After 8 months of relentless graft on the stomp, we made it.

1 flight, 3 trains and a lift from one of my fellow nutcases Niel, and I found myself in the beautiful seaside village of Portpatrick on the far west coast of Scotland.

Gazing out over the Irish Sea, there was an antithetical serenity to the scene - poised against the insane challenge that lay ahead the following morning.

Niel and I registered for the race, got our kit checked, and made a swift exit stage left to get back to the town of Stranraer where we both were staying.

Operation Food-In-The-Boiler was go - followed by a wee wander along the seafront to calm the nerves and focus the mind for what was to come.

Brimming with night-before-Christmas energy, I made my way back to the hotel to hit the hay for my final sleep in an actual bed …

The Calm Before the Storm

With neither myself nor Niel getting much kip, we made our way to the start line early doors to get ourselves sorted before the crowds arrived. Niel said ta to his family, and with that found our place in the early-morning hubbub surrounding the start line.

Over the hour that followed, our fellow Athletes trickled into the scene - most accompanied by friends, family and crew to help with last minute packing, water-filling and general bits and bobs.

At 0540, a Piper made his way to the line and filled the cold morning air with that familiar Scottish timbre - a regal soundtrack that added to an atmosphere as excited as it was apprehensive.

Before too long, we made our way to the start line eager to get moving due to the chill hanging in the air. Crowds of supporters lined either side of the road leading to a rugged staircase that marked the start of the 220-mile Southern Upland way.

The only thing left was a quick brief from the GB Team, and a lacklustre countdown marred by nervous energy - and the field of 172 Runners were off…

Portpatrick to St John’s Town (0-67)

Our journey begun following the cliff north of Portpatrick along a gently undulating coast path.

A rugged coastline reminiscent of the homeland, the first 5 miles brought with it some outrageous views set against a bright blue sky and piercing sunrise - the highlight being Killantringan Lighthouse.

As the route began to head inland towards Stranraer, and the dense field of Athletes started to dissipate, I found myself settling into a good rhythm early on - helped by a combination of easy trails and country roads to break the feet in nice and easy.

Following a decent road section and some good running, it was a swift in and out of the first checkpoint at Castle Kennedy straight onto the next stretch - starting with a picturesque plod through the grounds of White Loch.

At this stage, I was settled in a consistent strategy as per the plan; making the most of long flat sections while marching on inclines to conserve energy - something that served me well as the race went on.

The trail began to get a wee bit more boggy as we approached the aid station at New Luce, but nothing compared to what was to come in the night; and some well maintained trails on the way to Glentrool allowed for the Merman’s to dry off in between the more moist sections.

As the afternoon went on, I teamed up with a lovely bloke called Connor for the first time. Connor was an experienced Ultrarunner and fellow southerner, and we shared a good 20 mile stretch with considerable ease winding through a forestry commission area.

The long stretch between checkpoints called for a refill from one of the many streams populating the area - and having had some hot temperatures and a fair amount of time exposed to the rare Scottish sun, I had a quick dip in the stream to cool off before slowly stomping my way into CP4 as the sun set.

A day out in the sun combined with about 5 miles without water before the CP, I put my head down for a quick 10 minute Power Nap as per my race plan - followed by an MOT on the foot tape and some soup. Connor was long gone into the night, so I took my time prepping the rig.

Then came the Night from Hell…

SJT to Sanquar (67-95)

I’d read about the infamous 27 mile stretch between Dalry & Sanquar on previous race reports - so I was semi-expecting the first night to get a bit fruity.

Although I headed out of the checkpoint into the darkness on my Tod, I soon caught up with two lads who were well versed on the route and decided to team up with them for the night shift.

As the elevation decided to get more spicy, and the terrain began to deteriorate, I started to realise this was going to be a long night - despite being in class company with Steven and Neil.

The trail became more and more obscure, with many of the paths and trods being completely hidden amidst overgrown fields and increasingly tricky bogs.

At times we were trudging through shin-deep mud, desperately trying to avoid getting the feet saturated - but to no avail. All under the ominous cover of complete darkness .

