Ultra Tour Monte Rosa

We spent the family summer holiday in Switzerland this year, with the first week based in Grächen, and the second in St Luc, a village on the Sierre-Zinal race route. Apart from being a super family-friendly destination (car free, and playparks on every corner), Grächen also happens to be the start and finish point of the Ultra Tour Monte Rosa (UTMR), my target long race for 2021.

Feeling fresh, running from Grächen to Zermatt (photo © UTMR)

Thanks to COVID-19, the UTMR didn’t follow its usual course this year, and stayed in Switzerland throughout, avoiding the usual high glacier section crossing into Italy. Nevertheless, the course was still a real challenge, and felt more demanding than the only other 100-miler I’ve done, the UTMB. The route was more technical, and wilder, with more climb (reportedly 11,000m ascent, in 175 km) and more exposure. The UTMR is a much smaller race, which gives it a more intimate friendly feel, like a marked fell race on a grand scale. Even on the altered route, the scenery was fantastic, especially the views above Zermatt onto the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa. 

We arrived in Grächen 5 days before the race, and I spent the first night sleeping up high. I hiked up to 2200m after putting the children to bed, bivvied there for the night, before an easy run at altitude and returning to the family in time for breakfast the next morning. Having Konrad and the children around before the race was the perfect antidote to pre-race nerves, helping me to keep things in perspective. Knowing they would be waiting for me was also the best possible incentive to get me back to the finish line once the race was underway!

On race day I woke up at 2:45am, breakfasted and dressed in silence, making it out of the house without waking the children, and arriving in the town centre comfortably for the 4am start. I felt great for the first 60km, and especially enjoyed the section from the start in Grächen to Zermatt, which includes the incredible Charles Kuonen Suspension Bridge - the longest pedestrian footbridge in the Alps. Descending into Zermatt I caught up with Darcy Piceu – famous for her many finishes and wins at Hardrock 100 – and it was lovely to chat with her for a while as we climbed back out of the town, onto the massif above. The route circled around, taking in some incredible airy views of the 4000m peaks, before dropping back to Zermatt for an uncomfortable 20km of flat running down the hot valley to St Niklaus. It was a relief to arrive at the checkpoint there, and lovely to chat with Ruth Croft, who was volunteering on the event.

Running through Zermatt (photo Konrad Rawlik)

Climbing out of the valley, I started to suffer and feel sick, but thankfully that didn't last long. As dusk approached the route dropped me to its lowest point (700m) before starting the longest climb of the race, thankfully broken up by the Visperterminen checkpoint, 110km into the race. Tom Owens was volunteering there and did an amazing job sorting me out for the hours of darkness that lay ahead. I ran by myself for most of the night, although there were often head-torches on the mountain side ahead of me, drawing me on. I felt overwhelmingly sleepy, and debated a power nap on the path, but in the end, I just sang out loud to keep myself awake (there were some decent drop offs to the side of the path), embarrassingly this night-time concert featured mainly nursery rhymes – the Grand Old Duke of York, amongst others! The terrain was increasingly rocky, rather like the summit section of Scafell Pike. I was vaguely aware that I should be loving the technical rock hopping, but my legs were tired and kept tripping and tangling themselves up, so I just concentrated on putting one in front of the other.

Descending to the finish (photo Liz Bailey)

With dawn came new energy and the promise of the finish, and I tried to push on the final section from Saas Fee up to Grächen, although it was surprisingly technical, with a fair bit of scrambling and up-down in-outs of rock buttresses, which was hard on tired legs. I finished in 32 hours 26 minutes, in 9th overall, and was delighted to learn there that our friend Oli Johnson had smashed the overall race to win in 28 hours 23 minutes. 

Sharing soup at the finish (photo Konrad Rawlik)

UTMR is a race I would recommend without a moment’s hesitation. It has miles of stunning scenery and fantastic technical single-track paths, but what really makes the event is the volunteers at the checkpoints - it's like having your family waiting to care for you at every one. I am already looking forward to coming back and racing the full course. 

