Race Report: Dumyat Hill Race 2016

Dave: Utterly delighted to share the following race report from our Clackmannanshire correspondent and resident mountain-stomper Kat Welch, as she builds up to her first marathon later this year.

Kat: This year was my second Dumyat Hill Race, although about my eighth trot up the hill since the clocks changed and gave us lighter evenings. I’m ridiculously lucky to have Dumyat as essentially the back garden to my office, and as it’s on my way home I quite often head up there after work. The top of Dumyat is probably my favourite place in the whole world – incredible views, often quite crazy weather, and an amazing feeling of accomplishment having dragged yourself up there on your own two feet. I’d happily head up there every day.

Crikey though, racing it’s a different kettle of fish. I started training with my local running club at the beginning of the year, and Dumyat was only my second experience of a race where the Wee County Harriers have been out in force. It’s the friendliest and most welcoming club imaginable, but it’s definitely a different experience racing as a member of a club. There’s none of the pre-race hanging around on your own, lots more chat about routes and strategy and times, and a distinct internal monologue of ‘I’m wearing a club top, it’s going to look really crap if I’m last’. 

The race had totally sold out, with 400 runners (and a queue for on-the-day entries which disappeared within seconds) and slightly fancier chip timing than last year. We crowded into the starting pen, waved at a drone which was filming us from overhead, waited impatiently through the totally unintelligible race briefing, then were off. There’s a pretty short but steep hill that stops anyone getting too excited from the start line, a bit of a queue to get through a very narrow gap in a wall, then half a mile or so of flat trails, before crossing a river and getting into the race proper. After that, it’s pretty relentlessly uphill for the next half hour or so, which I tackled with a mixture of a) walk-run intervals and b) staggering upwards with my hands on my knees, staring at the ground and trying not to be sick on my shoes.

The club vest proved a massive advantage once we got onto the more open ground for the second half of the climb – loads of the club had turned out to support and many more people shouted ‘C’mon the Wee County’ as I passed, encouraging me to lope back into a reluctant jog – at least until I was round the next corner. It was an incredible sunny evening, and I tried to grab a couple of seconds to admire the view on the way up, especially the sight of hundreds of runners snaking out above me to the summit cairn. There was a rowdy crowd of marshals and runners gathered at the top, cheering and whooping as I rounded the cairn, then it was off for the return leg – a real mix of trails, slippery gravel, bog to sink into, boulders to scramble around and fences to jump over whilst trying to maintain some sort of momentum. I passed at least 3 runners who were nursing sprained ankles as they made their way slowly back to sea level, which helped keep my mind focussed on watching where I was putting my feet. Half way down I heard some banter from a marshal about ‘a good race between the Wee County runners’, and glancing behind me saw Sue - another runner from my club - catching up fast behind me. We met up for a quick photo from another club member who was out with his camera, then it was RACE ON for the finish.

The last 15 minutes were an exhausting mental seesaw of ‘I want to give up right now’ fighting for brain space with ‘there’s no way I’m going to let her overtake me’. We hurtled down the last section of ridiculously steep woodland path, then onto the final stretch, which always seems flat on the way out but is very distinctively uphill on the way back. That last 5 minutes felt like it went on forever, but eventually we slogged our way over the top and picked up pace for the finishing (mercifully downhill) straight. I could feel Sue right behind me with every step, and we both mustered up a final surge of energy for a brilliant sprint finish back onto campus. Then it was hugs all round, photos, and lots of cheering for the runners still heading across the line. I was delighted to take 7 minutes off my time from last year, putting a sub 1-hour finish just about within reach for next year.

Meanwhile, however, I’ll very much enjoy reclaiming Dumyat for my steady evening jogs, with plenty of time for photos, admiring the views and thanking my lucky stars that such a beautiful part of the world is literally right on my doorstep. I can’t wait to get back up Dumyat, but racing it once a year is more than enough for me. C’mon the Wee County!

Thanks Kathryn! Readers with long memories may remember Kathryn from my Dumyat Hill Race 2015 Race Report or even my Mighty Deerstalker 2012 Race Report. Blimey we've been doing this for a while, eh?

Race Report - Dumyat Hill Race 2015

For the last two years I’ve been laid out with a heavy cold in the first week of May. 

