The last
significant event on this year’s race calendar was the 7 Reservoirs Half
Marathon in the Pentlands on Sunday.
Unfortunately it clashed with the club’s Festive Half, but I liked the
look of the 7R, and there will be plenty more opportunities to do the Festive.
The
weather was not looking too promising in the run up though – Storm Desmond
making his presence felt. I was left
licking my wounds having put my recycling out on Friday – the plastic bins are probably
somewhere near Newcastle by now. But the
day dawned bright, the wind had died down significantly, and we just had to
worry about all the rain that had already fallen. Shoe selection was something of a dilemma – I
knew that there were some long-ish sections of tarmac, with a good mix of stony
paths thrown in, as well as some likely very muddy parts. There seemed to be no silver bullet. I took
so many footwear options that I almost thought about stopping when I saw a sign
for a car boot sale on the way to Balerno.
After
registering, I plumped for my HOKA Rapa Nui’s which are nearly 400 miles in and
have little or no grip on the soles.
Perhaps not intuitively the right decision. But at the Jedburgh 38 I’d worn my Salomons,
which made bugger all difference in the really slippery mud anyway, and were hellish after a while on the roads.
Looking at the course map, I figured the balance here was slightly
tilted in favour of the road. But it was
unsettling to see that everyone else had gone with Salomons or Inov-8s.
I had a
really good blether with Dessie heading up to the start. Which was a nice surprise as I hadn’t seen
him on the entry list. He’d received a
call in the week offering him the chance to defend his title, and enjoys this
race so much that he couldn’t say no, despite having had the odd injury bother
of late.
It was
also nice to see and chat to other pals including Matthew, Lucy, Ivor and Anna.
From the
start at Thriepmuir Farm, you normally run for around 100 metres below the
western embankment of the Thriepmuir Reservoir, before crossing a ford and then
continuing along its southern edge.
However the water was so high that the ford was a waist-high raging
torrent, and anyone venturing in would, if they didn’t drown, be swept down to
Leith in a matter of minutes. So instead
we had to funnel down into single file over a narrow footbridge. I managed to get away from the line quite
quickly, so got through before the queue got too big.
I made
reasonable progress going up the steep beech-lined avenue towards Bavelaw
Castle – I took baby-steps, kept the cadence high and my footlift low, and just
chipped away at it, reeling in a couple of guys in front. The run from Bavelaw down into Green Cleugh
saw the start of the large puddles on the paths, or indeed the running streams
of water that effectively turned the paths into riverbeds in places.
I took a
tumble when I tried to keep my feet dry by stepping on wet grass above a puddle
– the cross-slope sending my legs out from under me, and the rest of me towards
a pile of scree. Fortunately nothing
important touched down, and the worst that happened was that I scuffed my thumb
a little. The chap behind me (who would
turn out to be Andrew of Moorfoots) kindly stopped to try to help me up and ask
how I was, but I urged him to “keep going, keep going, I’m fine”. Hmm, perhaps 1-0 to the Salomon/Inov-8s…
What it
did do really effectively was to help me to remember a lesson that I’d learned (but
forgotten) at the Lairig Ghru. Your feet
are going to get wet anyway, so you might as well aim for the puddles (which
often have a hard flat bottom), rather than slippy angled verges that you can
fall off into those same puddles. So I
ended up charging through the burn down near the Howe. Matthew came past here, and seemed to be
building up a bit of a head of steam.
The next
section along the road past Loganlea Reservoir was great, with a nice
downslope, a following tailwind, and slicks on my feet. I enjoyed not having to think too much about
where I was stepping, and taking a good look around. It was interesting to see just how high the
reservoir was – the last time I’d been here in the summer there were several metres
of the bank exposed. Now there were
silver birch on the banks whose bases were submerged. And the fishermen’s shed had a sign on the
window stating that no boats were to be taken beyond the yellow markers, where
no yellow markers remained visible.
On
reaching the earthen dam at the far end, I exchanged waves with a group of walkers who were sitting having a
cup of tea from their flasks. I was
determined to enjoy the day, and the perfect blue skies were certainly helping
with that.
The slope
on the road down to Glencorse then became more pronounced, which allowed me a
better view of the runners in front. I
counted six, but couldn’t see Dessie, the guy in the blue jacket that had gone
with him at the start, or HBT’s David F, so figured I might be around 10th. But despite my footwear advantage, I wasn’t
making much of an impression on the three or four immediately in front,
although equally they hadn’t completely dropped me. I tried to use the twists and turns of the
road to have a sneaky look behind to see how hotly I was being pursued –
happily not very as I couldn’t see anyone within 200 yards.
