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Relay Magazine October 1990

"Look at the lights on the mountain, it's like a bloody Christmas tree."
I give a positive grunt and pick myself up after falling again on the boulder strewn tourist path on Goat Fell, Arran. It's now 02.45 on Monday 21st May 1990 and it's been dark throughout this run. We should have cut up to the left, back a bit and given ourselves a more direct line to the summit, never mind, we shall rectify that on the descent. On the way down now and there is a slight glimmer of light showing from the east. Through the forest and down the tracks to the road into Brodrick, a quick decision is made to cut across the golf course again. It does not seem that 1hour 15mins ago the two of us were running about like a pair of demented rabbits looking for an escape from the same golf course. In fact, it does not seem like four days earlier that this whole bit of fun began.

A lift up to Comrie and we picked up the Audi Quattro to practically fly up to Oban to meet the rest of the crew and to compete in the Three Islands Peaks Race. One or two of the sponsors liquid gold and we were ready for the sleeping bag, but not before a nightcap on board the yacht 'Christine'. What better, sitting on a yacht in a West of Scotland harbour, a whisky in the hand and the sun disappearing over the western horizon?

Friday morning arrived with skipper John and me attending the last minute order meeting. Pete, Hugh and Ken went shopping for food and drinks to sustain us over the journey. Midday the race began with a 5 mile run around Oban which saw us in the first 20 pairs back to the yachts and on our way to Saler Bay on Mull. The big problem now was lack of wind so the orders were given to man the oars.

After a six hour pull and sail we arrived in Saler Bay and were set ashore for a five-minute checkout. This allows the marshals to give our rucksacks the once over. Both runners had to carry a sleeping bag, bivvy bag, two torches, paper & pencil, spare long sleeved top, gloves, woolly hat and emergency food supply. Everything was passed correct and we were on our way at about 7 minute mile pace along the 4 mile road to Ben More. Once we started on the hill track the pace slowed but we were going well and passed three pairs of runners by the time we reached the first col. More importantly we had in our sights a pair of Boggies (members of Hunters Bog Trotters, who partake in beer swilling competitions and while doing so create general chaos and havoc). From prior knowledge we knew they had done the race before and thought they would take the best lines. While the runners in front followed the broad ridge, we went with the Boggies more to the left, which brought us on a perfect traverse of the false summit of Ben More. This left us with a short climb to the second col, then a slightly harder and longer climb to the summit cairn. The view from here was spectacular, deep clefted glens topped by high mountains, looking west, nothing but ocean and small islands. We couldn't stay too long so we checked in with the soldier lying in his sleeping bag and ran on down the easy ridge with our two Boggie pals. Great things mountains, they seem to give one great patience and tolerance to put up with the slaggings these Boggies give you. They went on a great deal about us being the zimmer squad and would our skipper have the wheelchairs ready for us on arrival at Salen? That is if we made it. We did make it all right but cramped up a lot on the 8 mile road back to Salen. Arriving at the boat just before dark, we had lost a bit of time on the road back but still had a good run doing Ben More in 4:04.32 ending up 21st overall. A quick shower and meal then straight to bed, prepared for a hard run tomorrow on Jura.

We awoke on Sunday morning to the sound of oars. After a quick breakfast it was onto the oars and chasing 'zephyers' which is the sailors name for small ripples on the water, which is a tell-tale sign of wind. We were north of the Garvellachs, which I think translates as 'the islands of the sea'. We rowed and sailed, and rowed and sailed until we arrived at the Gulf of Corryvreckan, reputed to be one of the most dangerous waters in the British Isles. Today there were canoeists paddling through it as though it was a duck pond.  We eventually got a bit of wind, which took us well down Jura, but not quite Craighouse where we had to land.

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