I know this because during the two and a half years I’ve worked in Stirling, I’ve been out of action during the annual Dumyat Hill Race, a long-established out-and-back peak-bagging adventure of mud and rocks which I’ve felt like a fool for missing.

It’s taken an embarrassingly long while for me to get to the start line of a race whose route I can actually see from my office window, but I’m so glad I did...

Dumyat [pronounced dumb eye at] has been run annually since a £1 bet in 1972 claimed that it was impossible to run from the University of Stirling’s Gannochy Sports Centre to the summit of Dumyat, a 418m/1,371ft peak at the edge of the Ochil Hills, and back, within an hour (a distance of five miles and total ascent of 390m). The hour is the watershed, therefore, between metaphorically winning the pound or slinking off home to think again. With men’s and women’s records in the region of 35 minutes, it’s achievable, but not without a fight…

Added pressure for me came in the form of many colleagues who have raced previous years, or entered this year, or who just know more about the event than I did. I’d also recruited a pal, Kathryn, whom you may remember as Deerstalker-in-Chief and whose mountain credentials are infinitely more impressive than mine. All this conspired to an impressive amount of pre-race excuse-making on my part. I mean look at the weather. My back hurts. I’ve been sat at a desk all day. Etc.

Dumyat has always been a low-key affair but I think this year it’s edging towards more infrastructure. The race is ‘gun-to-chip’ timed, entries are managed online, marshals are everywhere and almost 300 people finished the 2015 event. We are a long way from 1972.

But once we were away from the start line we’re into a magnificently scrappy, scruffy, off-road test that feels much more like I imagine oldschool hillrunning to be. It’s crowded in the middle of the field, and we’re ducking and weaving between trees and gaps in stone walls and stiles and streams, occasionally slowing to allow the crowd to thin out ahead, tripping over rocks and sinking into watery mud. I’m grinning madly with delight.

The first half is very up. But it’s also a bit down – we’re fighting to gain elevation but then keep maddeningly losing a little on our progress to the top. After the first mile or so we’re literally out of the woods and onto a broad moor-type landscape, which allows much more room for overtaking and the field spreads out width-ways as runners choose different lines up the hill. I’m surrounded by people of clearly varying ability, but the wild spectrum of terrain and profile mean that this race demands you to be a sturdy climber, fearless descender, navigator of rocks and mud, good at choosing lines and also pretty competent on the flat. I’m confident that everyone in the race will have felt great at some points and found wanting in others.

Out of the woods and chasing down the summit.
Photo borrowed from www.scottishhillracing.co.uk

After a couple of miles the leaders fly past me in the opposite direction. Dumyat is the prototypical out-and-back, so we’re sharing a boggy, hilly, rocky, narrow route trudging uphill with extremely talented hill runners who are flying back down. It’s perilous and thrilling and hilarious. Club and university vests dominate the leading figures and I do my best to stay out of the way whilst also trying to maintain some worthwhile progress of my own.

An odd phenomenon is the peer pressure to both walk and run certain sections. Kathryn and both found that whenever the person in front of us slowed to a walk on the steepest sections, we did the same, even if we were feeling fresh enough to run. When they ran, we felt compelled to run too. This may have something to do with the narrowness of the route in places – and for me my total lack of course knowledge – but next year I’ll resolve to ignore everyone else and run my own race.

I finally reached the summit and was blown away by the view. The concept suddenly made sense. Weather earlier in the day may have been abysmal, but at 7.30ish in the evening the view was so clear I could pick out the Forth Bridges and Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh, 40 miles distant. Sadly, with no time to appreciate the full majesty of the entire Central Belt, I started a reckless, wild descent back to the Gannochy.

There’s really nothing better for the ego than being on the ‘back’ leg of an out and back race. The banter’s hilarious and you feel like a minor celebrity. I did my best to be brave and let my legs fly down the hill, moving so fast I could feel my insides shaking about with every impactful step. At points I was basically falling down a cliff and trying to keep my legs moving fast enough to keep up with my progress. Hill running – for me at least – is mostly about trying to think fast enough to work out where each foot can safely land next, and the added chaos of people running towards you makes for a major mental and physical test.

I passed Kathryn, on her way up, as we splashed through a waterlogged flat(ish) section. She howled in mock pain as we high-fived at high speed. The descent passed in a blur – although a small incline with half a mile to go almost finished me off – and before long I was back to the sports centre and accepting the incredulous congratulations of some colleagues who had come along to support. I clocked 51:19 and won my metaphorical pound.