24h Munros

The challenge of the 24-hour Munro round is pleasingly simple; to climb as many Munros as possible within 24 hours, starting and finishing at the same place. With distance, ascent and terrain playing key roles, the round has fuelled discussion for decades in long distance running circles. Unsurprisingly, record attempts have focused on areas with the maximum concentration of Munros (Lochaber, Glen Shiel). In 1988 Jon Broxap ran a round of 28 Munros in the Glen Shiel area, which with the 1997 revision of the Munro tables got bumped up to 29, while at the same time Adrian Belton’s 28 Munro round in Lochaber got bumped down to 27. This record survived a couple of attempts by Spyke, standing until 2017, when legend has it that Jim Mann received a note in the post telling him to switch his focus to the Cairngorms, where he duly clocked 30 Munros in 22:05. That route was extended by Sasha Chepelin in 2020 to 32 Munros in 23:10, and again by Kim Collinson in 2021, to 33 Munros in 23:48.

(photo Graham Nash)

Against the flurry of these male records, the absence of a female 24-hour Munro round was striking. Konrad and I speculated that I might already hold it by default – for my Ramsay round (23 Munros), in 16:13, although one could argue that Helene Diamantides' Ramsay round included 24 Munros at the time it was set (the loss of Sgor an Iubhair that affected Adrian’s round also affecting the Ramsay)! Either way, it was clear that a serious effort for a female 24-hour Munro record was well overdue.

I scheduled a date for 24th July (the one week in a block of 6 during July/August that I wasn’t going to be on clinics at work and could therefore guarantee some decent sleep in the lead-up) and crossed my fingers that the weather would be kind. It was almost too good, the ground was bone-dry, and the visibility was incredible, but it was uncomfortably hot for long-distance running (Finlay Wild ran a record-breaking solo Rigby Round the same day in 16h40, and drank 16 litres of water in the process!).

It was hard to know how many Munros to aim for, since I wasn’t sure just how much long-distance fitness I’d regained since having my son Bryn (born in July 2020). With Konrad’s help, I settled on an anti-clockwise attempt, based on Jim Mann’s round, with a variety of finishing options, aiming to do anywhere from 29 – 32 Munros, or less, if time was running out.

With two small children to factor into the planning, I opted to run from midnight to midnight, which meant that Konrad could drive me up to our starting point at Invercauld Bridge (after we’d had dinner with the family and prepared the children for bed), and pace me on the first leg, before driving back to take over from my wonderful mum at home.

Leg 1 - Invercauld Bridge to Glenshee (Konrad Rawlik, Jim Mann, and Moss our border collie dog): The first leg was incredible; easy grassy running by the light of a huge full moon, with a sea of cloud inversion below us, and herds of deer streaming past in the half light. We made fast work of the Lochnagar Munros and crossed to the Glenshee group for a stunning sunrise of pink and orange, finishing the leg just one minute short of Jim’s split, in 5h38.

(photo Konrad Rawlik)

Leg 2 - Glenshee to White Bridge (Sasha Chepelin and Ally Beaven): The heat was kicking in, but I still felt reasonably good, and we made steady progress over the remaining Glenshee group and other Munro’s towards White Bridge. I stopped to lie in every stream we passed and was glad I’d remembered Vaseline to prevent chaffing – the bits I’d missed soon reminded themselves to me! The time passed quickly, chatting to Sasha about his own round, and Ally about his experiences at Barkley Marathons, and we descended to White Bridge a few minutes up on my schedule of 6h10.

(photo Sasha Chepelin)

Leg 3 - White Bridge to Corrour Bothy (Eoin Lennon and Ali Masson): It wasn’t feeling so easy anymore, and the ascent of Beinn Bhrotain was the first split I lost time on my schedule. Coming off the summit, my toe caught a boulder, and I sand-papered the skin off my knees and elbows, knocking my confidence temporarily. Nevertheless, I relished the fantastic views over the next summits lining the west side of the Lairig Ghru , especially as I’d seen so little of them on my recent clagged-out Rigby round. At the changeover point I lay spreadeagled in the river, preparing myself for the challenges I knew the coming hours would bring. At this stage I had ticked 24 Munros, and was going beyond the Ramsay total.

