I stood on the Land Rover track out towards Loch Einich contemplating my second failed long run in seven days. The air temperature was barely above freezing and brought below by gusts of wind. Around me, the mountains that form the walls of Gleann Einich were barely snow covered on their tops but grazed with low clouds. At my feet, the fast waters of Beanaidh Bheag flowed too deep and too wide for me to safely cross alone. A line of rocks emerging from the water like a row of broken teeth looked viable. The large steps between them and the ice clinging to them weren’t a good sign. I was three kilometres away from where I’d intended to turn around at the northern shore of Loch Einich. Three kilometres away from my planned lunch spot, but only nine kilometres into a twenty-six-kilometre run. I’ll take risks, and the main consequences of crossing that river were likely discomfort, nothing worse. However, the knowledge that I’d have to cross the same river again on the way back made me decide against continuing. Another week, another failure.
The week before, Jen & I drove to Braemar, so she could buy bindings and have them fitted to a pair of Nordic-skis. We planned to make a full day of it with Jen hiking up and over Morrone, the village’s local Corbett while I executed my long run. I headed east up Creag Choinnich, a small hill beside the village, then out into the Balmoral estate with the intention of revisiting the longest climb on the Bristow 15 Mile course. I missed the path coming off the top of Creag Choinnich and found myself on rough ground trying to find a path down. I spent fifty minutes covering the first five kilometres of a planned twenty-five-kilometre run. Forty minutes later, after running along the estate’s rolling Land Rover tracks, with detours to avoid a herd of deer and forestry works, I was halfway into my time estimate for the run. I stood at the base of the race’s longest climb. Still, I had to turn around. I’d burned too much of my time budget on Creag Choinnich. Annoyed with myself, especially after more wanderings off route, I arrived back in Braemar with a slow, three hour half-marathon under my feet just as Jen reached the car.
I think of both outings as failures and personal attacks on my ego. I wanted to see the shore of Loich Einich. I wanted to climb that part of the race route. However, I also accept them as examples of good judgement when travelling alone in semi-wild places. In both instances, my route planning wasn’t good enough because I trusted the map too much. But I was still outside moving alone in the hills at my own pace, which is an experience I treasure. For me, depending on my starting mood, it’s either a form of meditation or disassociation. It mostly doesn’t matter where I’m going, only that I’m going somewhere.
This arrived today just before my lunch break and while deep in the trench of post weekend trip blues. Instead of writing, I spent my break skimming through it and admiring the photographs included. It’s a book to admire with proper lighting, so the colours can really pop off the page.
Monday afternoon. Overcast skies with rain all day. Mild temperatures for February. The constant disappointment of no snow. Three weeks ago, deep powered covered the city. I managed to spend several hours Nordic skiing around a nearby playing field and golf course. As it’s been such a disappointing winter, the wind and rain quickly returned. Running has been similarly wind blighted. I’m constantly in the wrong place for the right weather.
Released yesterday, this film by Jeff Pelletier documents his month long trip to England to recce and run the Bob Graham round of 42 Lakeland peaks in celebration of his forty-second birthday. I followed the training diaries from Jeff at the time he was in England and was anticipating this film. The film is as thoughtful as I expected and hoped. Personally, I’ve only visited the Lake District once and spent a few days exploring the fells with my father. I would one day like to return and get stuck into the national park, as it’s quite different in character from my nearest and dearest one.
Yesterday, I hooked up a decades old DVD player to my desk speakers because I’ve a collection of CDs that I’ve not listened to since moving up to Aberdeen. Also I’m getting fed up of relying on my phone or computer to listen to music. This CD arrived today. Sure, I already have a digital version and I’ve heard it a dozen times on streaming services, but there’s something so satisfying about unwrapping a CD, opening the case, and putting it in a machine that does one job well.
Most of his films start with the words “Hi, I’m Hainbach and it’s good to have you back.” I’m always happy to be back watching a new Hainbach film covering experimental & ambient music composition using old, rare, odd, and newly interesting machines. He’s a calming German whose videos I find soothing and inspiring.
Beyond enjoying his music in a number of different ways (to read to, to work to, but also for the sake of listening to), I watch his films because he exposes processes and shows the acts of experimentation and play, which is what I find fascinating about experimental music. This has a direct bearing on my own writing practice. I’m always constructing small formal experiments or speculative systems to compose within for my own amusement. This blog itself is one such experiment.