Papped at the finish. #KeepUpLad

Kathryn beamed across the finish line a little while later and we debriefed, incredulous as to how much fun it was. We immediately resolved to be back for 2016 – and what’s more I know exactly where I can shave a minute or two off my time. A few practice runs wouldn’t go amiss either...

Happy running

Dave

2015 to date: miles run - 405.62, parkruns - 3, races - 3

Here come the races

The season is upon us, and as usual, my spring race calendar has morphed from a carefully-designed schedule of well-placed races into a multi-faceted beast of confusion. Here goes:

Next weekend I am taking my first stab at the Tunbridge Wells half marathon. Local to my parents and the town I grew up in, this race is the stage for an almighty smackdown of old schoolfriends. Five of us are training for two different marathons and we are all using the TW half as a tune-up event – and probably a vehicle for extensive side bets. It’s an oldie but a goodie – this is the 30th running – and has an impressive pedigree, associated with Dame Kelly Holmes and this year started by Richard Whitehead. Apparently there are a couple of tricky hills but otherwise an enjoyable course.

Then in April, two days after I get back from a family holiday necessitating long-haul travel, my jetlagged and rum-soaked brain and I will be running the Edinburgh Rock n Roll half marathon – as I understand it a new and improved version of last year’s race.  As with all local races I’ll be out to recce the course beforehand and get a feel for what the event will be like – but I have suspicions that the Rock n Roll brand will make for  a good day out... One of my Wall Run teammates will be joining me too, so there will be a decision-making point probably about 200 yards from the finish line as to whether or not we are racing each other…

Not sure if I’ve mentioned, but I’ve only gone and got a place in the VLM. It’s the week after the Rock n Roll half, which should be fine. Should be. Fine.

A few weeks later it’s back to hillrunning, and I am planning on a first crack at the Dumyat Hill Race in May. Based on a historic bet and starting 30 yards from my office, it would seem ridiculous and foolish to pass up the opportunity to run thousands of feet up a large hill/small mountain and back down again in the space of five miles. I have two goals: 1, don’t break an ankle and 2, finish. I’m less bothered about 2.

The Wall Run. I’ve definitely mentioned this before. It’s in June and it’s really far and you should sponsor me.

As usual, I entered the ballot for the Great North Run this year, but most unusually I actually got  a place! OK, with it being in September I am rather stretching the spring season, but after The Wall it’s the only thing in my calendar at all. This year I think I’m going to wear shoes, and might actually try to run it for a time rather than just plod along soaking up the atmosphere…

Are you racing this year? Have I missed anything that I should really have a crack at ASAP? I am open to suggestions...

Happy racing

Dave

2013 to date: miles run - 141.38, parkruns: 1, miles biked: 3

A most profitable run

Last night I had a plan to go for a run with almost-elite athlete and total jobbyhead Megan Crawford. Megan is an awful lot faster than me and tougher than a pile of tough things tied together with iron chains of toughness, so whenever I can I like to think of a way to slow down our runs so as to save my lungs from exploding. Luckily last night I had a truly excellent idea indeed.

If you’re a whisky fan, you will already know about Jura, an island on the west coast of Scotland with a population of 200 and a major export industry of incredible whiskies. If you’re a whisky fan on Twitter you can follow them on @jura_whisky. This week they’ve started a competition to promote their ‘Superstition’ bottling, a beautiful single malt full of peat - surprisingly smooth and one of my favourites. Jura’s Twitter people hid a number of ‘lucky pennies’ in Edinburgh since, as you know, if you see a lucky penny, and pick it up, then all day long you’ll have good luck. In this case, you win a bottle of Superstition. Jura’s Twitter feed and the hashtag #JuraPennies gave clues as to their locations - first one to find the penny wins the whisky. Simples.

Around lunchtime and early afternoon, three clues went up on Twitter. By the time I left work around 5pm, one penny had already been found, and my heart sank. Surely the others would be gone well before I was meeting Megan at 6.30pm? I sat at home and fretted.