(photo John Ryan)

Leg 4 - Corrour Bothy to Invercauld Bridge (Graham Nash, John Ryan, Eoin Lennon): The steep gulley climb up to Carn a’Mhaim felt just as hard as it had on my Rigby round, and the subsequent pull up to Ben Macdui took just as long. At least we didn’t get lost on the traverse to Derry Cairngorm this time, although we were now losing time steadily on the schedule. Whilst I was still trying to run the flatter sections, it was clear how feeble my efforts must be, as my supporters were walking along chatting beside me. Graham guided the scramble up the summit tor on Beinn Mheadhoin, before the horrible rough descent of heather, rocks and holes, down its eastern flank. This was the point at which I needed to decide how I would finish the round, based on the time I had remaining of the day. By now it was clear that I needed to be getting back, but we opted to include Beinn Bhreac on the way, hoping that the improved descent line John had in mind would have us back on the final 14 km of flat tracks in good enough time. The line was indeed much better, but my slow progress by this stage, combined with rough and trackless ground, left things tighter than any of us would have liked by the time we reached the valley. John and Graham thrust a banana and a bar into my hands, ordered me to eat, and then set off running, telling me I needed to keep up. I dug deep, focusing on their backs in front of me, and the rhythm of my stride, thankful that we were on a track at least. At Linn of Quoich, Graham peeled off for the car, whilst John and I continued along the darkening valley, towards the lights of Braemar twinkling teasingly in the distance. We were making steady progress, and it seemed that we would reach Invercauld Bridge comfortably before midnight, but then we took a wrong turn, and ended up in a field waist deep in grass, with John telling me to ‘Turn right’, and me finding myself face to face with a 2m high deer fence and no way through. ‘Back here, over this fence!’, went the cry, and I grabbed the twine to lift my leg over before an electric shock sent me flying backwards in surprise. ‘Cross the gully!’, ‘But there’s a river there!’, ‘It’s not a river, it’s a stream!’ went our exclamations, before we finally hauled ourselves back onto a track, still trying to work out which way to run next. With precious minutes ticking by to midnight, the record seemed to hang agonisingly in the balance, but at exactly that moment the lights of two torches appeared from above, and with them the very welcome figures of Sasha and Ali. We raced along with them leading the way – I’d never have believed I could still run like that if I hadn’t needed to – passing through a field of sleeping cows, and finally reaching my starting point at 23:48 (although by the time I’d worked out how to stop my new watch it was 23:49:02, so that’s the official time).

(photo Graham Nash)

It was an exciting and memorable end to an incredible day, which I was fortunate to spend in the best of company – talented runners all, and equally great friends. I was delighted to have given it everything, and to have persevered when it started to hurt and doubts were creeping in. I’m pleased there is now an official ladies 24-hour Munro round, and I have no doubt that the figure of 29 will only be temporary, as others take on the challenge for themselves.

Rigby Round

Described by some as the ‘connoisseur’s round’, the Rigby Round is a circuit of 18 Munros in the vast and tundra-like wilderness of the Cairngorm mountain range. The route was first completed in 1988 by Mark Rigby solo-unsupported in 22 hours and 44 minutes, including 2 hours spent sheltering in bothies from terrible weather. The spirit of that inaugural round inspired subsequent attempts in the same minimalist style, and it is now suggested that the route is completed solo and unsupported, ideally with no prior reconnoitre.

At 3am on Saturday 19th June, I touched the Norwegian Stone outside Glenmore Lodge, and set off anticlockwise around the loch. My last big challenge had been the PTL race in 2019. With a baby and a pandemic between then and now, this was to be my first big run for almost 2 years, and I was excited by the adventure it promised.  
 
I made good progress on the run out to Braeriach, and felt strong on the climb, buoyed by the brilliant pink sky of dawn. As I reached the summit the cloud came in, and visibility dropped to a few metres. Given the excellent forecast, including “80% chance of cloud free Munros”, I was hopeful that the mist would burn off as the morning progressed. I pulled out my compass and continued into the murk of the summit plateau. The cloud lifted for my next Munro, Sgor Gaoith, but settled back in for the steady run across to the gentle top of Mullach Clach a'Bhlair. 

I ticked off Beinn Bhrotain, came back over Monadh Mor and then dropped down before re-ascending to the ridge of Sgurr an Lochain Uaine, Cairn Toul, and Devil’s Point. I enjoyed the technical challenge of the rocky path, but the mist removed all sense of space, and felt oddly claustrophobic. I was glad to drop out of the cloud on my descent to Corrour, although the steep ascent awaiting me to Carn a'Mhaim loomed large, and I squinted to make out the best line up through the crags above. 