Sadly, I’m really not any sort of musician. I can barely program a drum machine and do not have the patience to assemble tape loops of collected field recordings into intricate soundscapes. I’ve tried to learn the piano, but gave up because the room we kept ours in was too cold in winter. I do not have the temperament to practice those skills, so by following Hainbach I can at least vicariously enjoy playing with the interesting equipment he collections.
Anyway, the point is to highlight Hainbach and not my own frustrated ambitions. If you are reading this and haven’t binged on his YouTube channel then I implore you to set aside a couple of hours to explore his works there.
Yesterday, for the second January in a row, I failed to reach the summit of Lochnagar. Made it to 1,100 meters. Fifty-five short of the summit. High winds, flying ice, whiteouts, and spindrift made googles and walking poles essential. My three companions often vanished during the intense a snow flurries. Somehow I wasn’t knocked over even though everyone else was. Several sudden gusts did send me running over precarious ground shouting expletives. Fortunately, that was before I put crampons on.
On the saddle between Meikle Pap and the ladder up to the plateau, we watched the crust of ice on the ground fracture beneath our feet before the wind delaminated it, sending the shards flying down the mountain side. I also saw the stupidest action in the hills that I’m ever likely to see.
I’m one for two on successfully ascending Lochnagar in January with the Cairngorm Club. Next year there’s always the possibility of a more comfortable day out and a tie on that record. It’ll still be there.
I’m changing into my running clothes after work. E’s watching and talking to me. It’s late November and my enthusiasm is flagging. It is past 7pm. Not enough time for a long run. In winter I wear leggings with a Salmon waist belt to store my phone and house keys. The phone is kept at the front in a zipped pocket that isn’t large enough but can be forced. My keys go in a clip at the back. For weeks when attaching and removing the keys I found a zip, but when inspecting the belt unworn never found it. That evening I find the hidden pocket. I pull it open, hold onto the zip, and ask E over to look. Am I mad? She calmly tells me that I am holding the zip for the pocket sewn into the bum of my tights. The one I never use. “Darling,” she says. “Those are your pants.” I am an idiot!
Aberdeen. 57.1499° N, 2.0938° W. Sunset: 15:25. Nine days until the winter solstice. This happens every year, but for the last two months I’ve been begging for the days to get longer. The weather has been consistently wet & windy, so my motivation to head out alone for even base effort training runs has been low to non-existent. I’ve even entertained the fantasy of temporarily moving to a desert (hot or cold) to escape the rain. However, more practically, as the working year is winding down, I’ve decided to move my weekday running to early afternoon. I can work later into the evening for the treat of having a view that’s more than just the blinking lights out at sea from the wind farm or ships leaving or entering the harbour. At this point of the year, anything that helps me get out to keep my time on feet per week high is good. That consistency matters because time spent running the roads of the city is rewarded tenfold with an easier time exploring the hills with plenty of energy left to think & dream. That’s my reward for facing the storms at night or circumventing them. Nine days left and it starts to get a little easier.
Here are two posts from Instagram about two days spent alone running in the mountains copy & pasted together with minimal edits. Since these days, I’ve been out into the hills running again. Solitary again, but for a longer and more training focused effort, which had outstanding views of the main bulk of the Cairngorms and a lot less petty introspection. That day that reminded me that you can only see the grandeur of a landscape at a distance and never while embedded within it. On the two days below I was on the big hills.
Sunday, November 12th, 2023. Running alone in the mountains is always an act of escapism, even if the consequences of cold or falls can be extremely real. The three Cairnwell Munros are a short run. Two of the hills are spoiled by the scabs of industry, while Càrn a’ Ghèoidh, while surrounded in cloud, was enjoyably crunchy underfoot. I started the morning utterly depressed visiting the top of Càrn Aosda via the ski slope path, but as I ventured out past lochs and lochens into the thin ice, I started to enjoy the landscape and genuinely wish I could shared moments of the experience more immediately However, at the top of The Cairnwell the industrial nature of these hills is brutally evident. Even with the escapism offered by visiting Càrn a’ Ghèoidh or chasing the three cairns towards Carn nan Sac, why would one want to inflict the dystopia of generators and communications towers on anyone?
Sunday, November 26th, 2023. Glenshee, again. For me, four Munros in four hours is a good ratio of time to hill tops. Although I’m not a bagger and have no real idea of how many hills and mountain tops, I’ve had the good fortune to briefly visit, I do enjoy a certain degree of unencumbered efficiency on days travelling alone with only my thoughts as company. The quickened pace focuses my attention.