Although the stretch itself was undoubtedly the worst trail I’ve ever run, there was something pretty cool about being in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night. It was serene, a quietness only broken by the squelch of each step taken.

Every now and then we’d look back into the dead of night and see the occasional flicker of a headlamp far in the distance - a fleeting reminder that we were at least heading in the right direction.

The first night dragged like nothing else - and felt like an endless slog free of let up. By the time we finally reached a solid farm trail, I had fallen asleep multiple times while running and tripped ass over tit in the process. Multiple times.

Tired, dejected and feeling completely humbled by the bogs, we marched on as daylight began to break - having worked all the way through the night for the best part of 10 hours.

One final descent, and probably the boggiest of all bogs, and we made our way into the sleepy town of Sanquar and CP5.

At this point, I was convinced I was done - and probably the closest point to DNF-ing during the whole race…

Into the Mountains (95-122)

The smiling faces at Sanquar did wonders for the spirits - and combined with the most beautiful cuppa, spurred me on to get back out there and put the night behind us.

This section to Wanlockhead was the shortest in the entire race - but with a saucy looking elevation profile, I knew it was best to take it nice and steady. 

Climbing out of Sanquar, there were some stunning views drowned in morning sun - a scene that served to further lift the mind out of the shitter. With a renewed sense of hope and positivity, this turned out to be one of my strongest stretches having become accustomed to steep climbs and descents in the training.

However, having been unable to transport my running poles due to hand-luggage restrictions on the plane up, I was relying on some hiking poles bought two days before in Glasgow - which turned out to be entirely useless in the end!

The Black Diamond poles I was using decided to have a bit of a party - failing to stay fixed at one specific length, which heightened anxiety a wee bit when sending it down the descents off the fells.

That said, in the renewed positive frame of mind, I took it as a ‘shit happens’ kind of deal and cracked on. Not ideal, but not the end of the world.

A quick turnaround at Wanlockhead (pizza and chips at 10am in the morning - class), it was straight into the biggest climb of the race to kick off a 20-mile mountain stretch.

Lowther Hill stands at 725m, and is the highest point of the SUW - marked by the strange and infamous Golf Ball atop the summit. 3 miles of steep ascent out of the checkpoint to reach, but worth every last step.

With the mid-morning sun beating down strong, I made decent progress to the summit before taking a minute to have a wee rest and admire the view: a 360* vantage point across the Southern Uplands.

It was one of the moments on the course where I was filled with gratitude - for the crazy places this beautiful sport takes me. I was looking out over mile upon mile of immense rolling hills, lochs and farmland - in a moment of complete solitude. Not a soul in sight.

The peak marked the start of a challenging section of brutal climbs and tricky descents - which I embraced head on as a strength of mine (albeit made trickier by the shithouse poles on my person…)

Along this section, around 10 miles from the checkpoint, I realised I had made a fatal error by not filling up 3 of my 6 soft flasks - leaving me without any fluids for the remainder of the stretch.

I kept an eye out for streams, but nothing that fit the bill for a safe refill - so I stuck it out trying to conserve as much energy as possible in the face of blistering heat and a section of trail with barely any shade.

As I started to waiver, I decided to drop under a rare shady spot under a tree for a quick nap in an attempt to recharge for the push to CP7 without fluids.

However, it only made matters worse - and it soon dawned on me that I was going to have to Death-March it all the way to Beattock.

A dehydration bonk is the worst feeling in the world. I was trudging along the trail in a state of pure misery until a lovely bloke called Rick caught up with me and decided to walk with me to the checkpoint.

His company was a lifesaver, and served to distract from the ever-growing drunkenness of dehydration hitting us like a sack of spuds. Even so, the long descent into CP7 brought with it another wave of DNF-age, in part due to my bullsh*t poles snapping after a day of steady deterioration on their part.

As the sun set, I made my way into the village hall after floundering around trying to find the checkpoint in a state of delirium. Dejected, frustrated tae fuck and teetering on the brink…

Night #02 - Beattock to Boston (122-139)

I decided to hit the sack after reaching Beattock for a quick 20 - after which I smashed a pair of pot noodles and a brew. The usual foot re-lube, re-tape and re-plaster, and we were ready to go.

