Do ghosts make footprints? Asking for a friend.
Another week down and another week closer to the pinnacle of this year's bid to get to the Jungle 2020 - the West Highland Way Ultra. With the reasoning being that if I can do 95 miles in under 35 hours (hoping upon hope for under 30!) straight through, I have a chance at managing five days of racing next year (let's deal with the small matter of the mad climate a bit later, shall we?).
While I came to the conclusion upping mileage alone wasn't going to cut it for this race, I was feeling around in the dark with this new method of spending hours on feet and readying myself in other areas.
But it's worked! I had been driving myself into the ground trying to push my weekly mileage further than 50 miles - sore and sluggish on every single run (like, seriously, every single run). However, spending 12 or so hours a week walking in the hills with the odd run thrown in for three weeks brought back the spark, let muscles strengthen up which hadn't had a chance before and reignited my much missed enthusiasm for the run. I popped through a good pair of back to back long runs last week, one of 27 miles and the next of 14. This was without the back pain I'd been experiencing prior to my rehab period of lots of walking and cross training which made me happier than you can possibly imagine!
This weekend has seen training bounce back to hours on my feet with night training thrown in. I figure the distance isn't important if I can't get my head through this race. The West Highland Way Ultra starts at 1am and will run into the following night which means I've got to be okay with that uncomfortable feeling of being on my own, on my feet, in a strange place at an unsociable hour with a huge distance ahead of me.
Cue the first stint on Friday morning. Finishing up with work at around 8.30pm on Thursday, I drove to Tesco, had a mish mash tea of sausage sandwich and biscuits and settled down in the back seat of my truck for an uncomfortable four hour nap. My disgruntled companion, Nym the collie pup, gave up staring at me in bemused dissatisfaction after a while and curled up to go to sleep. Her face at being woken at 1am to start walking was not an impressed one, let me tell you. We set off from Dundee and out to the Sidlaws to kick about the hills for a few hours. It sounds simple when written here in black and white, but walking through city and countryside at 1am conjures some odd emotions. The temptation to drive back home as soon as I woke up was strong; the idea that all this is ridiculous, why would I be doing this, what the hell is the point?! But the idea that this whole concept of working through a dark place in my head and training my mind kept me plodding away until things felt better.
In all we were out for six hours, and with Nym now weighing 11.5kg and only able to walk for an hour at a time before needing an hour or two rest in the backpack means training has definitely been upped a notch (beat that Karnazes, my backpack wriggles!).
The next morning we returned to the Sidlaws to cover a hill we hadn't time for the previous morning. It was a 2.30am start to get the horses fed before I left, so positively a lie in! Standing at the top of Craigowl, I couldn't help feeling giddy at the volume and depth of scenery from coast to mountains around me; that dark place of yesterday's walk gone from my mind. Nym was less impressed and far more interested in the dead things she could find.
At the top of Balluderon Hill is a memorial to hill walker Sydney Scroggie; on it is inscribed the direction of all the prominent and loved Munros, ranges and hills in the area. Sunday morning, I would trundle up Glas Maol, 26 miles as the crow flies from where I was standing on Saturday.
Armed with Walkhighland's map, instructions and pictures, I felt mildly confident I might manage to not get lost on the Glas Maol/Creag Leacach/Monamenach circuit via Monega Hill. Starting off at 6am at a brisk walk to stave off the chill that was still in the air, I was in a good mood but missing my little black and white walking buddy. Two days of hills was quite enough for the Nymsical and she was left to take a rest day at home (not that she was impressed by this either).
After reaching the top of the dragon's-back-like Monega Hill, I spent a good while excitedly peering over the cliff edges and imagining the pre-historic landscape in years gone by. Curiosity satisfied, I then plodded on up Glas Maol. With large sections of frozen snow still on the ground, I managed to scare myself shitless when I realised my feet were making absolutely no footprints in the snow. Of course, the first logical place my mind jumped to was that I had fallen off one of the cliffs I had been peering over and my ghost was obliviously carrying on without my body. Oh god, my poor parents! How would they find my body?! I'm not actually joking when I say I felt my heart rate rising and genuine panic setting in. In a state of desperation, I jumped up and down on a patch of snow until it caved in. The relief was tangible. I was alive. I wasn't a ghost.
Snacking on potato and salt at the top of Glas Maol (practising with the food breaks here), I watched the heat haze over the ground a little further below whilst pulling my jacket tight around myself to keep the cold out. The heather seemed to be holding heat under my feet, yet the air was holding onto the sub-zero chill from the previous night, and so I'd been taking layers on and off more times than a stripper on back to back shifts the last couple of hours.
With Creag Leacach now in my sights, I couldn't help feeling giddy again - this Munro looks absolutely awesome as you approach - and I positively bounced down the side of Glas Maol. Perhaps not quite a scramble up to the summit, but it's certainly a lot more fun than a grassy plod!
Coming almost all the way back down, there was one last climb to be tackled up the Corbett, Monamenach. I'd just like to say I think this one should be reconsidered as a Munro for the sheer fact the path goes straight up to 807m over a ridiculously short distance - no meandering, no long, gradual climb, just straight up. It's like they were planning the fenceline and dared one of the lads with the crappy Chinese knock-off landrover to try to drive up in a straight line and if his knock-off could do it they'd make that the fenceline...then the b*****d went and managed it.
Not that I spent much time pondering the need for this to be quite such a harsh climb!