Parked at Glenshee ski centre car park again. The 2km along the road to the Glas Moel circuit’s Walk Highland start was a good running warm up after driving. Visited Càrn an Tuirc via a ruined hut after following a path rarely taken by humans. Only hare and grouse footprints in the snow. Joined the Mounth road towards Glas Moel and crossed the top of Cairn of Claise.
At Glas Moel, at their request, I took a photograph of a family of four by the dry-stone summit shelter. They asked I was in a hurry. I told them that I wasn’t really. After drinking a mouthful of water and admiring the views described by a Canadian friend as desolate, I ran on. In the fast descent I considered that all we have, do, and know is as ephemeral as the snow and ice clinging to the grass on a mountain itself melting away in geological time. The precise chain of thoughts wasn’t quite that, but the summery will do.
Had a bit of a pickle on the track beneath Glas Moel coming back from Creag Leacach. Some ice. Only a small delay and less annoying than the gravel roads at the ski resort that took a chunk of flesh out of my arm. I finished outside the main café at 21.something km, I had a sense that the day had been spent running both away from something and towards something, but neither as articulable destinations or abstract concepts.
On Thursday, my socialist space friends shared thanks with each other on the Discord we inhabit. This was an organic and unplanned act. I do not recall this happening in previous years. Most of what was said was heartfelt and honest. One person was sarcastic, yet funny. It was all very wholesome.
I wrote that I was thankful for the guys and the community. I shared that this year (as with most others) has felt low key shitty with a lot of work-related anxiety and my own thoughts causing me a lot of stupid and distracting angst. I ended by opining that the community has been a solid rock for me.
When this post is published, I’m likely to be running the Glas Moel Munros alone in winter conditions. As I write this, I think that will be my last trip of this nature for the year because I don’t want to be the subject of a breathlessly written article in the local paper due to misfortune befalling me in the hills. I’ve made weak & unconvincing attempts to tempt folk into joining me on these trips, but failed.
So now is a good time to acknowledge my gratitude for the time I’ve spent in the hills so light & free this year. Both unencumbered by stuff and by ordinary concerns. From my days in June kissing heat exhaustion and dehydration to the three great runs of autumn, I’ve never felt so close to peace as those hours on feet. I’m even fond of the memories of the minor run up Clachnaben one sunset. A trip that occurred on an evening of extreme emotional whiplash. A night that shifted from a selfish sublime to substantial concern. I’m even thankful for the abject failure I experienced at the Illuminator race this year. It tested my repeated assertion that I want to experience everything as much as possible unmediated & unfiltered.
While the year has been another one of stasis there have been glimpses and brief encounters with the intensity of feeling that I’m seeking.
This was an almost perfect weekend for me. The only changes to make it closer to perfection would either cause a paradox or alter timbre such that the original experience would disappear.
Friday 3rd.
I made a mistake on Friday. I’d signed up to run one of the Metro Aberdeen Proms 3km races on the day I intended to travel to Muir. (I’ve entered the entire six-month series as something to do over winter). The race started at one. I finished work at twelve thirty after a long morning call. The rain that’d fallen the previous week stopped for forty minutes. I towed the line in the middle of the pack next to a boiling sea. Ran out with a tailwind. Ran back into the headwind. I executed the race well. Even splits. Not a fast time, maybe a respectable one, and possibly serious. Ten seconds slower than less month. Still under twelve minutes. Didn’t feel like dying until the start of the final kilometre. This washed away some of the stain of the Illuminator failure the week before and gave me some hope that my winter project is feasible.
I got caught in the rain walking back from the beach. After eating lunch and packing clothes, I left for Muir, holding onto the previous day’s hope of a short hill run in the dark when I arrived. That didn’t happen. I passed through Braemar about six thirty and started to feel the lunchtime race catch up with me. Once I passed the cottage threshold and entered the warm living room, any thoughts of heading back into the night stopped. I wanted my first beer in two weeks.
Saturday 4th.