One of the GB Team had heard about my pole sitch, and offered his for the remainder of the race - an insane act of kindness without which I would not have gotten through the second half of the race. Grateful doesn’t cut it!

With the Holy Trifecta of Nap, Food & New Socks in the bank, I felt another wave of positivity heading out of the checkpoint at around 2030 - just enough time to get to the top of the first fell in time to see a killer sunset. Clear skies meant that the light stuck around until just after 2200 - but bought with it some spicy winds.

The first night had been the closest thing to hell I’ve ever experienced, so anything was going to be an improvement on the second crack at it. I knew this stretch was going to be a hilly job, so coupled with the time of day I set a clear brief for the night - just keep moving forward.

5km of climbing out of the checkpoint, and I was out in the wilderness - amidst a sea of black only broken by the single beam of my headtorch. Once the climb levelled out, I got some decent running in on the plateau despite the insane wind kicking up around me - and it was only when I stopped to switch flasks that I realised I was running with a sheer vertical drop around 200m on my right…

I remember reading about this section on the course - not one for those with vertigo or fear of heights - but one rewarded with incredible views. But, in the all-encompassing darkness, it was a rewardless task save for the clear sky delivering a stunning array of stars.

What followed was a few miles of slightly shit-the-bed running, with knowledge of what lay to one side of the path - and exacerbated by the steep descents and dodgy trails on this particular stretch.

Adrenaline coursing through the veins, once I had returned to a slightly lower, flatter section of the fells, I found a wee inlet on the side of the trail that looked like a deliberate attempt to carve out a bench. I decided to take the opportunity of shelter from the previous miles of wind - and took a moment just to lie down.

For one of the first times in the race, I was looking directly up and saw the stars in all their glory set against the night sky - the kind you see pictures of in the far north of Norway. 

A moment of reflection where I could actually appreciate where I was - miles and miles from civilisation, on my own in the dead of night (around 0030) gazing upon the most incredible natural spectacle.

I spent about 20 minutes just watching and appreciating the beauty of that moment - sounds wanky, I know, but it was honestly one of the most special parts of my race.

A stark contrast to the carnage that was to ensue shortly thereafter on the approach to CP8…

The mountain section was succeeded by a 6-7 mile stretch of descending road to Boston - running parallel with a gently flowing river to the right. Having been running for the best part of 4 hours and 16ish miles, I was starting to get pretty crusty around the eyes - and I could feel my stride getting wavier as the road wound down.

People had warned me that hallucinations are pretty inevitable on races that go beyond a single night shift - but nothing had prepared me for just how real they were going to be.

Punch-drunk, swerving side to side and sporadically nodding off mid-run, I had a panic when I realised I was out of water with 3-ish miles to the checkpoint.

But as I continued plodding along, on the other side of the river I saw a pub with some lights on and a wee hubbub of people having a drink outside the front.

At 2:30am. Five or six miles from any semblance of civilisation. On a Monday morning…

Anyway, the all-too-real scene provided the solution to my lack of water - so in an attempt to hydrate in my delirious state, I put one leg over the drywall between the road and the river; only to realise there was no solid ground. Only the flow of the river below.

It was only then I looked up and realised it had all been an illusion - driven by the brutal combo of sleep deprivation and mild dehydration. I swiftly made it back onto the road, and did everything in my power to try and stay awake while running - with probably a 50% success rate, every now and then startled after nodding off and veering into the bushes.

A few minor hallucinations later, including some non-existent people outside a caravan whom I asked for water, and we had made it to relative safety of CP8 at Etterick - greeted with the usual smiley faces and offers of beans on toast, cheese on toast, or beans and cheese on toast.

The latter was the choice. No-brainer. After rehydrating, I knew it was time to bank some Z’s after the crazy shit I had seen on the road, and put my head down for a half hour.

When I woke up at around 0400, I felt like a new man - ready to attack the next section…

The Surge - Etterick to Lauder (139-185)

After what had been an incredibly eventful day 2 - rife with mistakes that I knew I had to learn from moving forward - I left the checkpoint as daylight was creeping into the picture; feeling focused and ready to attack the day.

