The British Ultra was my first serious multi day endurance event - I don't suppose the Edinburgh Rat Race counts - so I didn't fully know what to expect when I turned up. Fortunately I had been training with a veteran of the Marathon Des Sables and Gobi Challenge, Jon 'Big Casino' Watts, so had a very rough idea of what was in store......pain, midgies, blisters, tears, midgies, sweat, blood, midgies and all the calories I could cram into a 4 kg bag.

We were met off the ferry by the British Ultra crew, all wearing their shiny, new, orange windproof jackets kindly donated by the main sponsors, Marmot. We were transported to the Ardbeg distillery for registration, kit check and race briefing where we were greeted by the site of shiny, new, orange tents – Marmot, of course. We had been given an allocation of 4 kg of food for the week which the organisers would very kindly transport for us, due to all the additional kit necessary for a race in the British climate – which would obviously include wet weather clothing, warm weather clothing, cold weather clothing, dry weather clothing and numerous combinations of all of them – all within a 20-minute period. I thought I would try my luck and sneak in an extra 300grams of dehydrated desserts, but was foiled by the Pudding Gestapo and had to take it out again. Mind you, mine’s was almost schoolboy in comparison to a couple of competitors who tried for 7 kg each! No, to the tinned tuna…… no to the tinned pears…….. that birthday cake is going to have to go…………..how about just one leg of lamb? The briefing was mercifully short and to-the-point and included a rather marvellous and unexpected meal, put on by one of the local church groups – a full 3 course buffet including trifle! Now all I had to do was get a good night’s sleep ready for a 29-mile warm-up the next day.

The next morning as I lined up at the start there was the usual furtive glances at other peoples kit: ooh, I wish I’d thought of bringing one of those; they look comfy; maybe wearing my plimsolls was a bad idea. Soon we were ready for the off and, after a few prophetic words from Sir Rab of Islay, - “don’t stop to cuddle the sheep” - the race was under way. A 6 km road, through some stunning scenery – a recurring theme - led to the foot of a large hill, whose Gaelic name is Bheinn Bheiger, but is known locally as ‘The Big Bugger at the Head of the Glen’. As I approached the foot I could see some racing snakes already near the top. A steep climb with much wheezing and we were up, over and down the other side where a number of the competitors set out to disprove the organiser, Dave Scott’s, assertion that it was impossible to get lost on Day 1. Fortunately they managed to recover the situation without extending the course too far.

Some great weather meant that Islay was seen in all its splendour and after seven and a half hours of winding my way over heather-clad hills, through quiet lanes and along forest tracks I finally stumbled down the steep hill into Port Askaig, where the ferry would depart for the next stages on the island of Jura. All-in-all a great day’s running, even if the last few miles seemed pretty endless. From where we waited on the ferry we could see the bright orange tents pitched on the other side of the water and I was pretty desperate to get over and get my socks and shoes off, just to see what damage had occurred. Fortunately I got away with it pretty well with only a couple of hot spots and some minor blisters on a couple of toes. Now for the delights of the food bag – I have to confess, being particularly fond of my food I had taken more than 4kg and was carrying an additional 1.5 kgs in my own rucksack, which equated to around 3000 calories a day, 1000 more than the minimum requirement. At 90 kgs, I am of the fuller figure for an ultra-runner.

Day 2 turned out to be a scorcher with a magnificent route that took us up through a bealach – a saddle- between the Paps of Jura and down through a glen, where we followed a stream to the white, tufty, ankle-breaking, grass at the foot, only to be turned around and sent back up the adjacent hill. This 500-metre section I found to be one of the hardest of the race, I don’t know whether it was the heat, whether I was just tired or it genuinely was difficult. I knew Martin, one of the organisers, was waiting at the next checkpoint and I was intending to call him a particularly rude name on my arrival, but was thwarted by the presence of some children standing next to him. I’m told it didn’t stop Tattie Mackenzie-Clark, another competitor and the mother of the children, from doing what I had refrained from.