An early morning for me after a poor night’s sleep that was barely warm enough. I spent several hours prowling around the kitchen eating porridge and drinking coffee like a ginger tom cat stretching in the morning light. I eventually left Muir at nine twenty and ran towards Derry Lodge with an overburdened backpack. There really was no need to carry an ice axe or microspikes except my ego, and maybe getting used to the burden for later in the season. It took me about forty minutes to get to the lodge despite stopping to photograph the autumn leaves. Not as fast as cycling, but faster than a brisk walk. Photogenic stray clouds floated over the autumn glen.
As I climbed out of the tree line and into weak cell phone signal, I sent J. a message saying I was on Derry Cairngorm. I responded to another message, bragging that I was “very (runner’s) high on Derry Cairngorm.” While it’s true that I felt ecstatic from the heady combination of running and hiking mixed with a Blood Ceremony playlist in my headphones, in hindsight I was showing off. Good vibrations got the better of me there.
That high persisted throughout the ascent. Running alone in the hills is an exercise in observation and daydreaming. I watched the clouds drift below me over the Linn of Dee in the distance and, ahead of me, the summit of the mountain was hidden. As I moved along the rolling spine of the mountain, I unwittingly stalked a solitary figure uphill. Like me they were small in the vast playground of ancient granite. At the top I stopped to snack. No view. None expected. The figure that I’d chased up seemed to be lingering. The runner’s high started to mellow as my fingertips grew cold.
I chased the faint path down taking the steeper fork. An awkward, but enjoyable down climb then a quick stop within the narrow band of phone signal to check for messages. I sent a message of hope, then informed J. I was descending. Back at Derry Lodge I started to feel the lack of food and water. Still, I jogged on. Only seven kilometres to go from there. Not worth stopping. The playlist repeated itself. The ecstasy ebbed and flowed with my daydreams and accumulating aches until the road at Linn of Dee. The dreamy light from the morning had turned harsh.
I wasn’t the last to leave Muir Cottage that morning, but I was the first to arrive back. I’d been gone for four and a half hours and covered 25km. 930 meters climbed. A proper half day’s effort. A day that restored some confidence. I inexpertly built a fire and prepared the hot water for a needed shower. While sitting on a dining chair parked in front of the stove, I considered moving to one of the sofas, stretching out to take a cat nap infused with the end of the high. Alas, the first of the returning hikers arrived before the daydreams could become dreams.
Sunday 6th. Glen Ey.
I woke up early again after another night turning from painful hip to painful hip. After slowly eating a breakfast of carbs and two coffees, I felt vaguely human. I pulled mercifully dry run clothes and my Brooks trainers from the drying room and left Muir with R. just after nine. We ran out into another crisp, bright morning towards Inverey. I commented with some disappointment on the lack of crunch on the damp leaves piled on the side of the road.
The day’s destination was the ruined Altanour Lodge, roughly 8km down a rolling Land Rover track from Inverey that followed Glen Ey. My two practical concerns for the outing were to not cook myself much further after the previous two days, but mostly to let R. dictate the pace. My hope was that it’d settle into a sociable one. After the first small hill, which she trotted up while I walked with long strides, I struck up a conversation about Nan Shepard’s first novel The Quarry Wood, as I’d spent the evening wondering how she’d been influenced by contemporary writers of the time. We stopped to take photographs of snow-capped hills behind us. The glen around us was hues of rusty pumpkin.
At the first bridge, I stopped for a mouthful of water and removed my sweaty wind shell. At the first ford, we both jumped over the water, but at the second I gave up and waded through. R. followed. Sometimes wet feet are happy feet. We reached Altanour and I was indulged in a wander looking at mushrooms and woods while searching for a footbridge I half remembered. We returned via the same track and fords. Apparently, the water was colder the second time. More conversational running. I recommended a novel, a feminist mystery set on the Polish/Czech border and strongly centred on themes of ecological justice called “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead.” Janina Duszejko, the novel’s protagonist, would approve of my foul use of grouse butts. In doing so I started to butcher the pronunciation of Olga Tokarczuk’s surname, so gave up. I probably misremembered the novel’s name as well. I tried to listen more than talk and ask questions more than make statements, so it’s a sign of how tired I was that I slipped into recommending books.
Nearing The Colonel’s Bed gorge, I threw R. a Milky Way bar that’d been stashed in my pack’s front pocket while I ate one of the strawberry yogurt gels that have fuelled my summer season. We missed the comically small signpost and had to double back eight hundred meters. Neither of us knew the story about the gorge’s name. Not long after we reached the road again and decided to press on to Linn of Dee for extra kilometres. We stopped at 24.5km after three hours. While sitting outside Muir eating lunch with a mug of weak tea, and while the birds (including a rather fetching woodpecker) ate from the feeders, I contemplated that I felt far better at Linn of Dee than when I left Muir. I’d like to have thought that I had another two hours of time on feet, but sadly it was time to head back through Braemar to the everyday.