The body felt reborn after spending a decent stint at the checkpoint - loading up on tea, toast and taking my time on giving the feet some TLC. On the jog back down to the trail, I had a good feeling that today was the day to push the pedal down and gain some headway. 

The Goal: Lauder (180mi) by sundown. 45 miles for the days work.

As I headed into the hills at 0500, I felt a wave of positivity that contrasted the ominous-looking clouds rolling in from the west - and I clocked the first 5 miles to St Mary’s Loch with relative ease, passing a few people on the way.

There was a good 3 mile stretch of quality trail lining SML, which allowed for some good running and set the rhythm for the rest of the day.

The wave continued to build as we left the loch and headed into the fells as the weather closed in - welcome respite from the relentless heat of the first two days. 

Rain coming down with increasing force, I continued to build momentum through a hilly section of moorland - a weather/terrain combo I had become closely accustomed to on the South Downs. 

I kept a close eye on the body as I was aware it was going to be a long day, but it showed no sign of slowing down and I kept up the relentless pace through the beautiful hills of Traquair.

I had managed to catch up and pass many of the guys who I had run with on the first day; and after a couple of long stretches in my own company it was nice to see some familiar faces again.

By the first CP of the day, I had managed to climb 8 places into 6th - and with Connor sat down getting some TLC from his Team, we decided to share some more miles together on the next stretch towards Galashiels.

A brutal section of terrain followed - passing the Three Bretheren via some tough trails on the feet: lots of loose rock and scree that full on shredded what remained of my feet..

That said, I continued to ride the wave and rocked on down into Farnilee before rising back up into the hills before Galashiels. A few navigation errors on my end cost me a wee bit of time, but managed to hold my place in the field.

A solid morning’s work came to an close upon reaching CP10 at Galashiels. Having picked up the pace for the morning, and potentially not spent as much time as I should have done re-dressing the feet at the mid-point, inspection of the puppies showed significant deterioration.

The onset of trench foot became apparent - and as a means of omitting the issue further down the line, I spent a bit longer than planned to let the feet dry out a wee bit. Although I lost a few places, it was an invaluable opportunity to improve where my feet were at, get some quality scran in the tank (in the form of a beautiful few bowls of chilli), and grab 15 mins of shuteye.

When I woke up and got going out of the CP, the weather had lifted to give more sun and heat - so I double checked the water stores just in case.

This section started with a beautiful jaunt alongside the River Tweed, before heading into a climb up and out of Galashiels. The first ascent brought with it some serious dizziness - in spite of a good feed and drink at the checkpoint. Put it down to a long day of work, but I marched a fair portion of the long climb out of Gala so as to try and shift the bonk.

I would say this was one of the 2 times I was closest to giving up, only beaten by the aftermath of the nightmarish first night shift.

Sure enough, though, it passed. A recurring theme throughout the race - waves of complete brain fog and utter exhaustion that were easy to overthink as potentially race-ending. 

However, what I had learned was that if you can weather the storm, then sunshine will eventually come - and you come out the other side no worse off than you were before. A temporary glitch in the perfectly functioning machine.

The final 5 miles to Lauder gave for some smooth running along farm tracks and country lanes, which were welcome for the feet after being on the receiving end of a proper beating earlier on in the day.

I made my way into the penultimate checkpoint feeling pretty good all things considered - ready for a wee rest before sending it on what would be the final night shift.

Into the Abyss - Lauder to L’Formacus (185-198)

The usual routine went down at the CP - hot food, this time in the form of 3 x cheese and ham toasties; re-applying moleskins to the feet; and a 20 minute Power Nap on the camp beds.

Just before going down for a snooze, I saw a familiar face come through the door - Martin Heggie. Martin had been on my tail for a couple of stretches, and had been joking all day when we crossed paths at CP’s that he’d catch me up eventually.

Sure enough, he did; and we decided to team up for the night shift - which would involve a 15-mile jaunt over gently rolling farmland to the final checkpoint at the Fishing Lodge.

Martin was an experienced Ultrarunner, particularly well versed on the most prolific/notorious races in the UK, notably completing the Winter Spine last year. After hearing about all of his various antics over the years, I couldn’t help but feel pretty privileged to be sharing some miles with an incredible bloke.

