last of it in, as if I could save it.  How is it over so fast?  People always ask in amazement what I think about during a race this long and thought I try to understand it from their perspective, all I can think is how the time disappears in the blink of an eye.

Epilogue

One reason I took so many photos this year is that it’s hard to know if I’ll be able to do this race again.  Before I can even make a decision, my work schedule, savings, vacation time, available and willing crew, and absence of true emergencies must all click into place…together.  It’s a miracle that they ever do.  So if a nugget of desire is there, even if buried beneath a nagging pile of “shoulds” and “musts” and everyday tiredness, and I’m fit enough to at least stay ahead of cutoff and enjoy it, I’m going.

I don’t worry about peaking for it or running a PR or any other self-imposed expectation.  I just want to be there, whatever the circumstances.  I don’t want to miss it.  A year is a long time to wait and my life as well as everyone else’s can change a lot in between.

I listen to people all the time who say, off-handedly, “if only…” and “maybe next year…,” as if they somehow owe me an excuse, and I ache for them.  I put this dream off for years and years and honestly never expected to make it come true.   The chance to make a dream like this a reality can come and go so quickly and you never know if there will be a next time.  Sure, it may be complex to get there…it may disrupt your schedule…you may not be perfectly ready…you may have a king size list of nagging demands to take care of at home…etc., etc., whatever.  Your mind can produce an endless number of perfectly somber reasons not to do it but whatever your mind says can never outweigh the magnetic pull of your heart.

When you’re honest with yourself, daily things can wait and solutions can be crafted.  Instead of seeing an opportunity as not-quite-perfect, see it as a crack in the door that might never come again.  If your heart is tugging, please don’t pass up even a sliver of a chance.

Posted: Tuesday, July 13, 2010, 10:20 pm | Tags: Blog | Respond | Trackback