At this point I was running roughly to the splits of Sam Alexander, who’d finished in 19:36. However, as I started to climb again, it began to rain. I dragged and slithered my way up the waterlogged gulley and my mood fell as I re-entered the mist and my field of vision closed in. With my hopes of a fast finish fading, I started to question my ability to complete at all. Perhaps I wasn’t cut out for this stuff anymore? What was I doing up here in this isolating fog, when my children were in the valley below? I reached the summit of Ben Macdui, passing several hunched shadows of figures on the summit expanse. With cold fingers I took a bearing for the descent, failing to find the obvious path that should have been there. I stopped to put on a warm mid-layer, hat and gloves, then muddled my way through to the climb for Derry Cairngorm. By Beinn Mheadhoin I’d warmed up, and things were seeming more optimistic, although I was aware that I’d lost a chunk of time in the preceding hour. 

A representative view from the day. 

The cloud cleared as I descended between heather and boulders into the valley, and for the next 90 minutes I delighted in my ability to see the landscape. Beinn Bhreac was a long plod over marshy ground to pick up a track, before retracing my steps towards the ascent of Beinn a’Bhuird. To my disappointment the cloud swirled in again then, and I spent several minutes on the plateau searching for the summit cairn, which I knew must be only metres away. I pushed on towards Ben Avon, once again on a bearing, and now heading into wind and rain. With evening approaching, I wondered whether what I was doing was sensible, feeling far removed from any hint of civilisation in the hostile weather and dim light. 

Turning towards home was a boost for morale, although my pace had dropped, and progress over the tussocky peat hags seemed grindingly slow. Thankfully, my fastest option for getting back was now to complete the round, so I plodded on. I summited Ben a’Chorainn, descended to the Fords of Avon, and climbed Bynack More, hearing my phone bedtime reminder tune (one can but try!) as I neared the summit at 10pm. I kept my eyes glued to the compass bearing on the descent, promising myself hot tea and dry socks in a couple of hours’ time. As I neared the valley, the sound of the river rose to meet me and I paused to assess the view that was emerging from the mist. My tired brain struggled to match the landmarks below to my supposed position, and I turned the map around a couple of times to try and make things fit. Why was there a big expanse of water over in the valley to the right? And where was the loch I was supposed to be above? With a sinking feeling, I realised that I must have descended the wrong spur, and was now almost back at the Fords of Avon.  

The light was nearly gone, and I fell thigh-deep into a bog as I tried to contour across, vainly trying to save height. I gave up, put on a head torch and dropped to the river, where I began my gradual climb to the saddle and thereon to Caingorm. The night was dark for mid-summer, and the patches of snow stood out eerily in the foggy light of my headlamp, as I climbed straight up alongside the sound of the swollen stream.  

At the summit I sat for a minute leaning against the weather station, then filled my mouth with sweets and started the long descent, knees angrily chiming in protest. As I stumbled into holes, rocks and heather, I cursed my decision to follow the ski lift down from the restaurant – there might be a good line in daylight, but I certainly couldn’t see one now.  I was relieved to finally reach the road, and its promise of an end. 

After 22 hours and 19 minutes of running (72.5 miles, 21,142 ft ascent), I finally touched the Norwegian Stone for the second time. It had been the longest time I’d been away from Bryn since he was born, the longest solo run I’d ever done (even on the Spine, I came to checkpoints at 50-mile intervals), and certainly the longest time I’d ever spent running on a compass bearing! I’d made plenty of mistakes, and I hadn’t been fast, but I was proud of myself for persevering. I slowly got up, and hobbled down the road towards the warm light of the van, where at least one person was still awake to greet me. 

Tired but happy to be done.

Postscript: Little did I know that some 24 hours before me, Viv Scott (an Edinburgh friend) and Oli Johnson (a Dark Peak friend) had individually set off from the Norwegian Stone on their own Rigby Round attempts. Making use of good conditions that day both had completed, with Oli finishing in an incredible new record time of 17 hours 13 minutes. Simply astonishing!  

Bump and Baby, Second Time Around

Fuelled by months of lockdown and no racing, the summer of 2020 saw UK long distance hill running records toppling at a staggering rate. Decades-old records were broken not once, but twice in a season, the classic rounds all changed hands, and new ones emerged. 