E & I are in the bedroom. I’m still underneath the bed covers drinking a lukewarm mug of tea and looking at my phone. E is wrapped in her silk dressing gown getting ready for the day ahead with far more urgency than I ever have on a workday. We always had different priorities. “What do you look at in the morning?” she asks me. I tell her that, for all my sins, I read the front page of the Guardian to see how much more fucked up the world is today and then I browse social media apps. The only ones on my phone are Strava and Instagram. Most of that time is spent on Instagram. “But you don’t post on there. What do you get from it?” I launch the app and hit the search button. The screen fills with a grid of young, pretty women almost all exclusively outside and dressed in climbing or hiking or cycling or swimming costumes. The algorithm knows me. I hand E my phone. “I understand now,” E says. She throws my phone onto the bed, then unties her dressing gown’s belt. “It’s such a shame that I want to spend all of my time indoors, isn’t it?”
Adapted from various notes. There’s a longer piece that’s less skeletal, but I’ve been sidetracked, so this is a version that collages a few sources and was published elsewhere.
22nd September. I left Aberdeen late morning and headed to Mallaig via Aviemore for a required pie & coffee. Drove listening to Jess and the Ancient Ones themed playlist. Not having driven cross country in Scotland, I followed Google Maps which thought it’d be amusing to go via the A9 before hitting a single-track road for four miles to reach the road one should take. That was confusing. If it wasn’t for the views and passing a stone marked “the centre of Scotland” I’d have been more angry than bemused. I met most people in Mallaig, which involved standing around the harbour trying to guess who was and who wasn’t a Cairngorm Club member until Jamie arrived. The crossing on the ferry was brisk. Slightly choppy. Arrived at the bunkhouse just before dark.
23rd September. To sum up the Saturday, I’ve heard it often said by pilots that ‘Any landing you can walk away from is a good one.’ That seems apt because my intended plan for the day involved a crash landing of sorts. I’d hoped to run/hike up Sgùrr Coire Choinnichean, a Corbett that rises 796 meters above the small village of Inverie then run along a nearby loch before heading back through Inverie to look at a waterfall I’d had pointed out to me on the map before returning to the bunkhouse for a roughly twenty-mile outing. Basically, a nice autumn cruise around Knoydart.
I reached the top of Sgùrr Coire Choinnichean in an hour forty-five (ish) and really enjoyed the mild autumn weather along with the feeling of moving along a narrow ridge. I had wet feet from the previous weeks heavy rain saturating the ground. A fun climb. An airy ridge to purposely move along. However, while the descent initially starts with more of the same excellent ridge walking/running to reach the bottom of the mountain one either needs to return the way ascended or go down the steep & tussocky south side. This was slow and frustrating ground to descend on that was covered in the remains of summer bracken and hidden burns cut deep into the peat. Absolutely awful terrain to spend time on in trail running shoes.
Annoyingly, whatever luck I’ve ran with this summer ran out as I approached the loch. While daydreaming I fell into one hidden burn too many. Postholed my left leg down to my thigh. My foot hit a sharp rock at the bottom. Trail running shoes don’t provide much rock protection and the immediate pain was awful, but I could still wiggle my toes and put some weight on the foot. After limping off the mountain, I made it back to the bunkhouse before anyone else arrived. Weirdly, managed to outpace Naismith’s Rule despite the injury. A small consolation.
A good meal in The Old Forge pub that evening. Made the same decision to leave on the Sunday due to the advancing bad weather and my inability to run.
24th September. In the morning, my foot was half bruised yellow and green, but it hadn’t swollen. Indeed, any landing you can walk away from is a good one, even if it’s painful and wincing. Tried my luck at catching the first ferry back then drove back via Aviemore for another pie and coffee. Foot not too painful while driving, although the decision to wear lighter shoes helped massively. Probably listened to the same music to drive through the rain. I got stuck behind a lot of camper vans, but didn’t have to be anywhere, so relaxed. Back home by late afternoon. Spent the rest of the day not unpacking but watching various YouTube channels like Jeff Pelletier’s, which prompted a comment from my partner along the lines of, ‘you nearly broke your foot on the side of a mountain but are still watching running content. What’s wrong with you?’
