Islay Marathon

“Excuse me, but were you guys at the UTMB in Chamonix?” I’d noticed that the young lady and gentleman - although from his very bushy beard it was difficult to be sure of his actual age - sitting a few seats over from us were wearing trail shoes and a trucker cap respectively, the latter sporting a logo that looked from a distance very similar to that of the UTMB. “No,” they replied in warm, broad Yorkshire tones, “but we are on our way to a race on Islay.”

The race in question was the annual Islay Marathon, 26.2 miles/ 42.2km, that starts in the tiny little seaside village of Portnahaven, jutting out into the North Atlantic from the Scottish island’s west coast, hugs the coastline as it passes through sleepy villages like Port Charlotte and Bruichladdich, rewarding the effort with heavenly aromas of fermenting malted barley from the distillery, before turning inland at Bridgend and an almost straight-line towards Port Ellen and the finish, taking runners up and over the famed peat moors, the source of Islay whisky’s world famous smokey flavours. I hadn’t even realised that Islay held a running event let alone a full marathon and given that I had well and truly recovered from the exertions of the North Downs Way 100 the month before and was thus feeling the “run love” again, I listened on with a mix of interest and envy as our evening time Islay-bound ferry-mates told mum, dad and myself about the race. Mum and dad were already thinking “uh oh” as soon as the word “marathon” had been muttered and so were not in the least surprised when I casually enquired as to whether it might still be possible to take part, ignoring the fact that it was already about 9pm with the race due to start at 7am the very next morning. I’d all but tempered my excitement at the prospect, and the sheer ridiculousness of the thought of just doing a marathon off the cuff, when it became obvious that the organisers were not contactable at such a late stage and we wished Ben and Tammy luck for the next morning.

“Well, I actually can’t race as I’m injured,” said Tammy, “so you could take my place if you fancied.” Cue internal eye rolls from both parents as they instinctively knew what the next morning was going to see happen. “Really?! Absolutely! That would be incredible!” It still remained to be seen whether or not I’d be permitted to take another runner’s place at the twelfth hour - according to most races’ regulations such a move would be squarely against the rules - but nothing ventured, nothing gained and the worst that could happen was that I simply got to watch a race that I hadn’t even realised existed a few hours before. With that in mind, arrangements were made to meet Ben and Tammy down in Port Ellen at ungodly-o-clock in the morning, from where we followed the official race minibus to the start, leaving my folks to enjoy a holiday lie-in and relaxed start to the day, with plans for me to catch up with them after I’d (hopefully) logged a marathon.

Ben and Tammy were up in Scotland from their home in Rotherham, from where they’d driven their awesome little camper van, stopping at several points along the way, including the day before in Glasgow to take part in a very fast Park Run. They were very clearly outdoor enthusiasts and loved to explore, having driven around the fjords of Norway earlier in the year, and accomplished runners to boot. As we made our way over to Portnahaven, chatting with an ease of old friends, I joked about whether Ben was intending to “do a Killian,” referring to an account I had read of famed trail-runner, Killian Jornet smashing it on a big run to take the win the day after having run up some mountain just for the fun of it. Little did I know at the time given how self- effacing and modest he was but that is exactly what Ben had in mind. He was here to race and, if things went well, win.

Island life is such that communities are small and tight-knit. So it was on Islay, with it clear that most of the runners and supporters gathered in the small village hall that marked the start of the marathon knew each other well. However, as we had experienced from the very start of our trip through Scotland, the openness and friendliness towards visitors was genuine and effusive. Of course it was nae bother for me to substitute in for Tammy and so with that concern dismissed in a wee instant my number was pinned to my shorts and it was countdown time to the race. I figured that I might run for the first part of the race with Ben but with the gun fired and the race afoot, all I saw was Ben streak off like a gazelle at which point I parked that idea right in the “err, nope” file. Yep, Ben was definitely here to race seriously and the next time I’d see him was at the finish line.