That night, as tough as it was, will go down as one of the highlights of my race - not only due to the cracking company, but also witnessing a meteor shower about 3 miles out from the checkpoint, about 0100 in the morning.

Some fairly easy-going terrain on the stretch was again welcome on the feet, which I could feel starting to suffer big time - and made a mental note to ensure solid strapping and TLC at the final checkpoint.

Some strong running on the final descent into CP12 topped off a solid section - albeit one which had taken its toll on both myself and Martin physically.

Hardly surprising having surpassed the 200mi mark!

Over the Top to Co’Path (198-225)

The Fishing Lodge was undoubtedly my favourite checkpoint of the lot - even though I was also undoubtedly in the most amount of pain!

A wee cabin on the shores of the Watch Water Resevoir, I had heard of the infamous CP12 cooked breakfast in GBU Lore - something which had definitely helped mentally through the last stretch.

Sure enough, upon entering the checkpoint, I was staring at a Full Scottish in front of me (at 0130 in the morning…) - which went I subsequently inhaled to put a dent in the deficit I was carrying.

At this point, mentally I was sound - but physically, the feet needed some decent rest after getting pounded all day. I could feel the skin flaking off, blistered tae fuck and in need of a good dry.

As such, I went and grabbed some Z’s and let Martin crack on to the final stretch solo - as he was eager to get out for a quick turnaround.

With the relative luxury of a separate room to sleep in, I grabbed 20 minutes of the good stuff and headed down to prepare for the final 20 mile stretch.

A quick brew to warm up, and we were off: the final 20 miles to Cockburnspath.

The initial steps out of the checkpoint were agonising, as the feet were swollen so much so that it took a good 10 minutes to squeeze them into the FiveFingers for the final stretch.

However, within minutes of pounding some 1’s & 2’s, it dawned on me that I still had a fair amount left in the tank - and a good 4 mile road section was a perfect opportunity to try and catch up with Martin while putting some ground between the others who had come into the Lodge while I napped!

The road snaked gently down into the sleepy village of Longformacus, before taking a detour up into the hills and onto the trail - with some low lying cloud making visibility harder and harder the higher I went (in complete darkness, I should add…)

Once the climb levelled out, my tired eyes did their best to navigate the tricky, seemingly pathless section of farmland through the thick mist that enveloped me. A few minor navigation errors, but nothing to cause too much damage.

The fog cleared just as first light began to break, and I clocked in some decent running atop the farmland - initially sparked by noticing some disgruntled looking cows eyeing me up like a cheetah to its prey. With 210 miles and ~9000m vertical in the legs, I didn’t fancy a sprint to safety should they have chosen to pounce.

From there, the trail wound its way up and down the gently rolling hills of the Borders. A couple of hours of getting my head down, running as much as physically possible and embracing every ounce of pain that came my way; before long I was back on the road heading down towards the M8 crossing.

Which meant one thing: we weren’t far from the east coast.

Driven by the knowledge that we were within touching distance of the finish, I bashed out some more steady 1’s & 2’s before hitting a brutal section of pine forest that brought with it a relentless slate-scree terrain that ripped the already-suffering feet to absolute shreds.

I could feel every millimetre of my feet pulsating when the trail turned more foresty again - taking care with each and every step in an effort to reduce the searing pain after getting beaten up by the slate.

A few hundred metres further would bring first sight of the North Sea - and the stark realisation that we had done it. 74 hours earlier, I had splashed my face with the water of the Irish Sea; and, using only the body, had crossed the beautiful landmass that is the country of Scotland.

Tears came with uncontrollable force - having gone to war with my brain at points, riddled with self-doubt, coming out the other side victorious.

It marked the dramatic conclusion to a couple of days spent dealing with all the shite that has built up in the brain for the past year after making a series of diabolical mistakes in my life.

Here I was, though - somewhat at ease in my mind, finding relative solace and peace after a year where good headspace has been few and far between.

Plodding steadily along the coast path towards the village of Cockburnspath, I felt waves of unrivalled happiness to match the gently lapping sea below - concurrent with a sense of achievement I have never previously felt.

