Glen Lyon is a tough day out. Endless miles of twisting and turning undulating dirt tracks, the sun blazing down, only sheep and the odd rabbit for company, praying you’ve taken on enough nutrition and fluids, your body dripping in sweat, muscles aching, longing for the end to come…. and that’s just the drive to get there.
Yes, Glen Lyon is a tough day out.
It is remote. If you key in the start line co-ordinates into the “What 3 Words” app, the three words generated are ‘Where. The. F**k”
I had stayed the Friday night in the comparative metropolis of Aberfeldy and set off from the hotel at 7am for the 1hr 15-minute drive to the start line. A distance that’s approximately 25 miles as the crow flies. Google Maps took me 15 miles down a windy road, advising I go straight on at Narnia until I reach the Back Arse of Nowhere… from where I had to take a right turn and go another 15 miles down a single-track road so narrow and isolated it makes the last one seem like the M25. Absolutely stunning though – even thought I caught a glimpse of the Clown & The Wolfman riding by at one point.
Following the arduous drive, I arrive at the race meeting point next to the dam at the top of Loch Lyon at around 8:15am. “Dam” would feature heavily in my day. I would start the race at the dam, I would reach halfway at the dam, I would finish at the dam. And all the miles in between I would be muttering “this damn race”.
Having registered, pinned on my race number, and completed my rigorous pre-race stretching routine (two half hearted lunges whilst trying to get a reception to check in on Facebook) I still had an hour to kill before the get go. It’s been a while since last being involved in an actual race so I relished the opportunity to take in all the wonderful pre-ultra-sights… from the runners applying so much Kinesio tape to their bodies you fear that one vigorous sneeze will cause them to explode, to the middle aged blokes unashamedly liberally applying Vaseline to where the sun doesn’t shine in a rigorous and quite frankly intimidating manner, to (my personal favourite), the cautionary “once bitten twice shy” runners who stand for 10 minutes in the queue for the port-a-loo, only to come out of the toilet and go straight back to join the same queue again.
Yes, it was good to be back in the ultra-running racing community.
The weather forecast had been favourable. Slight breeze, middling temperatures and cloudy with sunny outbreaks. Perfect. Unfortunately, the weather hadn’t listened to the weather forecast. The slight breeze had been downgraded to no breeze, the middling temperatures were on the increase and the clouds were drifting apart to reveal the bluest of blue skies. Ominous. A liberal application of sun cream later and I was at the start line. Covid rules dictated that all runners should wear masks at the start and finish and on approaching each checkpoint / water station. This resulted in me resembling a sweaty Dick Turpin in all race day photos.
The Glen Lyon Ultra is 31.75 miles with 4395 feet of climbing.
I had mistakenly thought it was “only” 31 miles and was somewhat miffed to only discover the actual 31.75-mile distance when my watch beeped for 31 miles, and I could still only just make out the damned dam in the distance. At this point, I would like to apologise to any sheep that may have been offended by my language.
Anyway, back to the start; the run is split into two sections; an initial 16-mile loop of Loch Lyon finishing back at the dam followed by the second half, which starts with a (ahem) steep climb up and over the hill and down into Glen Lochay, looping round the valley floor there, before climbing the same hill again to drop back into Glen Lyon and the finishing line.
When the starting hooter sounded there was a brief walk / run to climb up to the loch side from where I fell into what I thought was a reasonable pace and set off on the first half of the race, making sure to follow the RD’s instructions of always “keeping the Loch on your left-hand side or you’ll end up in Tyndrum”. The stony, dusty track was unforgiving on your feet but fortunately there were several river crossings that gave the welcome opportunity to cool your feet and soak you cap and buff in the crystal-clear water (thanks for the top tip Jim). The sun was really beating down at this point and on reflection (and given the number of runners that passed me on the second half) I was going too fast for the conditions.
I reached half-way in about 2 and a half hours. My customary “gag” to the marshal at the checkpoint of “am I still in first place?” was met with a rather blunt “naw, your about 40th”. Oh, well maybe some humour was lost in translation due to the facemask situation. Anyway, I drained my small bottle of flat coke and ate some salted cashews before saying a silent prayer for the loss of the macaroon bar I had been dreaming of since mile 8. Unfortunately, like me it hadn’t coped with midday sun and now resembled something you would see dog owners casually swing in their hand as they stroll through Calderglen. Anyway, I slung it in my bag and set off on the second half of the run – rather cruelly I thought, having to run past my car…
The second half is brutal. Even if you had not just run 16 miles in the heat, the second half would be a tough shift. The first two-ish miles out of the checkpoint are a very steep climb which I just had to accept I was not going to be able to run up. On reaching the summit I managed to start to run again but only in short bursts as I was really beginning to struggle both physically and mentally. It was around this point that I decided that my often thought about running ambition of doing the full 96-mile West Highland Way race may well be beyond me.