Given that I had absolutely not trained specifically for this race, had absolutely not run it past my coach - a sackable offence in coach-athlete relationships - and it was, after all, a marathon and not just a quiet little Sunday morning pootle round the park, I had resolved myself to taking it easy and intended to focus mainly on enjoying the views and atmosphere of this unique experience. What a way to get an intro to the island and to see it up close and personal. I have always loved that about running, whether an organised event or a casual, self-motivated jog: it is a simple yet hugely effective way to just explore a place. All that’s really needed is a pair of runners and a sense of adventure and curiosity.

One thing that is abundantly clear about the Scottish islands, and Scotland in general, is that it is not very built up. In fact, most of it is wide open countryside. Islay is no different and aside from the occasional car passing - primarily supporters of runners and soooooo polite - and the hardy souls cheering us on at the simple aid stations, it was the cows and abundant sheep who were our main onlookers, the latter taking in the sight of these odd bipedals shuffling past with the kind of quizzical looks on their faces that I am used to seeing from people when you try to explain why it is you enjoy running ultramarathons.

About 10km in I became aware of a runner closing in on me and we fell in together, chatting for a large part of the course until he initially hit the wall and urged me on, catching me up and then forging on himself at my insistence as I hit the wall near the end of the race. Up from Edinburgh, where he was studying Engineering, Rory had, much like Ben and Tammy, figured that coming over to Islay for a marathon sounded like a fun thing to do and we passed the time discussing everything from triathlon and running to the merits of opting to study renewable energy generation over oil and gas.

Marathons are long enough that most runners do, at some point, find themselves butting up against their limits and, ultimately, having to push through them to the end. Whilst obviously an individual sport, it is also one of the most collegiate activities I have enjoyed, with distance runners some of the most considerate, polite and friendly folks you’ll ever meet. We look out for one another regardless of whether it’s the first time we’ve ever met or been lifelong pals.

Whilst feeling overall more rugged, windswept and open than Mull, where we’d been prior to heading over to Islay, there is a real beauty and gritty tranquility to Islay. From long sandy beaches, buttressed from the punishing Atlantic swells by hardy dunes, to cute, sheltered fishing ports, populated by the sporadically bobbing heads of seals popping up to see what the humans are up to, up to the vast horizons of the peat moors stretching towards the central hills, the island has a raw energy that is seductive. The colours are an artist’s dream, with the palette smoothly transitioning from emerald greens and turquoise of the sea, through dusky yellows, shades of green that span the colour wheel, interspersed with deep browns, verging on black, that make up the sharp lines of peat banks cut into the earth, and spotted with regal purple hues, darkening as the heather stretches itself off into the distance. The problem with running in beautiful places is that the temptation to stop and snap pictures is often too overwhelming to resist. Maybe this is one of the reasons I will probably never win a race - I am just too susceptible to the seductions of the landscapes through which I travel.

One feature of Scotland, and especially the West coast, that is all too easy to overlook and forget about is the weather, specifically the fact that it rains. A lot. We were, as it turned out, extremely fortunate on the morning of the race, with the skies gradually darkening, the winds building but ultimately remaining dry until the afternoon, long after the final runner had crossed the finish. The line itself was in Port Ellen, immediately outside Ramsay Hall, an impressive khaki-coloured stone building, named after the family who, in the 19th Century, owned many of the estates in the south of the island, and with fine views out over Kilnaughton Bay. Finish lines, regardless of the size of a race, are always the epicentre of energy and their atmosphere relies in large part to the enthusiasm of the gathered supporters as well as race organisers. In spite of it’s minnow status the Islay Marathon managed to pack in a lot of enthusiastic excitement at the finish and I heard the pounding music before it came fully into focus. It was a finish line I was more than happy to see as the final third of the race had certainly tested my mettle and I was very much in favour of stopping the running by then. Ben and Tammy were already present, Ben having smashed the previously long-held race record by storming home in an incredible time of 2.5 hours, which is just phenomenal! Even more so was the fact that he looked as though he could easily have popped
back over to the start and done it a second time. Truly a gazelle in a Yorkshireman’s clothing. He was helping out the race organisers by spotting who was approaching the finish from afar, using a pair of binoculars, thus enabling the MC of the race to offer up some personal facts and encouragement to runners as they closed the gap on the finish and a well earned rest. He then, at the end, cemented his nice-guy status by jogging out to meet the final runner and ran the final stretch with them, peeling off to let them experience the actual finish line solo. A fitting end to what felt from the start like a real family, community affair.

