#highlandfling

Yes indeedy – I did it on SDM a while back!

Granted, the movie didn’t have a crazy amount of mistakes…

…but boy oh boy…

…in terms of just plain weird stuff…

…it was…

…undeniably…

…indisputably…

…a treasure trove of soul-sucking insanity.

Feel free to check out the posts from that movie (and so many more) via the SDM index! 

My second Highland fling. 

I cried at the end again.

I think I cried more this year than last year. You can read about my first Fling here if you want to.

Life has gotten in the way of running, a new role at work has meant that I’ve been travelling more than last year and running less. When you factor in that the winter has been brutal, with tons of snow here in the Highlands, which has made mountain running really difficult and my two big training runs had to be cut short because of blizzards.

So I was about 30 miles short of the 500 I needed and perhaps more importantly, was feeling really lacking in proper trail training. My nerves were just as bad as my first Fling because I knew what to expect, I knew how challenging the middle part of this race is. And I felt really unprepared.

There’s something magic about the Fling, it’s this heady combination of the amazing marshals, the runners and the scenery. Sleepy and shivering we assembled at 5am in Milngavie, 700 crazy people about to spend the day doing something awesome. Despite feeling under-trained, I thought I’d try and beat last years time of 11 hours and 15 minutes, so moved to the middle of the 10-12 hour finishing time pen. I cannot describe the feeling at the start line of an ultra, this is the pay-off of all that training, all that sacrifice, all the rescheduled family meals and missed nights out with friends and events cut short because we have to train and train and train. We get to stand here and run 53 miles in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

The first 20 miles of the Highland Fling are easy. The miles slide by on well put together tracks all the way from Milgavie to Conic hill, the birds tweet and the Campsie fells look lovely in the dawn light. It makes you want to put the power down, to fly along at speed, to burn out your legs. From mile 13 to about mile 17 you climb gradually to around 800 feet and you get the first glimpses of Loch Lomond in the valley below, then there’s a steep climb to the summit of Conic hill, but the trail is fine and you’re still full of energy and adrenaline, it’s so easy to forget what’s waiting on the other side of the hill.

Down to Rowardennan, probably my favorite checkpoint, it’s the last time you feel happy until you cross the finish line. I completed the first half of the Highland Fling in just under 5 hours, the second half would take another 6 hours. From Rowardennan to Inversnaid is where the race bares it’s teeth for first time, as the trail degrades significantly. There’s a waterfall at the Inversnaid checkpoint, it looks a bit like Rivendell from Lord of the Rings. It is the last lovely thing you’ll see for a few miles.

From Inversnaid to Beinglass is awful. It is slippy rock, tree root and bog. Your pace slows to a crawl, your legs are buggered from doing 35 miles and it is a grind. Only the elites can run this, the rest of us curse and stumble and bash knees and get very angry. Thank God for the other runners, you form little trains of runners to get through these hellish miles. We chat and talk and do everything we can to not think about what we’re actually doing. This is the Fling at it’s worst in terms of terrain, but it brings out the best in people. We share gels and water and try and laugh and just get through it.

It does end. Eventually you get beyond the northern shore of Loch Lomond and climb to the Beinglass checkpoint. This is the beginning of the end, the 13 mile to home. The trail is wildly unpredictable, going from the delightful rolling hills beyond Beinglass, to wading knee deep through cow shit at the aptly named cow poo alley. Then you descend, you cross the road and there’s a few brief miles after your watch beeps for the 50th mile until you hear bagpipes and cheering and you run on a red carpet and people high five you and cross the line.

Utter bliss.

Just as it did last year, the Fling overwhelms me at the finish line. The Marshalls, all of whom are utterly wonderful, amazing people who proactively fill water bottles and say kind things. When I crossed the line, this wonderful man gave me a hug and a lady went and got my packbag without being asked. I was sitting staring at my shoes, wondering how I was going to reach down and stretch and remove my filthy, cow poo covered trainers. Another lady came up to me and smiled and asked if she could help me take my shoes off.

I cried.

Pulled myself together, then I saw Norrie, who was my savior at the Ochil Ultra last year and I cried again.

Then I pulled myself together and phoned my girlfriend and I cried again.

This is the magic of the Fling, it has very little to do with personal bests and split times and all that stuff. It’s the intangibles, the fact that my friend got up at 4am to drive me to Milngavie and was there to pick me up from Tyndrum at 5pm at night. It was every single one of those perfect Marshalls who gave up their weekend to help runners like me make their dreams come true. It was the dozens of messages of support waiting for me on my phone from my partner and friends at every checkpoint and it was lady who offered to take my filthy shoes off.