I have no good answer. Self-medicated with Redbreast Whiskey and a roast dinner.
Afterwards. However, in the immediate week after Knoydart I logged 66km of running, including two back-to-back Half Marathons. My recollection of that week was ‘uncomfortable, but still moving.’
The foot has mostly healed. The outside edge still stings if I’m running over rocks for too long and that was made worse by acquiring a blister on the arch of my foot, which wasn’t a fun sensation to discover while exploring the Illuminator course.
A rare not running post. After some predicable annoyance with Evri and my parcel taping a crude house number to the front gate, my copy of the new Lydia Davis collection arrived today. She’s a writer whose work in fiction, non-fiction, and translation I rate highly. Volume one of her essay collection is sat on the desk beside me as a constant source of inspiration and encouragement whenever I am stuck. (Which is often.)
Her stance on and fears about monopolistic bookselling are correct.
Last week I ran 51km. Not enough really, but the race on Friday killed me and the weather over the weekend was off putting.
Tuesday
The plan of running 1km intervals by the beach was abandoned when my parents called just before sunset, so I settled for running at an angry pace the 10km test loop I have near my house. I started too fast and after the first 3km I spent an undignified amount of time coughing and spitting onto the grass verge before continuing at a less bold pace up to the loop’s highest point. Enjoyed listening to Om’s Variation on a Theme, but even though this was the fastest I’ve covered this course I’d slightly hoped that I’d be faster and better.
Friday
A 3km race at the beach on an unseasonably warm day with the only blue skies seen all week. I died after the first mile, while setting a personal best, and only just managed to wave at the guys at Cairn Coffee before turning onto the lower esplanade, where the usual suffering thoughts of move and fuck I rely on vanished into a focused stare at the red painted fish & chip van near the finish line. After, once I’d crossed the finish line, there was a lot of dry heaving and it took me at least five minutes to utter a coherent sentence saying, ‘I’m happy with that.’
Sunday
The second day of constant rain and the second day of feeling as if I’d outran my soul wasn’t a day where I anticipated going far, but I still made it out. A 17km loop around Aberdeen with an early stop at Cairn Coffee, as a sweetener, and then, after turning inland via Union Street and Rosemount, the decision was made at 10km to least reach the ten-mile mark and a decent hill before giving up. The result of going out on just a pain au chocolat and a coffee in that shitty weather was undoubtedly a strengthening of my resolve and ability to suffer, but only after stubbornly draining my short-term capacity to tough it out alone, which, so close to the end of the month race, is not a resource I want diminished.
One of those weeks where I mostly don’t really know why apart from when I’ve caught small glimpses of why.
Last night I added the email subscription widget to the sidebar. I’m reluctant to start a Substack or use another mailing list to publish what I write, because I don’t need more services in my life. If you enjoy what you read, please take this as opportunity to get my occasional trip reports and short essays delivered to your inbox.
Honestly, I’ll only ever post infrequently because I’m lazy and would rather be outside. However, if I suddenly become industrious and prolific here then I will write a more traditional newsletter or adopt the formal structures of one.
Writing on this blog is a relatively lonely process. I spend minutes to hours thinking & writing about a topic only for my effort to receive little to no feedback. That’s fine. Honestly, it is. I write here to remember and process, but I’m also social creature. And I am also motivated by behaviourist games such as seeing numbers go up because of my actions.
So, as all the YouTubers say, please like & subscribe.
COMING SOON: Two professional skiers, two new mothers, one sponsorship. A quirky documentary style film capturing the highs and lows of two women determined to succeed with side-splitting, hilarious moments.
Starring: Elyse Saugstad, Jackie Paaso, Cody Townsend, Reine Barkered, Leanne Pelosi, Indiana Townsend & Tor Paaso. A film written, directed, filmed and edited by: Adam Gendle, John Verity & Hersha Patel
Looks fun. Excited for the the early winter season of new ski films.
I went out at lunch yesterday to attempt a threshold run at the beach. Absolutely fucked it! The excuses: thirty kph head and crosswinds, being a night runner, leaving the pub at 11pm the night before, and being shit.
My Garmin said that I’d put in a 50% effort. An average execution.
Honestly, it was a humbling experience that again reminded me that if I’m to continue running at the pace I ran at for the Aberdeen Metro 10k back in June then I need to continue doing the work.
