Hogarth Hits The Highlands.

What happens when you prepare for months, training in the dark arts of running with a survival bag, cycling across mountains and kayaking across lochs? The Rat Race Coast To Coast event is designed to run from anywhere between 9 and 13 hours is not for the faint hearted. Luckily we were doing an event that was well organised so nothing could go wrong.

The long weekend in the Scottish Highlands was upon us as a flight north to Inverness revealed there is not much to see in Nairn. Elgin and its whiskey festival that Sunday on the other hand… Hold on, where was I? Ah yes, the race. A day of trail running in the beautiful mountains, road cycling, mountain biking and kayaking. I’m just glad I spent months training for this including on a “relaxing” holiday in Italy the week previous. Running through the picturesque sights of Lakes Como and Garda as well as the streets of Venice, with a backpack full of survival kit and a fashionable bladder to sip water from, somehow did not make me new friends. Judgey looks aside, it was all going to be worth it when that finish line was crossed.

I was not to tackle this alone. I had planned the Scottish adventure with two fellow Hogarth stalwarts, Dan and Adam. We even made a Whatsapp group. There is no “I” in this team. But there is an M and an E and it was me that was left behind by my “friends” during the first cycling stage, the 48 mile road cycle. Now the race was due to start at 6:45am with a flatish 7 mile trail run but it was 15 minutes late kicking off, but that’s ok as it is still plenty of time to make all the checkpoints in time. I got on my bike, which in fact is not mine but hired like many others on the day, and cycled off into a headwind which seemed to take exception to the race and my face. Gears would be useful in such conditions. My bike politely disagreed and only a couple of miles into that ride refused to get into top gear any more. I was to channel the spirit of Senna at the 1991 Brazilian Grand Prix, when he won despite a broken gearbox. By win I mean finish this dastardly thing. And just under 4 hours later I had completed this stage. A burst of kayaking in Loch Ness was next and though we did not see her, Nessie the monster felt there in spirit, probably in charge of organising the event.

Next up was the part mountain, part road bike stage of 34.5 miles. My trusty bike and I set off knowing that while we were behind schedule our steady pace would be more than enough to see us through. That was until a mile into this route when my derailleur finally decided to snap leaving me and my survival bag pointless. Realising my own limitations and inability to heal steel, I pushed the bike back to the transition area, where some of the mechanics from the hire company were there to mend this catastrophe on wheels. After attempting to redeem this dead bike for a bit, one of the cheery mechanics offered me a “new and better bike”. Why they didn’t issue me with this bike at the start was not exactly a comforting mystery. Neither were their words at a later date “We hired out 250 bikes, yours was the only faulty one.” Not exactly award winning when it comes to making you feel better is it. In total the bike episode added around an hour to my time. But at least I was still in with a shot of making the final cut off point of 4pm at Fort William.

I checked our Whatsapp group. No word from the two breakaway leaders. They were probably busy miles down the road, feeding each other energy gels and protein bars. Luckily my composure was still with me and I embarked on this latest cycle. Word of warning to anyone planning a course, make sure all the signs are out marking the route properly. The last thing you’d want is for there to not be any arrows for a left turn and all the competitors to carry on going straight until reaching a dead end and a local telling us all that it was the wrong direction. Another joyful 20 minutes added to proceedings.

All one can do is smile and continue en route, get to the final cut off point at the foot of Ben Nevis and be met by the reasonable, understanding people at Rat Race. After all that training,  all the expense and toiling for over 9 hours that day alone arriving at 4:10 and just a fraction past the last cut off point was brewing a teeny weeny sense of frustration. My race was about to go from Coast to Toast. I could at least rely on the kindness and empathy of Rat Race staff.

Or they could gleefully hide behind Mountain Rescue, not let anyone continue and not come within a mile of apologising for causing their participants to lose valuable time through their inadequate marshalling. There were many others who were cost valuable time to just miss the cut off, and although it was nice to be part of some sort of team again our unified protestations were met with a combative rejection. As you can tell I am completely over this and have not lost any perspective. I proceeded to sink into a despair of Haribos and sipped water from my survival bag, which in the end I did not get to use for its designated purpose.

On the plus side, we were bussed to the finish line, which meant I overtook Dan and Adam. I waited to greet their shocked faces at the chequered flag. There was nothing to separate them. Apart from a crow bar. Anyway did I mention we went to a whisky festival the next day? I can’t remember what happened there but I’m told it was very good.