The heat of the day and the tough terrain took its toll on the competitors with 2 withdrawals, 2 suffering from heat stroke and a leg injury that wasn’t looking too promising. Nevertheless the site / sight that greeted us on our arrival at the Day 2 camp was breathtaking; golden sands and turquoise blue sea with a backdrop of the grey, purple Paps was a wonderful view; a real salve for the soul - or sole, if you happened to be soaking your feet in the sea whilst taking all of this in, as I was. I had reached the end of Day 2 and was feeling pretty tired, but not too bad considering what we had just done; I just hoped I could maintain the levels of energy for the rest of the week. I checked my feet and was dismayed to see that the expert taping that I had applied had disintegrated, probably in the first bog I stuck my leg into, or maybe the second, third or fourth, I’m not sure. Later that evening, during the Day 3 briefing, my heart sank when Dave Scott - who was obviously quite drunk when he worked out the routes – informed us that this is where the terrain began to get difficult! He did not, however, lie.

On the morning of Day 3 I rose to find one of the other competitors lying half in and half-out of his sleeping bag, stripped to the waist, retching and resting his face against the cool, dewy grass. He was one of the competitors who had been suffering from heat stroke the previous day and it appeared he wasn’t much better now. After breakfast I saw him again and following some treatment from the race medic he looked much improved, so much so that he was allowed to start the race. I, on the other hand, was feeling ok and was just waiting for it all to go badly wrong. The course on Day 3 was quite short - about 13 miles – but we’d been assured that this was because of the terrain we’d be covering. As I set off I couldn’t help wondering what could be so bad about navigating around a sea loch. It wasn’t long before my question was answered in the shape of a raised beach – I recalled something about these from 1st year Geography, but never realised that I’d be trying to break my ankles crossing one. For those that haven’t experienced the joys of a raised beach, they are large expanses of smooth round rocks, about the size of small coconuts and about as easy to balance on. Navigational skills were definitely a bonus on this section and I was able to take a few detours that kept me near the front of a pack of runners, where I had no right to be. Thirteen miles later I arrived at the bothy, where we were to spend the night, in a pretty weary state – another recurring theme. All the tents had been pitched in a field to the front of it and one of the skills that had to be quickly attained was how to cross a field full of nettles, whilst wearing flip flops – to air the blisters – and walking like you’d just got off a particularly fat horse. Unfortunately several squadrons of hungry midgies already occupied this bivvy site and without any sea breeze sitting or standing still became a thing of the past and cooking became an extreme sport.

The morning of Day 4 dawned, damp and still full of airborne pests. The route we were to follow for the next couple of days was so remote that the only way the organisers could provide safety cover was by using a seagoing – as opposed to inshore - RIB. The nearest road wasn’t near at all; in fact it was on the adjacent island of Colonsay. Unfortunately prior to the start the boat ran into engine trouble and our route had to be changed so that we remained close enough to a road to allow casualties to be extracted in the case of an emergency. So the route for Day 4 saw us embarking on an out-and-back course along the rugged coastline of West Jura, with the, by now, ubiquitous raised beaches accompanying us along the way. As it turned out Day 4 was my best stage, which saw me finishing 7th for the day; not bad for an overweight, biomechanically challenged, ex-rugby player. We settled in for the night at the bothy and attempted to dry out our soggy clothing before the start of the next stage. It was still quite warm, which meant that the rain wasn’t as unpleasant as it could have been, but on the down-side it meant that the midgies came out in droves between the showers.