Spurred by the proximity to the finish line, I opened Pandora’s Box and pushed the pedal down to the finish - drawing on every last morsel of energy left in the system.

We made it. We had crossed the country of Scotland in a time of 75 hours, 7 minutes and 36 seconds.

7th Overall

1st Unsupported

Not too shabby…

The Afters

I collapsed in a heap over the line - much to the delight of Dan the Man with the Camera - and it took me a few seconds to realise where I was after milking the tank on the last few hundred metres.

The emotion kept coming but now, under the watchful eye of the small crowd of volunteers and supporters, as a typical bloke I kept it as disguised as I possibly could (toxic, I know…)

First port of call - get my f*cking shoes off and get my feet some air. All that mattered in that moment was setting the puppies free having been confined to the bounds of the fivefingers for 75 hours.

A barrage of snaps from Dan while I slowly but surely came to, and it was into the village hall to grab second priority - a brew.

With tea in hand within what seemed like seconds, I was truly grateful for all the kind words of those at the finish - sharing some funny stories of the journey with fellow finishers while awaiting the arrival of the rest. And the inevitable call from Mama Grips that sparked yet more tears…

Over the hours that followed, it was in and out of the village hall - stoking up on cups of tea and a delicious corned beef hash - punctuated by the occasional “he’s coming he’s coming!!” as more Athletes trickled over the line.

I was relieved and privileged to be there to see some of the boys whom I had shared some precious miles with along the way have their moment - Rick, Connor, Sergejs, Steve & Stuart. 

All united in a similar expression of disbelief upon crossing the line and the realisation of just what had been achieved.

We reminisced together of hallucinations, sleep running and weird combinations of food we had smashed over the course of the race - a fitting end to the camaraderie that had driven us along the way to the finish.

And, after a couple of meaty naps in the safety of the village hall, my sister Lucy G arrived at ~1830 to whisk me away back to Casa Del Grip in Glasgow.

A beautiful conclusion to the most beautiful experience of my life to date.

4 Days On - Reflections

I am writing this on the Saturday following RAS - and to be perfectly frank, I haven’t even skimmed the surface in processing everything that went down north of the border earlier this week.

The insane reception since coming back home has been incredible - apart from the apparent local fame my feet have gotten since sharing a picture post-race on Strava. No one’s fault but my own!

Although I’m still working out the madness, I’ve definitely come to a few conclusions.

Number 1, this sport is fucking incredible. I spent 3 and a bit days focusing on 4 of the most primal things in life: eating, drinking, running and sleeping. No worries, no interaction with technology. Just focusing on getting from A to B with enough fuel in the tank and water in the system. Undoubtedly the most effective way to press reset on the mind and body.

Number 2, the power of the human mind knows no bounds. On more than one occasion, my forward movement was solely driven by my subconscious - having forgotten large parts of the course and, at times, ran while fast asleep (albeit with a couple of falls into bushes…). Goggins has a lot of loopy ideas, but he was right about one thing: that is, when your body says you are done, you are only 40% done. If you can tap into the true potential of your mind, you can tap into 60% more than you’d ever thought possible - consider the fact I thought my body had given up a mere 95 miles in.

Number 3, I am nowhere near done. I believe this is just the start, as competing at RAS has well and truly wet the appetite for serious feats of endurance. I can confidently say I loved every fucking minute of it, even the lowest of low points - because it was in these moments where I was fully exposed in my mind to process the things I have ruminated over for the past year. Suffering is invaluable in its ability to strip you back and find clarity in life, and having tried everything to process bad decisions I’ve made to no avail, it was in these dark moments during RAS where I could find answers to the questions I’ve been asking myself.

Without rambling on (if I haven’t already done so…), put simply: RAS has been life-changing. The start of a new chapter of life, one which will hopefully be filled with many more similar experiences to the carnage of the last few days.

And finally, a massive shoutout to my sister, Luce - who has always been my biggest supporter on the running front - for putting me up in Scotland, and for ferrying me about on my various escapades north of the border. Living legend - couldn’t do it without you, Lucy G.

This is just the start. Watch this space…