A thought occurred to me during the warmup yesterday that I always listen to the same album when I attempt the uncomfortable efforts. It’s the same one that I always listen to when flying down to Birmingham or on short haul flights. I don’t know why there’s that commonality. I’m not afraid of flying.
It must be just an annoying coincidence, but last year as I approached the point where I’d ran 1000 miles in the calendar year I got sick. Now this week, as I reach the edge of meeting that goal, I’m sick again. Next week I’ll feel less shitty.
Saturday July 29th. I left Muir Cottage towards Linn of Dee at 11:40 after a mug of tea and two coffees to cure my hangover. Just past Linn of Dee, heading towards White Bridge, Jen caught up with me on her borrowed mountain bike, so I stopped running. We walked together until the bridge. After parting ways, she went to the Red House Bothy for her explorations, while I ran/jogged/walked along the boggy Glen Dee towards Corrour Bothy then up to The Devil’s Point. Overcast sky all day. Lightly rained on the summit of The Devil’s Point. Enjoyed my traditional hill food of a sausage role and sweets eaten in a bothy before I returned by running back along Glen Lui towards Muir Cottage. Near the Linn of Dee car park, a father stopped me to ask if I’d passed his son who’d been walking from Aviemore through to Linn of Dee, but I had no way of knowing. In total I covered 36.21km of ground in 6 hours 6 minutes and 44 seconds. 927 meters of ascent.
This was quiet day mostly alone celebrating a recent birthday. The kind of run that I don’t know who else would want to join me for, so I listened to music and nature. This was a route I’d planned to run back in April before the Balmoral fifteen-mile race as a possible last major long run, but, due to late snows and wanting to be social that Sunday, didn’t. Instead, the trip was slotted into my vague training for the Mount Marathon as one of two very long runs. It felt good. My legs were fine all day to the point that I picked up speed at the end as the single track ended and I reached land rover tracks. Returned to the cottage tired, but not physically or psychologically broken. The best way to explore Nan Shepherd’s land.
I’m planning a long run in the mountains. It’ll happen in a few days. I intend to travel further on foot in a single day than I’ve ever travelled before. The minimum distance for the day will be comfortably well over 30km, and that’s to visit only one summit. Not much in the southern Cairngorms worth visiting is close to the road. For the last few weeks, I’ve played with mapping software to plot out various routes. Nothing involved camping. The longest of the days I dreamed of is ~50km with at least 2000m of elevation gained and lost. That takes in four Munro summits plus a few smaller mountain tops. At this point, it’s a bit much for me as a solo outing. The other options involve one Munro up to three and come in at a more reasonable 35 km to 41km. Although if I got that far I’d run around a car park to make up the distance to a marathon.
But with all this planning and dreaming comes a need to temper my expectations. Like, I’m comfortable being out alone on long days, but not at marathon or ultramarathon distances. It’s not the wisest idea to go big or go home here. Not yet. Anyway, for the four Munro enchainment, assuming it was going to be a one day sufferfest, I’d rather share the pains and the joys. I can only put up with myself bitching and moaning for so long before I need company that’s stoked about the views or also complaining.
I’m writing this to remind myself to under promise to myself. I want a day out listening to White Hills and Blood Ceremony that feels grand. I don’t want to feel shitty 21km in and annoyed that I need to turn around. I don’t need to do everything in one literal marathon. The point of the day is to enjoy the process of making 35km days the new 25km days. I don’t care about visiting new Munros, only spending more time on feet in interesting places.
I’m not going to complain about or downplay how the Metro 10K race went for me. My comments after the Barstow 15 Mile race did reflect my feelings then, but were off-putting, representing a colder and more callous version of myself that no one needs to see. Besides, I am genuinely happy with how the beach race went because couldn’t have run faster and still been able to walk home from the beach.
For the first third of the race, I bought myself up to the pace I’d practiced for the month prior. Around the halfway mark, it started to hurt in weird and unpleasant places. By the eighth kilometre, the warning light on the fuel tank was on and my thoughts, which had been “move” and “fuck” for most of the distance, evaporated into a singular focus on reaching the approaching finishing line.
Last year, in June, I accidentally set an unofficial personal best of 53:47 and last month I finally went just under fifty minutes in another session which was “just training.” That Friday evening in early June, my chip time was 44:12. I think that’s respectable.
The Shelter Stone 