Day 5 was the day I’d been dreading - 35 miles, but more concerning for me a good portion of it was on the road. I’ve had 2 fairly major operations on my knees and as a result I struggle on harder ground. Up until this point I’d been lapping up the off-road stages because it meant that I’d probably still be able to run relatively pain-free the next day. I also knew that 8 miles into this stage I’d leave the hills for good and the next 40 miles would be on the road. As the race started I did my usual of going off on my own and trying to find some miracle route that would take me to the head of the race, but it didn’t work and I arrived at the first checkpoint – from a completely different direction - with everybody else I’d set off with. On the next section, however, some good route selection saw me making up time on the runners ahead and I reached the road in joint 4th place; that wouldn’t last long.

The next section was a tortuous out-and-back course that allowed me to see just how far behind the leaders I really was. It was during this stage that my waiting for ‘it’ to go horribly wrong was finally over and my knees started to give me some considerable pain. As a result the last 12 miles were a bit of a task and only a Kendal-Mint-Cake–fuelled-frenzy allowed me to finish the leg in around 8 hours, having slipped back to 8th place for the stage, but moving up to 10th overall. Crossing the line was a great feeling; it probably would have felt better if I didn’t have to walk over to the other competitors who looked like they’d been sitting there for hours – which, in fact, they had.

This campsite turned out to be the worst by far for midgies and more than one runner was debating with themselves whether to rehydrate fully and risk having to ‘pop outside’ or stay slightly dehydrated and safe within the tent. I opted for somewhere in between and ended up with a nosebleed the following morning for my troubles through dehydration. Worse still I’d also had to leave the tent on a couple of occasions during the night and been molested by the aerial terrors; they get everywhere.

Day 6 was another scorcher, but everybody seemed in buoyant mood; we had 12 miles between us and the finish and although some runners feet were in absolute tatters it wasn’t going to hold them back. I had targeted 9th place as my goal and to hold off a challenge for my own position from the now flying Tattie Mackenzie-Clark. Everybody set off at a cracking pace and I got into a real hard tussle for 9th spot. Eventually, as I rounded a bend, I could see the town of Craighouse in the distance, where the finish was and the cold beer that I’d been dreaming of since Day 1. My nose started to bleed again, but I wasn’t really caring as I was counting down the distance left on the milestones leading in to Craighouse. Locals offered encouragement from deck chairs in their front gardens; a rather bemused look on their faces, as if they were wondering why on earth someone would be doing this, period, never mind on such a hot day. I came round the final bend and could see the Isle of Jura distillery, where the race was due to end, just a short way up the road. I straightened myself up and wiped the blood from my nose – in actual fact I just smeared it across the remainder of my face - determined to finish the race in style; there would probably be some cameras after all and I didn’t want to be caught looking like the way I was feeling.

As I approached the finish line I could hear the shouts of encouragement from those who had gathered and this spurred me on from a shambling half run, which I’d been performing for the last 10 miles to a – in my mind – sprint finish. I’m sure it didn’t look like that to anybody else, but as far as I was concerned at this point I was Michael Johnson – or Usain Bolt if you’re slightly younger – coming into the finishing straight. The organisers had arranged for the distillery warehouse to be opened at both ends for the competitors to run through so that we could finish under the banner of the Isle of Jura distillery. As I crossed the finish I did my usual dip for the line and was presented with a nip of the local whisky for my efforts. I knocked this back in one and immediately felt decidedly queasy.

Dave Scott, Martin Like and Matt Morris, along with the other volunteer marshals had done a wonderful job of looking after us for the last 6 days and this continued with a magnificent meal of venison stew as a post-race meal. Unfortunately I made such a pig of myself that I was struggling to drink any beer for the remainder of the evening, though it didn’t stop me trying.

If you’d asked me 2 years ago whether I could have done this the answer would have been an emphatic ‘no’. I had mentally capped myself at marathon distance and couldn’t imagine going any further. Better still, during the race – and I use that term loosely - I met some great fellow runners; characters who normally wouldn’t be allowed outside unsupervised, from all walks of life, who shared a desire to push themselves to see what they could achieve if they put their minds to it.

Next stop, the Sahara………………but I’ll have a wee rest first.

- Neil Clyde