But despite the odd grumble at particularly uncalled for inclines - I had a lot of fun skirting about the hills this weekend and spent the last descent this morning considering how lucky I am. Perhaps it was the fresh air, the endorphins, the sunshine or the herd of deer that passed me atop Black Hill, but I found myself getting teary at how grateful I am for everything I have - namely my incredible parents who will go to the ends of the earth to support their daughter; even when she announces she's going to go wandering through the night, run around some cliffs, and sign up to wade through the Jungle next year. They taught me every skill I have when they made sure I realised I could change the way I think about anything - and at the end of the day, that's all ultra running is. It's being comfortable with being uncomfortable, and it's about having the ability to pull your mind from a really dark place to a really light one.
Signing out till next time, the very happy, slightly emotional runner (walker...whatever).
This weekend has seen training bounce back to hours on my feet with night training thrown in. I figure the distance isn't important if I can't get my head through this race. The West Highland Way Ultra starts at 1am and will run into the following night which means I've got to be okay with that uncomfortable feeling of being on my own, on my feet, in a strange place at an unsociable hour with a huge distance ahead of me.
Cue the first stint on Friday morning. Finishing up with work at around 8.30pm on Thursday, I drove to Tesco, had a mish mash tea of sausage sandwich and biscuits and settled down in the back seat of my truck for an uncomfortable four hour nap. My disgruntled companion, Nym the collie pup, gave up staring at me in bemused dissatisfaction after a while and curled up to go to sleep. Her face at being woken at 1am to start walking was not an impressed one, let me tell you. We set off from Dundee and out to the Sidlaws to kick about the hills for a few hours. It sounds simple when written here in black and white, but walking through city and countryside at 1am conjures some odd emotions. The temptation to drive back home as soon as I woke up was strong; the idea that all this is ridiculous, why would I be doing this, what the hell is the point?! But the idea that this whole concept of working through a dark place in my head and training my mind kept me plodding away until things felt better.
In all we were out for six hours, and with Nym now weighing 11.5kg and only able to walk for an hour at a time before needing an hour or two rest in the backpack means training has definitely been upped a notch (beat that Karnazes, my backpack wriggles!).
The next morning we returned to the Sidlaws to cover a hill we hadn't time for the previous morning. It was a 2.30am start to get the horses fed before I left, so positively a lie in! Standing at the top of Craigowl, I couldn't help feeling giddy at the volume and depth of scenery from coast to mountains around me; that dark place of yesterday's walk gone from my mind. Nym was less impressed and far more interested in the dead things she could find.
At the top of Balluderon Hill is a memorial to hill walker Sydney Scroggie; on it is inscribed the direction of all the prominent and loved Munros, ranges and hills in the area. Sunday morning, I would trundle up Glas Maol, 26 miles as the crow flies from where I was standing on Saturday.
Armed with Walkhighland's map, instructions and pictures, I felt mildly confident I might manage to not get lost on the Glas Maol/Creag Leacach/Monamenach circuit via Monega Hill. Starting off at 6am at a brisk walk to stave off the chill that was still in the air, I was in a good mood but missing my little black and white walking buddy. Two days of hills was quite enough for the Nymsical and she was left to take a rest day at home (not that she was impressed by this either).
After reaching the top of the dragon's-back-like Monega Hill, I spent a good while excitedly peering over the cliff edges and imagining the pre-historic landscape in years gone by. Curiosity satisfied, I then plodded on up Glas Maol. With large sections of frozen snow still on the ground, I managed to scare myself shitless when I realised my feet were making absolutely no footprints in the snow. Of course, the first logical place my mind jumped to was that I had fallen off one of the cliffs I had been peering over and my ghost was obliviously carrying on without my body. Oh god, my poor parents! How would they find my body?! I'm not actually joking when I say I felt my heart rate rising and genuine panic setting in. In a state of desperation, I jumped up and down on a patch of snow until it caved in. The relief was tangible. I was alive. I wasn't a ghost.
Snacking on potato and salt at the top of Glas Maol (practising with the food breaks here), I watched the heat haze over the ground a little further below whilst pulling my jacket tight around myself to keep the cold out. The heather seemed to be holding heat under my feet, yet the air was holding onto the sub-zero chill from the previous night, and so I'd been taking layers on and off more times than a stripper on back to back shifts the last couple of hours.
With Creag Leacach now in my sights, I couldn't help feeling giddy again - this Munro looks absolutely awesome as you approach - and I positively bounced down the side of Glas Maol. Perhaps not quite a scramble up to the summit, but it's certainly a lot more fun than a grassy plod!
Coming almost all the way back down, there was one last climb to be tackled up the Corbett, Monamenach. I'd just like to say I think this one should be reconsidered as a Munro for the sheer fact the path goes straight up to 807m over a ridiculously short distance - no meandering, no long, gradual climb, just straight up. It's like they were planning the fenceline and dared one of the lads with the crappy Chinese knock-off landrover to try to drive up in a straight line and if his knock-off could do it they'd make that the fenceline...then the b*****d went and managed it.
Not that I spent much time pondering the need for this to be quite such a harsh climb!
But despite the odd grumble at particularly uncalled for inclines - I had a lot of fun skirting about the hills this weekend and spent the last descent this morning considering how lucky I am. Perhaps it was the fresh air, the endorphins, the sunshine or the herd of deer that passed me atop Black Hill, but I found myself getting teary at how grateful I am for everything I have - namely my incredible parents who will go to the ends of the earth to support their daughter; even when she announces she's going to go wandering through the night, run around some cliffs, and sign up to wade through the Jungle next year. They taught me every skill I have when they made sure I realised I could change the way I think about anything - and at the end of the day, that's all ultra running is. It's being comfortable with being uncomfortable, and it's about having the ability to pull your mind from a really dark place to a really light one.
Signing out till next time, the very happy, slightly emotional runner (walker...whatever).
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