At the
corner of the reservoir we headed off left up the path towards Maiden’s Cleugh,
before taking a more pronounced right up towards Phantom’s Cleugh. The next mile was the most difficult of the
day for me, as this was where the worst mud was, coupled with a sustained
climb. I initially tried running but
lost my feet and ended up on all fours.
At least there was enough running water to wash the mud off my hands!
I
resigned myself to trudging, and lost touch with the group in front. A glance back revealed a chaser with a
Dumbarton vest, who seemed to have closed up significantly. But that might have just been the concertina
effect of the hill – I might yet open up the gap again once I had topped out.
There
were a few more close things on the way over the brow of the hill and past
Bonaly Reservoir though – I got some good Cossack dancing practice done.
The view from
the brow was stunning – the city laid out perfectly in glorious sunshine. A run along the tree line brought me to a
left turn onto a well-made and dry stony path down to the car park at
Bonaly. The marshal told me I was in 11th,
and that the four in front were catchable.
Making the most of the ground conditions and the cushioned ride of the
HOKAs, I let rip and recorded a 5:50 mile, grinning like a loon as I descended,
and shouting thanks to a couple who stopped to hold a gate open for me.
Entering
the forest at Bonaly the ground quickly turned from dry and stony to wet and
greasy – I had to apply the brakes gingerly to avoid aquaplaning. In high spirits I mistook the instructions of
the marshals at the bottom and thought that one was reaching for a high five,
instead of trying to graffiti my number with her marker pen.
Joining
the path towards Torduff Reservoir, I could see a Harmeny vest in the near
distance, with Andrew the Moorfoot a little further on. By the time we got to the road alongside the
northern/western side of the reservoir I could tell that I was gaining on the
Harmeny (Ross). I had a look back and
there was still no sign of the Dumbarton crossing the walkway across the dam.
At the
far end of Torduff, Andrew the Moorfoot got a little uncertain of the route and
stopped to ask directions from Ross the Harmeny. By the time we got round to the start of
Clubbiedean Reservoir, I had begun to entertain thoughts of a possible 9th
place.
But there
was still the best part of 4 miles to go, the wind was now largely in our
faces, and I felt I didn’t want to show my hand too early. Plus I didn’t know what age category they
were in. Andrew the Moorfoot looked too young
to be a vet, but Ross the Harmeny was a possible.
I tucked
in past the farms at Easter and Mid Kinleith, before the slog up the final
incline. Drawing level with Andrew I saw
the “MS” scrawled on his number – bonus, a young gun! Catching Ross though, I saw the feared
“MV”. Bugger! I dropped back behind him and had a think
about whether I cared enough to race him.
There wasn’t that much difference between 9th and 11th,
but could Ross be the first vet? I
didn’t think that Dessie was old enough to be a vet and, of the others that I
recognised, I knew for a fact that none of David F, Matthew or Nigel were. Double bugger – I couldn’t not care (and
therefore try) if there was a chance of being first vet.
So then I
had to think about tactics. My first
thought was to just shadow him before trying to outsprint him to the line. But that seemed a little ungentlemanly,
particularly as I’d be stealing shelter from the wind. And although I have a decent kick, I was
worried that he could too. So I decided
that I’d have to try to crank it up and see if he could stick with me.
As we got
back to Harlaw, the sound of his footsteps became more faint, and I was
delighted to reach the narrow bridge again and see that I’d pulled out 50
metres or more.
At the
other end of the bridge the marshal instructed me to climb the embankment and run
along the top to the finish. I confess
that I blurted out “you’re f*cking joking?!”
A hands
and knees scramble later, and I ran to the line, casting defensive glances over
my shoulder in case of a late surge from Ross.
I was
pleased enough with 9th and quite happy with my time.
After a
quick chat with Matthew, I headed back down to my car at the farm to get
changed into warmer clothes (stupidly not having read the pre-race information
and bringing clothes up to the start/finish).
I had a good talk with Andrew’s fellow Moorfoots Colin and Michael on
the way back, whom I recognised from the Borders XC. Both had finished ahead of me, and both were
vets. Ah well.
Once warm
again, I headed back up to see if I could get some grub, and possibly see Dessie
claiming his prize – he’d had a “storming” run and had blown the field apart to
claim his 3rd win on the bounce in this event. Very well done. Lucy was first woman home, and continued her
Marcothon streak.
I was
disappointed to miss out on soup, but there was still plenty of excellent food
and a surprisingly good mulled non-alcoholic punch.
A top day
out, and a race that joins the “would happily do again” list. Not too hilly, nicely runnable, but still some great scenery and it feels like you're in the hills.
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