The Scottishness of the whole morning extended beyond the finish line and into Ramsay Hall itself, where we were treated to a veritable smorgasbord of delicious food, drink and the attentive focus of volunteers eager to make sure we got something warm and nourishing on board. I caught up with Rory over a cup of tea and congratulated him on a fantastic last-minute finding-of-form as he posted an impressive sprint into town, and once feeling as though my legs and I were on friendly terms again hopped in the car, driving the few kilometres back up the coast, past three of the most famous Islay distilleries - Laphroag, Lagavullin and Ardbeg, next to which our cosy little AirBNB rental was situated - to pick up my folks and return to the hall in time for the prize-giving ceremony. We have family connections on Islay and it had occurred to me that there was the possibility that I might well be running alongside people to whom I have a familial connection unbeknownst to either of us. Dad had spent many of his summers as a boy in Port Ellen itself and it was clearly a wonderful trip down memory lane as he pointed out landmark after landmark that in some cases had changed little whilst in others significantly, but overall had been parked in something of a suspended animation. It is ultimately the people who make a place what it is and we found chatting to locals and visitors alike at the hall as relaxed and natural as if we’d been part of the community ourselves all these years. We even picked up some information about the whereabouts of our family members, whom none of us had met before, through good old local knowledge, info that proved the key to meeting up with them, Cilla Black long-lost relatives reunite style, that very afternoon.

The reason that the Islay Marathon even exists is to mark the memory each year of a member of the community, Menzies MacAffer, who had served in the Royal Marines and was himself a keen marathon runner. His brother spoke a few words on the day and handed out the prizes, which in addition to a lovely glass trophy also included a bottle of local single malt whisky - what else?! Whilst the main prizewinners took home a large bottle of Ardbeg each, each and every finisher got their own trophy and a small, or wee, bottle of Ardbeg whisky themselves. A lovely little touch and a very special way to kick off our visit to this very special island and corner of Scotland.

Final Race Time = 3 hours, 44 minutes, 42 seconds

More information on the Islay Marathon, including how to enter can be found on the official website at http://www.islaymarathon.co.uk

The Islay Marathon features in the short holiday video I made from our time on the island as well…

Dubai Marathon

There are certain things you wouldn’t expect to see at the starting line of an ultra-marathon. A man-sized Gorilla, decked out in a Camelbak and sweatband is high on that list. Marathons, however, especially international races, such as Dubai, are a different story.

Whilst I have lived in Dubai for the past 7 years and am a keen runner, having run far longer than marathon distance numerous times, the Dubai Marathon had never really appealed as a race to enter. This was for a couple of reasons. The first is the course, which in spite of Dubai being a fascinating, picturesque city with some very distinct districts, a course through which would, in my opinion, be exciting and really showcase the place, chooses instead to limit runners to a single stretch of the beach road and even has runners do laps. As it is a stretch of the city that I have already run umpteen times before in training the appeal of paying for the pleasure has never really been there. And the second? Well, it’s pretty pricey to enter. At US$150 its not a cheap day out and I simply preferred to spend that kind of money on more unique races and experiences. So why do it this year?

The answer is, partly, that I needed to. Well, to be more precise, I needed a qualifying time in an officially recognised marathon in order to be eligible to take part in my A-race of the year: the Comrades Marathon in South Africa. Whilst I have run marathons before, most recently in Islay, Scotland and in both Iron distance triathlons I have completed, none of those races were considered ‘official’ and so Dubai made the most sense given that I already live here and, well, it is my home race so there was always a small bit of me that kind of felt I had to do it just because it would have seemed odd to eventually leave having not. So, credit card swiped and I had myself an entry.

Goals for Race Day

Going into race day I knew that I had the fitness to get round the straight, flat course in a reasonably decent time, easily meeting the cut-off for the Comrades qualification, but exactly what time I could expect was less clear. My initial thought was that a time of 3.5 hours would feel decent and so that was the number that sat in the back of my mind. However, there was also the nice, round, solitary ‘3’ that I couldn’t quite ignore. Was it plausible to be able to run a blinder and bring it home in 3 hours? It would be a stretch, especially as my average over the course of my training runs was about 12km per hour, but who knew: race conditions can sometimes lead to a step-up in overall performance and so if I found myself having a really strong day then maybe, just maybe, it was doable.