Undeterred, when the time rolled around I explained the plan to Megan, and though quite reasonably confused and slightly suspicious, she agreed to the hunt. Here’s the first clue we pursued:

So near something called Thomas on Princes Street. With no time to lose, we ran straight there, me trying to explain the wider context of the marketing campaign as we went, though most of our conversation revolved elsewhere. Such was our distraction, that by the time we reached Princes Street I felt a little silly for dragging Megan up here, where there’s loads of traffic and plenty of interruptions to running, which is what she actually wanted from the evening. Pressure to find the penny mounted.

We jogged passed a few of the imposing statues on the south side of the street, looking for anyone called Thomas. We settled on Thomas Guthrie, whose statue sat inside Princes Street Gardens but faced north towards the street. It being dark and late and windy and horrible, the gardens were locked. Without hesitation, we levered ourselves gingerly over the fence – though clearly not gingerly enough as one of the fence spikes went straight through my trainer and into the insole, poking me in the foot but causing no lasting damage. We looked nervously at each other once into the gardens, wondering if this was a tad ridiculous, and what on earth we would say to a groundskeeper or PC should they ask. Eager to move on, we started scouring around the base of the statue using the headtorch I’d brought for the purpose, but to no avail. Bringing Megan was a stroke of genius – she gamely rummaged through piles of leaves and clambered all over the statue feeling for hiding places, but still nothing. Things were looking bleak. We had trespassed on council property on a whim and had nothing to show for it. Hmm.

Just as I thought all was probably lost, I pulled out my phone to re-read the clue. ‘Take a seat to find your penny.’ That’s it! The penny must be under or near a seat! If you know Princes Street gardens and the general area, you will know that there are dozens of benches to hide things under, and we started the process of scouring all of them around the statue. Again having two of us to share the search was ideal. But still nothing.

Hopping carefully back over the fence (no puncture wounds this time) we crossed the road to try the benches which faced the statue, but again found only chewing gum mixed with disappointment. We agreed to give up on this clue and started thinking about the second, though we agreed to have a cursory look on the last few benches on the south side of the street before we left the area.

And we only ruddy well found the penny.

We leapt around like season-winning F1 drivers, confusing the commuters and drawing a load of mad looks. I held the penny aloft like Charlie (of Chocolate Factory fame) and we hastily read the rules on the packet. No doubt about it – we had won ourselves a bottle of Superstition.

But wait, only one? To share?

Five seconds later the penny was stowed in my pack and we were sprinting along Princes Street, heading up the Mound and onto the Castle Esplanade. We had tasted victory and we wanted more. The last unclaimed clue was as follows:

The side of the castle. Hmm. Have you seen Edinburgh Castle? It’s enormous and built on a volcano. It has more sides than you can shake a stick at, and even if you did you would need a stick that could shake at dozens of roads, footpaths, building, alleyways, a railway and plenty of other stuff. And a map? Like a tourist information board, perhaps? Again there are hundreds of those all over the centre of Edinburgh. This could take hours to find.

Running straight up to the castle and through a ghost tour (we probably looked dead and can only have added to the effect) we carefully toured the perimeter of the castle esplanade, looking for a map. In the near-total darkness, we convinced each other that many things were maps – memorial plaques, a guardsman’s hut, a blank wall. Megan even closely inspected a drain cover in case that turned out to be a map. But no joy. Returning to the top of the Royal Mile, we spotted the Scotch Whisky Experience, a visitor attraction all about whisky – and lo and behold it had a map of its many attractions displayed on the wall outside the building! This had to be it.

It wasn’t. We ran our fingers over every possible nook and cranny. We focussed on the phrase ‘lead to your penny’, thinking maybe that it could be hidden near something made of lead. We dismissed this idea. Eventually.

There are some stairs running down the south side of Castle Rock near the entrance to the esplanade, and I suggested we go down them looking for an info board or map, maybe somewhere towards the Grassmarket. Megan eventually agreed after I promised we could come back to the Scotch Whisky Experience and look again if we still couldn’t find it. We ran just a few steps down before coming across a black box, stood on a post on its own at the edge of the stairs. A box that dispensed something. A paper something. A tourist map kind-of-paper something. And taped underneath the box was only another ruddy penny! No doubt you got this hours ago, but here we were on some steps to the side of the castle, finding a map. Obvious when you know how. The ghost tour guide looked a bit miffed at our whooping and laughing and cheering, but we didn’t care. We had two pennies.