Meanwhile, I was delighted to walk the Pentland Skyline route (26.6km, 1890m ascent, course record Angela Mudge 2:42:29) in a little over 7 hours. It was you see, the first hill day I’d had in months, and I was doing it in the company of my 4-week-old baby son, Bryn. We had a couple of breastfeeding stops on the way in the heather, and I celebrated at the finish with lemonade, tea and ice cream. It was good to feel tired again from physical exercise, rather than the absolute exhaustion which I’d experienced at times during this second pregnancy. 

During my first pregnancy I enjoyed running, and even occasional racing, right up to the day our daughter Rowan was born. In contrast, and contrary to my expectations, being pregnant felt much harder second time around. For the first 4 months I was permanently exhausted, as if I might fall asleep on my feet at any moment. I tried to keep up some form of daily run before work - partly because it helped to ease the constant nausea - but it was rarely more than 3 miles along the flat, and even that tended to involve some walking. It was during this period that I ran the only two races of this pregnancy, although in the abominable weather (Trigger) and general chaos (Devil’s Burdens Relays), my slowness didn’t really stand out. At 5 months my energy returned, but within a month I’d started to experience Braxton Hicks contractions (practice contractions for labour, it turns out that with second pregnancies they can start months in advance) whenever I went for a run. I purchased a support band for my belly, thinking that maybe less bounce would mean fewer Braxton Hicks, and it did help for a couple of weeks, but then I started to experience pelvic girdle pain. In the end, the only exercise I found myself able to do (bearing in mind that coronavirus restrictions were in full force, and so gyms and pools were shut) was running reps up the slope of the reservoir dam beside our house. For some reason, the angle made running pain-free, and it felt good to raise my heart rate a little, in the 12m of ascent each rep provided. Each day I’d aim to do a session of 20 reps, for which I always had the company of our dog Moss, sometimes even Rowan. At 36 weeks even this activity became uncomfortable, and I switched to short swims in the reservoir (by this stage in the season the water had warmed up sufficiently, since I obviously couldn’t fit in a wetsuit anymore), enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. 

Bryn was born at 41 weeks, after a drawn-out early labour of 2 days (who said second babies come faster than first babies?!). Coincidentally, Sabrina Verjee was making her way around the Wainwrights at the time, so there was a tracker to follow at all hours of the day and night, which proved to be a welcome distraction. Thankfully Bryn’s birth was without complications, and we returned home later the same day to start life as a family of four. 

I waited until almost 6 weeks postnatally to attempt any running after Bryn was born, which is how long it took for my pelvic girdle pain to settle down. In the meantime, I followed advice from the postnatal physiotherapist I had visited after Rowan was born and worked on my pelvic floor and abdominal muscles. (I subsequently visited her again, for my ‘mummy MOT’ after Bryn; I really recommend a check like this for any mum getting back into training after childbirth.) When I did start running again, it was very gradual, just short jogs interspersed with walking, letting my body guide things. At first, it felt strangely stiff and unnatural, but within a couple of weeks things had loosened up and running became more enjoyable again. At 3 months post-partum I felt ready for some more structured training, and thankfully Damian seemed pleased to coach me again. There have been a few hiccups along the way (including frustrating metatarsal pain that took a month to fully clear up), but Bryn is now almost 7 months old, and I’m beginning to feel my previous fitness and stamina creeping back. I’ve also started doing three-times-weekly live strength sessions with Strength for Endurance, which provide great motivation (especially for someone like me, who finds strength work much more appealing in company) and are great fun. Sometimes Rowan joins in, offering to ‘help’ by clasping my head on her lap during hamstring raises, or sitting on my back as I do push ups, whilst Bryn happily chews on a resistance band in the corner… 

I hope that this blog doesn’t read as a series of pregnancy complaints, it wasn’t meant to. Rather I wanted to give an honest description of the second experience, just as I did about the the action-packed first. Having children has made me incredibly happy, and I am grateful every day for my family, knowing how lucky I am. As for running, I am determined to make time for it, even in the chaos that two little ones bring (at the moment, getting out of the house is my biggest challenge running wise!). Not necessarily because I need to remain competitive, but because it makes me happy. It is my bit of daily self-care, and ultimately makes me a better mum. 

Looking ahead, it is hard to know what this year will bring. I am hoping to run the Ultra Tour Monte Rosa in September, and Konrad has an entry for the Tor des Geants the following week, which will make for an active family holiday. If races don’t go ahead, I expect we’ll see another record-breaking season on the UK long distance hill running circuit. In that case, I hope to have more ambitious targets than the Pentland Skyline this time around…