Marathon running, relative to ultras and especially triathlon, is a wonderfully simple undertaking in terms of the kit required to take along. Essentially all I really needed to rock up with was a pair of running shoes and a go-getter attitude. I had debated with myself whether or not to wear my trail hydration vest in order to be better able to carry nutrition and perhaps even my GoPro or 360-degree camera but ultimately decided against as it would add unnecessary weight and, well, was I really going to be filming or snapping pics during the race? I had vaguely assumed that there would be aid stations providing both fluids and some sort of nutrition but figured it always makes sense to rely as much on your own preparation as possible and so grabbed the final few energy gels I had at home just to be sure. I was glad I did as the official marathon aid stations had nothing but water, with a couple offering up Pocari Sweat (an electrolyte-containing sports drink) as well, but absolutely no real energy options. I am sure there will have been runners who might have assumed that a race as big as Dubai would provide a wide range of food and drink options at the aid stations, especially if they were used to taking part in something like an Ironman event, but who would have potentially found their race go to ground as they hit the wall. Running out of energy early on in the course of a marathon would certainly make for a miserable following few hours. Then again, maybe this is normal for marathons and I am unfairly judging the event based on my experience of triathlons and ultras.

Race Day

Aware of the road closures and assuming that the parking situation was probably going to get a little snug close to the start line, I opted instead to park at work and walk the few kilometres. This had the distinct advantage, as well, of meaning I could make use of the familiar facilities at the clinic and thus avoid the usual bum-rush (literally) of race-venue loos pre-race. Plus, a 4km walk is a pretty decent pre-race warm-up.

It was clear as I neared Umm Suqeim Road and saw the spectator stands and start/ finish arches come into view that this was indeed a big sporting event, with all the media and commercial activity one would expect. The air had an excited hum about it, garnished with the jovial sounds of a large group of colourfully dressed Ethiopian supporters singing and dancing enthusiastically in the stands. Runners were all around, in various stages of pre-race preparation, from those doing short warm-up jogs, others looking like pros wrapped up in space blankets and high-tech external layers, ready to whip them off at the last moment, to groups just hanging around, chatting and taking it all in. I found myself sitting next to a gorilla, or to be precise a guy by the name of Angus MacKinnon who was decked out head to toe in a gorilla costume, complete with Camelbak, a piece of kit that he was absolutely going to need in that get-up! We got to chatting - because, well, how can you not strike up a conversation with someone dressed as a gorilla, right?! - and it transpired that he was running for charity, raising funds for mental health organisations, a worthy cause. After helping him out with his mask and headband placement, and having the obligatory selfie snapped, we both ambled towards the start line. I soon discovered what it was like to hang with a celebrity as Angus was inundated with requests for photos and was drawing a decent amount of attention and comments, the prize for which has to go to one genius who advised Angus that he was “going to be very hot in that.” Yah! Probably. Cheers. Needless to say Mr Gorilla and I were on very different race plans and so I bid him farewell and good luck just as the starter pistol sounded and we were off. I later learned that he came home in 4 hours 56 minutes and judging by the finish line pics I saw was looking remarkably animated. Kudos to him as that must have been a very sticky, uncomfortable five hours!

Early Stages

As I rounded the first corner of the route, onto King Salman Bin Abdulaziz Al Said Street, a stretch of road home to a number of impressively huge beachside palaces, and started to weave my way through the runners immediately ahead of me I was feeling great. Ever mindful of the trap that one can fall into during the early stages of a long race, that being to go out too hard and too fast on account of feeling fresh, I was initially watching my pace but then decided that I would simply run based on my perceived effort. The fact is that I was feeling comfortable with the pace I was going, which was decent and yet was not demanding much of me either. If I could sustain that kind of pace then who knew, maybe a 3 hour marathon was doable after all.