The pennies were safe but the night was young. We ran another four or five miles around Edinburgh, taking in a few little hills and chatting some more. When we got back to my flat we took photos, laughed at the madness of it all and sent tweets to Jura so we could claim our prizes. I tried to tempt Megan with a wee celebratory dram, but she took her penny home, probably for some sports supplements and stretching or whatever it is she does of an evening. I stared at the penny I was left with and laughed. What a wonderful and mad evening.

The competition continues throughout the UK as the Edinburgh competition is just the beginning – you should follow @jura_whisky and get your own paws on some tasty aqua vita. I strongly recommend running as a way to find your quarry. If nothing else, runners tend to know their cities inside out, and you may find the clues much easier than the competition will...

Happy running (and hunting!)

Dave

2012 to date: miles run - 402.8, miles biked - 73.2, metres swum - 3950, races - 4

Race Report - Survival of the Fittest (Edinburgh) 2012

After all that nonsense back in March at The Mighty Deerstalker, I approached the Men's Health Survival of the Fittest – run by the same company of hardcore athletes and escaped mental patients - with a much greater level of suspicion, a heftier training regime and several bucketloads more fear.  I wasn’t getting caught out by half an hour of surprise scree-climbing again, nor was I planning to leap into any rivers unprepared. This time I was going to do things properly.

To my utter astonishment, it appears to have paid off.

Venture Trust’s showing at Survival was pretty weak compared to the team we fielded at the Deerstalker. Whilst more than 20 VT types were up for the mud-eating hill-climbing mountain-scrambling nonsense down in Innerleithen, a mere half-dozen volunteered to test whether or not they were among ‘the fittest’ in Edinburgh. Perhaps the lack of sewage tunnels and mudbaths put people off? Weird. But we mustered nonetheless and donned traditional green VT warpaint, basing ourselves practically on top of the finish line in Princes Street gardens, basking in the glorious October weather – bright, crisp, clear and perfect for running – and distracting ourselves by the company of good friends and an excitable Labrador puppy.

Rubbing the VT puppy for luck.

Due to the narrow, twisty-turny course and the constraints of the obstacles we would be encountering, the race sets off its 3,000 competitors in ten waves of 300 people, arbitrarily assigned so as to minimise the potential for bottlenecking (something I had been darkly warned about by Survival veterans). We had randomly chosen wave 7, starting at 11.30 am, and thus had the pleasure of watching six other waves warm up and receive a pre-race briefing before walking to the start line on The Royal Mile. A little before we crowded round for our own briefing, the race winner appeared from the western end of Princes Street Gardens. Laden with muscles but covered in bruises and scrapes, as well as being completely soaked with water, this Herculean figure nimbly leapt up and over the 8-foot high, 3-foot deep wall that separated him from the finish line and his prizes. Second place was nowhere to be seen for some minutes to come, but when he did arrive he was snarling and lurching like a man possessed. The steam rising off his body was more testament to how hard he had worked than how cold it was. We looked at each other nervously. What on earth had we let ourselves in for?

Actually, I knew most of what we had let ourselves in for, and had trained appropriately. A full (and exact) 10km of running, interspersed with nonsense including monkey bars, cargo nets, almost endless staircases and at least a small quantity of mud and water. My training had been adjusted appropriately, regularly taking in some of the nastier staircases used on the course, and incorporating the adventure/assault course recently installed in Inverleith park. So when our time came for the longer-than-you-remember walk from the event’s finish line in the gardens up to its start line in front of St Giles’ Cathedral (which had services in progress, muting the starter’s pistol to a quiet clap), I was energised, excited, ready to tackle what was coming up.

I knew that speed was of the essence in the early kilometres, and happily jostled for position as I hurdled hay bales and barrelled down steep closes. Dodging traffic was to become a theme too, since none of the roads were closed, but before long I had already overcome the first km marker and was preparing mentally for Jacob’s Ladder. But those sneaky organisers had other ideas, and had set up the first obstacle section in a vacant lot immediately before the stairs. We carried heavy cones, heaved ourselves over pyramids of scaffolding, swung on monkey bars and otherwise navigated a pair of heavily-obstructed finger loops, before eventually being released to tackle the stairs.