After taking on some water at the next water station at around the 19–20-mile mark, I carried on with my walk run strategy round the side of the hill – with the emphasis primarily being on the former. The path in front of me just seemed endless and although I could see some runners way below on the valley floor, I could not see how far I had to go to get down there. My phone briefly buzzed into life as I began to pick up a signal and although the good luck texts that came through were welcome given how I was feeling they didn’t lift my spirits (or legs) sufficiently to power on and pick up the pace. I decided to sit down on a rock, question my life choices and try to salvage some of that macaroon bar. It was whilst sitting on that rock that I decided that ever running another ultra-marathon again may well be beyond me.
That melted macaroon bar though! Although it was incredibly messy, it was superb. I must have looked quite the sight to the female runner that passed me at that rock with my face and hands covered in the brown sticky mess of the macaroon. The look of relief on her face when I declined her kind offer of assistance was something to behold. Lord knows what she thought she had just stumbled across. Suitably fuelled I powered on and was delighted to eventually reach the sharp drop down to the valley floor, even managing to overtake a couple of runners on the way down – including the same runner who had offered assistance. She must have been impressed that the chap she had thought had shat himself not ten minutes previously was now offering her a cheery “hello” whilst motoring on down the road.
Miles 24 to 27 rolled by ever so slowly though, with the post macaroon high slowly fading and me falling back into a walk run strategy. Upon reaching mile 27 I clocked that some wag had spray painted “Wee Hill Ahead” on the path and I finally had to confront the fear that I had been subconsciously trying to block out since mile 20 ish. To get to the finish line, the huge hill that I’d climbed coming out of after halfway was indeed to be tackled again, although on coming at it from this side it wasn’t in stages, it was a straight full-on climb from the valley floor.
There was no way I was running it, so I started the long slow march upwards – even walking it though was tough and my legs were really letting me know in no uncertain terms that they were, quite honestly, not very happy with the current situation. It was in the early stages of this climb up the hill that I decided that running another Parkrun ever again, may well be beyond me.
About a third of the way up and after about the 5th stop to (ahem) “take in the beautiful view” I had a brainwave. As my quads were burning so much and there’s nobody about to witness this, why don’t I turn around and walk backwards up this hill for a bit? So, I did. For about a hundred yards I walked backwards up the hill. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I repeatedly had to tell myself that the sheep are merely baa-ing and not in fact laughing. It was bliss, albeit short lived as the next water station soon came into view. After passing through with only a cursory grunt and pick up of a water bottle I carried on my walk until reaching the crest of the hill at just over mile 29. I managed to start a slow run again although it did feel like snipers were taking pot shots at my hamstrings. Miles 30 and 31 came and went and I am still going down this hill without reaching the bottom. Ok, so they lied it’s not 31 miles, it’s 31 and a “good bit” miles – I just had to accept it at this point, never the less, the damned dam was tantalisingly close now.
I got to the bottom of the hill in one piece (just about) and with a final little walk/run up the short incline I then picked up the pace to jog the last 400 metres down to the finishing line - weaving in and out of the smug ba5tards fantastic runners who had clearly finished long before me and were now driving home. I donned the facemask for a final time and powered home to the rapturous applause of the handful of saintly volunteers who allow these events to happen.
6 hours 4 minutes (or 5 hours 64) was my finish time – a bit slower than I had perhaps naively expected but then again taking the warm weather and ridiculousness of the hills involved, perhaps it wasn’t too bad. The top end finishers had completed the race in sub-four hours, proof, yet again if proof needed, that aliens live among us.
With ultra-marathon number 6 now done, I quickly reverted to tradition of stating that the most recent one was “the hardest I have ever ran”. Maybe, this time that is true though. However, I do find ultra-marathons are a lot like giving birth (bear with me ladies), in the immediate aftermath of the pain and the trauma you swear ‘never again’ but a few months later, and after a few drinks, you suddenly find yourself counting down to a new ‘due-date’ on the calendar. I just need to do a wee bit on-line research to hunt down the perfect non-melting macaroon bar before the next one.
Graeme