Returning back up towards the starting line I was able to see just how many runners I was ahead of and how large the field was today. I also slurped down the first of my gels for the day, eager to keep the energy levels high and to stave off, for as long as possible, the ‘wall-hitting’ that I knew was lurking out there somewhere. Running past Umm Suqeim Street and thus concluding the initial loop of the day, Souk Madinat was to be found to my left and the view of the Burl Al Arab immediately in front. It was at this point that a voice I recognised called out from the sidelines. “Don’t lean back Chris. Lean forward a bit.” Lee, ultra-running coach and all-things-running nerd (I am sure he’d agree), was out supporting one of his coached clients and gave me some very helpful advice. I hadn’t even realised that I was indeed leaning back a bit and so suddenly mindful of my posture and vowing to correct it I found myself actually gaining some free speed, which was superb. This additional speed saw me comfortably power up Jumeirah Beach Road, sailing through the kilometres, round the Sunset Mall turnabout and back towards home and the start of the final lap.

Halfway

The halfway point (21km) came into view and as I crossed it, still feeling strong, I glanced at my watch to see that I had covered 21km in a little over 90 minutes. That was about what my half- marathon PB is and so, at that point in the race, I did seriously consider that were I able to pull a negative split out of the bag then a 3 hour marathon was possible.

I knew that most people report hitting the wall in marathons at about the 28km mark and so as I approached the aforementioned point I was sensitive to the tell-tale signs. I didn’t really feel a significant impact until about 30km, when the sensation was of somebody having suddenly let some metaphorical air out of my metaphorical tyres. Far from running a negative split on this race I realised that I was absolutely going to be slower over the second half and so I made peace with the whole ‘3-hour’ business and settled into just making it to the finish and not stopping. My main fear, other than well and truly running out of energy, was the dreaded spectre of muscle cramp. As I felt the unmistakable niggle and twinge of some mild cramping - almost like a warning shot across the bows - I wished that I had brought along some salt or, preferably, that the aid stations contained the option. It was at this point that I slowed down through the next aid station, picking up a couple of cups of Pocari Sweat on account of knowing that they had some salt content, and walked a few metres to actually ensure some of it went into my mouth and not just down my front. I can’t say the concern about impending cramp ever left me and I fully expected my legs to seize up at some point between kilometre 32 and the finish. Thankfully that never happened and as the 40km marker came and went I felt an uptick in my pace. I have never had a problem finishing strong in races as there always seems to be that little wellspring of reserve energy, mixed with a good dose of adrenaline and relief, that makes itself available when striking distance from a finish. Being able to veer left at the fork, towards the finish chute rather than right, onto another loop of the course, was wonderful and as the finish came into view - further away than I’d imagined and hoped, to be honest, I gritted my teeth and dug in for as strong and fast a finish as I could muster.

Marathon = Done

I’d done it. My first official ‘big’ marathon complete and in a time of just under 3 hours 15 minutes, splitting the difference between my ‘awesome day maybe-goal’ and the 'what I would have expected to be able to run if everything went well’ time. Cannot really ask for a better result at the end of the day. With my well-earned medal strung around my neck and my legs now well and truly abandoning any attempt at normalcy, I hobbled through the snack station, plopped myself down on a bench with a few familiar faces and did what we all do at such times by quickly reviewing, for the benefit of our fellow pavement-botherers, how our individual race went. Sitting for too long immediately after finishing a race like that is usually a mistake and so after a short while I gathered up my stuff and made a much slower return walk back to the clinic and the start of an afternoon of very welcome rest and recuperation. Cue an hour and a half in the fine company of Norma-tec, followed by, well, not much moving, whilst binge watching a BBC sitcom. Gotta love that post-race R&R.

The best bit of the whole day was that I now had my qualifying time for Comrades and so it is now all about continuing my training and preparation for June. I am heading out with a team of at least 24 runners, under the banner of Tailor Made Africa, a UK travel company that specialises in, well, Africa, including the famed Comrades Marathon. All roads now, it would appear, lead to Pietermaritzburg and the start of a truly legendary event. Cannot wait!

FINAL MARATHON TIME = 3 hours, 14 minutes, 49 seconds