They’re awful, no doubt about it. I’ve practised running them at least half a dozen times, and they really don’t get much easier. I wheezed my way to the top, clutching my exploding chest with one rugby-gloved hand and propelling myself onwards with the other. Round to the summit of Calton Hill my least favourite type of people awaited us: Army PT instructors. Here we moved some sandbags around (I was pleased to help but unsure whether there was a flood warning at the top of the hill – most confusing), launched on rope swings, scrambled over more cargo nets (can anyone explain what this is preparation for? How much modern warfare involves cargo nets? Are wars being fought on container ships?) and generally spoiled a stunning view of the city, sea, Fife and the Borders with the kind of nonsense you can only get from Rat Race events. I was having a ball.

Assault course finished, I flew back down Calton Hill, looking forward to the next challenge. I had caught the back of the previous wave by now, and was picking my way through slower runners, notably a group of approximately a hundred million women dressed in hessian sacks labelled ‘Hot Potatoes’ who were trying hard to stick together. Behind the Parliament and into Holyrood park, the course posed no more obstacles for another couple of km, as the real challenge involved picking one’s way up and through a muddy, hilly section that would have suited trail shoes much better than my knackered road Asics. But the reward was worth it – a huge waterslide, set up to launch you sideways into the next part of the race along the Innocent cyclepath.

What surprised me here was the amount of uninterrupted path to run on – for at least two kilometres this could just as well have been any other road race, although imaginatively designed to take in footpaths, a very long disused railway tunnel and some interesting parts of town. I picked off a few more groups and individuals in this section, hampered only slightly by some slightly rubbish obstacles that clearly were low on the priority list, being placed at the furthest outreaches of the course around 6-7k. I would regret these observations.

Because the next few sections were very, very tough. We moved along the Cowgate for just a few hundred metres before slowly slogging up another previously-unnoticed ancient close, popping out back on the Royal Mile.  An articulated lorry with its sides open stood blocking our progress, and the challenge here was to haul ourselves off the road and into the lorry and back down over the other side. Three times. For me this was – by far – the toughest obstacle on the course, and it left me drained and aching. The merciful downhill back to the Cowgate came as some relief as I tend to recharge on the run, and I hit the Grassmarket flying, weaving in and out between groups of tourists. At the far end of the Grassmarket I barrelled into a maze constructed of the kind of silver-grey mesh fencing you see at building sites, a disorientating experience as the near- and middle-distance fences all blended into one. I had two enormous guys running right on my shoulder, looking for a spot to overtake in the impossibly tight maze, and was astonished to find that when I eventually escaped the fence-tastic labyrinth they were nowhere to be seen. They must have given up on overtaking and gambled on taking a different - much longer - route through the maze, because their mad-dash sprints only overtook me another 500 metres later. Just luck, I suppose, as they were definitely closer to the much-overused label ‘the fittest’ than me.

It was almost over. Back in Princes Street Gardens there was more very important clambering to do, before a quick hop in a huge, inflatable pool full of filthy water that bore signs of already having been trampled through by 600 muddy runners. A last few hundred metres and then my own crack at the final wall, by now too congested and covered in writhing bodies for anyone to attempt a solo leap. Just as at the Deerstalker, runners now selflessly launched one another up and over, and after paying my dues I took my turn, happily running the few yards to the finish line.

Job done.

Having estimated around two hours to complete the course, thinking that congestion and constant obstacles would be its MO, I was startled to find that I'd finished in just 64 minutes. The Crew Chief, who had planned to come and see me finish an hour later, was still at home eating her lunch. I had overtaken hundreds of people from waves ahead of mine, and secured a final position of 586^th out of nearly 3,000. High fives to the rest of the VT crew - Kathryn, Sherien and Ruth (plus a couple who I didn't even set eyes on!). I am a little bruised, very sore and covered in scrapes, but utterly delighted and very eager to do it again, knowing now that I can plan for much more running and much less cardio than anticipated. This one – and by association its sister events in London, Cardiff and Nottingham – come highly recommended despite the hefty price tag. (Which, incidentally, is lower if you’re a real cool frood and do it for Venture Trust).

Coming soon on irunbecause.blogspot.com – some thoughts that may be of genuine non-narcissistic value, some exciting VLM news and more of the usual tosh. Exciting times.

Happy running

Dave

2012 to date: miles run - 369.9, miles biked - 73.2, metres swum - 3950, races - 4